Weaning a lost boy away from his drug of choice
by Donnell King
I have an eleven-year-old addict in my house. Without his fix, he gets cranky, moody, unable to function. He will do anything to get his fix, stooping to lying and subterfuge, sneaking behind our backs to obtain it.
His addiction involves no chemicals. He is hooked on television.
Not just cartoons, mind you. The program doesn't matter. His favorite show is Iron Chef on the Food Network. Once I found him standing in the living room with a basket full of laundry, eyes glazed and locked on the screen, mouth hanging half open, hypnotized by a commercial for a Black and Decker belt sander. It had grabbed him and sucked his brains out through his eyeballs.
Real life was that which interfered with watching TV.
Of course, we tried limiting him. No more than two hours a day. We might as well have tried to limit his oxygen.
"Here, honey, we'll set a timer for you."
Ding.
No response, no movement of any kind. An infomercial for cookware played on. We resorted to a device called "TV Allowance." Indestructible plastic encloses the power plug from the TV. The box locks with a key.
We can program the device to allow only a certain number of hours of television per week. After the allotment expires, the unit cuts off the power. Short of slicing off the cord and installing a new plug, the addict has his supply lopped off.
We began one summer with 10 hours a week, drastic for a child who had been unable to prevent himself from spending every waking minute in front of the television. We started the clock on Monday morning. By Tuesday, he had used up the week's allotment, left dry until the following Monday.
It was ugly. He tried sneaking next door to watch TV at a friend's house, but the friend wanted to play outside—sunshine and odd stuff like that. When we made our almost daily trips to Wal-Mart, he got away while we looked at trash bags. I found him standing pale and transfixed in front of the wall of TVs, mainlining from 18 sets at once.
We sometimes had to leave him home alone for a short while when both of us were at work. One day, I touched the TV in our bedroom soon after I got home. It was warm.
"You've been watching TV in our room."
"No, I haven't." Said while looking me straight in the eye, angelic smile unmoved. The innocent gaze remained steady for three seconds, then his eyebrows twitched, his shoulders hunched, his head dropped. The tears began.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. It was just so there," he sobbed.
We warned him not to do it again, checked the TV on other days and found it cool.
"He's learned," said my wife. "He's growing from this."
Cynic that I am, I placed small bits of transparent tape at the top of the door frame, a technique cadged from Ian Fleming. When we returned, the seal had been broken. Innocent looks again. The next day, I came home early and caught him watching Oprah.
This time, I returned from Wal-Mart with a door lock for the bedroom. My wife and I guard the keys.
The weekly routine: 8 a.m. Monday, TV returned in all its glory. By noon Tuesday, it went dark again. Some weeks it survived until Wednesday morning, but occasionally it clocked out on Monday night. ("The Iron Chef marathon was really good!") He whines and wheedles and moans to no avail.
One week the TV Allowance shut off at noon Tuesday, but the whines did not ensue. Books again, it seemed. Calmness. Angelic peace again. Again the next week. And the next.
Finally, we thought, a breakthrough. Then one day I went to the store but returned 10 minutes later for the checkbook I'd left at home. The TV in the living room was on. On Friday. The boy stood between the couch and the TV, not quick enough to shut it off before I came in, shoulders already slumping, the tears already starting.
"Why is the TV on?"
"Because I figured out your code." Sniffle.
"Did you sneak around and watch while one of us punched it in?"
"No. I've just been punching numbers in until I found one that worked."
There are 10,000 possible code combinations. Why waste time reading a book when you can work on cracking your parents' TV code?
Now we randomly change the master code every two weeks. Slowly, I believe, he is getting used to it. Recently, he discovered Hardy Boys mysteries at the library, and has been voluntarily reading them. The TV Allowance cutoff has crept later into the week, once even making it to the weekend. Last week, I shouted down the hall, "Whose Line Is It Anyway? is on!"
"Thanks, Dad, but I'm in the middle of a chapter."
I sat on the couch arm and cried. I had my boy back.
Still, we can't drop our guard. Tonight I heard sound coming from the bathroom while he was taking a shower. I found the door propped open by a small radio that can pick up TV audio signals. While he was showering, he was listening to the audio portion of a TV broadcast of a golf game.
Golf. Talking about golf. My God, it's even worse than I feared.
April 26, 2001 * Vol. 11, No. 17
© 2001 Metro Pulse
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TV Junkie