Month: November 2006

Talk to me about rewarding good behaviour

Today’s parenting dilemma is behaviour modification through the use of rewards. Is Dr Skinner in the house?

We seem to have painted ourselves into a bit of a corner with the use of rewards as an enticement to encourage Tristan to eat his dinner. Over the last few months, we have encouraged him to eat “a few more bites” with the reward of a treat after dinner. Lately, the treat has been a piece of Halloween candy. Before that, it was a few gummy bears or a lollipop or some other candy. (Thanks to Beloved’s sweet tooth, we almost always have candy in the house.)

In general, although I have some qualms about giving the boys (because you can’t give to one without the other) candy every single night, I don’t see too much difference between a small piece of candy or five smarties or the equivalent and say, a piece of pie or cake or a bowl of ice cream that an adult might have for dessert.

Except, now Tristan sits down at the table, looks at whatever is in front of him, and before taking a single bite asks, “How many bites do I have to eat?” The whole treat/reward thing gets mixed results, I’d say.

And yet, I’m thinking of implementing some sort of chart system to see if I can get some improvement on some other areas. Again with the dinner table, we cannot convince Tristan with any amount of cajoling, reminding, hollering or threatening, to stay seated in his chair for 10 minutes in a row at mealtimes. He squirms, he pops on and off his chair, he clatters his silverware, he plays with the salad dressings or condiments or whatever else he can reach, he fidgets, he clowns to make Simon laugh, and half the time he just stands in front of his plate, picking through whatever he deigns to eat. If you’ve been there, you know – there comes a point when you’re just so tired of fighting the battle that close enough is good enough.

So I was thinking of drawing up a chart with four or five daily behaviours that I want him to work on. I’m thinking: “eats dinner”, “sits at table nicely”, “cleans up toys before bedtime”, “puts shoes/boots on rubber mat” and “puts clothes in hamper”. Some of these he’s quite good at, some not so much. At the end of each day, we’ll review to see if he got a yes or a no in each box, and at the end of the week, we’ll figure out some sort of reward for all the good behaviour.

Since he’s really interested in the computer lately (he loves the games on the Peep and the Big Wide World site), I’m thinking one minute of computer time for each yes. Or, maybe making up a bunch of slips with different rewards on them like a candy treat, a dollar store treat, a new book, computer time, choose a DVD from the movie store, etc, and letting him pick from a jar.

I also picked up a box of 100 stickers from Disney’s Cars movie, which has actually supplanted Thomas the Tank Engine as the coolest thing on wheels at our house lately, and was thinking I could either use the stickers in lieu of the yes/no in each box, or use a sheet of stickers as one of the rewards.

BUT – and isn’t there always a but? – I have a few niggling concerns. First, I can’t really see how I can implement this for Tristan without doing something similar for Simon. Except, Simon is not-quite-three. Separate charts? Maybe.

Second problem: the same problem we have right now, that the behaviour is performed solely for the treat, and not for the sheer joy of being a pleasant child and not incurring mommy’s considerable hormonal wrath.

Third problem: I fear spoiling them. We don’t need more stuff, especially with Christmas and two birthdays within the next four months. I wouldn’t mind weaning them of their candy jones, either. Any ideas for non-stuff, non-sugary rewards?

Fourth: this whole thing seems a little uptight to me. I rolled my eyes when the teacher suggested we do something like this to monitor Tristan’s behaviour in class – and yet, it’s working. In fact, I’m tempted to send a note saying I don’t think we need to continue anymore. So yes, even though I rolled my eyes at the idea, props to her because it has seemed to work. Tristan tells me right away, before I even check his bag, on the days he gets all smiley faces from her, and it’s obvious it matters to him. But how long will that last?

Anyway, this is very much an attempt for me to sort out my own convoluted thoughts on the subject, but I thought I’d do it via the blog just to see if any of you have had any resounding successes (or noteworthy failures) using a chart-based reward system. Ideas, opinions and suggestions are welcome!

The day the soothers didn’t go away

Last night, Simon forgot about his soother. We were going through our usual bedtime routine, and we read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom and Clifford and Spot, and we cuddled for a minute on the rocking chair, all with the usual nightly ration of three soothers sitting on the dresser at my elbow, garnering absolutely no interest from Simon.

I put him in his crib and gave him another book to read – and can I pause here to say how much I love the fact that Simon, like his mother, reads himself to sleep at night? How cute is that?

And still he didn’t ask for his soothers. I kissed him goodnight and went downstairs, and figured I’d be up there in about three minutes when he realized his my mistake, but through the Rick Mercer Report and then the entire taped episode of Sunday’s Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (LOVE! that show), not a peep. When I checked on him on my way to bed, he was sleeping peacefully with his arms splayed over his head, his mouth empty.

“Well,” I thought to myself smugly. “That was easy. No fuss, no bargaining, no problem.” I’ll put the soothers away in the morning, never mention them again, and we’ll be done. It’s a little earlier than Tristan (reluctantly) gave his up, but so much easier.

And it lasted until exactly 3:12 am.

“Mooooommmmmyyyyyy,” came the plaintive wail in the darkness. I stumbled into his room, and he tried to convince me he was ready to face the day. “It’s morningtime,” he informed me brightly. “I go downstairs!”

“No no no,” I pleaded insisted. “It’s not morning. It’s nighttime. It’s sleeping time. Go back to sleep.” And without a waffle or second thought, I reached into the basket and handed him every soother I could wrap my fingers around. “Here, look, soothers. You go back to sleep now. Nighty-night!”

I really have to work on my nighttime parenting skills.

***

I have a bit of an apology to offer. I know this is my blog and therefore my space to do whatever the heck I want, but I feel like I haven’t been able to get out of my personal headspace lately to blog anything outside of arm’s reach.

There was all sorts of blogworthy stuff in the paper today – the Democratic victories in the US (hooray!), some scary information in a Lancet article linking childhood and prenatal exposure to industrial toxins to autism and Parkinsons, and even the breakup of Brittney and Kevin.

In the last little while, though, any time I try to blog anything except an anecdote, organizing my thoughts into a rational argument is like pulling teeth. I’m having a crisis of confidence on my capability to think critically. I think part of it comes from the Motherlode conference, where I served up some fluffy, lightweight stuff compared to the fascinating research put forth by my friends. Part of it is work-related, too: I’m supposed to be a strategic thinker, and mostly I find myself doing the equivalent of sitting at a meetig with my mouth gaping open, a runner of drool escaping the corner of my mouth, as I realize how completely I’m failing to see the big picture. Of course, everything is only exacerbated by the season (post-Halloween sugar crash + pre-holiday ennui + dreary weather pretty much constantly since Labour Day) and my own hormonal condition.

I’m not looking for sympathy or reassurance or anything… just coming clean with something that’s been bugging me for a while now.

This, too, shall pass.

Milestones

Today, I’m officially 14 weeks pregnant.

(pause for cathartic sigh)

I’ve had my eye on this particular milestone since the day I found out I was pregnant. I had my miscarriage, way back in 2000, when I was 13 1/2 weeks pregnant, and every subsequent pregnancy, that 13 1/2 week mark has loomed heavily on my horizon. Completely without logic, I know, but there are some things that are so deeply entrenched in the psyche that they defy logic.

The first hurdle was just after the 9 week mark, where we lost Tristan’s twin. When the ultrasound a couple of weeks ago confirmed all was well, I felt the anxiety lift from my stomach to my chest. With this latest milestone passed, I think I can finally believe that I really am pregnant. (superstitious flinch)(touch wood)

I told Beloved on the weekend that I had passed the 13 1/2 week mark, and he was blissfully oblivious. “Does that mean you’re in the second trimester now?” he asked with a sweet lack of awareness. Later that night, I mentioned the same thing to my mom, in almost the same words, and she looked at me with obvious recognition and said, “I know. I’ve been patiently waiting for you to get to this point. I’m so happy for you.” Maybe it’s a girl thing.

In a little bit less morbid vein, I am completely perplexed by my body this pregnancy. According to more than one scale, I’ve gained about five pounds since Labour Day – which is great. I was 15 lbs heavier than I would have liked when I got pregnant, so I’ve been a little bit leery about weight gain.

But if I’ve only gained five pounds, where the hell did all this extra me come from? I’m already visibly showing, depending on what I’m wearing, and even my fat jeans had to be retired last weekend. I can see extra weight on my thighs and around my middle – where did it all come from? Did my bones get decidedly more brittle and less dense in the month of October?

Aside from a two-week holiday from the gym at the end of October, I’ve been working out fairly regularly and intend to do so for most if not all of the pregnancy. But man, it’s amazing how much extra effort you have to exert just to compensate for a lime-sized baby. I get that it will be harder for me to catch my breath and work at the same intensity when I’m really big, but it’s amazing how much harder the cardio part of my workout is even now.

Where am I going with all this? I have no idea. Did I mention my other significant pregnancy symptom is massive pregnancy brain? And that would be on top of my regular micro-sized attention span. What? Were you saying something? Where was I and what did you do with my peanut-butter bagel?

The "science" of predicting gender

I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of brain power lately speculating on whether this little baby of mine is a girl or a boy. I know I’m not supposed to have any preference, and I’m probably going to have to go back and do a lot of revising of this blog one day so the boys I do have don’t think I only kept them around because I was holding out for a girl, and I certainly don’t want a potential future boy to think he was unwanted.

But, let’s face it – I really do want a girl. *cringe* (That cringe is partly because I feel bad stating it so baldly, and partly because I feel like I’m tempting fate. Knock some wood for me, wouldja please?)

There’s lots of reasons I want a girl. I want a girl because I think it would be an easier family dymanic to have two boys and a girl rather than strand Simon in the middle of three boys. I want a girl because I was a girl, and I’ve always had such a wonderful relationship with my mother, and she with her mother before that, and I would love to carry that on to the next generation. I want a girl because when boys grow up, they tend to move away and girls stay close. I want a girl simply because I don’t have one.

Another day, I’ll blog about why I want another boy. Because I do. Ambivalence, thy name is Dani.

I’ve heard a lot of women say they just ‘knew’ what the baby’s gender is. So far, I’m two for two – I was convinced in my heart of hearts both Tristan and Simon were girls, right up until they exposed themselves on the ultrasound. (Exhibitionists they both are to this day.) This time, I can admit an absolute lack of insight – I have no inkling whatsoever.

The waiting, it is making me a little squirrelly. Four more weeks to the day – not that I’m counting – and we’ll hopefully have some resolution to this mystery. What I will do with a result like “well, it’s about 60% likely that it’s a …” remains to be seen.

In the interim, I’ve succumbed to folklore to tickle my fancy. I came across an article in the Canadian Medical Association Journal, where they set about to disprove three common “old wives’ tales” for predicting gender. Sad though it is, I was more than happy to run through them all to see if I could glean any inside information.

The three tests they examined are the fetal heart rate test, the Chinese calendar test and the Draino (!) test.

The fetal heart rate test implies that babies with heart rates greater than 140 bpm were girls, and heart rates slower than than were boys.

Check! Baby’s heart rate at the last ultrasound was 169 bpm. Girl.

The ancient Chinese birth gender chart, “buried in a tomb near Beijing for 700 years”, apparently predicts gender with “over 90% accurracy” based on the month of conception and the mother’s age at conception.

Check! Conceived in August, when I was 37 years old. Girl.

The third test involves peeing on some Draino, and even I, the queen of impatience, am not willing to risk a chemical burn to my nether regions to try this particular test. Call me crazy. We’ll leave a question mark beside that one and call it a day.

And in case you are wondering, yes, it was always in the back of my mind that the whole predicate of the article in the CMAJ is the fact that the tests did NOT have any statistically significant value in predicting gender. I know, I know.

So anyway, I was willing to fold this up and keep it in my mental hope chest as a good omen when it occurred to me that I have my own control group to work with. I ran through both tests again given the same information I had for Tristan and Simon and the results, although somewhat deflating, are hardly surprising.

Turns out Tristan and Simon are both girls, too.

In praise of free

Two of the most popular items in our house these days, for the under-five set at least, came to us completely free.

Simon’s new favourite book, which we *must* read every nap and bedtime, is a small paperback copy of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom that came free in a box of Cheerios. From the same promotion, we also got John Lithgow’s Marsupial Sue, but apparently it’s not as magical as Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, which I can now recite from memory.

And yesterday, we stopped at Harvey’s for lunch after a morning on the town, where the kids’ meal toy was Silly Putty. Silly Putty definitely deserves a spot on our list of ‘timeless toys.’ I have previously mentioned how much I love Harvey’s kids’ meal toys. Play Dough, markers and notebooks, Silly Putty… so much better than the plastic junk that McDonalds and the rest of the fast food places give out!

For those of you willing to invest a little more than the price of a hamburger combo in your holiday gift shopping, the Canadian Toy Testing Council has come out with their annual report on the best toys for 2007. You can also consult their full report for all the toys and books their panel of more than 1000 toy experts – Canadian kids of all ages! – tested this year.

(This disjointed Sunday-morning ramble brought to you by NaBloPoMo. This might be harder than I thought! Anybody got a good meme?)

Locked out

Note to self: you MUST go TODAY and have another front-door key made. Maybe two, possibly three. Really, go now!

I had the honour of attending an award ceremony for my organization yesterday. Last year I was part of a team that received our department’s highest employee honour, and there was a lovely little ceremony and cocktail reception. I left the reception to catch my bus home only a little bit later than normal, but it was only when I stepped out of the National Arts Centre and into the cold damp of a November afternoon that I realized I had to pee.

I’m thirteen weeks pregnant now; I should know better than to leave anywhere without peeing first.

But luckily for me, my bus was right there, so I hopped on and crossed my legs and tried to think dry thoughts for the 30 minute ride home. And since I had the latest James Patterson novel to pass the time, I was distracted enough that I made it all the way home without incident.

I was walking toward the house from the bus stop, my shoulders huddled against the wind and thinking about how pleased I was with myself to have had the foresight to wear my winter coat this morning. In a rush, my self-satisfaction turned to dismay as my brain followed that track: I am wearing my winter coat today. Yesterday, when I went to the grocery store, I was wearing my light coat. When I left the house today, I completely forgot to grab my keys out of the pocket of my jacket. I have no keys. Beloved and the boys will not be home for another half hour at least.

I’m locked out of the house – and I have to pee.

We used to have a spare key. We need to have a spare key, because I tend to forget my keys frequently. But I gave my spare to the cleaning lady and I hadn’t gotten around to replacing it yet.

I could have called my parents. They live a three-minute drive from my house, and they have a spare key. Except, just last Thursday as I came flying home from work in a panic to start getting ready to pack for the Motherlode conference, I also forgot my keys. (See? Frequently. I told you.) And I just couldn’t justify calling my mother, who also goes out of her way every Tuesday to pick up the boys at daycare, to come and rescue her absent-minded 37-year-old daughter for the second time in a week. Pride comes before a fall, or a bladder emergency.

For reasons that I won’t bother to explain here, I did manage to get into the garage, where I made myself comfortable on the stacked patio furniture and settled in to wait. For a few idle moments, I considered grabbing the rake and actually doing something productive with the time I had, but I was dressed in a skirt and heels and nylons for the award ceremony, and did I mention the full bladder? So I perched on the small tower of stacked lawn chairs, read my book and waited.

After about 20 minutes, I finished the book. I figured the boys would be home any minute anyway, so I opened the garage door (I had closed it partly to block the wind and partly to keep the neighbours from wondering what in the name of hell I was doing huddled and shivering on a stack of patio furniture in the garage dressed in my work clothes.)

For a long minute, I just looked out and blinked. A small part of my brain wondered idly exactly how long I had been in the garage and what weird time warp I might be experiencing. The lawn, the bench, the garden and the park across the street were covered with at least an inch of snow. For the first snow of the season to magically appear while I had my back ever-so-briefly turned was a little more than my sluggish brain could process.

Of course, the first snow also snarls traffic, and I began to sweat even as I shivered, wondering just how late Beloved might be in his hour-long drive home from the college in Quebec where he teaches. Luckily, he was most of the way home when the snowburst started, and I only had to pass another 15 minutes or so shifting unhappily on frozen toes on the porch beside the wilting and frosted jack-o-lanterns. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see my boys pull into the driveway.

Keys. Lots and lots of spare keys. One of my purse, one for each jacket, one for the neighbours, and maybe a few more secret hiding places around the house.

How many keys do you have stashed? Got any locked-out-of-the-house stories to share?

The Lego mystique

A couple of weeks ago, Kerry called me up and asked if the boys would be interested in inheriting some of the Lego she and her brother had when they were kids. Her parents are moving and got tired of storing it in their basement. (I wish my parents had kept more of our childhood toys – I could pay for the boys’ college educations by selling some of the stuff we had in the 1970s and 1980s that has since become collectors items.) Of course I said yes, and shortly thereafter Kerry showed up at the house with two huge bins of vintage 80s Lego bits, mostly comprising the cool space sets with the micro-tiny pieces.

The boys LOVED it! They had been playing with the duplo blocks for a while, especially (of course) the Thomas the Tank Engine sets, and Simon has recently re-discovered the joy of towers with MegaBlocks, so I had an idea they’d enjoy the Lego, but even I was surprised how much they loved it. Tristan liked the building, and Simon liked the little figures.

I’m thinking of all this today because there have been a couple of stories in the news lately about Lego. There were reports of a Lego shortage in Europe, but the Citizen reassured readers this morning that there will be plenty of the popular toy available in North America this Christmas. And then there was another story about a 34 year old Ottawa resident and member of the Adult Fans of Lego club (snicker) who owns a quarter million pieces of Lego with an approximate value of $27,000. And then, of course, there’s the uber-cool Lego Factory, where you can design your own creation and then custom order the right bricks to build it.

All this to say that Lego must be number one on the list of universally-loved toys. I don’t know anybody who didn’t play with it as a kid – nor do I know many grown-ups who can resist joining in when a bucket gets dumped on the floor. What else would be on your list of universally appealing toys? Bubbles and marbles definitely have a place of honour. Crayons, markers and sidewalk chalk? What else?

A Happy Halloween

The boys had a terrific halloween, and by extension, so did I.

A few thoughts on halloween this year:

  • I have to admit, I was a little disappointed when I heard that Tristan’s school had a ‘no costumes’ policy. The kids are invited to wear black and orange, but costumes are not allowed. I was disappointed just because I remember the great fun of wearing a costume to school – the excitement, the sense of a special day, the thrill of seeing what the other kids were wearing.

  • I can also understand why they did it – it levels the playing field for the kids who might not be able to afford a fancy costume, I guess.

  • Speaking of fancy costumes, I got sucked in myself. Even though I nearly choked when I saw the price tag attached to Tristan’s Scooby Doo costume, when I amortized it over three kids I could justify it. Plus, he really loves it.

  • Granny, who normally goes out of her way to give us a lift on Tuesdays anyway, dropped in to see the boys in costume between dinner and trick-or-treating. In his excitement to get his Fuzzy Caterpillar costume on Simon said, correctly, “Granny, you’re going to LOVE this!”

  • The boys’ excitement was infectious as we walked to a few houses on our street. It’s hard to believe it’s been 25 years since I felt that swell of excitement, walking up the laneway to a house obviously decked out for the occasion.

  • Is it just me, or is the upper threshold age for trick-or-treating getting higher each year? I swear, we had more than one young man whose voice was changing, and a few I had to look up to look into their eyes. There is such a thing as too old.

  • Then again, kids too young to read a “DON’T RING BELL – PLEASE KNOCK” sign probably shouldn’t be trick-or-treating alone.

  • A lot of things are even more fun when you can share them with your brother.

***

This post launches my participation in NaBloPoMo – National Blog Posting Month. There’s no way I could write a novel in the month of November, but since I’m already putting up at least one post a day on weekdays, it would be within the realm of the possible to post every single day. Besides, what else is worth doing in November?

Postcards from the Mothership – now with 20% more drivel!