If parenting had closed captions, most of mine would read:
[indistinct instructions; child continues drawing a dragon].
For years I said things like “Get ready!” or “Can you please just move?” and then acted surprised when nobody moved. Between our 18-year-old son, 13-year-old daughter, 11-year-old son, 5-year-old daughter, and 4-year-old daughter, our house is a full-spectrum listening lab. What I’ve learned (the hard, funny, humbling way) is this: kids aren’t ignoring us; we’re often speaking in parent-ese—vague, multi-step, emotionally spicy sentences that short-circuit their brains.
The good news? You don’t need a megaphone; you need a method. Clear instructions are short, specific, connection-first, and timed for success. This post is the exact playbook my wife and I use at home, plus the scripts I share with friends who text me at 7:42 a.m. from a hallway lined with uncooperative shoes.
Want deeper guidance on connection-first language that actually lands? My short, practical guide Connection Before Correction turns this mindset into everyday scripts and quick resets you can start using today.
Why Kids “Don’t Listen” (When They Really Can’t Process)
Listening isn’t just ears; it’s brain load. Young kids have tiny working-memory buckets. Teens have full-size buckets that are often busy processing social life, algebra, and the meaning of a single emoji. When we shout a paragraph from across the room—bonus points if we’re stressed—our instructions spill their buckets. They’re not being defiant; they’re drowning in data. The fix is to send one cup at a time.
Clarity beats volume. Connection beats repetition. Specific beats vague.
The Clear-Instruction Formula (Use This Every Time)
I keep this taped inside a cabinet door. It works with preschoolers, big kids, and the 18-year-old who swears he was listening while wearing noise-canceling headphones.
- Connect first. Move close, get eye level, gentle touch (if your child likes it). One beat of warmth.
- Use eight words or fewer. “Shoes on, then backpack.” “Brush teeth; meet at door.” Brevity wins.
- Say the first step only. One action per sentence. Multi-step = mushy.
- Anchor with a sequence cue. “First shoes, then snack.” “After pajamas, choose a book.”
- Offer a tiny choice (when you can). Choice creates buy-in: “Red cup or blue?”
- Ask for a quick check-back. “Tell me what you’re doing first.” They repeat; you know it landed.
If you do nothing else from this article, try steps 1–3 for a week. It will feel almost too simple, like switching from opera to Morse code. That’s the point. Morse code gets through storms.
Classic Instruction Misfires (I Have Committed All of These)
These are the greatest hits that sabotage cooperation—and what to say instead.
- Vague verbs: “Be good!” → Try: “Walk feet; hands to yourself.”
- Too many steps: “Shoes, teeth, hair, backpack, water!” → Try: “Shoes first.” (Then the next step.)
- Yelling from far away: Long distance = low compliance. → Move close; speak softer.
- Question marks that mean commands: “Can you clean up?” invites debate. → Use statements: “Clean up blocks; then snack.”
- Lectures disguised as directions: If it takes longer than eight seconds to say, it’s a speech.
- Ambiguous time: “In a minute” is code for “never.” → Use timers or clear start words: “When the timer dings, shoes.”
Real-Life Vignettes From Our House
The 4-Year-Old Negotiator: She wants to wear rain boots to bed—bold choice. Old me: “We don’t wear boots to bed because—(10 minute explanation of hygiene, circulation, and sock law).” New me kneels: “Boots by the door. Pajamas on. You pick the book.” She trots to pajamas like we didn’t just avoid a TED Talk.
The 5-Year-Old With Jelly Hands: Breakfast everywhere. Old me: “How many times do I have to say—” New me: “Wipe hands; then cereal.” Eight words. She wipes. We eat. I frame the napkin like a trophy.
The 11-Year-Old Freeze: Homework mountain. Old me: “Just start! You’re wasting time!” New me: “One line of math. I’ll sit beside you.” He writes one line, momentum kicks in, and I disappear like a helpful ghost.
The 13-Year-Old Curfew Plan: Old me: “Text me everything and don’t be late and remember—” New me: “Text your plan when you get there. Update if it changes.” Specific beats the parental monologue every time.
The 18-Year-Old and the Trash Can: Old me: “Why is the trash a historical landmark in this kitchen?” New me: “Trash out before you leave. Thanks.” He does it. I retire my museum docent voice.
Situational Scripts You Can Steal
Use these as starters; tweak to your voice. All are connection-first and eight-words-or-fewer.
- Morning shoes: “Shoes on; then backpack.”
- Sibling tension: (Kneel.) “Pause hands. Space. Then we’ll talk.”
- Screen transition: “Last minute. Then off. Come help me.”
- Store meltdown: “You’re safe. Breathe with me. Then cart.”
- Bedtime: “Pajamas; then choose a book.”
- Homework start: “One problem. I’ll sit with you.”
- Leaving the park: “Two more slides. Then car.”
Timing: Say It When They Can Hear It
Half of instruction success is when you deliver it. Hungry, tired, and mid-joy are low-reception zones. If I yell “Dinner!” while the 5-year-old is saving the universe in a cape, she cannot physically process English. I walk over, touch her shoulder, and whisper, “Two-minute warning. Pause cape; then dinner.” When the timer dings, we’re already halfway to yes.
Repairing a Botched Instruction (Because We’re Human)
I still mess this up daily. When I do, I use a 20-second repair.
“I talked at you instead of with you. Let’s try again.” (Eye level.) “First shoes; then backpack.”
It’s wild how often that tiny reset rescues the moment. Kids learn that do-overs are normal, and so do we.
Motivation: What if They Still Don’t Move?
Connection and clarity come first. After that, gentle accountability helps. We use natural consequences that protect the routine, not punish the child. If the 11-year-old doesn’t bring the backpack after two clear prompts, the backpack stays home for non-urgent items. The pain is real, the lesson is faster than any lecture, and our relationship stays intact.
Age-Specific Tweaks (Same Formula, Different Packaging)
Toddlers & preschoolers: Touch the thing you’re naming. “Shoes on,” while tapping the shoes. Pair words with action.
Elementary: Give one job and one sequence cue. “Brush; then pajamas.” Add a silly beat if needed: “Robot walk to sink!”
Tweens/teens: Respect and collaboration: “Shoes in five; need anything from me?” You’ll get more movement and fewer eye-rolls.
The “First–Then–Done” Game
We play this with the littles to turn tasks into checkmarks: “First shoes, then door, then done!” The word done matters—it gives a finish line. The 4-year-old now shouts “DONE!” after brushing and looks like she just won the Masters.
What About Big Feelings?
Clear instructions don’t erase emotions; they contain them. If my 5-year-old is sliding off the chair like a melting snowman, I start with a co-regulation script: “You’re upset. I’m here. Breathe with me.” When she’s back inside her thinking brain, I give the eight-word direction. Order matters: connection first, direction next.
Coaching Ourselves (The Hardest Part)
We teach with our bodies. Shoulders down, voice low, breaths slow—our kids borrow our nervous system. If I sound like an airport announcement during a thunderstorm, they move like suitcase people. When I sound like an NPR host who found coffee and purpose, they move like… kids who can succeed.
Try This Today (Tiny Challenge)
Pick one moment—after-school, pre-dinner, or bedtime—and run the formula: connect → eight words → first step → sequence cue → tiny choice → check-back. Do it twice today. Watch the temperature drop.
Want more family systems that make cooperation the default? Browse the printables and quick-start guides in my Raising Made Simple Store.
Final Word
Clear instructions aren’t magic; they’re muscle memory. The more you practice, the less you’ll repeat yourself and the more your kids will feel capable. You’ll still have messy moments (we do), but you’ll spend less time narrating chaos and more time watching small wins stack into big ones. Speak simply. Connect first. Say it so they can hear it—and watch cooperation grow.
You’ve got this. Eight words at a time.