Desperate times call for desperate measures. Parents among you will know what I mean. You’re at your wit’s end dealing with unruly children and the time for extreme improvisation is at hand. What you do or say may not be pretty, but if it gets the situation under control, then so be it.
My brother and I shared a room growing up, which also shared a wall with my parents’ bedroom. On Christmas Eve, we were usually sent to bed early and then my parents would wrap all the presents at once. I’m not sure why they waited so long, since it added to their stress level, but wait they did.
Naturally, we kids were not interested in going to sleep any time soon. The tantalizing crinkle of wrapping paper could be clearly heard through the wall as, I am sure, the sounds of us not settling down could be heard as well. My parents frustrated response? “If you don’t go to sleep right now, we’re going to donate your presents to the Goodwill!” Clearly they surmised that our philanthropic instincts would be trumped by our youthful avarice. Of course, they were right.
Jan Baroni, one of the neighbor kids across the street told me a few years ago that her mom had had an ace up her sleeve as well. Whenever the younger Jan had been heading for the Naughty List Hall of Fame, her exasperated mother would pick up the telephone and pretend to dial. “Hello, is the Mill Valley Orphanage? I’ve got a very bad little girl here and I was wondering if you had any room? No? Then will you please give me a call as soon as you do? Thank you!” Sheepishly, Jan admitted that she had resorted to the same ruse with her own kids on at least one occasion, so it must have been effective.
My moment as a parent came when my Jessica was only four. She had just started at the Discovery Children’s Center in Terra Linda and was having some issues moving from home day care to a more structured classroom setting. Picking her up one day, I was informed that she had bitten her teacher, not once, but twice. One look at me and she knew that Daddy was not his usual happy self. She got into her car seat on the verge of tears as I puzzled how to nip this in the bud.
First, I told her how terribly, terribly disappointed I was in her. She started bawling. When she had gotten that out of her system, I asked if she knew what a privilege was. You know, I said, something that you get to do because you’ve been good? Surprisingly, she did. Then I asked her if she knew what consequences were. She didn’t. So I explained that consequences are the result of bad behavior and they mean that privileges may be taken away. There was silence in the back seat of the pickup as she tried to process this new information. Now that I had set the table, how to serve up the appropriate consequences? It came to me in a flash.
I told her that I was going to start something called Toy Jail. As soon as we got home, she was going to pick out her five favorite toys or clothes and they were going into a box in the top of Daddy’s closet, aka Toy Jail. On each day that I got a good report from her pre-school teacher, she could reclaim one item from the box. A bad report would mean another toy back into the slammer. I asked her if she thought that was fair. With no real options, she give me a sniffled “Yes.”
When we got to the house, she went straight to her bedroom and picked out her inmates. I have to admit that I was touched by her lack of subterfuge. She took the punishment to heart and handed me her favorite stuffed bear, her favorite red sparkly “Dorothy” shoes from Target and three other cherished items. I wrote “Toy Jail” on the side of the box and Jessica watched it disappear into the uppermost regions of my closet.
Things improved markedly after that. Over the next three days, Jessica got to spring three of her close friends. But on day four, her carnivorous cravings returned. This time, however, she was more defiant than contrite when I picked her up. I reminded her that another item would have to go into Toy Jail that night.
That was when she coolly informed me that she didn’t care, she had lots of toys. But as she sat there in her car seat, staring daggers at the back of my head, she had little idea of how ruthless her warden could be. I returned her look in the rearview mirror and nonchalantly countered, “Well, remember, Sweetheart, if Toy Jail doesn’t work, there’s always – Blankie Jail.
I’d never seen a hardened scofflaw stop more quickly in her tracks. Her eyes went wide and started to brim over with tears. Nothing had ever separated her from her beloved Blankie. I left it at that, but felt fairly confident that we had had experienced a breakthrough.
Sure enough, that was the last time Jessica ever teethed on a teacher (that I know of). She’s mostly grown-up now and I have to say that her honesty and compassion put me to shame. I hope she continues to be the outstanding person that she has become. But, just in case, I am not afraid of reinstating Blankie Jail. The Supreme Court may one day condemn it as the Cruel and Unusual Punishment it is; but, in the end, a dad’s gotta do what a dad’s gotta do.
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