In the 70s Dennis Genpo Merzel was a young Zen teacher. He was telling a friend about being invited into the cockpit of a 747. 
 
“There’s a little black box, a computer called Fred. Every time the plane goes off course, Fred communicates with another computer called George. Fred says ‘Hey George, we’re 10 degrees starboard off course. Correct.’ George responds ‘Thank you Fred, will do.’ and corrects the course. The plane is off course for 90% of the time it’s in the air. It’s always course-correcting. Fred is always telling George to adjust, and George always acknowledges what Fred’s saying and does it.”
 
“Imagine,” Dennis says to his friend, “how their conversation would be if Fred and George were people, not machines? It wouldn’t take long for George to get angry at Fred for ‘always telling him what to do’.”
 
Life is about learning. When you’re young, learning is your work. When you get older, learning gives you an advantage at work. 
 
We’re taught learning is about being right, about having the answers. That’s why George would get angry at Fred if they were people, because we value being right. When we value being right, then to George each correction looks like a criticism. The kind of criticism that, repeated day in, day out for years and years, especially through their formative years, makes the person receiving it feel that nothing they do is ever good enough. 
 
The corrections aren’t meant critically though. Learning can’t exist without corrections. We know this implicitly because when we discover a correction that works, we get a good feeling. ‘Ah, so that’s how you do it.’ 
 
In our house, we do weekday morning, family lockdown PE (physical education). We do all sorts of things, but at least once a week we do PE with Joe. When we do it, I hear myself constantly correcting the kids. ‘Keep your back straight, your thighs should be in line with the ground, lift your knees higher.’ Yesterday I counted it. 30 minutes of exercise, 3 well done comments, 10 correcting comments. The kind of ratio that, repeated often enough, leaves an impression. Not in a good way. 
 
My corrections are well meaning. I’m trying to help them learn, to do better. They listen about 40% of the time, so even in the short term it only sort of works. And in the long term, it certainly doesn’t.  
 
What to do?
 
I’m old enough to know that as soon as I find something that works, it’ll stop working and I’ll have to find something new. So, it’s more a case of finding a few things than one. Here's what I'm playing with at the moment. 
 
Praise and challenge. ‘You’re trying really hard! It’s harder if you put your arms up higher, bet you can’t do that.’
 
Go curious. ‘Great squat jump! What happens if you don’t let your heels touch the ground? What about if you only bend your legs half way? What if…’
 
Share. ‘You make it look like it’s easy, I’m finding it really hard when my bum's at this level. Try it.’
 
And then of course, there’s the smartest approach. Don't bother. There’s plenty of time for them to perfect a squat-thrust and push-up as they get older. It’s a strong relationship that really matters, especially while we’re all locked-down in the same house. Not strong thighs.