When it comes right down to it, the fear of "terrible twos" isn't so much about the child; but rather, it's about our own lack of confidence about how to parent this newly emerging toddler.

I recall one afternoon shortly after my own daughter turned two. She looked at me and announced ever so confidently, "Park. No pants." Hold the phone---when did she learn to say "park?" And was she actually

requesting to go there without any pants on? (She was. We went; her, without pants, and me, fully clothed. It was warm. No one batted an eye.) I realized at that moment that the baby I'd just figured out, suddenly wasn't that person anymore. She was evolving before my eyes.

So, true. We do need to adjust our parenting at this milestone age.

Whereas before we had a child who was likely happy to be carried much of the time, we now have someone who wants to walk. (And by walk, I mean sprint precariously forward, and usually with turbo speed when stairs or vehicles are present.) Suddenly, we need to sprint after a fully functioning human body, and that's new to us.

Whereas before we could talk to our little person and he'd smile or babble in response, we now have someone who's forging his own opinions about things. Suddenly, we need to navigate a new opinion in the house, and that's new to us.

As tempting as it is to blame the "terrible twos" for all of this, it's all part of normal child development.

The human brain will never again grow as fast as it's growing right now in these first few years of childhood. As much as it is for us---the adults---to process, it's even more overwhelming for the little people to whom this "growing up" thing is happening. Sometimes, it manifests in what adults perceive as suboptimal behavior, such as tantrums.

One important thing to note is that throwing a tantrum isn't about disobedience; it's a little one's way of saying, "This is pretty overwhelming right now! Can you please support me?" Unfortunately, two year olds often lack the verbal skills, not to mention the development in the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain that controls impulses) to help them do anything other than exactly what they're doing. Some quick brain science: the prefrontal cortex doesn't fully develop until around age 25.

I realize that when a child throws a temper tantrum at the grocery store or on the playground, it's inconvenient. Sometimes, it's downright embarrassing. If situations like that irk you, please know you're not alone. Remain calm; practice deep breathing.

If I had a single piece of advice around your child's big feelings, I'd suggest that you let go completely about what other people think and simply connect to your child. This connection is going to get you through age two, and all of the other years that follow. Now is a great time to practice.

And here's the crazy thing---most "terrible twos" spend very little time upset. In my personal and professional experience, two year olds are incredibly delightful most of the time. The amount of time they spend being curious, giggly, and affectionate far outweighs anything else.

If anyone tells you otherwise, surprise them with your compassion.

Surprise people with your ability to see the joy at your child's newfound mobility and freedom, because it's new to him. We can learn to run faster.

Surprise people with your gentle support of your child's awesome new ways to show you "This is who I am and what I like," because advocating for herself is new to her. (And how freeing it must be to clearly know your boundaries like little kids do. What a gift they have this way!) We can learn to help our child navigate communication.

Surprise people with your flexibility around forced sleep times; we all sleep when we're tired enough, and this incredible desire to play with you every waking hour is new to your child, too. We can learn to adapt.

Sure enough, when we figure out how to modify our parenting to support our quickly evolving two-year-olds, it all falls into place.

Part of respectful parenting means we learn to work with the child in front of us, even when it requires that we, ourselves, grow in our abilities. Additionally, it means we're intentional about the ways we describe our children to others. Our words matter and our kids are listening. Do we like them? Do we want to foster a positive connection based on mutual trust? As parents, we're called not only to be kind to them, but also to reflect that kindness in the words we use about them.

When someone mentions the "terrible twos" to me, I often reply with a shrug and respond, "Huh. I've always called them the 'terrific twos.'" 'Nuff said. One person at a time, we can change perception---because after all, our perception is our reality, isn't it?

Your two-year-old child is wonderfully fine, and more often than not, perfectly terrific.

Can I confess that we celebrated Easter this year on Cinco de Mayo? We were traveling unexpectedly during the "real" holiday in April and didn't have the forethought to toss any recycled plastic eggs in our hastily packed suitcases. Besides, the date people celebrate Easter changes every year, anyway, right? (This is one major advantage of my five-year-old not paying much attention to the calendar yet. It's whatever day we decide it is.) All that to say, we put Easter at the top of our "to do" list as soon as we got home. She was on board with that.

I'll preface this by saying I never really planned to do the whole Easter Bunny thing.

I celebrated Easter with Good Sir Bunny when I was a child (apparently I've formalized his name since then), but had mixed feelings about doing it for my own little one. I always wanted to tell her the truth. I still believe that's important. At the same time, I also believe in allowing for some fun and nostalgic traditions, with honest discussion around the topic anytime she'd ask.

Following her enthusiastic pro-Easter Bunny lead when she was younger, however, my husband and I signed on for as long as her belief would last, wiggling our pink bunny noses in agreement.

The evening before the Big Day we'd celebrate, however, and at the dinner table right before bedtime, my daughter had a question.

"Mommy, is the Easter Bunny real, or do you and Daddy just hide all the eggs yourselves?"

Gulp.

Thoughts raced through my head: "She's only five; almost six. I wasn't ever sure we'd even do the Easter Bunny, but now that we have, should it be over so soon? Is she growing up right before my eyes?"

I recalled the importance of answering questions with questions when it comes to addressing tricky inquiries that have "loaded" answers.

On one hand, I wanted to protect her sweet little heart from breaking, just in case it would. On the other hand, and much more importantly, I wanted to respond in a way that would continue to foster a lifetime of trust with my child.

So, I asked her, "What do you think is true?"

She responded, "Mommy, I just want you to tell me. I don't want you to joke with me. I want the real answer, please, for real-real." ("For real-real" is what she says when she's unequivocally serious.)

Me: "I understand. What do you want to be true?"

Her: "I think you and Daddy hide the eggs."

Me: "What does your heart tell you is true?"

Her: "That there is no Easter Bunny. It's just you and Daddy."

3, 2, 1...goodbye, part of your childhood innocence. You're about to take another step into the world of grown-ups.

I took a moment and a breath.

Then, I responded factually, "You can always trust me to tell you the truth. You are correct. Daddy and I hide the eggs."

There. It was out.

Before I could mourn my little one growing up before my eyes, she added, "You know, Mommy, it makes perfect sense. When I think about a bunny hopping all over the place with baskets full of eggs, it really is kind of ridiculous." Then, she laughed heartily and requested that her Daddy and I hide them inside rather than outside.

She seemed relieved, really. I don't know how long she'd been wondering about the Easter Bunny, but it seemed as if a small weight had been lifted off her little shoulders.

Her shoulders are still little. At almost six, she's still little.

She went on playing today as usual. She woke up excited to find the eggs we'd hidden. She remarked that some were "too easy to find," but others still took her awhile to locate.

She wasn't heartbroken at all. She was, if anything, validated.

At dinner tonight, the day we celebrated Easter as we always have, she asked to read the book, "'Twas the Night Before Christmas." She asked nothing about Santa. I suspect that part of her already knows about him, too. And part of her---in fact, almost all of her---is still just as innocent as she was yesterday before dinner.

She's growing up perfectly well, trusting that it's safe to ask the tricky questions.

Related to the Easter Bunny: Easter Egg Alternatives: 12 Great Ways to Leave the Eggs for People Who Need to Eat Them

Sarah R. Moore is an internationally published writer and the founder of Dandelion Seeds Positive Parenting. You can follow her on Facebook, Pinterest, and Instagram. She’s currently worldschooling her family. Her glass is half full.

I was sitting poolside in Florida, all by myself. I italicize that because it was a fairly momentous event. I am hardly ever alone. As in, pretty much never, not even for a minute. So, it felt like a fairly big deal to have my husband entertaining my daughter in the nearby pool (but out of earshot from me), and to have almost no one around. The lounge chairs were nearly empty; it was chilly by Florida standards.

I superficially noticed a woman sitting pretty close to the chair I'd chosen, but I didn't pay her much attention.

I sat back to read my book. Upon internalizing that I could do nothing, however, I closed my eyes and kind of zoned out.

After a few seconds, I heard the nearby woman exclaim, "Oh, I am SO sorry!"

I looked up and saw that a dripping wet young child was standing between us. Although I was still perfectly dry, the mama must've assumed her daughter had gotten me wet somehow. Smiling back sincerely, I offered, "Oh, there's nothing to apologize for! I'm dry. Plus, I have a five-year-old, so I totally get it."

Her daughter ran back to the pool. The mom, however, held my gaze.

"You DO?" she inquired. "Mine just turned five and it's throwing me for a loop. It's so hard and I just don't know what to do with her. Is it like that for you, too?"

As if I'd planned it, but of course I hadn't, I displayed my handy visual aid. I held out the book I'd brought to read poolside---Discipline Without Damage by Dr. Vanessa Lapointe, R. Psych (afflink)---and replied warmly and truthfully, "We're all still learning."

Her jaw just about hit the ground. She asked to take a photo of the book's cover, and I offered it willingly.

"It's so hard," she said with her beautifully thick southern accent. "I've done it all wrong."

I was surprised how much she was confiding in me as a total stranger, but somehow, our conversation felt entirely natural.

She continued, "I nursed her for too long. She was three when she stopped. And I should've started punishing her when she was littler; taking things away; smacking; doing what all my friends with older kids said I should do. I'm really too late, aren't I? The last thing I want is a kid who doesn't grow up respecting me. I mean, she still sleeps in my bed. I'm doing it all wrong."

Gently, I offered, "I'm so glad you're here. I want you to know that you didn't nurse her for too long. You did what worked for you both. Also, let me tell you---I know some things about this. I'm a mama, too, and sometimes I help other parents. A lot changes at age five. Your girl's brain chemistry has just changed substantially; it just is hard while you learn about this new version of the same child you've always had. Punishment is never the answer. Building a positive lifelong connection with her, is. Respect comes from trust. You're doing it right."

She blinked back tears.

I repeated with love, "This is all normal. You're doing it right."

She cried tears of relief. I got a little misty, too, because...well, when in Rome, right? Here we were, two strangers, who "got" each other.

We talked through a few specifics of her parenting and of her daughter.

She told me that earlier that day, she'd prayed that someone would just "sit right down next to me at the pool today and tell me what to do." She confessed that her heart wasn't hearing the answer by itself, so she'd decided to be specific in her request.

Now, to be clear, I would never call myself an answer to prayer. If anything, when I was "zoning" moments before our conversation, I'd been seeking a bit of direction, myself. Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing what I'm doing, as a gentle parenting writer. It feels right in my heart, but for all the time I invest in it, does it actually help anybody?

When we finished our conversation, she hugged me like a long-lost friend. She thanked me, but really, the gratitude and clarity in my own heart were overwhelming.

If we're wondering whether gentle parenting is "right" when so much of the world seems anything but gentle, sometimes we need to look no farther than the person right next to us. Even more, we need to trust that something greater than us is at work, and that we're all exactly where we're supposed to be.

I hope he doesn't remember this, but the first time I met Teacher Tom, I was a bumbling idiot.

Now, here's why it's particularly embarrassing. You see, because my mom was in the entertainment industry while I was growing up, I had exposure to more than my fair share of celebrities.

Then, as an adult, I just kept running into them. For instance (and to my surprise), Steven Tyler once approached me and asked if he looked alright; he'd had only a quick cold shower and had to hurry, and was feeling self-conscious. I responded to him and we spent 45 minutes having a one-on-one conversation before he introduced me to the rest of Aerosmith. (He's a super nice guy, for what it's worth. I felt awkward ending the conversation, as if I should invite him to lunch or something.) I hadn't been looking for him or any of the other famous people I've stumbled across; it's one of those funny things that has just kind of happened with some degree of regularity throughout my life. It's always been my opinion that they're just people, so why get so worked up about them?

While they might be more recognizable, they're certainly no more important than the rest of humanity.

My life continued as it had, and one day while walking down the street with my daughter near downtown Seattle, Washington, I looked up to see a playground adjacent to an old church. On it, kids were playing. The teacher was the one who caught my eye, though---and he looked familiar. I racked my brain for a moment and realized it was, indeed, Teacher Tom (otherwise known as Tom Hobson) of Woodland Park Cooperative School. Known worldwide in the respectful parenting community (and beyond), he's hailed by parenting experts as one of the “world’s leading practitioners of ‘democratic play-based’ education." He's also a heck of a good writer. I'd recognized him from his blog about early childhood education (and other related topics).

I didn't know he'd be right there. And for the first time in my life, I completely geeked out in front of someone---and that someone wasn't a rock star or movie star, but rather, a preschool teacher. My subconscious enthusiasm did all sorts of unconscionable things: I stuttered, used the wrong word more than once, and despite my efforts, just couldn't seem to "pull up" conversationally. I guess I'm a sucker for intelligent people who do important work on behalf of children.

Fortunately, to the extent that I felt embarrassed by my temporary social ineptitude, Teacher Tom was gracious and kind.

He engaged my introverted daughter as best he could and invited us to join his class sometime. We accepted his invitation. I enrolled my child for the following summer and the school year thereafter.

By spending a year working in his classroom every week, I got to know him much better than I did when I first wrote about him. I'll stand behind what I wrote then---he's still simultaneously on the kids' level while also being a strong and respectable leader. He's intriguing. Even my husband can't quite put his finger on it. He agrees, "There's just something special about him."

What I'll add to last year's description, however, is what a big heart Teacher Tom has.

Beyond what he does to entertain the kids, he also really engages with them.

Unlike many of us, who are often inclined to multitask or think about the "next responsible thing we need to do" while playing, he really gives the kids his undivided attention. He's all in. What I observe in their response is that they feel important in his presence (because they are). There's a critical parenting lesson in that.

Further, he doesn't "teach" a thing in the traditional sense of classroom teaching, but somehow, he ends up teaching pretty much everything that matters.

You won't find a single worksheet anywhere in his classroom (other than, perhaps, as scrap paper). The most formal instruction I ever heard him offer to the class was, "Here's something you need to know in life: no one wants you to mess with their glasses, their hat, or their hair. Nobody likes that." (He's right.)

He's good at life lessons; at teaching people how to coexist together.

Within the context of the inevitable and occasional conflict that comes up amongst the children, he helps them navigate their challenges peacefully. With him, it's safe to talk about feelings; in fact, he spends a fair amount of time talking about them. He reads about them. I'd surmise that every kid in his class graduates with a better understanding of humanity than many adults have.

He's got emotional intelligence covered.

I'd be surprised if the adults who spend time with him don't come away as better parents and partners than they were before observing him with the kids.

And as with all things, once we learn what we've been there to learn, it's time to move on.

Today, our last day, the kids put on an end-of-year play as part of their "graduation" ceremony. While Teacher Tom was coaching them beforehand---and before the audience entered the room---he advised the kids that sometimes, unplanned things happen during performances. People drop their props and whatnot. If one of those unforeseen things were to happen, he advised them to keep performing, citing the old cliché---"the show must go on."

They performed. Most things went according to plan and the play went beautifully. Families celebrated, and then the kids crossed the stage one at a time to symbolize their leaving Teacher Tom's class to move on to new endeavors.

I don't think anyone---adult or child---was prepared for the emotional investment we'd make in Teacher Tom's class throughout the year.

My guess is that we all walked away feeling somehow changed, likely for the better, for his presence in our lives.

I didn't mean to meet Teacher Tom any more than I'd planned to hang out with Aerosmith. One of those encounters was fairly cool (much cooler than I've ever been, for sure); the other, made a difference.

There's a hole in our hearts tonight after finishing our time with Teacher Tom. And yet, that hole is full of a lot of teaching that I'll still be processing, and trying to implement as a parent, for quite some time.

I'd sincerely like to thank him for the work he does. Not only do I want to thank him for what he writes to keep the rest of us in check every day (although I don't think that's his goal); I also want to thank him for opening his heart to these kids.

He loves them. And every single one of them feels it.

And now, we move onward---better than we were before we met him, because, as he said, the show must go on.