Why My 21-Month-Old Started Pushing Other Kids (And What We’re Doing About It)
The bubble song had barely ended at last Tuesday’s library storytime when I saw it happen. My 21-month-old son Milo had been hovering by the board book bin for five minutes, fixated on a chunky rubber duck title another little girl had just pulled off the shelf. Before I could even set down my half-empty sippy cup of oat milk, he leaned forward, planted both palms square between her shoulder blades, and pushed.
She sat down hard on the scratchy blue carpet, mouth open in shock before the wails started. I scrambled over, cheeks burning, as her mom looked up from packing their diaper bag and gave me that tight, polite smile every parent of a physical toddler knows. I apologized three times, helped the girl brush fuzz off her leggings, and her mom said it was fine, that her oldest did the exact same thing at that age. I still herded Milo toward the door 10 minutes early, my planned post-storytime iced coffee completely forgotten. He conked out in the stroller before we hit the crosswalk, like he hadn’t just upended my whole morning.
That wasn’t the first time, either. Two weeks before, he’d pushed our 18-month-old neighbor Lila onto the rug mid-playdate when she reached for his shape sorter. A week after that, he’d shouldered a toddler off the bottom step of the park slide so he could climb on first. I’d written both off as one-offs: he was tired, overstimulated, the other kid had cut in line. But after the library, I sat on the couch that night while Milo slept, scrolling parenting forums at 9:45 p.m., spiraling a little. Was he aggressive? Was I failing to teach him kindness? Had I let him watch too many Bluey episodes where characters knock each other over playing?
I texted my older sister, a lead toddler classroom teacher with eight years of experience, fully expecting a gentle lecture about consistent boundaries. She texted back 10 minutes later: “Calm down. 21 months is peak pushing age. Half my class goes through this. He’s not being a jerk. He can’t talk yet.”
That lined up with what I’d noticed, once I stopped panicking long enough to see it. Milo understands almost everything I say these days: he fetches his socks when asked, throws snack wrappers in the trash, knows exactly what “don’t touch the oven” means. But his own vocabulary holds only around 30 clear words, most of them variations of “more,” “truck,” and “no.” He can’t say “I’ve been waiting for that duck book since we walked in” or “you’re too close and I don’t like it” or “I’m so excited for the slide I could burst.” All those big, sharp feelings pile up faster than his mouth can catch up, so his body solves the problem for him. Pushing works: the kid moves, he gets what he wants, end of story. He doesn’t even fully grasp that the other kid feels hurt yet, my sister explained. At this age, he can’t step outside his own wants long enough to connect the push to the tears, not really.
She also told me most of my default reactions weren’t helping. Long lectures about kindness go in one ear and out the other; upset toddlers can only follow three or four short words at a time. Yelping or making a huge dramatic scene often backfires, too: even negative attention is better than no attention, and if pulling a push gets mom to stop chatting and lock all her focus on him, he’ll do it again. Forcing him to mumble “sorry” or hug the hurt kid just teaches him to perform a ritual, not to notice when someone else is upset.
What she suggested was small, boring, repeatable stuff, no fancy reward charts required. I started practicing that week, and it stuck better than I expected.
I watch for warning signs first. Almost none of Milo’s pushes come out of nowhere. His shoulders hunch, his hand opens, he leans an inch forward, and that’s my cue to step in before contact. I catch his wrist gently, hold it half a second, and use the same short phrase every single time: “Pushing hurts. Hands are gentle.” No rambling, no raised voice. Then I name what he’s feeling, to help him build words for later: “You wanted the duck book.” Then I give him one clear alternative, not 10 choices. If he wants a turn with a toy, he can tap my arm for help, say “my turn,” or trade a toy from our diaper bag for it. I tuck an extra small car and spare board book in the side pocket for exactly that, and trades work far more often than I expected.
When a push does land, I check on the hurt kid first, not Milo. I model the apology myself: “I’m so sorry he pushed you, that must have hurt.” I don’t force Milo to join in. Later, when we’re home and calm flipping through his animal books, I’ll point to a crying baby or tumbling cub and say, “Look, that bear is sad. He got pushed, and that hurt.” No big lesson, just a quiet reminder when he has space to take it in. For overexcited pushes, like the ones he aims at my partner’s legs when he gets home from work, we give him a clear physical outlet: “You’re so happy to see daddy! Let’s do big jumping jacks instead of pushes, then a hug.”
We saw the first real shift last Friday, when Lila came over to play. She crawled straight for Milo’s favorite yellow dump truck the second she walked in, and I saw his shoulders go up, his hand lift. Before I could catch his wrist, he paused, mumbled something that sounded like “my tuck,” and grabbed an extra plastic shovel from the toy bin to hand to her. They played side by side for 12 whole minutes after that. Ten minutes later, he did push her hand away when she reached for his goldfish crackers, but it was a hand, not a full-body shove, so I counted that as progress.
This week at storytime, another little boy grabbed one of Milo’s stacking rings off the floor. Milo looked right at me, lifted his hand, then dropped it back to his lap and tugged my sleeve, babbling “turn, turn.” I knelt to help him say “my turn soon, please,” and the boy’s mom helped him hand over an extra ring. No tears, no pushing, no tight polite smiles. On the way out the door, though, he shoved the stroller hard into my calves because I wouldn’t let him carry the library DVD himself. So it’s not like it’s fixed.
Last night I folded laundry on the couch while he played with his stuffed rabbit at my side. He pushed it off the cushion, then looked up at me and patted the spot next to him very softly, like he was reminding himself what gentle feels like. I said “That’s right, gentle hands for bunny.” He patted it again, grinned, and pushed it off the edge again, because now he thinks that’s a game.
I don’t know if this phase will end next month, or if next week he’ll move on to biting, which every toddler parent warns me is coming next. I don’t expect him to go the rest of toddlerhood without shoving someone again. What I do know is that he’s not mean. He’s just a tiny person with very big wants, still learning how to tell people about them. We’ll just keep practicing, one duck book and dump truck and goldfish cracker at a time.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why My 21-Month-Old Started Pushing Other Kids (And What We’re Doing About It)