Savas Publishing & Consulting Group

Hit Them Where it Hurts

05/07/03

I reached one of the pinnacles of parental success last week. What apex of middle age have I finally witnessed, you ask? Perhaps my daughter won an important piano competition? No. Maybe my son caught a line shot and threw out an inattentive runner at second base? Nope.

I figured out how to get an 11-year old girl and 7-year old boy to pick up their rooms. Every day. I do most of my work from a home office, and the mess has been driving me bananas.

If you are a parent with young kids, you know the drill. Once the MMR (Mad Morning Rush) is over, dirty clothes litter the floor, beds remain unmade, lights are left on, and toilets remain unflushed. (The latter is particularly true if you are trying to civilize a son; they pay no attention to such niceties.) When the kids come home, they dump backpacks, coats and lunch boxes everywhere whenever the mood strikes--on the kitchen counter, in the dining room, on the floor. My wife and I had tried everything. Calm reasoning failed utterly; yelling only made our throats sore; grounding them meant they were underfoot whining 24 hours a day.

And then one morning I heard my little bushkins talking proudly about their accumulated movietoycandygameboyclothes money. Their piggy banks are not yet retirement worthy, but if a kid can buy an overpriced Gameboy cartridge or a new Vanessa Carleton cd, they think they are rich. A Grinch-like smile spread across my face as an evil plan took root and grew.

"Don't forget to clean your rooms before school!" I shouted from the kitchen while the kids ran pushing and yelling up the stairs. "OK" they shouted back. They left their rooms messier than ever. Perfect.

That afternoon I led them upstairs. Alex shrieked when she discovered her hall and doorway clogged with piles of my books and papers. "Oh. . . that's just my stuff," I replied. "I'm going to leave it here today. You don't mind, do you?" If only I had had a camera to capture her expression. Mystified, she waded through the heap into her now spotless room. I turned and stuck out my hand. "Five bucks."

"What do you mean, five bucks?" A quizzical look was suddenly glued to her face.

"You owe my five dollars. That's what I charge to tidy up around here." Her mouth fell open and she pulled every string to get me to change my mind: the hurt look, the sad look (I won't list all ten)--and then she paid up. My son had been quietly observing his sister's unconditional surrender. "How much do I owe?"

"Two bucks. You're younger and your room is smaller."

Seven dollars richer, I thanked them profusely and trotted downstairs. They collapsed in the hallway, trying to figure out how their easygoing pop had managed to fleece them so suddenly.

Both kids rushed my wife when she came home later that day, protesting the indignity and pleading for her intercession to make good their loss. Instead, she nodded her approval. "Good idea. Is that all you charged?" When I offered to extract more, both kids interrupted to confirm that $7.00 was a fair sum.

The next day the Doubting Thomas's demonstrated they did not fully appreciate how serious I was about putting their piggy banks on a diet: neither room had been touched. "Thanks!" I told them after they forked over more precious dough. Now they knew two things for certain: papa was serious, and they would be broke soon if they did not change their ways.

The next morning I stopped them before they reached the stairs. "Will you and your sister do me a favor, Demetri?"

"Sure."

"Don't pick up your room. I need gas money for the car." They looked at one another, groaned, and my daughter rolled her eyes. But guess what?

Voila!

Their rooms were pristine! Not a shred of clothing on the floor, the beds were made, and the lights were off. (Ok, the toilet was unflushed, but hey, it's progress) For several days in a row their rooms have been immaculate.

But now I have a problem: I was getting used to that extra gas money.



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	Hit Them Where it Hurts 05/07/03 I reached one of the pinnacles of parental success last week. What apex of middle age have I finally witnessed, you ask? Perhaps my daughter won an important piano competition? No. Maybe my son caught a line shot and threw out an inattentive runner at second base? Nope. I figured out how to get an 11-year old girl and 7-year old boy to pick up their rooms. Every day. I do most of my work from a home office, and the mess has been driving me bananas. If you are a parent with young kids, you know the drill. Once the MMR (Mad Morning Rush) is over, dirty clothes litter the floor, beds remain unmade, lights are left on, and toilets remain unflushed. (The latter is particularly true if you are trying to civilize a son; they pay no attention to such niceties.) When the kids come home, they dump backpacks, coats and lunch boxes everywhere whenever the mood strikes--on the kitchen counter, in the dining room, on the floor. My wife and I had tried everything. Calm reasoning failed utterly; yelling only made our throats sore; grounding them meant they were underfoot whining 24 hours a day. And then one morning I heard my little bushkins talking proudly about their accumulated movietoycandygameboyclothes money. Their piggy banks are not yet retirement worthy, but if a kid can buy an overpriced Gameboy cartridge or a new Vanessa Carleton cd, they think they are rich. A Grinch-like smile spread across my face as an evil plan took root and grew. "Don't forget to clean your rooms before school!" I shouted from the kitchen while the kids ran pushing and yelling up the stairs. "OK" they shouted back. They left their rooms messier than ever. Perfect. That afternoon I led them upstairs. Alex shrieked when she discovered her hall and doorway clogged with piles of my books and papers. "Oh. . . that's just my stuff," I replied. "I'm going to leave it here today. You don't mind, do you?" If only I had had a camera to capture her expression. Mystified, she waded through the heap into her now spotless room. I turned and stuck out my hand. "Five bucks." "What do you mean, five bucks?" A quizzical look was suddenly glued to her face. "You owe my five dollars. That's what I charge to tidy up around here." Her mouth fell open and she pulled every string to get me to change my mind: the hurt look, the sad look (I won't list all ten)--and then she paid up. My son had been quietly observing his sister's unconditional surrender. "How much do I owe?" "Two bucks. You're younger and your room is smaller." Seven dollars richer, I thanked them profusely and trotted downstairs. They collapsed in the hallway, trying to figure out how their easygoing pop had managed to fleece them so suddenly. Both kids rushed my wife when she came home later that day, protesting the indignity and pleading for her intercession to make good their loss. Instead, she nodded her approval. "Good idea. Is that all you charged?" When I offered to extract more, both kids interrupted to confirm that $7.00 was a fair sum. The next day the Doubting Thomas's demonstrated they did not fully appreciate how serious I was about putting their piggy banks on a diet: neither room had been touched. "Thanks!" I told them after they forked over more precious dough. Now they knew two things for certain: papa was serious, and they would be broke soon if they did not change their ways. The next morning I stopped them before they reached the stairs. "Will you and your sister do me a favor, Demetri?" "Sure." "Don't pick up your room. I need gas money for the car." They looked at one another, groaned, and my daughter rolled her eyes. But guess what? Voila! Their rooms were pristine! Not a shred of clothing on the floor, the beds were made, and the lights were off. (Ok, the toilet was unflushed, but hey, it's progress) For several days in a row their rooms have been immaculate. But now I have a problem: I was getting used to that extra gas money.

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