Finding the “Why” Behind My Behavior

It was an embarrassing sort of “Aha.” The kind you look back on and wonder how you could be so dull.  We had been struggling with our 13-year-old daughter for months over the simplest things. Her exit to the bus each morning was akin to a tumbleweed rolling to pick up a few necessities. Shoes were halfway on with the heel crushed beneath it, backpack zipper open revealing school necessities doing their best to escape.

Goodness. 

No amount of planning the night before, offering to help with her laundry, or waking her up earlier seemed to help. 

Saturdays were even worse. Saturdays at the DeHaan home is chore day. Every child has their basics (bedroom, bathroom, laundry) and they “get” to pick 1 or 2 additional family jobs for the shared spaces in our home. I think at one point this was a fun practice. I would make a master list for them to pick from and the draft would begin! We changed the order of picking each week (I acted like I always remembered who was due for the first slot, but usually relied on their memory or decided with undeserved confidence). They would barter and trade – often with great joy though tears were not a stranger. “I will trade you toilet AND bathroom floor for vacuuming the steps!” Which, without a doubt, led to the eternal question of why boys can’t seem to hit the target. 

“I don’t know, girls.  And it doesn’t get better.”

4/5 of our kids could do this (pick the chores, not hit the target). Some worked with joy and speed. For others, it was a half-hearted effort, but it always got done. The remaining 1/5 was a struggle bus.  Every Saturday.  30ish minutes into our work I would check on the kids’ progress. Usually, the struggle bus was back in bed. 

“Honey, are you kidding?” 

I would help her out of bed, point her in the right direction and continue with my work. This repeated itself in various forms throughout the entire day. I would find her stuck, just sitting on the floor in the bathroom tying the slowest knot to cinch the garbage bag known to man. Someone call Guinness. We have some serious record-breaking skills here.

As she slowed down, I sped up. I became her judge and jury. I began to notice and care about the smallest things that in a regulated state wouldn’t even appear on my dashboard of concerns.

“Did you use the rag for the floor before the counter?  Sweetheart, no!”

“Please take off your shoes on the rug before you cross the floor!”

“Sweetie!  You just pushed all the crumbs onto the chair!”

“Honey! Your hair is dragging through your food!”

Despite my inclusion of endearing labels, my tone and body language told a completely different story. She was not fooled.

Her tears always came without sound. Her eyes got wet, her head dropped, and she retreated to her room – under the covers, lights off. Our words didn’t even register at this point. With her pre-frontal cortex completely off-line, this precious girl’s well-trained amygdala is more than willing to pick its fear response of choice: freeze.

Some weeks the freeze lasted just for a day, bringing a resurrection of her logic and awareness on Sunday morning. More often, this frozen state lived in our home for three, five, or even seven days. 

I had read the books. I understood the neurological processes that were happening, but my desire to just force her out of this state couldn’t be reasoned with. Her freeze ignited my fight. Not a great combo.  Heap onto this the rejection I felt when I was unable to “bring her back” separated us even more. 

Every week the cycle relentlessly repeated. I began to dread Saturdays. I used to love them. 

Wisdom came from our community to my husband. “What if you allow her to choose when she completes the chores?”

Where have you been this entire past year, you trauma-informed genius!!

I had no idea how tightly I was holding on to Saturday as a chore day. It didn’t take long to remember that this weekly pattern was the routine of my growing-up years  It was a holy grail of sorts that the house had to be clean for Sunday. You know. Because Jesus likes clean houses, I guess.

Our precious 13-year-old needed voice and choice. She also needed a day to choose her own pace after the lightening speed social onslaught that middle school is. Understanding the why behind my behavior helped me learn to give her the yes that she needed.  Turns out that Jesus is ok with rooms being cleaned on different days of the week. 

Know better, do better.  And be in community.  You may just find some genius there.