The 1-2-3 Rule

Am I the only kid in the world who grew up with a mother who employed the “1-2-3 Rule”? I never hear of it these days, and feel a little sadder because of it. It was extremely effective for behavior control, largely because of its emphasis on consequences for one’s actions. So effective, in fact, that for many years past my adolescence, even when judging the actions of others as well as myself, I would witness behavior I found unacceptable and expect to have someone raise one, two or three fingers in response.

My mother’s (or father’s) first raised finger was a warning: Any further occurrences of the behavior in question would not be tolerated without penalty. If the behavior were so heinous or dangerous as to not warrant a warning, she would immediately raise two fingers.

Step 2 dictated that immediate action would always be taken, the implementation of whatever form of corporal punishment s/he deemed appropriate. Depending on the age of the child and the degree of the offense, the penalties also varied, but always included an element of punishment intended to bring about immediate discomfort, embarrassment or penalty necessary for behavior modification without any further repeat performances.

The raising of three fingers symbolic of Step 3 subjected the offender to instant bête noire or anathema—not dissimilar to the practice of shunning by some Amish sects. You instantly became a social leper, a foul carrion-breath harbinger of evil who should go to his room, never again to bask in the sunshine of family and friends until she’d decided that you were either dead or wishing you were.

I can only remember one such Step 3 penalty. It lasted one entire weekend during the World Series, a weekend I spent in my room; not one meal did I eat with my family, not one phone call from a friend did I receive, and my trips to the bathroom were monitored by my mother’s continual presence with a time limit of three minutes to take care of everything necessary. What’s worse, I wasn’t allowed to speak to her for any reason for an entire week. Any inquiries directed toward her had to be taken by emissary—normally my younger sister—as vile a prospect as a twelve-year-old boy could possibly imagine. If I sat down at the dinner table she would take her meal in the kitchen, if I sat down on the living room couch to watch TV she’d do her ironing in the den, because I hadn’t shown her the respect due a boy’s mother by forcing her to Step 3.

I’m not saying that the 1-2-3 Rule will cure all the world’s evils, but I am living proof that it helped keep one guy in particular out of prison.