When My Child Started Asking, “Mom, Do You Think My Drawing Is Good?”

A teacher from Shamrock, and parent’s reflection on art, confidence, and helping a child find his own voice.

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

In our family, whatever our children are doing or learning, we try to keep one thing in mind: helping them stay connected to their own motivation.

Rather than automatically responding with “You’re amazing!” or “You did such a great job!” or “Mom loves it!”, we’re more likely to say:

“How do you feel about it?”

“You finished something new all by yourself. You look proud.”

“That was hard work. We can take a break.”

We hope their confidence will not depend only on whether someone else thinks they have done well.

We want them to be able to admire other people and still accept what they cannot do yet. To feel happy about their progress, while also allowing themselves to be dissatisfied sometimes.

Every child is someone special. They do not have to be better than everyone else to like who they are.

From “I like it” to “Do you like it?”

My son, Leo, used to be very comfortable following his own interests. When something caught his attention, he would investigate, explore, and try things for himself.

Sometimes another child would tell him quite bluntly, “That doesn’t look good.”

He would simply reply, “But I like it.”

I remember thinking: This is what I hope he can hold on to.

But as he grew older, I began to notice a change.

“Mom, do you like it?”

“Do you think I did a good job?”

He was asking more and more often. I started to realize that, as his world grew bigger, he was becoming more aware of how other people saw him.

We could do our best to give him an environment of respect and acceptance. But we could not protect him from every comparison, judgment, or unkind comment.

Perhaps real confidence is not about never being shaken by someone else’s opinion. Perhaps it is about gradually learning to find your own voice, even as the voices around you grow louder.

A drawing, and a difficult moment

Recently, Leo decided to make a birthday drawing for someone in our family.

When he reached the coloring part, I could see that he was struggling and becoming impatient. Without thinking much about it, I picked up a crayon to show him a few ways he could color.

He became upset almost immediately.

He would not let me touch his crayons, and he kept asking:

“Mom, don’t you like it?”

“Don’t you like my drawing?”

“Please say you like it!”

He grew angry. Even when I tried to speak, he did not want to hear me.

That was when I realized that this little boy in front of me no longer seemed quite so sure of his own drawing.

I stopped trying to demonstrate. After a quiet pause, I asked, “Is there something about your picture that you don’t like? Is there a part you wish looked different?”

Then I shared what I had noticed.

“The people you drew have so much life in them. You looked carefully at the details. See that smile? The eyes really do look almost closed when someone smiles like that.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, through his tears, he told me:

“My friend said my drawing wasn’t good.”

I went quiet, too.

“People can have different opinions and feelings,” I told him. “But drawing is something we can enjoy for ourselves. There are plenty of things I don’t know how to draw, either. I still feel happy when I draw.”

Then I said, “Let’s draw together.”

Drawing side by side

So I, with no particular talent for drawing, picked up a crayon, too.

As I drew, I made up stories to go with the picture.

At first, Leo drew scenes similar to mine. But little by little, he moved into a world of his own.

He drew a castle for our family. Boats. Submarines.

His stories became more elaborate, and his picture became more and more his own.

Beside him, I talked casually about what I was doing: “Here, I can color with little lines. Over here, I can go around in circles.”

Then he discovered something for himself. By gently brushing his finger along the edges of his rainbow and sun, he could blend the colors into a soft glow.

I had not taught him that.

He had found it on his own.

When we finished, he had another idea: he placed my drawing beside his, joining the two pictures together.

He studied them for a moment. Then he said, with a seriousness that made me smile:

“Mom, your water is calm. Mine has big, crashing waves.”

I asked him, “While you were drawing, were you thinking about all the things you couldn’t draw, and feeling sad about it?”

“No,” he said. “I just drew whatever I thought of.”

“And did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I hope drawing can be for you,” I told him. “Something you enjoy.”

“As you keep drawing, you’ll discover that there are lots of ways to draw the same thing, and lots of ways to use color. Every story is different. Every mood is different.”

“Some people might not like the way we draw, because they have their own feelings, too. We can listen to what they think, and then ask ourselves: Do I like it? Am I enjoying this? Do I want to keep going?”

What I hope confidence can become

I kept thinking about that afternoon long after we put the crayons away.

We often talk about raising a “confident child.” Perhaps confidence is not about helping a child believe, all the time, “I’m good at this.”

Perhaps it is about helping them build something steadier:

“Even if I’m not good at it yet, I’m still willing to try.”

“Even if someone else doesn’t like it, my own feelings still matter.”

“Even when I wish I could do what someone else can, I don’t have to think less of myself.”

“I can learn. I can change. And I can still like who I am while I’m learning.”

We cannot stand between our children and every comment they will receive.

They will hear things like “Your drawing isn’t good,” “She’s better at it than you,” or “Why can’t you do that?”

And there may come a day when “But I like it” no longer comes quite so easily.

Perhaps our role is not to make sure they never doubt themselves. Perhaps it is to stay beside them when they do, and help them return, again and again, to their selves.

What someone else thinks is their perspective. You can hear it without letting it become the voice that defines you.

And perhaps the most precious motivation for learning is not:

“I need to prove that I’m good at this.”

But simply:

“I still want to try.”