Pushing Buttons
Written By Jody Mace
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Letting a child explore cause and effect can really pay off.
Two-year-old Charlie was a kid who pushed buttons. From the time he learned to walk, VCR buttons, light switches, dishwasher controls — anything that could be pushed, pulled, turned, or toggled — commanded my son's attention. Toys? Fun, yes, but they didn't compare to the thrill of electronics.
Believing at the time that there was a technological solution to every problem, I bought a childproofing device called a TV Guard. The TV Guard sat under the TV set and had a plastic shield that went in front of the buttons, preventing inquisitive fingers from getting at them.
Charlie quietly watched me set it up. When I was done he inspected it from every angle. Then he wedged his fingers between the shield and the TV and pulled. I got to him before the TV fell, then went back to the packaging and read the fine print: "If your child might pull on Guard, TV stand, or wall unit in any way, do not use." Might? We're talking about a kid who had pulled baby gates down from the wall, who had stuck his head in the banister, who had once, for reasons known only to himself, walked around the house with raw eggs in his pockets. Of course he might pull on the TV Guard.
Even with something as mundane as a light switch Charlie could, well, push my buttons. I'm curled up on the couch with a book. I hear the scrape of chair legs on the floor. Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light. A few minutes later, he's gone to change the settings on my dishwasher. It was a frustrating clash of interests. I wanted our electronic devices to work in a predictable manner. Charlie wanted to play. He wanted to learn how to make things work, and to do whatever we were doing.
Still, it was the thermostat that led me to wave the white flag. What had taken hours to program was undone in the amount of time it took for me to shout, "Charlie, no!"
So I surrendered. The next morning I approached him before he had a chance to flip a single switch. "Today," I told Charlie, "is Button Day." I led him to the light switch and hoisted him up. He turned it off (darkness), flicked it on (light), again, and again, and again.
"Are you done?" I asked. "Yes!" he said.
He dragged me to the TV, pushed the power button and the volume, adjusted the color and the tone. He fiddled with every button until finally he nodded.
"Done?" I asked. His answer: "Car." The car was Charlie's Holy Grail. He had never been inside it without being buckled in his car seat. He sat in the front, on my lap, his excitement so intense that he couldn't say a word. He stretched out his hand toward the dashboard and looked at me, amazed. "Go ahead," I told him, smiling, as I turned the key.
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