Pavlovian Responses

If there’s one thing I’ll never have to explicitly teach Eliza, it’s how to count to 3. She has undoubtedly learned it from living with a three-year-old who gets the count-off 30 times a day. In English and Spanish. Maybe I could enhance Eliza’s learning by changing the traditional countdown to involve a little multiplication. “Sage, I’m counting to 9 by multiples of three, ‘3-6-9’…” and if she hadn’t stopped crying by 9, then she’d get a time out. Or “Sage, I’m counting to 1 by fractions: “¼, ½, ¾, 1.” If she didn’t get to the bathroom by 1, then she’d have a longer time out. [Perhaps I could teach the girls to use different number-base counting systems by counting with binary numbers. "0, 1, 10, 11, 100, 101[*],..." No, it would take too many numbers to get a pattern going, and it would give Sage too much time, and I would have to think too hard and probably forget why I was counting off in the first place. Binary numbers definitely wouldn’t work.]

But, if I were to start using multiples to count off the time Sage had to shape up before she landed herself in time out, Eliza would no doubt absorb enough multiplication figures to be able to begin doing long division in about two weeks. Sage probably detests the sequence “1-2-3.” I can just see Sage in her first day of kindergarten, when the teacher decides to count to three, then Sage would probably try to hustle to the nearest time out area or burst into tears in a Pavlovian response to the numbers that involuntarily recall thoughts of discipline.

I have my own Pavlovian reaction to hearing my dad whistle. Following any single-toned whistle, I inevitably tense up, and wait to hear if the number one will follow. If so, it’s time to drop everything and hightail it to the living room, before he gets to ten. As we learned well, it behooved us to make good time and even arrive early, because there may likely have been a small stampede of eight kids trying to get up the stairs at the same time to make family prayer. I honestly don’t remember what the punishment was if you didn’t arrive in time. Dad’s whistle wasn’t a Captain von Trapp kind of whistle, but it meant meant business.

A few of my other Pavlovian reactions:

1. Hearing a dog bark (I tense, then run, then look.)

2. Thinking of chocolate (I begin rummaging through my discipline cupboard or freezer or cookbook. Comprehensive Health Reform is trying to decondition me to this response.)

3. Hearing the dinner bell (My mom's orange bell meant it was time to hustle to the table. If you got there first, you could reserve the “best” plate for yourself, which was usually one of the following:

a. The chipped plate (the chipped portion was originally considered a blemish, but later became a coveted decoration. I have no doubt Krista had to do with this turnaround.)

b. The plate containing the largest portion of “good” food (turkey burger, scrambled eggs, hot dog sections in our favorite hot dog casserole, tatertots)

c. The plate containing the least amount of bad foods (mixed vegetables, fish, squash, coleslaw)

4. Hearing the “It’s Family Home Evening Tonight” song from my childhood (If you came fast, you’d be able to link hands with Dad and the “big kids” while mom played the piano. The lucky first person would lead the rest of the group (at reckless speeds and with purposeful disregard for corners) around the house like a snake—inevitably crashing the followers into things until “reverse” was screamed loudly and the caboose took control. This game ended when the song was over, or injuries to some of the younger participants on the chain caused Mom to abandon the piano and come running.)

Is it abusive to use Pavlovian Conditioning on my daughters? I wonder if it would work on myself. I could condition myself to minimize my chocolate eating and dog fearing at the same time. Perhaps I should only allow myself to eat chocolate if I'm listening to a soundtrack of angry dogs. Hmmm.

PS--Thanks to Lupe for summing up exactly what I'm thinking when I'm trying to write a comment.

[*] Thanks to Miriam and math nerd husband for correcting my binary number mistake. Don't tell Dr. Jarvis--he might revoke my diploma.