Do What Thou Must: How We’re Raising a Crow-Hearted Kid with Consent and Confidence

✨ Content is free—but crows like snacks.

In the House of Crow and White, the law is simple: Do what thou must.

And trust me, some days, what "thou must" do is sit on the kitchen floor, forehead against the fridge, while a two-foot-tall tornado shrieking, they will not be wearing a shirt today, thank you very much.

Because "do what thou must" isn't just poetry. It's how we’re trying to guide a whole soul — not make a show pony.

And it’s kicking my butt in the best possible way.

The Gold Star Apocalypse (A Personal Dragging)

When our Little One was born, I’ll be real:

I was fully stocked up on the Western Parenting Starter Pack™:

• Baby talk? Check.

• "Say hi! Wave! Perform for strangers!" Check.

• Gold stars for breathing properly? Check.

I thought parenting was about compliance, not collaboration. I thought a "good kid" said yes to everything. I thought pinning a squirming toddler down with my feet for a diaper change was normal — until one day I saw the fear in his eyes and realized: I wasn’t winning. I was losing trust."

Cue the sound of the Crow smacking me upside the head with a frying pan.

Because then the Little One came.

And he called my bluff.

The Shirt Incident (Otherwise Known as the Day I Realized I Was a Clown)

Picture this:

New Mexico. Summer. Desert sun melting the asphalt into goo.

And there's me — standing in the kitchen, red-faced, hollering at my ONE YEAR OLD TODDLER like some deranged middle manager losing their mind at the copy machine:

"IF YOU WANT TO GO OUTSIDE, YOU HAVE TO PUT ON A SHIRT!"

I wish I could tell you I heard myself immediately. I didn’t.

It took me a good thirty seconds of echoing around the kitchen walls before I thought:

"Wait a minute. WHY? WHY DOES HE NEED A SHIRT?"

It was ninety degrees outside. He’s a literal baby.

There was no law of the land that said, "Thou must sweat thine tiny buttcheeks off in cotton armor to satisfy thine mother's weird internalized voices."

I wasn’t protecting him. I wasn’t serving him.

I was protecting my image of what a 'good' parent looks like.

And I hated seeing it that clearly.

But I needed to.

Why We’re Building Consent Like It’s Sacred Fire

After that day, I got serious.

In the House of Crow and White, we don’t raise performers. We raise people who know their own "must."

Which means:

• Choices whenever possible. Do you want the blue socks or the red socks? No socks? Cool. I’ll bring some in case you change your mind. (And he usually does.)

• Respecting no’s without pouting. Don’t want a hug right now? Totally okay. See you when you're ready.

• Modeling boundaries without tantrums. No is a complete sentence. Even when it’s said to me. Especially when it’s said to me.

• Honoring emotions, not controlling them. You’re mad you have to leave the park? Rage it out, crowheart. I'll hold the perimeter.

Because "do what thou must" isn't a free pass to terrorize everyone.

It's an invocation to know your own soul, and act from it.

It’s "do what you must" — not "micromanage every human who dares defy your schedule."

And that distinction? It’s holy.

Sometimes, the real magick is sitting on your own hands and letting your kid's spirit be bigger than your fear.

Why It’s So Hard (And So Worth It)

I’ll be honest:

This path is not for the faint of heart.

Because every time my kid says no to me? Every time he pushes back? Every time he stares me down with that "ancient warrior who knows his own worth" look?

It drags my face across the metaphorical desert dirt like a ragdoll at a rodeo.

It drags up every part of me that was taught to fear "no."

It drags up every part of me that believed "obedience = love."

It drags up every ghost of "good girl" conditioning that had me gasping for gold stars like a fish for air.

But you know what?

I’ll sit my butt right down on that metaphorical living room floor, spill the popcorn, and let myself be dragged every time.

Because my kid deserves better.

And honestly?

I do too.

I deserve to heal alongside him.

I deserve to molt out of the good-girl costume stitched over my real bones.

I deserve to say "no" and "yes" from the blazing core of who I am — not from shame or fear.

And watching my son build that kind of freedom from day one?

It’s the most sacred rebellion I’ve ever done.

The way he moves through emotions is gorgeous. Ocean storm one minute, blissful laughing the next. He doesn’t hold on. He doesn’t armor up. He just feels it, flies it, and lets it go.

He’s my crash course in emotional integrity, and I am attending class with a juice box and a tear-stained hall pass.

Final Blessing for the Other Former Gold-Star Chasers

May you hear your child’s "no" and bless it, even when it stings.

May you hold space for their fury without crumbling into a puddle of "but what will the neighbors think."

May you find, in every tantrum and every tiny rebellion, the crow-winged truth:

Freedom isn’t neat. Love isn’t tidy. Parenting is holy chaos.

May your house be full of choices, full of boundaries, full of realness.

May your "yes" and your "no" both be sacred.

And may the next time you catch yourself yelling "PUT ON A SHIRT!" you stop, laugh, and hand your kid a watermelon slice instead.

93, little freedom makers. 🖤✨

• Loui Crow
  
  💔 What pain or struggle is this blog addressing?
  The invisible wound of authoritarian conditioning: the expectation that obedience = love, that compliance = good parenting, and the inner shame spiral that gets triggered when kids say no. It speaks to parents trying to unlearn old scripts without drowning in guilt.

  🔮 What’s the sacred transformation or takeaway?
  By the end, the reader feels less alone, less judged, and more empowered to build a family where "no" and "yes" both mean something. They realize real love isn’t about control — it’s about holding space for wildness, choice, and real soul growth (for their kids and themselves).