Why We Should Listen When Children Insist

I was at the computer, and my son had just opened a new reading and writing workbook, put together with care, with few words per page, clear pictures and dots to follow. He had sat down on his own, focused, with the look of someone who wants to get things right.

I was in the room, but my mind was elsewhere: I was replying to an email and checking something else, without engaging with what he was doing. Every so often I looked up and said "well done", just to say something.

Then came the second page, split into two parts: pictures with dots on top, words with dots below. He stopped, flicked back and forth through the book and reached a page further on. "Mum, we need to use these here to do this," he told me.

Without looking properly, I answered: "No love, you're getting it wrong, move on." He insisted: "No mum, look, it says so." And I stiffened, my eyes half on him and half on the screen: "Do as I told you."

He didn't give up. He went back, pointed, tried to explain it to me; and the more he insisted, the more worked up I got, until I raised my voice: "I told you it's like this, that's enough." Silence. Then his eyes filled with tears, but he didn't stop: he carried on, quietly, "Mum, but this is right."

And that's when something happened. I stopped, closed the computer, and looked at him for the first time in those minutes with real attention. "Show me."

He picked the book back up, went back to that page, and read the instructions slowly, but he read them. And he was right, completely right: that second part of the exercise had to be done using the elements from a page further on. He had read and connected what was needed; I, on the other hand, had assumed I was right, and had corrected him without even looking.

Something tightened inside me, and I felt small in front of him. "I'm sorry, love," I told him, simply, without justifying myself. "I was wrong, I didn't listen to you." I hugged him tight: "You were right. You read it and kept insisting until I listened to you: you did something wonderful."

He leaned against me and, through his tears, said something that has stayed with me: "I felt like I was wrong."

And that's when I understood everything. It wasn't just an exercise: it was trust, it was his way of telling me he was growing up and that he needed to be believed, before being corrected.

We started again together, this time with real attention. He did the exercises calmly, connected them, read them; he was focused and at ease. I said little, I watched: I was learning.

A child who insists rarely does it out of stubbornness: he has noticed something, connected some pieces, and is simply asking for someone to stop for a moment and look with him.

Next time a child insists on telling us something, perhaps the right question isn't who is right, but what would happen if we stopped to look before answering.