How One Conversation with My Son Changed the Way I Parent Forever

A few years ago  I was learning to parent two small boys, and it was one of the hardest times of my life. Transitioning to two children floored me. My older son, Cruz, was just over two when we brought home his baby brother, Jase. When Cruz first met Jase, he did something that melted my heart—he walked up to his tiny, sleeping brother, placed a chocolate-covered strawberry to his lips, waiting to see if he’d taste it, and then gently placed a tiny toy truck on Jase’s lap. He said, “he wanna play toys?” in his little toddler voice. It was such a tender moment, and I was overwhelmed with emotions—happy, sad, nervous, and crushed by the bittersweetness of it all.

But things got harder, fast. As Jase woke up from his newborn sleepiness, he started crying—and didn’t stop for the next four months. I was constantly holding a screaming baby, completely exhausted, and riddled with guilt. I stretched Cruz’s preschool hours, convincing myself it was best for him,  as I struggled to care for him and his baby brother. One day, I dropped Cruz off at school, and he clung to me, crying. His well-meaning but clueless teacher said, “Mommy has to go home to take care of the baby now.” And just like that, Cruz’s worst fear was spoken aloud: You’re not as important as the baby. Mommy loves the baby more.

I could still cry as I revisit this horrible moment, even just to write about it. 

I should have scooped him up and taken him home. I should have corrected her on the spot. But instead, in my hormonal, sweaty, insecure state, I kissed his head, told him I loved him, and walked out the door. Seeing Cruz cry as I left, and the way his face fell when his teacher spoke those words, still haunts me.

Gradually, Cruz began to change. He wasn’t my easy, gentle boy anymore. He hit. He bit. He had meltdowns. He was angry, defiant, and sometimes even rough with Jase, waiting to see how I’d react. At night, when I tried to snuggle him to sleep, he pushed me away. He wanted Daddy, not me. I was a postpartum mess—anxious, sad, and feeling like I was failing everyone, including myself.

One night, after another brutal day, I lay down beside him in the dark and said a silent prayer, asking for a way to connect with my son. A lightbulb went off, and I started talking. “Sometimes, having a baby brother is really hard,” I said. Silence. “Sometimes, you don’t want him around. Sometimes, you miss when it was just you and me. Sometimes, you feel really sad, and really mad, that he is here.” Still nothing. But I kept going. “I understand. And I love you. No matter what.” After a long pause, in the smallest voice, he said, “Keep talking about brothers.”

I was stunned. I kept talking, naming every feeling I thought might be swirling in his little body. I told him he was special to me, that I saw him, that he mattered. The next morning, something was different. His anger was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp. He didn’t withdraw from me as much. He seemed lighter. And for the first time in months, I felt a sliver of hope.

I realized I’d been trying to fix him—stop the hitting, the tantrums, the defiance. But what he really needed wasn’t fixing. He needed to feel seen, to know that his experience mattered. If your parents don’t make you feel like your feelings matter—who does?

As time went on, I got better at acknowledging his perspective while teaching him to interact with me and his brother in safe, loving ways. I found an article that changed my approach (linked below) and dove deep into conscious, intentional parenting. I learned to say, “I see you, you matter, but this must occur. I’m your leader—you matter, and here are your options.” For example: “You really don’t like that I’m nursing Jase right now. I see that. I need to sit down for five more minutes. In the meantime, can you bring a book for us to look at together?” Or, “You want Daddy to put you to bed tonight. Tonight, it’s my turn. Give Daddy a giant hug. Do you want to pick out our book, or should I?”

The story of Cruz and his teacher shows how often we respond to children on autopilot—rationalizing, explaining, or dismissing their feelings instead of connecting heart-to-heart. I’m guilty of this too, falling into old habits and having to pull myself back to a more conscious way of responding. Honestly, I need the reminder as much as anyone because it is so deeply ingrained in us just to explain, rationalize, and rush to suppress any emotional fallout. But the beauty is, when I realize it, I can always shift. And the other truth that surprised me is that the more often I remember to acknowledge my kids’ perspective, the faster they normally calm down anyway- because they feel seen and understood. They don’t escalate, and feel misunderstood.

If you ever have a moment when all the sudden your child’s perspective becomes clear to you, you can always go back and apologize: “I really got that wrong with you. I’m sorry I didn’t try to understand your perspective. I can see now why you were upset/angry/sad/scared/lonely.”

Parenting this way has made the journey so much richer and more meaningful. It has also helped me realize that I don’t have to get things “right” the first time around. Often revising a hard moment- or going back to repair- is just as meaningful. 

As someone who grew up in a constant state of overwhelm, helping my boys understand and manage their feelings is one of the most important things I can do. Emotional resilience starts with acknowledgment, not suppression. 

For me, it all started during a terribly hard transition to having my second child, and a moment when I felt like I was losing my emotional connection to my first born son. My heart was breaking, and it occurred to me that his might be too. Finding a way to make him feel truly seen shifted the rest of our relationship in ways I never expected. 

Here’s the article that helped me: The Key to Your Child’s Heart. I hope it helps you too.

Can you think of any situations you want to go back and revisit with your kids?