Tag Archives: reward

Counting to Speak

When your child doesn’t speak, all you dream of is to hear their voice. To listen to what they have to say. To have them answer a question you so desperately want to ask.

When Rhys was three he had ten words. Those words were one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten.

Numbers were his world, and still are.

He loved flashcards, and would pile them up, holding them in his hand, a support blanket, counting their contents constantly. He would find the fancy educational cards that marketing companies had devised as the best mathematical toolkit for young children. He would find playing cards, and would count the number of spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds. Puzzle pieces would be collected into a pile, or little wooden toy tiles, or coins from a toy till and then shifted through and their totals determined.

I would sit next to him and watch as his finger moved touching each image on a card, his mouth speaking the number as he counted. Once finished he would take the next card from the back of the pack, bring it to the front and start his count once again.

Over time he started to tolerate me counting along with him. It took time, but often he would scream back at my interruption to his game.

I managed over time to allow him to take control of my finger, and instead of him touching each picture on the card, he would guide my hand to each object and count.

I was in. I had opened the door to his world.

Months passed, and cards continued to be Rhys’ passion. But I knew I had to find a way to pull him away from his numbers and introduce more words. Numbers were not going to help him request items or move forward to becoming more independent. Words had to have context and meaning.

By the age of four, I was constantly counting along with him, and decided to find a way to introduce the words for the images on the cards.

“One shoe” I said one day as Rhys placed my finger on the first image of a shoe on his number five card. As he heard my words, which now included something additional from the norm, he kicked off. He screamed but retained my finger on the first shoe image, waiting for the word associated with it, the word “one”. The word all by itself.

But I refused to back down. I repeated “One shoe” and then forced my finger to the second image next to it immediately stating, “Two shoes”. I thought that if he realised that we were still counting, and that the process was still the same, he might accept the change.

Rhys was not happy with the change, but I persevered, and over time he started to realise that we were still counting. My plan started to work.

From that point onwards, I used numbers in everything. When we were in the park, I would crouch down to his level, point and say “Look Rhys, three ducks. One duck, two ducks, three ducks” When I was dragged to the cupboard by my hand for food, I once again would crouch down and say “Rhys, one rice cake or two rice cakes” I would never get a response, but new words were being added to our engagement.

It took time, a long time, years in fact, but it worked. We started to get new words. But more importantly, Rhys’ engagement increased, he was becoming aware of other things in his environment. The numbers interested him and allowed him to count real world objects, outside of his world of flashcards.

We limit the use of flashcards now. They tend to close him off from the world, but yesterday while I was clearing out a drawer, Rhys found some old number puzzle cards which had been hidden months ago. He immediately shuffled through them, like he did years ago, and started to count the images.

This morning he sat next to me and took my finger in the same way he had done a few years ago, and looking at me said, “Count with me” As he placed my finger on the first picture, I said “One”. He paused and without moving my finger he look up at me, waiting.

That’s when I realised that I had done it wrong. I had not counted the little picture of the Seahorse.

“One seahorse” I corrected.

Rhys then moved my finger to the next seahorse, and looked up and me, full eye contact – the strong engagement we had worked on for so many years. “Two seahorses” I responded, his reward for his eye contact.

We have come so far. A game that we played so long ago, came back to show us the progress we have made. And that progress has been gigantic.

Things take time. Find your child’s obsession and use it. Add words to their interest. Use their excitement as a tool for engagement.

And don’t ever give up!

I didn’t!

🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏

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Writing for Chocolate

I sat on the cold, hard floor, my phone in my hand displaying a picture of a writing book followed by a piece of chocolate.

“Rhys, First writing then chocolate” I stated, pointing to each picture in turn. It was the tenth time I had muttered the phrase but each time I had remained calm and consistent, while Rhys remained stubborn and resilient.

There was a goal in mind, and it was even more important for me to push forward in progress due to school closures across the country. Covid had taken its hold and we had been confined to our house for the past three months, with no sight of change or the reintroduction of education. In the absence of formal schooling I needed to step up. I needed to develop and teach my son.

“Rhys. First writing then chocolate” I said once again, knowing that the reward needed to be big to get my son to even consider doing something out of the norm. The same response was returned, a scream of frustration and refusal to follow through in my request. 

I looked towards the bright digital display on the oven, I had been persevering for over twenty minutes, with not one of us willing to cave into defeat. I hadn’t introduced anything fundamentally new in months.Coping with everyday life had been the priority, but now things were going to change, we were going to push through. The first step was always the hardest, the introduction of a new routine or developmental need. I knew that this was the worst bit, it would get easier. I just needed to stay calm and strong.

I stood up and opened the cupboard, taking out a mini bar of Kinder chocolate, realising that the image of the chocolate wasn’t enticing enough. Sitting back down on the hard surface, I placed the book and pencil in front of me, and in Rhys’ line of sight. I then repeated my request, but with an addition to what we had last time. “Rhys, writing” I said pointing to the picture on my phone and then pushing the book forward in his direction, then I said the words “then chocolate” pointing to the picture on my phone, then holding the physical chocolate in front of me. Rhys saw his reward immediately, and lunged for it, but I was quick. 

“Rhys writing then chocolate” I said again, pushing the chocolate out of his reach and placing the pen in his open grasp. I then guided his hand to the page, and he traced over the letter ‘L’ with physical frustration and the anger from losing the standoff. Immediately I gave him the mini kinder chocolate. “Well done, writing finished, now chocolate”. 

Rhys consumed the chocolate in one bite.

It had taken forty minutes to get Rhys to trace a single letter in the book. 

Two hours later I was seated once again on the hard kitchen floor, my phone in my hand and the book in front of me. “Rhys, writing then chocolate” I stated, pointing to each picture in turn. With the memory and taste of the chocolate still in his month, Rhys took the pen and drew another ‘L’, then looked at me, “Chocolate” he said, and I handed him his reward.

Although a teacher or health visitor may not advocate the use of chocolate as a reward, that is where I have the advantage. I can bend these societal views and offer my son whatever reward will get us over that first hurdle. After those first few challenging days, I started to change rewards, to bubbles, or an icelolly. The length of time Rhys started to write extended over time through perseverance and consistency. 

That was five months ago.

I stood up this morning to get a cup of tea, and walking past the lounge I caught sight of Rhys sitting at his little table, pen in hand doing his writing. It had not been prompted by myself, a task he had gone and done himself. Those forty minutes, five months ago that I sat on the same kitchen floor, were worth every second to see Rhys this morning.

A change takes time. The implementation of a strategy takes time. Often it is painful and tough and moments of wanting to scream. But I hold that all inside, remain calm and persevere. Seeing my son independently taking himself to do writing, is proof that it is all worth it. 

Get your pictures out and try the First-Then strategy.

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