What To Do When Your Kid Asks A Question You Can’t Answer: A Teacher’s Perspective
The final bell just rang at 3:15, and I was rolling up leftover construction paper from our art project when I looked up and saw Leo still leaning against my desk, twisting the neon green lace of his left sneaker over and over. Most kids were already sprinting for the bus line, and the custodian was rolling his trash can down the hall, the whole room smelling like lemon cleaner. I’d known Leo’s dad had been laid off for two weeks; his mom had sent me an email saying they might have to move in with his grandma an hour away if they couldn’t make rent. So I set the construction paper down and asked him what was on his mind. That’s when he asked the question I still can’t answer. “Ms. Henderson,” he said, staring at his shoelace, “why does my dad have to lose his job when he works way harder than my mom’s boss, who leaves work every single day at 2 to play golf?”
My first instinct was to fill the silence. I’ve had 12 years of practice answering kid questions, and I have a whole list of go-to lines I pull out when things get tricky. Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes life just isn’t fair. I’m sure everything will work out. But none of those felt right that afternoon. Saying everything happens for a reason would’ve meant this was supposed to happen, that Leo being weeks away from moving away from all his friends and his dad staying up late worrying about money was some sort of plan. That’s a lie I didn’t want to tell. Saying everything will work out doesn’t help right now, when it’s not working out, and no one knows if it will.
I pulled the extra chair out from behind my desk and sat down next to him, so we were eye level. I said, “That’s such a good, hard question. I don’t know the answer to that.” Then I paused, and I added, “It sounds really unfair, and it makes me mad that this is happening to your family right now.” That’s it. I didn’t say anything else. We just sat there for a minute, the hum of the vending machine down the hall buzzing in the background. After a minute, he started talking. He told me he helped his dad update his resume the night before, and after he went to bed, he heard his dad crying in the kitchen. He told me he was scared he’d have to quit soccer and leave me and all his friends. I just nodded, and offered him the granola bar I keep in my desk drawer for kids who forget lunch. He ate it, and when he was done, he pulled his backpack over his shoulder and walked out to catch the late bus.
I’ve thought a lot about that interaction over the past couple years. When I first started teaching, I thought my job was to have all the answers. If a kid asked a question, I was supposed to solve it, fix it, make the hard feeling go away. I’ve learned since then that almost all the hardest questions kids ask don’t have answers. Not the kind that fit into a neat sentence, anyway. I’ve had a first grader ask why her baby sister died before she was born. I’ve had a fifth grader ask why he can’t learn to read as fast as all his friends, no matter how hard he tries. I’ve had parents pull me aside after conferences and ask the same thing, their voices tight with worry, and I can’t answer that either. There’s no good reason. Sometimes it just is.
What I’ve started telling other teachers and parents I know is that you don’t need an answer. There are three small things you can do instead, that take almost no extra effort and make a huge difference. First, just say you don’t know. You don’t have to make something up to feel like you’re doing your job. The exact phrase I use, that works every time, is “That’s such a hard question, and I don’t know the answer right now.” It’s honest, it validates that their question matters, and it doesn’t lie to them to make you more comfortable. Second, name the feeling instead of fixing it. Instead of jumping to “it’ll be okay,” say “that sounds really unfair” or “that must make you so sad” or “that sounds really scary.” Kids don’t need you to fix the feeling right away; they just need you to see it. Third, invite them to say more if they want. You can just add, “Do you want to tell me more about how this feels?” Nine times out of ten, that’s all they wanted anyway. They didn’t need an answer, they just needed someone to not run away from the hard question with them.
A week after that conversation with Leo, he came into class with a crayon drawing of him and his dad fishing at the lake by their house. He didn’t ask the question again. He just handed me the drawing and asked if I could hang it up by my desk. I still have it there, taped to the side of my filing cabinet. A month later, Leo’s dad got a new job; it pays a little less but it’s full time, and they didn’t have to move. I still don’t have the answer to the question Leo asked me that day. I don’t know why hard working people lose their jobs while other people coast. I don’t know why bad things happen to kids who don’t deserve it.
Last week, my own 10 year old son asked me why the kid down the street gets to be mean to everyone and never get in trouble. I opened my mouth to give some speech about how the kid has stuff going on at home, but then I stopped. I just said, “That’s such a good, hard question. I don’t know the answer. That sounds really frustrating that you have to deal with that.” We sat on the front porch eating cherry popsicles, and didn’t say anything for 10 minutes. Then he wiped his sticky hands on his jeans and went inside to play video games. Some days I still feel guilty that I don’t have more answers. But I’m starting to think that being the person who stays with the question, instead of rushing to give a bad answer, is enough.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » What To Do When Your Kid Asks A Question You Can’t Answer: A Teacher’s Perspective