Easier Said than Done

Parenting is an ever-humbling endeavor. Everything you think are is good at is called into question. Maybe people considered you to be a patient person, or admired your spotless home, or assumed you were decent psychologist, before you had children. And then came along the person to shake things up. This tiny being that would, unwittingly, unravel years of growth and hard work. Who would simultaneously bestow you with a new identity and cause you to wonder who the hell you’ve become.

Kevin and I have been implementing Sophie’s behavior plan for well over a month, perhaps two at this point. She loves her rules and can identify, by number, exactly which one she is breaking.

“I can’t get a star because I didn’t do number two, Mom.”

(Rule Number 2: Get dressed [when I #!@$% tell you to].)

Initially, there was a honeymoon period. When one first starts to implement a plan, one of two things happens. Either the child comes at you ten times harder, trying to find your breaking point, or she behaves beautifully, lulling you into a false sense of security, at which point she comes at you ten times harder, successfully reaching your breaking point much, much sooner.

Perhaps the honeymoon period could be attributed to the fact that, in the beginning, I, too, tried to do everything “right.” I talked about my expectations. (“Staying in control means, if you start to get angry you either go somewhere by yourself to calm down, or you tell me how you feel.”) I tried to keep her motivated through the difficult moments with the promise of earning her reward. (“If you earn all your stars, we’ll get to watch Charlie and Lola!”) I allowed her to select her own rewards. I made sure these rewards were only accessible when she earned her stars. I kept the bar low, so she could have success early and often. And, perhaps most importantly, I kept up with the chart, reviewing her behavior and doling out stars each night before bed.

But then, just when things were going fairly well (and, most likely, because of it), I started to slack. I verbally awarded stars, but didn’t record them on the chart until days later. I raised the bar too quickly, putting of the potential to earn her reward by four days at the earliest. And slowly, Sophie started to slip backwards.

Sophie has always had pretty bad melt downs. Since she was two she viciously fought against all impingements that interfere with her MO: that is, to play all day. So, whether I’m simply trying to brush her teeth or ask her to put her shoes on, if she does not want to do it, she will rapidly morph into a vicious animal—hitting, biting, kicking, scratching. Now that she’s more verbal and physically adept, she has graduated to using cruel language and ripping the curtains off her windows in fits of rage.

I have learned that the best approach tends to be to disengage until the adrenaline stops coursing through her veins. At which point she is generally contrite and willing to make amends. This is fine if we don’t have something we absolutely must be doing or if we’re at home. It’s a little more difficult if we are out in public. But I’m still strong enough to overpower her, remove her from the situation, and shackle her to her car seat, should the need arise.

Upper body strength is an essential for effective parenting.

But Sophie made a recent discovery that has me over a barrel. She’s figured out how to undo her car seat.

The first time she undid it, she was in a rage because I had the audacity to take her home from nursery school when she didn’t want to leave. She had already threatened me with bodily harm (“Mommy, if you don’t let me stay, I’m going to hit you.”), had succeeded in scratching me until I bled, and had somehow ripped off her tights and underwear, while buckled into her booster, and was threatening to pee in the seat.

For the record, my mother says I was never like this.

In retaliation, I turned on NPR and told her I was not going to turn off the “traffic music,” until she calmed down. (Negative reinforcement.)

So, she did what any evil mastermind would do. She upped the ante, unclicking her five point restraint and shrugging out of the top portion. All of which occurred, just as I was about to pull on the highway.

She had me there. What could I do? I had to pull over to the shoulder and wait her out, which I did.

The second time it happened, we were on the highway, doing about 70 (not 87, because punishment works with me). With each exit seven miles apart, the next rest stop about 13 miles away, and no shoulder during construction, there was little I could do. I reached back into the seat. First I took away her books. Then, I turned off her music. Finally, I ripped Snakey-Pie out of her hands and I announced she would get nothing, NOTHING, until she re-buckled that seat belt.

It took a few minutes, but she did.

That afternoon I googled seat belt locks, which, I learned, they make for regular seat belts, but not for car seatbelts.

I can’t believe I’m the only mother who has ever dealt with this. Haven’t other people given birth to rageful evil geniuses?

The third time it happened, I still didn’t have a device.

I had taken Sophie to a bookstore to purchase a birthday gift. She was tired and hungry after a long day at school so I told her we could get a fruit snack at the coffee shop within the bookstore once we had found our gift. Sophie brightened at this, and though a bit cranky, was compliant in the store.

I, of course, had made the cardinal parenting sin of promising something I wasn’t 100% sure was available. When we got to the coffee shop: no fruit snack. It was close to dinner, so I casually said, “Let’s just go home, Soph, and I’ll give you a little something to tide you over when we get there.”

She was not having it.

Just as we were exiting, she grabbed a Dora the Explora book-like substance and demanded that I buy it.

“Sophie, I am not buying that. We are going home.”

She lay down on the floor.

“That’s it. I’m carrying you to the car.”

A man who was also trying to exit the building (having difficulty because we were in the way), held the door for me, as I carried her out thrashing and threatening. He did not mask his irritation.

Almost to the car, Sophie kicked off her sneakers. “Crap.” I said. I hate that word, but it seems to be the first thing that comes to mind in these situations. I let the sneakers go, but I had to set her down as I pulled out my keys. As soon as I did she made a break for it. In the parking lot.

“Damn it.” I muttered, and made chase, catching her just as she hit the next row over. I managed to open the door while still holding her, tossed her inside, ran and got the shoes, and returned to put her in the car seat.

But oh, how to contain her?

I grabbed the blue stuffed rabbit she had been carrying, which has with elongated arms, and lashed it around the seat belt, tying it in a double knot.

Sophie was beside herself; she screamed bloody murder.

I was pleased and a bit relieved that I had found a solution, albeit temporary. Now granted, this wasn’t the safest way to go—if our car was to get into an accident, it would be difficult to remove her. But I had to weigh the relative risk and opted for the bunny restraint. We were only about a mile from home.

The whole way back, she protested and I ignored her protest:

“Mommy, you have two ears, I know you can hear me.”

“Mommy, step one: listen to me. Step two: TAKE OFF THE BUNNY!”

As I pulled into the driveway, Kevin happened to be coming up the walk. I calmly stepped out of the car and warned him that Sophie had gone nuclear. Then, I tried to release Sophie and realized: I couldn’t untie the bunny. All of her frantic efforts to remove it had only served to pull the knot tighter.

In the time that it took to run into the house to get a pair of scissors, Sophie managed to rip the cover off her car seat and tear at the EPA foam underneath, utterly destroying her nemesis. I restrained her while Kevin severed the rabbit’s arm.

(I did feel kind of bad about that.)

Kevin took Sophie upstairs and left her there to get back in control. For a while, there were sounds of destruction and dismantling. And then it got quiet. I tiptoed upstairs to survey the damage. The entire contents of her closet were on the floor and Sophie was fast asleep, in bed.

That night, Kevin and I had a heart-to-heart. It is his sense that she can do better. That there needs to be consequences for her behavior. That if she can use her power for hurling insults, tearing at my flesh, destroying her car seat and trashing her room, she can use them to reel herself back in. “It is never okay to hurt people,” he told me, “we need a consequence that is of the same magnitude as her behavior.”

Though I agree that Sophie should not be allowed to draw blood, I am less sure that more severe consequences are the answer. I know I have not been implementing my plan faithfully. I believe she is on the path to developing internal controls, but doesn’t yet have them. These rages, I think, are one part developmental, one part genetic, and one part skill deficit. It’s my job to teach her, and to be her control until she grows into or something finally clicks.

I resolved to redouble my efforts. In the days that followed, I prepared Sophie better. Gave her more warnings. Praised her effusively. Rewarded her more immediately. And her behavior improved. I’m not sure we have the solution yet. The only thing I am sure of is that it is a lot easier to teach behavior modification than to do it.

Enough is Enough

The Days of Lawlessness are over. It’s time to walk the walk. Talk the talk. Put my money where my mouth is. I’m tired of feeling like a hypocrite.

This weekend, we are starting a token economy system with Sophia.

My mother called me a hard-ass this week. Well, mom, my ass just got harder. I am finally going to do the thing I advise other parents of willful, defiant, oppositional children to do.

What took me so long?

The same reason it takes everyone so long. I just kept hoping her behavior would improve. That if I stayed consistent, if I routinely offered choices and contingencies and followed-through on demands and consequences, it would be enough.

It isn’t.

And then I’d get lulled into complacency by spells of excellent behavior. Sophia would wake up, and come into my room fully dressed. “I wanted you to be proud of me, Mommy.”

Or she’d solemnly pledge, “I’m not going to have any fusses today, Mommy,” And much to my surprise and pleasure, she wouldn’t.

Which made me think that somehow, she had it all under control. That when she acted out, she could reel it back in again. But lately, I’ve watched something different happen. The smallest thing sets her off, and then she is gone, screaming and crying at the top of her lungs, hysterical. Tortured. At times it is painful to watch, at others, the things she says are so funny--”That’s not how you should talk to your little child!”--it’s hard not to smile, which only serves to infuriate her more.

“You aren’t my parents! I want different parents! I want to leave and never come back! I don’t live in this house!”

It is quite a thing to hear a four-year-old belting out these words. I’m sure I was once inspired to shout the very same thing. Except I didn’t. I kept it inside. Sophie lets it rip, assailing anyone in her path. Her rage utterly consumes her. I’ve never seen anything so raw, so uncensored, so unselfconscious.

If I wasn’t so keyed-up, so drained, so frustrated, I might be in awe of her.

The most distressing thing about these episodes is there nothing I can do to console her. I have tried sending her to her room for “calm down time.” Holding her. Waiting it out.

And waiting, and waiting, and waiting...returning her to her room when she bursts out, holding the door closed when she comes at me, like a wildebeest, scratching and biting, body-blocking her as she steps up on top of her potty, and tries to hurdle herself over the baby-gate at the top of the stairs (in high-heels, no less).

“Sophie calm down right now! You’re going to give yourself a concussion.”

“No, YOU’LL get a concussion.” Sigh. It is best not to speak. Another thing I recommend that other people do, yet struggle with myself.

Afterwards, she is contrite. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I know that I have to have good behavior for us to have a good time.” Articulate about her feelings and what set her off. “I just wanted to wear my orange dress, Mommy. It made me mad when you gave me the wrong dress.” “I just wanted to have cherries for a snack. I got angry when you said I have to wait for dinner” I just...I just.....

Why couldn’t you have just said that, kid?

I have to help her find her voice, her self-control, her ability to regulate her emotions in times of distress. Intervening on the back end, I don’t feel like I’m doing much to teach her these skills.

So, I’m starting with a simple penny chart on a wipe off board. I’ll stick five little pieces of velcro on it, to which she can affix each penny she earns, an =‘s sign, and then write in the reinforcement du jour, e.g., playing with a friend, going to the library, reading a book, etc. The pennies will be doled out at our discretion for following her rules we generated as a family:

1. Stay in control of my behavior
2. Get dressed
3. Stay in my seat and eat
4. Let my mommy wash me
5. Speak nicely to others

This way she’s not sure when it’s coming, keeping her on her toes and we can control when she gets the reinforcement. If it seems she can’t delay her gratification that day, we’ll reward her sooner. But if she’s having a particularly good day, I’ll space them out a bit more.

We gave it a test run. She’s so excited to get pennies, collecting them has been reinforcing in and of itself. I hope it works. I hope I can be consistent.

But more than anything, I hope that I can get back to the place I was before, when Sophie was two and I naively said to a friend, “I can’t imagine ever yelling at her. I don’t know what could possibly provoke me to do that.”

If we weren’t so invested, they wouldn’t make us so crazy.

Time Out!

I’m so sick of there being a right way of doing everything. And that that right way changes on a week-to-week basis.

Currently, there is a strong backlash against behaviorism, and I have to admit, it’s throwing me into a bit of a tizzy. Mostly, because I, a self-proclaimed behaviorist, agree with a lot of what is being said against the practice of time out, rewards and punishments. But not all the time, not with all kids, and not under all circumstances.

Alfie Kohn, author and progressive education advocate, wrote what turned out to be a very provocative essay in the Times last week, “When a Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say’.” His main point was: you should not make your love for your child conditional, that is, contingent upon whether or not your child exhibits behaviors that you consider to be appropriate (giving praise when a child does something the parent considers to be good and withdrawing attention, e.g. “time out” when your child does something you perceive to be “bad.”) He cites research that this “love withdrawal” does not lead to compliance, instead it breeds resentment (we won’t delve into the quality of that research here). Kohn suggests that parents should "take a stance of unconditional acceptance accompanied by 'autonomy support'", i.e., giving rationales for your requests, allowing your children to make choices, being supportive but not manipulative, and seeing situations from their point of view. In a follow-up column, Kohn makes it clear that simply saying, “I love you, but not your behavior,” (something I have always said to kids) is not as easily separated in the mind of a child. How does a child address the philosophical question, who am I, outside of my behavior?

I agree with Alfie in spirit. I am a firm believer in what I’ll call proactive parenting. If Sophia is having a meltdown, gets into trouble, or does something “naughty,” I pretty much consider it to be “my fault.” Not in a masochistic, guilt-ridden way, but in a should have saw it coming…I’ll know better next time kind of way. For example, if I’m trying to get her shoes on to get her out the door and she’s resisting me, begging to “play downstairs,” but I haven’t explained the necessity of getting out of the house ASAP to make it in time for (insert activity) I have no right to get angry with her or punish her for her “resistant behavior.” She doesn’t understand my concern about being late. She doesn’t feel the need to be doing anything other that what she wants to do right now. I immediately see a need for "behavior modification"—but not of her behavior, of mine. I need to change the antecedent…the thing I did that preceded her resistant behavior…instead of asking her to put her shoes on, I needed to explain what is going to happen next and WHY she needs to put her shoes on. This is not indulgent; it is considerate.

(Not to mention it takes a lot less energy to engineer for calm than to later deal with the storm. I would rather explain than yell at Sophia, give her choices than have to follow through with imposing an undesirable option, and empathically soothe her frustrations than withdraw from her, frustrated.)

However, I do believe that with some children who do not or cannot understand your rationale, either because they do not have the language or the cognitive ability to make sense of it, that rewards and punishments can be helpful until they do get it. And then, you fade back those rewards and punishments back just as fast as you possibly can. Case in point: I had a wonderful non-verbal preschooler with autism who came to me with all sorts of maladaptive behaviors—biting, hitting, spitting. He resisted any demands that were placed on him (get dressed, eat, come here, etc.), and he lacked both the receptive and expressive language for me to be able to communicate my expectations. I started off concretely and slowly with him. I lined up a set of pictures that alternated images of what I wanted him to do and what he wanted to do. The intervals of what I wanted him to do were short and the ones of what he wanted to do were long, but gradually…almost imperceptibly…I reversed this. And once a mutually respectful relationship was established (this is key), I was able to teach him language, which came more quickly than I ever could have predicted. And then I was able to give him choices. And when he flipped out, which he still did, I gave him a time out, letting him rage until he calmed and then we went back to whatever it was we were doing. You can do this with love. You can communicate “I love you, but I don’t love it when you hit me.” You can give particular children, under certain conditions a time out to calm down…and not have it be a withdrawal of affection, but a withdrawal from unproductive engagement until you are both ready to try again.

Sometimes, my husband and I take “time outs” for this very same reason.

So far, I have not found a single reason to time out Sophia…or yell at her for that matter… and, to be frank, I have a hard time picturing one. I’m not ruling out the possibility, but for me, right now, the most important thing to remain mindful of is that her behavior occurs in the context of our relationship. The regulation of her behavior seems inextricably bound up with the regulation of my own.