Why I stopped saying because I said so

There is a sentence I have been catching myself before I say. I am tired, the child is tired, the request is small. Brush your teeth. Put on your shoes. Eat your dinner. They ask why, and the words are right there. Because I said so.

It is the easiest sentence in the world to use. It ends the conversation. It moves the day forward. It lets you exhale. The cost of it is invisible at first. But over years, it teaches a child that authority is the answer to every question. That power is its own justification. That when they grow up and someone in a room asks them why, they should accept the same answer.

What I try to reach for instead is shorter than you think. Because brushing your teeth keeps them strong. Because we leave on time so the bus does not leave without us. Because dinner is what gives your body what it needs for tomorrow. The reason does not have to be perfect. It has to exist.

When my older child was small, I thought the goal was obedience. Now, with a newborn in the house and a teenager building her own life, I am clear that the goal was always something else. The goal was for them to know that there is a reason behind what we ask of them. And to grow up looking for the reason behind what is asked of them by anyone, ever again.