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The Great Lego Competition

I have had cause in recent months to think about incentivising my son’s learning. While I believe that children will learn when they are ready and that the prescribed ages when reading, writing and other such skills are taught in schools are overly rigid and need to be tailored to the individual needs of each child, I have had the sense for some time now, that our son, who is almost 7, is capable of far more than he would have me understand.

His problem has always been focus. Without a medical diagnosis or going into any detail, it seemed to me that he was perfectly ready and capable of learning – basic manners for example, but was, for some reason, just not taking them on board. The social sponge that I had had such faith in, that had enabled him to learn to speak English, open a door, climb stairs, walk and so on, was somehow failing when it came to socially acceptable behaviour. And as for reading and writing, I have never before had such a desperate desire to throw a book off a cliff as some of those mornings in our ‘outdoor classroom’ battling away with the same words that we had been battling away with for the past two years. I felt wrung out. Nothing I tried seemed to work, and I did believe that I had thought of most solutions. He is a bright, enquiring, interested, talkative little boy. He charms old ladies. His smile can break your heart. But can he work out or remember what T-H-E says? Apparently not.

So, out of my mouth, one very exhausted, flu-battling day, while smallest child lay feverish and sick beside us, came ‘The Great Lego Competition’. ‘How would it be’ I groaned in a small, hopeless voice, ‘if I bought you a really fabulous, amazing and HUGE Lego set and you could win it by taking part in my competition?’ He grinned slowly, gazing at me with sudden attention, yes finally, he was paying attention!

‘It wouldn’t be hard to win, but it might take you a while….’ I began to warm to my subject ‘You could collect points – all sorts of ways – and every time you learn and remember a new word that you can read it would count towards the competition. And Daddy could give points too… for listening… and doing as you are told, and once you’ve won the first kit, then maybe there would be another one and that way you might learn so much you’d be able to read and then, when you weren’t playing with your Lego, you could read stories to yourself and wouldn’t you just love that…’

As soon as the words left my mouth I knew I didn’t quite feel comfortable with what I had instigated. One small boy, however, looked more than thrilled. Disquieted, I lay back and closed my eyes, trying to doze through the next bout of Cbeebies flu-distraction, deciding that as someone who tries hard to keep her word, that I would think only of the positive potential in The Great Lego Competition (notice the wording there, no sign of a plot at all) and refuse myself access to any research that would dismiss, or worse, actually condemn the use of learning or behaviour incentives.

But alas, well, alas in one way, the flu has now departed and my ‘Competition’ is well under way but my fingers just wouldn’t stay idle for long and do you know, it only takes a few taps of the key board to discover the mistake I have made? But honestly, just how bad can it be? Is the reality of learning for reasons other than pleasure and the satifying of a naturally inquisitive and ready mind, really all that bad? Isn’t learning still learning when all is said and done?

A quick search on Amazon reveals over one thousand offerings categorised under ‘Reward Chart’ which presumably means that the concept is a fairly popular one. The idea is, that whatever the parent wants of the child – better manners, toilet use, tidier bedroom, brushed hair, help with chores and so on, is added to the chart and each time the child completes the desired activity they are awarded a star (or in our case read ‘point’) which they then collect towards a big incentive – a prize, errr… something like a HUGE Lego kit perhaps. On the surface this all seems well and good and usually results in said child working very hard to brush his hair, clean his teeth, say please and thank you and pick up his underwear off the floor. However, the problem is that the incentivisation shifts the motivation. Where parents would like, and perhaps expect, their child to continue this behaviour because they have learned or internalised the desired behaviours, what in actuality tends to happen instead is that the child’s motivation has shifted away from any need to internalise towards a transactionary view – ‘If I do this, then you will give me that’.

Some people may argue, what is the harm in that? Don’t they have to learn at some point that nothing in life is free? Aren’t they better off honing their bargaining skills now in order to survive the rat race to come? Well, the answer is no. Beginning reward chart living (let’s let my Competition drop shall we, otherwise I might have to cry) is really a first step down a slippery slope. It seems, from extensive studies conducted, that asking children to learn, or modify their behaviour for a reward tends to overpower any natural inclination towards their doing so for their own social good, or because they enjoy learning and are naturally enquiring, clever little sponges. Offering an external reward undermines the pride and excitement in discovery, the joy that achievement naturally brings, the delight of a chase that leads to a passion.

For example, I remember being very excited when I first began to learn French. I loved the feel of the words, the power of saying something not everyone could understand, the interesting comparisons with English and a whole new spelling and grammar system that was intriguing and possible at the same time. As I became more proficient I recall my father commenting and on one evening introducing a transactional element to my joy – ‘If you keep on learning like that you could work for so-and-so’ he said, smiling, proud.

Suddenly my French wasn’t mine any more. I felt deflated, tired, unmotivated. I didn’t want my future planned out, I didn’t want to think of my new skill in terms of work. It had brought me excitement and joy just for being what it was, a glimpse into a whole new world of interesting sounds and words, not so that I could frame my life in such a way as to take advantage of the commerce of those possibilities. Thankfully I managed to forget his words and he never commented again so my joy resurfaced and I spent seven happy years studying the language so that I could ask for a sandwich on a day trip to Boulogne. I loved it. But had his encouragingly -meant aspirations been repeated, I know that I would have given up much sooner than I did.

A second issue is refusal. If I offer my son Lego in exchange for his reading a page of his book he may well respond ‘Yippee!’ quickly followed by ‘How much Lego?’ or ‘Which kit?’ and then quite possibly ‘Oh, no thanks’ if my rewards are not up to scratch. Where does that leave me, robbed of the power of the reward? There is really nowhere left to go and no way to lead the de-incentivised child towards the book. Perhaps I would be tempted to offer more, or better Lego, money to choose his own kit and so on, and on. Most children can smell desperation and many are all too ready to take advantage. Is that what we want to teach?

Another potential problem with transactional learning is the one my mother encountered when she paid us all a pound to learn the books of the Bible by rote. We dutifully went off, reciting over and over until we could confidently present our parroted list and receive a well-won pound. I remember that moment of pride, having managed to reel off all 66 books, but when I really look deep, what I actually remember is the feeling of riches when I was handed that pound – worth five long weeks’ pocket money, and nothing at all of the pride I ought to have felt in a useful task well done. And can I recite them all now? No. A pound in the hand leaves no Bible books in the brain, as they say.

More worrying is the fact that transactional learning affects relationships. We want our children to behave thus because they are nice people but offering a reward for being nice people doesn’t create internally motivated behaviours. If a parent would like to teach compassion for example, then paying Jonny fifty pence (or, for example, two stars on the chart) to help his little brother clear up his spilled drink is not going to work. Says journalist and writer Erica Reisher in her article on this subject: ‘Offering a tangible reward for caring behaviour does not foster such behaviour and in fact has been shown to diminish future helpfulness and erode a child’s innate tendency to help others.’ Empathy, kindness, caring, love, unselfish giving and so on, it seems, cannot be bought, they have to be learned and continued for the joy they bring the giver, not for pocket money or star stickers.

Many families have used reward charts and monetary incentives to great success but researchers urge parents to consider the long term effects of such methods. Introducing tangible rewards as compensation for good behaviour or reaching certain learning goals is like making family life into a sort of business. Social norms, as a rule, govern home life and altering that setting can have far reaching effects. While reward charts may provide short term solutions, looking ahead presents a different view where a child could begin to see their existence within family life as a kind of job where the wages decrease in value (because of growing maturity) and the ‘worker’ has less and less incentive to be involved or display kindness, love or even goodwill.

So, having thoroughly exposed and investigated my mistake, where does this leave The Great Lego Competition? My son remains very obviously hopeful – working hard on those daily flash cards, asking for his writing book so he can ‘work’ and all too clearly keeping the Lego reward close in mind. The truth is I don’t know: I could chalk this up to a one off, never-to-be-repeated mistake; give him the Lego now and declare the competition prematurely over or decide that as long as our reward system stays clear of his development of positive qualities and social awareness and remains with academia then we’ll be all right. The trouble is that tonight I overheard an exchange issuing from the bathroom. Daddy, who awards a highly amusing, giggle-producing and unpredictable points system for acceptable teeth-cleaning behaviour was bestowing ten points on our son. He went unusually quiet for a few seconds then asked in a rather imperious voice ‘But what does that actually mean Daddy, will I get ten pounds to spend on Lego now?’

Methinks this slope is slippery indeed…