Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle) by Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen Page A
Authors: Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen
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Though I’m a very verbal person to begin with, it’s unbelievably annoying to explain why pouring mustard sauce in the toaster will break it, why dropping Daddy’s best watch would mean that Daddy could never wear it again, why there’s no eating yogurt on the suede sofa despite their promise to be very careful and on and on. Although they could speak and understand, at that age they still couldn’t communicate anything approaching an adult level, and we finally learned to save our breath, or at least put it on pause for a few years. We admitted that training kids was rather like training animals—reward for good behavior and physically prevent the bad behavior. I still do try a short explanation each time, but if it doesn’t work I move on to the next option.
What works best for us 90 percent of the time is a three count, followed by a time-out if the behavior hasn’t stopped. For example, if François is holding a coloring book over his head and not giving it to Johan, he has a three count to give it back, otherwise it’s a time-out. When an action is destructive or dangerous, we skip the counting and go directly to a time-out: if Johan hits François, it’s an automatic timeout and vice versa. A third permutation is when there’s a behavior that has to stop immediately, say if Johan has a big blue indelible marker and is running through a white hotel suite. I swoop in and grab the marker as to risk a three count would be to risk decoration of the sofa. Neither of us is above scaring the daylights out of either of them with a well-placed growl or shout, and yes, when necessary we have spanked them both and will again.
Sometimes I get angry that people mock our perceived lack of discipline of our children on the show, when in reality on the streets of Brooklyn with no cameras around, we’re a hell of a lot stricter than most parents. We’ve discovered that when dealing with the boys on the show it’s just not possible to please everyone. If we are too strict there will always be someone to be critical and if we’re not, then another set call us overly permissive. It’s definitely a case of damned if you do and damned if you don’t! Yes, we do sometimes want to set our hair on fire and yes, the boys can be rowdy. We also high-five each other when we pick up the kids and the grown-up delivering them goes on about how well-behaved and mature they were. We take the good with the bad. No one is perfect—everyone is interesting.
Our goal is to raise children who are intelligent and productive. We want them to be inquisitive, confident, have empathy for others and a strong moral compass. It’s useful for them to know the social graces, such as not to chew with their mouths open, not to be boorish or eat or drink to excess and to have a firm handshake. I don’t particularly care whether they are considered “nice” or “popular,” although those qualities are good, too. Ultimately if my boys are gain-fully employed and happy, that’s all that matters. I want to see them excited by life and all it has to offer, not passively sitting by so that they won’t offend anyone. I want to raise my children more or less in the way our parents raised us.
One of my first memories of being wrangled as a kid was at our vacation home in St. Thomas—this would have been in the late ’70s. Our house was on a cliff and was sort of donut-shaped with a pool in the middle, and on that afternoon a fabulous poolside cocktail party was in force. Amidst the jollity, my three teenaged brothers decided a fabulous addition to the festivities would be to put on a show for the guests by diving off the roof of the house into the pool. Dad or someone took a great photo of my brother Paul standing on the roof, arms spread wide, ready to plunge. Someone else chuckled and said, “Don’t break your neck.” Meanwhile I was determined to steal the food from and pull the tail of the long-suffering German Shepherd who belonged to our
What works best for us 90 percent of the time is a three count, followed by a time-out if the behavior hasn’t stopped. For example, if François is holding a coloring book over his head and not giving it to Johan, he has a three count to give it back, otherwise it’s a time-out. When an action is destructive or dangerous, we skip the counting and go directly to a time-out: if Johan hits François, it’s an automatic timeout and vice versa. A third permutation is when there’s a behavior that has to stop immediately, say if Johan has a big blue indelible marker and is running through a white hotel suite. I swoop in and grab the marker as to risk a three count would be to risk decoration of the sofa. Neither of us is above scaring the daylights out of either of them with a well-placed growl or shout, and yes, when necessary we have spanked them both and will again.
Sometimes I get angry that people mock our perceived lack of discipline of our children on the show, when in reality on the streets of Brooklyn with no cameras around, we’re a hell of a lot stricter than most parents. We’ve discovered that when dealing with the boys on the show it’s just not possible to please everyone. If we are too strict there will always be someone to be critical and if we’re not, then another set call us overly permissive. It’s definitely a case of damned if you do and damned if you don’t! Yes, we do sometimes want to set our hair on fire and yes, the boys can be rowdy. We also high-five each other when we pick up the kids and the grown-up delivering them goes on about how well-behaved and mature they were. We take the good with the bad. No one is perfect—everyone is interesting.
Our goal is to raise children who are intelligent and productive. We want them to be inquisitive, confident, have empathy for others and a strong moral compass. It’s useful for them to know the social graces, such as not to chew with their mouths open, not to be boorish or eat or drink to excess and to have a firm handshake. I don’t particularly care whether they are considered “nice” or “popular,” although those qualities are good, too. Ultimately if my boys are gain-fully employed and happy, that’s all that matters. I want to see them excited by life and all it has to offer, not passively sitting by so that they won’t offend anyone. I want to raise my children more or less in the way our parents raised us.
One of my first memories of being wrangled as a kid was at our vacation home in St. Thomas—this would have been in the late ’70s. Our house was on a cliff and was sort of donut-shaped with a pool in the middle, and on that afternoon a fabulous poolside cocktail party was in force. Amidst the jollity, my three teenaged brothers decided a fabulous addition to the festivities would be to put on a show for the guests by diving off the roof of the house into the pool. Dad or someone took a great photo of my brother Paul standing on the roof, arms spread wide, ready to plunge. Someone else chuckled and said, “Don’t break your neck.” Meanwhile I was determined to steal the food from and pull the tail of the long-suffering German Shepherd who belonged to our
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