When my child is enraged that they can’t have a bowl of whipped cream and sprinkles in the morning, you might think I’d acknowledge the lost dream of their dessert breakfast, eulogize their very real feelings about this, verbalize their anger, and tell them I understand. But if you attempt this as anyone but late-midlife Keanu Reeves, you’ll see a syrupy waffle get tossed across the table.
I know my child, and I know gentle parenting. In the middle of a tantrum, I can see the thinking behind having the kid engage in mindfulness and in asking them to grapple beyond the meltdown to count out five things they can sense. The floor they can feel under their white-knuckled feet. The scent of blood. The dim white-hot circle they can see in front of their button noses. But they’re only going to meditate on their own tunnel of endocrine fury unless Keanu is the person doing the guiding. I say that with respect for my parenting capabilities, my child, and, most importantly, a man whom time has sanded only smoother, leaving a marble heart with dark black hair.
