Why Your 6 Year Old Might Not Tell You They’re Upset: Lessons From A Conversation With My Son
The spaghetti water was boiling over when my 6 year old said it. He was perched on a step stool next to the stove, stacking blue Lego bricks for a spaceship he’d been working on for three days, goldfish crumbs stuck to the knee of his jeans. I’d asked my usual “how was school” 20 minutes earlier, gotten the usual noncommittal “fine” shrug, and gone back to stirring sauce. He didn’t look up from his bricks when he said, “I don’t think I’m good at anything.”
I dropped the paper towel I was using to wipe up the boiling water, leaned against the counter, and waited. I almost said the first thing that popped into my head: Of course you’re good at things! You’re the best Lego builder I know! But I caught myself. I’d been there a dozen times before, rushing to fix the bad feeling before he even finished explaining it, and afterwards he’d just go quiet and go back to playing.
Instead I said, “That sounds really heavy. What made you think that today?”
He turned the top brick on his stack a quarter turn, and said it was PE from two days before. Everyone had to climb the big rope strung from the gym ceiling. He got to the second knot and couldn’t pull his feet up any higher, and two boys in the other first grade class yelled that he was taking too long. He slid down and sat on the bench until it was over, and didn’t tell anyone. I asked why he hadn’t said anything to me when he got home that day. He shrugged again. “I didn’t want to make you sad.”
That line stuck with me. I had no idea he was carrying that around for 48 hours. He went on: his numbers are still backwards a lot, and Mrs. Lee has to erase and rewrite them on his worksheets every morning, and he noticed none of the other kids at his table have that problem anymore. I’d seen the reversed numbers on his homework, just assumed it was normal first grade fumbling, never stopped to think he was paying attention to everyone else’s work.
I sat down on the floor next to his step stool so I was at his level, and asked what he did when he was sitting on the bench after climbing. He said his friend Jake came and sat with him, and they talked about the dinosaur exhibit they were going to see on Friday. That was it. He hadn’t needed anyone to fix the rope climbing problem that day, he just needed someone to sit with him. I realized how often I jump in to fix things before I even ask what he needs.
For a long time, I bought into the idea that I should check in with my son about every part of his day the second we pull out of the school parking lot. I’d grill him with questions: Who did you play with at recess? Did anyone hurt your feelings? What did you learn in math? He’d just stare out the window and say “nothing” every time. This time, we weren’t in the car, I wasn’t asking him anything, we were just doing our own things in the same kitchen, and he brought it up on his own.
That’s the first thing I walked away with: kids this age don’t open up on demand. You don’t need a scheduled 10 minute check-in every night. You just need 15 or 20 minutes of low-pressure shared time every day. It can be you cooking dinner while they play on the counter, you folding laundry while they draw, you walking the dog together with no phones out. No demands to talk, just space for them to talk if they want. That’s way easier to pull off than a formal check-in, especially after a long day of work and school.
The second thing: when they do finally share a hard feeling, resist the urge to cheer them up immediately. I used to think my job was to make every bad feeling go away right now. But when you jump straight to “you’re amazing at everything!” you’re basically telling them their bad feeling is wrong, and they shouldn’t share it next time. Now I try to do two simple things first: validate, then ask a specific question. Instead of “don’t be upset, you’re great at climbing,” I said “that sounds so embarrassing standing there in front of everyone. What did you do after that?” It’s a tiny shift, but it makes a huge difference. It lets them lead the conversation instead of shutting it down.
I also told him that I feel that way sometimes too. I told him I still can’t parallel park my car without hitting the curb half the time, and when someone has to get out and help me, I feel silly and like I’m bad at it. He laughed at that, because he’s seen me miss a spot three times in a row before. Normalizing small, relatable struggles makes it easier for them to talk about their own, instead of thinking they’re the only one who feels that way, or that they have to hide it to keep me from worrying.
A week after that conversation, he climbed to the third knot in PE. He told me over dinner that night, casual as anything. I didn’t make a big deal out of it, just said “that must have felt really good.” It did, he said, and Jake was waiting for him at the bottom anyway. I mentioned the reversed numbers to his teacher at our recent conference, and she said it’s completely typical for his age, he’ll grow out of it, and he doesn’t seem stressed about it at school.
I still worry sometimes. I worry that as he gets older, he’ll keep the bigger harder things to himself, just like he kept this rope climbing thing for two days. I still sometimes catch myself jumping to fix bad feelings before I finish listening. But that afternoon at the stove reminded me that connection isn’t about getting all the answers every day. It’s about leaving the door cracked, so he knows he can walk through whenever he’s ready.
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