Tough Love

My kiddies have become very lax in the hand washing department. They're old enough and they've been told enough.

But they've made a game out of stepping out of the bathroom, twiddling their thumbs, waiting for me to bark, "Did you wash your hands? With soap?" Then they grin mischievously and dart back in to lather up.

This game was old a month ago. Monday I put my foot down.

"If I have to tell you to wash your hands after you go pee pee, I will take FIVE of your tokens."

Students get tokens for being good. Once they collect a couple hundred they can turn them in for one of the cheapo toys we keep displayed like the Holy Grail on a high shelf.

On break time, sure enough, Owen came out of the bathroom hands unwashed.

"Owen go wash your hands. I'm taking 5 of your tokens."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!" Owen leaped off the ground and latched onto my thigh with the strength and rage of a rabid woodland creature - totally unaware that he weighs 100 pounds less than me and has not a prayer of physically commanding me to return his tokens.

I pried all four appendages from my leg, held him by the arms and brought my face to eye-level with his.

"Do not grab me. That is not okay. You still need to go wash your hands."

With that, Owen prostrated himself on the floor and thrust all his energy into wailing into the floorboards. I wondered if they could hear him in the coffee shop downstairs.

This is the same kid who used to stomp and scream if he wasn't first in line to walk to the adjacent classroom. This isn't a bad day. This is a behavior problem.

I scooped him below the armpits and hauled him into the bathroom.

"You still have to wash your hands ... with soap!"

Owen stood facing the mirror, continuing to bawl. Every now and then he'd look over to see if his grief was working its magical powers on me.

These theatrics must be effective for Owen at home. But not in my house.

"Wash. Your. Hands."

I wasn't a tantrum thrower. Neither of my brothers were tantrum throwers. We aren't blood related, so it can't be attributed to some tantrum-resistant gene. It must've been good parenting.

My mom told me I threw one truly fabulous fit when I was two. She said it was like something out of a cartoon strip: kicking feet, pounding fists, belly to the ground, ear-splitting shrieks.

A simple blurb from Good Parenting jedi mind trick cured me then and for forever:

"Leslie, I know you're upset. It's okay to be upset," she said.

Then Mom walked away and continued to sew shoulder pads into her blazers or watch jazzercise videos - or whatever it was moms usually did when their kids weren't hysterical in the late 1980s.

What?! I must've been thinking: All I'm getting out of this is patient acknowledgement of my feelings? Forget it. This is too much effort.

That was it. No more fits.

My students are not all inclined to bawling outbursts, but they all show greater proclivity to whining than I'd like, or that I'm liable to stand for very long.

"TEEEEEEEEEEEEE-Chuh, he hit me!"

Occasionally, they really thunk each other. But most often "Teacher, he hit me" should be interpreted as "Teacher, he accidentally bumped me, I'm in a foul mood, and I want someone get in trouble. Help me out?"

"I don't care." I tell them. I don't say it in an even, pleasant tone, like the experts would probably recommend. I jerk my head side to side and glare.

I say it like a challenge, like I'm the Dirty Harry of pre-school teachers, like one false step, another hint of a whine - even a peep - and the whole classroom could come crashing down.

What are you going to do now that you know I couldn't give two turds that your feelings are hurt? Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

I'm not the epitome of child care professionalism. But this tactic, without fail, stanches the whining and momentarily confuses the whiner. Mission accomplished!