As the parent of two toddlers, ages 2 ½ and 13 months, I frequently find myself saying “no.” It’s probably one of my top ten words. The contexts vary, from “No, buddy, don’t take your pants off in the middle of the grocery store,” to “No-no, sweetums, please take that freshly sharpened pencil out of your nose.” At times, every other word that comes out of my mouth is some variation on “no.”
You’d think I’d be good at saying “no” in other aspects of my life — namely, to people other than my children. You’d be wrong.
You see, I’m Minnesotan. My parents grew up Swedish Covenant and Norwegian Lutheran. Lefse and lutefisk were staples of their childhoods. So, too, was the excruciatingly polite-yet-passive style of communication that’s been passed down for generations, refined over the decades to convey the simplest message in the most indirect, apologetic and self-deprecating way possible.
With this style of communication, the word “no” is downright rude. Offensive, even. So we replace that two-letter word with an entire rambling monologue. Let me demonstrate:
“Oh, you’d like to know if I could come over when you get off work on Saturday… at midnight… to carry your couch down five flights of stairs? Why that’s so nice of you to ask! I’m flattered you’d think of me. How sweet. Aww, I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure I already committed to watching the neighbor’s eight kids and two dogs while they’re on vacation… Let me double check my calendar and get back to you though, okay?”
Later, I’ll have to reiterate this explanation in a text. I’ll elaborate in five paragraphs on how sorry I am that I just can’t make it work.
I’d like to think that saying “yes” to everything reflects my generous heart and kind spirit. That I’m such a saint for giving of myself so readily and selflessly.
But if I’m being honest, it’s quite the opposite. Saying “yes” satisfies my selfish desire to be liked and admired — to play the superhero that somehow manages to single-handedly keep the Titanic afloat.
Plus I have a bone-deep aversion to disappointing people or stirring up conflict. Combine that with a tendency toward instant gratification, and you have a recipe for instant regret.
Saying no takes courage. It’s easier, in the moment, to be agreeable. That approach backfires when, two hours later, you bite your husband’s head off for daring to ask how your day was.
My inability to say “no” has led to a rather hectic pace of life. I struggle to stay on top of our countless commitments. During a two-week stretch that was particularly ill-planned, we closed on a house, took a cross-country trip, began moving, and held a birthday party for our one-year-old. We also managed multiple events for our side business, all while holding down full-time jobs.
All this rushing around takes a toll. I might seem put together to the average observer. I arrive roughly on time (or at least not embarrassingly late) to the dozen or so weekly appointments that fill up our calendar. But, in truth, there’s a good chance I haven’t showered in three days.
I’ve also developed absent-mindedness akin to early-stage Alzheimer’s. I can’t remember anything unless I’ve written it down. Unfortunately, I’m constantly forgetting where I’ve stashed those hastily scribbled to-do lists. I probably spend upwards of 20 percent of my waking hours scouring the couch cushions for my phone. (“But I just had it!” I’ll moan to whoever’s within earshot.) And I can’t even seem to call my kids by their given names. Instead, I’ll cycle through every name in the household, including the cat’s. By the time I finally settle on the correct name, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say. (“No,” probably.)
Saying “no” fosters a simpler, less frantic way of life — something that always seems just out of reach. Because I’m always racing from one thing to the next, I’ve developed a primal sense of urgency that invades all areas of life. Even during those rare days when I’m not chronically running 15 minutes late, I’m still in a hurry, just out of habit.
You miss a lot of things going 90 miles per hour. The fact that your one-year-old has gotten into your lipstick and is drawing rosé artwork all over the bathroom floor, for instance. Or your toddler’s delightful giggles when he peeks under the bed and spies the cat hiding there (and is using a toilet plunger to coax her out).
I’ve learned the hard way that saying “yes” to everything means saying “no” to the things that matter most. On the flipside, saying “no” allows us to say “yes” more meaningfully. As author Kelly Corrigan observes about people like me, “If they never say no, how can you trust their yes? Besides, no makes room for yes, and who doesn’t want more room for that?”
Author and pastor Danny Silk makes this point in his teachings on boundaries. What seems like a scary word — “boundaries,” bringing to mind twenty-foot-high walls meant to keep others out — can, in the relationship context, actually mean protecting your priorities. You can’t have healthy connections without boundaries. And you can’t have boundaries without saying “no” — frequently and with conviction.
This truth applies all the more profoundly to mothers. We only have so much of ourselves to go around.
I was reminded of this fact during a recent trip to the library. My two littles were literally hanging on me, both clamoring for my attention with tornado-siren wails. I can’t take them anywhere, I thought, and resolved that future outings would be limited to the Community Center for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
At that moment, and during countless others, I wished I had twenty arms instead of two. I wished I could wrap them up in those octopus arms and assure them that they both had 100 percent of my attention, 100 percent of the time.
I can’t grow octopus arms. But by saying “no” to the stuff that doesn’t matter, I can at least say “yes” to my children more often. And given how much they hear “no” at this stage of life, that would be a welcome change.
