Isegoria

Jay Heinrichs has imperfect children:

Those of you who don’t have perfect children will find this familiar: Just as I was withdrawing money in a bank lobby, my 5-year-old daughter chose to throw a temper tantrum, screaming and writhing on the floor while a couple of elderly ladies looked on in disgust. (Their children, apparently, had been perfect.)

He gave his daughter Dorothy a disappointed look and said something:

She blinked a couple of times and picked herself up off the floor, pouting but quiet.

“What did you say to her?” one of the women asked.

He had said, “That argument won’t work, sweetheart. It isn’t pathetic enough.”

To disagree reasonably, a child must learn the three basic tools of argument. I got them straight from Aristotle, hence the Greek labels: logos, ethos, and pathos.

You see, Heinrichs has decided to teach his children rhetoric, and an artfully pathetic argument is one that effectively plays on the audience’s emotions, not the speaker’s.

Heinrich concludes with Aristotle’s Guide to Dinner Table Discourse:

1. Argue to teach decision-making. When you argue the various sides of an issue with your kids (“Beach or mountains this summer?”), they are learning to present different options (“Both!”) and then decide which choice to follow.
2. Focus on the future. Arguments about the past (“Who made the mess with the toys?”) or the present (“Good children don’t leave messes.”) are far less productive than focusing on what to do or believe: “What’s a good way to make sure that toys get cleaned up?”
3. Call “fouls.” Anything that impedes debate counts as a foul: Shouting, storming out of the room, or recalling past family atrocities should instantly make you choose the opposite side.
4. Reward the right emotions. Respond to screaming and anger by not responding, except to say, “Oh, come on. You can do better than that.”
5. Let kids win sometimes. When they present a good argument, there’s no better teaching method than rewarding them. My overreliance on the slow cooker, for instance, made my son beg for “dry” food. “Even the cat’s meals,” he said, “aren’t all wet.” Good point. I served hamburgers next. Very dry hamburgers.

On a bet from her son, Sue Shellenbarger took the SAT again after 41 years to see how a 57-year-old mom would do:

Life for teens is indeed harder, my experiment taught me, but not in the way I expected. Aging took a toll on my mental abilities, to be sure, but I was able to erase most of the losses by studying. What surprised me more were the psychological hurdles. Coping with the ramped-up expectations and competitiveness that infuse the SAT process — a reflection of our entire culture — sent me into a tailspin of adolescent regression, procrastination and sloppy study habits, all the behaviors I’ve taught my children to avoid. What I learned will make me a more tolerant parent.

Her diary entry from April 24:

I am far behind my original study plan, completing only five of the Study Guide’s eight practice tests. My study habits have gone down the tubes. I started out working in a disciplined way at our quiet, well-lighted kitchen table. But I’m becoming frustrated with this thankless process. After learning a math concept one night, I’ve forgotten it by the next; my brain seems to lack a holding bin. Anxiety over functions and formulas is ever-present. Slicing a grilled-cheese sandwich diagonally, I find myself pondering the length of the hypotenuse.

I abandon the bright, orderly kitchen table and kick back on the couch. With the TV babbling, a snack in hand and my feet on the coffee table, I leaf through the Study Guide lackadaisically. My inner parent rages: “Turn off that TV! Put away those chips! Don’t you realize the SAT is only a week away?” But my inner teenager ignores her. The studying is so taxing, I realize, that I’m yearning for small comforts.

She didn’t do too badly, for all her talk of mental decay:

Jay Heinrichs has imperfect children:

Those of you who don’t have perfect children will find this familiar: Just as I was withdrawing money in a bank lobby, my 5-year-old daughter chose to throw a temper tantrum, screaming and writhing on the floor while a couple of elderly ladies looked on in disgust. (Their children, apparently, had been perfect.)

He gave his daughter Dorothy a disappointed look and said something:

She blinked a couple of times and picked herself up off the floor, pouting but quiet.

“What did you say to her?” one of the women asked.

He had said, “That argument won’t work, sweetheart. It isn’t pathetic enough.”

To disagree reasonably, a child must learn the three basic tools of argument. I got them straight from Aristotle, hence the Greek labels: logos, ethos, and pathos.

You see, Heinrichs has decided to teach his children rhetoric, and an artfully pathetic argument is one that effectively plays on the audience’s emotions, not the speaker’s.

Heinrich concludes with Aristotle’s Guide to Dinner Table Discourse:

1. Argue to teach decision-making. When you argue the various sides of an issue with your kids (“Beach or mountains this summer?”), they are learning to present different options (“Both!”) and then decide which choice to follow.
2. Focus on the future. Arguments about the past (“Who made the mess with the toys?”) or the present (“Good children don’t leave messes.”) are far less productive than focusing on what to do or believe: “What’s a good way to make sure that toys get cleaned up?”
3. Call “fouls.” Anything that impedes debate counts as a foul: Shouting, storming out of the room, or recalling past family atrocities should instantly make you choose the opposite side.
4. Reward the right emotions. Respond to screaming and anger by not responding, except to say, “Oh, come on. You can do better than that.”
5. Let kids win sometimes. When they present a good argument, there’s no better teaching method than rewarding them. My overreliance on the slow cooker, for instance, made my son beg for “dry” food. “Even the cat’s meals,” he said, “aren’t all wet.” Good point. I served hamburgers next. Very dry hamburgers.