The Art of War

When I’m Mad, I Wait

Sometimes I feel mad.
Really, really mad.
My face gets hot.
My hands want to hit.

Being mad is okay.
Everybody feels mad sometimes.
But when I’m mad, I wait.

Wait? Yes. I wait.
I take one big breath. In… and out.
I count. One. Two. Three.
When I’m mad, I wait.

At first the mad feels big.
Big and hot and fast.
But if I wait, something happens.
The big mad gets a little smaller.
And then a little smaller.
So when I’m mad, I wait.

Why do I wait?
Because mad makes me want to break things.
Kick my tower. Rip my picture. Yell.
But a kicked-down tower stays down.
A ripped picture stays ripped.
The mad goes away. The broken thing does not.
That’s why, when I’m mad, I wait.

I wait for the big mad to get small.
Then I can think.
Then I can pick what to do.
I can use my words. I can ask for help. I can walk away for a bit.
Waiting is not the same as giving up.
I just waited for the big mad to go small.

Say it with me: When I’m mad, I wait.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This comes from The Art of War, an ancient Chinese book on war traditionally credited to Sun Tzu. Near its end is a rule for rulers and generals: never start a war out of anger, because anger can turn back into gladness, but a kingdom that is destroyed never comes back, and neither do the dead. The child-sized version is simply “wait.” The feeling is named and allowed on purpose; what pauses is the action, not the emotion. A breath, a count, or a step away gives the feeling somewhere to go while it shrinks.

No Pulling

I want the red kite.
My friend wants it too.
We both grab the string.

If we both pull,
the kite can rip.
Then nobody gets to fly it.
So I don’t pull. I find a way.

Wanting the kite is okay.
I still want my turn.
But pulling is not the only way to get it.
I don’t pull. I find a way.

What way?
I can ask, “Can I have a turn?”
I can say, “You go first. Then me.”
I can hold the string. My friend can run.
I don’t pull. I find a way.

Now look at the kite.
No rip. No hole.
It goes up, up, up.
We both get to watch it fly.

The best kind of winning keeps the kite whole.
Next time, what way will you find?

Say it with me: I don’t pull. I find a way.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This comes from the most famous idea in The Art of War: the best victory takes the prize whole, without a fight, while smashing it is second best. Sun Tzu ranks winning a hundred battles below winning with no battle at all, partly because a war wrecks the very country you meant to take. The kite carries that mechanism: a tug-of-war can destroy the thing both children want. The book reaches its bloodless wins partly through deception, which is a rule for enemies in war, not for friends; the child’s ways here are asking, taking turns, and sharing, never tricking. Wanting the kite is allowed, so this isn’t a lesson in always giving in.

First I Look

I play tag with my big brother.
He is big. His legs are long.
When we run straight, he always wins.
So first I look.

What can I do?
I am small. I can turn fast.
I can duck under the slide.
First I look at me.

What can he do?
He runs fast in a straight line.
But he turns slow, like a big truck.
First I look at him.

Now I know me, and I know him.
So I don’t run straight.
I run round and round the tree.
I zig and zag and duck.
He can’t catch me yet!
First I look. Then I play.

If I only look at me,
I forget his long legs.
Sometimes I get away. Sometimes I don’t.
If I don’t look at all,
he catches me every time.
First I look. Then I play.

Looking first doesn’t mean I always win.
Sometimes he still catches me.
That’s okay. It’s a game.
Next time, I look again.

Your turn. Before you play,
what can you do?
What can they do?
First you look. Then you play.

A note for the grown-up

For the grown-up reading aloud: This is The Art of War’s best-known line in child size: if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear a hundred battles; know only yourself, and you win some and lose some; know neither, and you lose every battle. In the book the other side is an enemy army. Here it’s a brother in a game, and the fence is that looking first helps without promising a win, so the child keeps playing when looking isn’t enough.