I used to think I was doing pretty well at this whole parenting thing.
Then one afternoon, I watched Ellie’s face crumple when I snapped “Because I said so!” at her for the third time that day, and something shifted in me.
She was only three at the time, asking her endless stream of “but why?” questions, and I was exhausted. But seeing her shut down—her curiosity replaced with quiet compliance—made me realize I was parenting on autopilot, using phrases I’d heard growing up without thinking about what they were actually teaching her.
That moment sent me down a rabbit hole of rethinking how I talked to my kids. I grew up in a home where conversations stayed surface-level, where emotions were something you kept to yourself, and where questioning authority wasn’t exactly encouraged.
I love my parents, but I knew I wanted something different for Ellie and now Milo too.
The phrases I’m sharing today? They slipped out of my mouth more times than I’d like to admit. But once I started noticing them and actively replacing them with something better, I watched my relationship with my kids transform. We connected more deeply. They opened up more readily. And honestly, I felt more like the parent I wanted to be.
1) “Because I said so”
This was my go-to when I was tired, touched-out, or just didn’t have a good reason for whatever rule I was enforcing. It shut down the conversation fast, which felt like a win in the moment.
But here’s what I realized: every time I said it, I was teaching my kids that authority doesn’t need to make sense, that their curiosity was an inconvenience, and that questioning things was disrespectful.
Now when Ellie asks why she needs to wear her coat or why we can’t have dessert before dinner, I take a breath and give her the real reason. “Your body needs to stay warm when it’s cold outside” or “Our tummies work best when we eat vegetables first, then treats.”
Does this take more energy? Absolutely. Is it always convenient? Not even close.
But I’ve noticed that Ellie’s actually more cooperative when she understands the why behind our family choices. And she’s learning to think critically instead of just blindly following rules.
2) “Stop crying” or “You’re fine”
Oh, this one. I probably said this a hundred times before I caught myself and realized what I was doing.
Milo would fall and scrape his knee, and before I even checked if he was actually hurt, I’d say “You’re fine, buddy!” with a bright smile, trying to prevent the meltdown I knew was coming. Or Ellie would start crying over something that seemed small to me, and I’d rush in with “Stop crying, it’s not a big deal.”
What I was really saying was: your feelings aren’t valid, you shouldn’t trust what your body is telling you, and certain emotions aren’t acceptable here.
Now when Milo falls, I say “Ouch, that hurt!” and let him decide how hurt he actually is. Sometimes he bounces right back up. Other times he needs a cuddle and some comfort. Either way, he’s learning that I trust his experience of the world.
With both kids, I’ve started using “Tell me more” as my default response when big feelings show up. It’s become one of my daily mantras, actually. This simple shift has opened up conversations I never would have had otherwise.
3) “Good job!”
Wait, what? Isn’t praising your kids supposed to be a good thing?
Here’s the thing—I’m not saying don’t acknowledge your kids’ efforts. I’m saying that automatic, empty “Good job!” we throw out twenty times a day? It’s not doing what we think it is.
I used to say “Good job!” every time Ellie showed me a drawing, finished her lunch, or put on her shoes. It became so automatic that it lost all meaning. Worse, I noticed she started looking to me for approval before she’d even decided if she liked her own artwork.
The alternative? Specific observations and curiosity. Now when Ellie brings me her latest creation, I might say “I see you used a lot of purple here—that’s your favorite color, right?” or “Tell me about this part.”
This teaches her to evaluate her own work, to trust her choices, and to create for the joy of creating—not for my approval.
4) “Why can’t you be more like…”
Comparisons are poison. I learned this the hard way.
I remember one morning when Ellie was dragging her feet getting ready while we were already late, and I said something like “Your friend Emma is always ready on time.” The look on her face still haunts me a little.
Kids aren’t meant to be like other kids. Ellie is tender-hearted, curious, and moves through the world at her own pace—usually with dirt under her nails and a pocket full of interesting leaves she’s collected. Milo is my cuddler-climber who needs extra transition time before leaving the house. These aren’t flaws to fix by comparing them to other children.
Now when I’m frustrated with their pace or choices, I try to name what I’m seeing without comparison: “I notice you’re moving slowly this morning. What do you need to help you get ready?”
5) “You’re making me so angry”
This phrase sneaks out when I’m at the end of my rope—usually after I’ve stepped on the same toy for the third time or repeated myself about something a dozen times.
But here’s the truth: my kids aren’t making me feel anything. My emotions are my responsibility, not theirs.
When I say “You’re making me angry,” I’m teaching them that they’re responsible for managing my emotional state, which is a heavy burden for little shoulders.
It’s also not true—I’m angry because I’m tired, overwhelmed, or haven’t eaten lunch yet, not because my two-year-old is acting like a two-year-old.
The shift? Owning my feelings. “I’m feeling frustrated right now and need a minute” or “I’m getting overwhelmed with the noise—let’s take it outside.”
This models emotional awareness and personal responsibility. It also gives me permission to take that breath I desperately need before I react in a way I’ll regret later.
I practice repair quickly when I do lose my patience—another thing I’m working on. A simple “I’m sorry I raised my voice. That wasn’t okay” goes a long way.
6) “Hurry up!”
If I had a dollar for every time I said this before I became aware of it, I could probably fund our yearly camping vacation.
Kids don’t experience time the way we do. To Ellie, examining every crack in the sidewalk on our walk to the park isn’t wasting time—it’s discovering her world.
When I constantly rush her, I’m telling her that efficiency matters more than presence, that her pace is wrong, that the journey isn’t as important as the destination.
I grew up in a house where we were always rushing somewhere, and I’ve carried that frantic energy into my own parenting without questioning it. But one of the things I’m trying to create for my kids is different—more slowness, more presence, more space to just be.
Now I build in buffer time. We leave earlier. I take deep breaths when Milo wants to stop and watch a bug for five minutes. And honestly? Life feels less frantic for all of us.
On mornings when we genuinely are running late, I’m specific: “We need to get in the car in two minutes so we’re not late for music class.” Clear, honest, and respectful of everyone’s time.
7) “Don’t be shy” (or scared, or upset)
I caught myself saying this to Ellie at a farmers’ market one Saturday morning when she was hiding behind my legs instead of saying hi to one of the vendors we see regularly. The words were barely out of my mouth when I realized what I was doing.
I was telling her that her feelings—her very real, very valid feelings—were wrong. That she should override what her body was telling her to make other people comfortable.
As Brené Brown reminds us, “You can’t numb those hard feelings without numbing the other affects, our emotions.You cannot selectively numb. So when we numb those, we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness”
Now when Ellie feels shy or Milo clings to me in a new situation, I validate it: “New places can feel overwhelming. I’m right here when you’re ready.” And you know what? They usually warm up faster than when I was trying to push them into social interactions before they were ready.
I’m teaching them that all feelings are okay, that they can trust their instincts about people and situations, and that they don’t owe anyone their comfort or affection.
Final thoughts
Here’s the thing I wish someone had told me earlier: changing these phrases isn’t about being a perfect parent. Some days I still catch “Because I said so” slipping out when I’m exhausted. The difference now is that I notice, I repair, and I try again.
My relationship with Ellie and Milo is deeper because of these shifts. They share more with me. They trust that I’m interested in their inner worlds, not just their behavior. We have real conversations instead of me just giving orders.
This journey has also been about unlearning patterns from my own childhood—the surface-level conversations, the emotional distance, the perfectionism. I’m creating something different for my kids, one intentional phrase at a time.
If you’re reading this and recognizing some of these phrases in your own parenting, take a breath. You’re not a bad parent—you’re a human one. The awareness is the first step, and the fact that you’re here, reading this, shows you care about doing better.
Start with one phrase. Notice it. Pause before it comes out. Replace it with something that honors both your child’s humanity and your own. Progress, not perfection, right?
Our kids don’t need us to get it right every single time. They need us to keep trying, to repair when we mess up, and to show them that growth is always possible—at any age.
