How to Explain Complicated Concepts to Kids: Simple, Realistic Tips for Parents
Last month, I stood in line for ice cream with my 8-year-old daughter Lila after her Saturday soccer practice, when a man sitting on the curb by the entrance held up a crumpled cardboard sign that read “Anything helps, hungry and homeless.” I dug out three dollars from my wallet and handed it over, and by the time we got back to the car, Lila was already tugging my sleeve, sprinkles dripping down her cone. “Mom,” she said, “why doesn’t he have a house? Why can’t he just go get a job?”
I almost did what I usually do in these moments. I almost brushed her off with “it’s complicated, you’ll understand when you’re older” or blurted out a half-true oversimplification that didn’t actually answer her question. I remembered two years prior, when I tried to explain climate change, I ranted about fossil fuels and rising sea levels and carbon emissions, and by the end she was just asking if she could still have a unicorn cake for her birthday. Her eyes had glazed over 10 minutes in, and I realized I was just talking at her, not with her.
This time, I remembered what Lila’s first grade teacher told me at a parent-teacher conference a few months back. She said kids don’t absorb new ideas out of thin air. They have to hang them on something they already know. So I paused, thought for a second, and asked Lila, “Remember last summer, when we went to the community pool and someone stole your blue bike from the rack? Remember how we had to wait two whole weeks before we could afford a new one, and you cried every night before bed because that was your favorite bike, and you didn’t know how you’d get it back?” She nodded, already leaning in. “Well, some people lose way bigger things than a bike. Some people lose their job that gives them money to pay for a house and food. Some people get really sick and can’t work, or they have really bad luck that makes it hard to get back on your feet even when you’re trying really hard. It’s kind of like that feeling you had when you didn’t have your bike, but it just lasts a lot longer for them.”
Lila thought for a second, then said, “Oh. Like when Mia’s dad lost his job and they had to move out of their big house and sleep on their cousin’s couch for a month?” And I said, “Exactly that. For some people, that doesn’t end after a month. Right now, this man doesn’t have a place to stay.” That was it. She didn’t ask for more that day. She just ate her ice cream and talked about how she wanted to bring her extra granola bars next time we came. That was enough.
I started thinking about how many times I’ve gotten this wrong over the years. When our golden retriever died five years ago, I told Lila that he went to live on a farm up north, and for six months she kept asking when we could go visit him. I lied because I thought the idea of death was too complicated for a 3-year-old, but if I’d just anchored it to something she knew—like when a butterfly flies all its life, and its body gets too tired to fly anymore, and it stops working—she would have understood that, no lies needed.
What I’ve learned since that day by the ice cream shop is that explaining complicated concepts doesn’t mean you have to dumb it down, or lie to protect them, or cram every single detail into one answer. It just means starting small, with what they already know. There are a few little things I do now that work almost every time, that I didn’t do before. First, I don’t lead with the new, complicated thing. I always start with a memory or an experience they’ve already had. If I’m explaining Alzheimer’s to Lila when we visit my grandma, I don’t talk about progressive brain disease. I just say, “Remember when you forget where you put your homework, even though you know you had it five minutes ago? That happens to grandma’s brain a lot, with bigger things too, and that’s why she can’t always remember your name right now.” That’s all she needed to hear.
Second, I only answer the question they actually asked. If they ask why some people don’t have houses, you don’t need to explain systemic inequality and housing market crashes right off the bat. If they want more, they’ll ask. I’ve found that most kids just want enough information to answer the question they have, not a whole college lecture. If I give them too much too fast, they get overwhelmed and check out, just like I did when my uncle tried to explain how his car engine works when I was 10.
Third, it’s totally fine to say I don’t know. Last week Lila asked me why some people think kids shouldn’t learn about certain things in school, and I couldn’t think of a simple way to put it that was true. So I said, “That’s a really good question, and I don’t have a simple answer right now. Let’s think about it over dinner and talk more about it tonight, okay?” That’s way better than making something up that’s wrong just to look like I have all the answers.
Last week, Lila came home from school with a flier for the school’s clothing and food drive, and she told me she wanted to bring three of her old jackets and two boxes of granola bars. She said, “Those are for people who lost their houses, right? Like the man we saw.” That’s all that ever needs to come from it, at this point. I don’t need her to understand all the nuances of poverty when she’s 8. I just need her to have a starting place that makes sense, so she can build on it as she gets older.
I still mess it up sometimes. Last month I tried to explain how taxes work and I got so caught up in roads and public schools that I lost her halfway through. Next time, I’ll remember to start with “Remember when we all put our allowance together to buy that big box of markers for your playdate, so everyone could use them? Taxes are kind of like that, everyone gives a little so we can all have things we need like parks and schools and firefighters.” That would have worked way better. It’s not about being perfect. It’s just about meeting them where they are, one question at a time.
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