As a mother of three young and rambunctious boys in the 1990’s, I urgently needed parenting tips. My children were smart, fun, and for the most part, completely out of control. What I believed was a thoughtful spacing between births, designed to get each child out of diapers before the next one arrived, had backfired on me. Instead, the age and sophistication of each son enhanced the disobedience of his next younger brother.
I tried everything: reading books on discipline; listening to child-rearing experts; enforcing time-outs; and working with a child psychologist who, after observing our oldest son, opined that his need for control was at the far end of the power continuum. (When that same power-obsessed child learned to read, he would dip into my parenting books and give me helpful advice such as, “Mom, when I am mean to my brothers you are not supposed to give me attention because it reinforces my negative behavior.”)
In desperation, I decided to implement sticker charts, a practice that some of my friends used with great success. The idea was to arrive at a list of specific, reinforceable behaviors, establish a prize for those tasks, and document progress with decals placed on a piece of cardboard.
My children were enthused by the idea, and their creative little three-, six-, and ten-year-old minds instantly grasped the concept. Since Evan was about to be kicked out of preschool for behavioral truancy, his list contained prohibitions of running in the classroom, throwing toys at school, and fidgeting at circle time. Middle son Andy wrote out his own list of objectives: (1) take your plate to the sink; (2) pick up your toys; (3) do not jump on the bed; and (4) eat your porkchop, among them. Intuitive oldest-son Eric immediately pinpointed the activities that would resonate with me, such as removing his shoes when entering the house, completing homework, and not eating on the couch.
All three kids independently came up with the idea that they should stop using bad language. Evan called it, “potty language;” Andy listed, “no swaring” [sic] on his table; and Eric, understanding the value of phrasing it in a positive way, identified “good language.” The two younger boys coveted a trip to Toys R Us for their reward, while our oldest son wanted a N64 controller for 40 stickers, a Nintendo game for 75, and an N64 game for 100.
For a time, the delayed gratification exercise worked seamlessly. We had after-dinner conversations about social successes and challenges. I noted positive actions every day, and my children selected decals from an elaborate and colorful inventory. The kids counted the days left before they achieved their goals. The final day was busy, absorbing, and quietly happy as my offspring enjoyed the fruits of their hard work after trips to the store and purchases. I basked in the glow of maternal contentment, pleased with the effectiveness of my experiment.
But the misbehaviors cropped up immediately after my sons completed their charts, lapses occurring with increased frequency, almost virulent in their spread. The solution? A new performance challenge, of course. But this time my kids demonstrated less enthusiasm, and the proffered rewards did not inspire them. In psychological terms, the process offered diminishing returns: the thrill of the drill decreased after it reached a certain point. Permanent change did not occur. My kids failed to establish positive habits; they just delayed the bad ones long enough to reach a goal. My temporarily embellished ego slunk back into the familiar ranks of second-rate mothering.
To say that the exercise lacked value is not accurate. My offspring learned to negotiate a less-stringent behavioral investment for a higher rate of return in the next reward chart. They also acquired a talent for knowing the minimum level of performance that would result in a sticker. My sons perfected the art of swearing in voices just low enough so that I could not hear. Most notably, the experience helped cement the sibling brotherhood coalition that exists to this day.
All things considered these life skills are probably serving my sons better than eating porkchops at the dining room table.