I think most of us want the same thing: a home where our kids feel safe, seen, and—yes—where respect flows both ways.
Around here that looks like muddy knees after the farmers’ market, pancake Saturdays with Matt flipping the first batch, and a toddler (hi, Milo) scaling the couch fort while Ellie sorts her “leaf collection” on the rug.
We aim for organic veggies and low-tox basics, but the real work of respect happens in the tiny moments: the way we speak, how we follow through, and whether we repair when we blow it.
If you’re noticing eye rolls, power struggles, or “you never listen to me!” standoffs, it might not be about finding the perfect script. It may be about letting go of habits that quietly chip away at trust.
I’ve had to retire each of these myself (some of them more than once in the same day). If you want your children to truly respect you as they grow, say goodbye to these five.
1) Using fear, shame, or sarcasm to control
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: fear can get quick compliance, but it never builds respect. The more I relied on harsh tones, long lectures, or sarcastic digs, the more my kids either shut down or pushed back harder.
As Dr. Jane Nelsen questions, “Where did we ever get the crazy idea that in order to make children DO better first we have to make them FEEL worse?”
That line sits on a sticky note above our kitchen command center, next to Ellie’s chore picture-cards and Milo’s favorite crayon. It reminds me that guidance isn’t about scaring kids straight—it’s about showing them a way forward.
Try this instead:
Name the boundary in a calm, short sentence: “I won’t let you throw blocks. Blocks are for building.” Then offer a channel for the emotion: “You’re mad and your body wants to move—want to stomp with me or squeeze this pillow?” When the energy has moved through, circle back to problem-solving: “Let’s figure out how to build the tower without tossing.” It’s simple, and it works more often than not.
Respect grows when kids experience firm limits and warm presence at the same time.
2) Being unclear, inconsistent, or full of empty threats
Have you ever heard yourself say, “If you don’t put your shoes on right now, no playground for a week!” and then…gone to the playground anyway? Same.
Inconsistency is a respect eroder. Kids are brilliant pattern-finders; if our words don’t match our actions, they learn to wait us out.
Here, clarity is everything. As Brené Brown notes, “Clear is kind. Unclear is unkind.” When my boundary is fuzzy (“we’ll see…”), I invite debate. When it’s specific and kind (“We’ll read two books tonight. If you want more, let’s put them on your pillow for tomorrow”), the tug-of-war eases. Kids don’t have to like a limit to respect it, but they do need to trust it will be the same tomorrow.
What helps:
Decide your “non-negotiables” in peacetime—the few boundaries you will actually uphold. For us: safe bodies, kind words, and sleep routines that support everyone’s nervous systems (co-sleeping with Milo means lights-down has a predictable rhythm). Then build gentle follow-through you can live with. If the scooter is being used to ram flower beds, we park it on the porch for a few minutes and try again. No lectures, no “because I said so,” just steady action.
Clarity lowers anxiety. Consistency raises respect.
3) Micromanaging every move instead of inviting agency
Most parents I know (me included) want to do right by our kids, so we hover. We correct. We tidy the spinach off the cutting board before tiny hands can hold the knife safely. We choose their hobbies, their clothes, their vocabulary.
It comes from love, but here’s the cost: children feel controlled instead of capable—and it’s hard to respect someone who doesn’t trust you.
A quick window into our house: Ellie loves to help in the garden. When I stop narrating every step and simply set the stage—“We’re planting carrots. Your job is seed-sprinkler.”—her shoulders straighten. When I micromanage (“not that much soil, not like that, wait, hang on”), she goes floppy. Respect flows when kids experience themselves as contributors.
Ways to shift:
Offer structured choices you’re genuinely okay with. “Red rain boots or blue sneakers?” “Brush teeth before or after pajamas?” “Do you want to carry the greens or the eggs at the farmers’ market?” When I trade control for collaboration, the day moves better for all of us. Even two-year-old Milo surprises me with what he can do if I give him the time and the stool.
Also, tolerate the learning curve. The spilled oats while they pour, the wobbly bed-making, the clashing outfits for preschool—this is the tuition for competence. My inner tidy-up voice has to take a breath and remember: long game over short neatness.
4) Living “phone-first” and missing the tiny bids for connection
“Young children experience their world as an environment of relationships.” That line stays with me on the days I’m tempted to answer “uh-huh” from behind a screen while Ellie asks me which leaf is the “mom” and which is the “baby.” Our kids aren’t keeping score of organic snacks or beautiful toy shelves—they’re tracking whether we look up, whether we attune, whether we see them.
I’m not anti-phone. I’m pro-eye contact. Respect grows from micro-moments of “I’m with you.” In our family, we’ve made a few low-tech swaps that make a high impact:
We do “eyes-first hellos.” When someone walks into the room (or returns from the garage with squeaky wheelbarrow fixed, thanks Matt), we greet with eyes and a touch before we answer a notification.
We keep a “drop zone” basket by the couch where devices live during meals and bedtime. Not forever—just long enough to send the signal: you matter more than this ping.
We narrate our tech when we must use it: “I’m sending your aunt the photo of your fairy house, and then I’m all yours.” It’s amazing how much resentment dissolves when kids aren’t left guessing.
And on the hard days when I slip into scroll-mode, I own it out loud: “I got lost on my phone and missed your story. Can I have a redo?” That repair matters (more on that in a minute).
5) Refusing to repair after you mess up
This one might be the quietest habit to release—and the most powerful. We will mess up. We’ll snap at a kid who spills paint water right as we sit down with our tea. We’ll break a promise to build a fort because the sink is overflowing and the compost has fruit flies. Perfection is not the standard. Repair is.
Respect deepens when kids witness us take responsibility without excuses. The script in our house is simple:
Pause until my body is steady enough for connection.
Name what happened without blame: “I yelled. That was scary.”
Own it: “It wasn’t your fault I shouted. I wish I had taken a breath.”
Ask what they need or offer a do-over: “Do you want a hug, or should we finish the tower first?”
Follow through on a tiny amends: “Let’s read that extra page I rushed last night.”
Ellie, my tender helper, is quick to forgive. Milo often answers with a full-body snuggle, then a fierce “MORE BOOK!” (which, fair). What matters is that our kids see that adults can repair relationships. That’s where respect takes root—in humility, not in being right.
Conclusion
The habits I’ve had to retire—fear talk, fuzzy boundaries, micromanaging, phone-first living, and skipping repair—were all survival tools at some point. Maybe you learned them growing up, or maybe they crept in when you were short on sleep and coffee. The good news is we can choose differently, one small moment at a time.
Here’s what that looks like in a real, not-perfect home: You swap a threat for a clear boundary and a calm follow-through. You put your phone in the basket and kneel to eye level. You let your child choose the mismatched socks and smile when she tells you why they’re “best friends.” You whisper, “I’m sorry,” and mean it. You protect bedtime rhythm not because a book told you to, but because everyone breathes better when the day ends softly.
Respect isn’t something we demand with a louder voice. It’s something we model and nurture—through consistency, connection, and repair. If you’re ready to start somewhere, pick one habit to say goodbye to this week and one tiny practice to replace it. Maybe it’s one “eyes-first hello” per day, one repaired moment after a snap, or one swapped lecture for a clear, kind limit.
Our kids are watching how we live, not just what we say. When they see us speak with dignity, keep our word, trust their growing competence, prioritize connection, and make repairs, they learn how to do the same. That’s the kind of respect that lasts well beyond childhood—through teen years, first apartments, and someday their own pancake Saturdays.
And if tomorrow goes sideways? Welcome to the club. Take a breath. Try again. You’re raising humans, and you’re a human too.
