Why Your Kid Is Easily Persuaded: How To Spot Seemingly Reasonable, Empty Claims
Last Tuesday, I was grabbing milk and cereal after picking my 11-year-old son up from middle school, when he stopped dead in the snack aisle. A stack of neon-colored viral protein drinks stood front and center, the same brand he’d been talking about for a week. “C’mon, mom,” he said, pulling a pack out and dropping it in the cart. “All the 7th graders on the soccer team drink these after practice. It has 20 grams of protein, way better than Gatorade. That makes sense, right?”
I glanced at the label: 18 grams of added sugar, six more grams than the Gatorade we already had at home. “You already get enough protein from dinner and your after-practice protein bar,” I said. “This is just going to make you crash before algebra homework.” He frowned, but didn’t put it back. “But the guy on TikTok said it helps you recover faster so you can run longer at the next practice. That’s true, right?”
I bought the pack to avoid a standoff in the middle of the grocery store, just like I do most weeks when this comes up. On the drive home, I counted up the times this exact scenario had played out in the last month: the $40 “anti-blister” ankle socks his friend said were “way better than the ones you get at Target,” the new math tutor a classmate swore “gets you A’s way faster because he only teaches what’s on the test,” the new video game all his friends said “is 10 times more fun than the one we have, everyone’s playing it.”
Every single one of these claims sounds reasonable on the surface. They have a little kernel of fact attached: extra protein helps muscle recovery, blister-resistant fabric works for people who get blisters, focusing on test content can help boost scores. But peel it back, and none of them mean anything for my son. He never gets blisters. He already gets B+ on his math tests, he just needs to remember to show his work, which his current tutor already nags him about. He gets 45 grams of protein a day, more than the recommended amount for his age and weight. That extra 20 grams is just useless extra sugar.
Last month I was subbing for a 6th grade language arts class, and I saw the same thing play out in a class activity. The kids were doing a persuasive speech unit, and had to convince the class to allow pets in school. Half the kids opened with “dogs reduce stress, so having a class pet dog will help everyone concentrate.” The whole class ooh-ed and nodded. It sounds so reasonable, right? It’s even based on a real study, if you squint. But when I asked, “Okay, this 50-pound golden retriever you want to bring—will he bark when we’re taking quizzes? Will he want to walk around when we’re trying to read? How do you know he’ll reduce stress for our class, specifically?” No one had an answer. The statement sounded right, so they used it, and everyone was ready to be persuaded because it had that little ring of truth.
We spend so much time teaching kids to be good listeners, to trust facts, to get along with their friends. What we don’t teach them is that most persuasive statements are designed to sound right, not to be actually meaningful for their specific life. That a kernel of truth doesn’t make the whole claim true for them. I used to just shut these claims down by saying “that’s not worth it” or “that’s just marketing,” but that never worked. My son would just think I’m being cheap or unreasonable, and dig in harder.
About two months ago, I started asking two simple questions instead, whenever he’s about to be persuaded into something. I don’t frame it as me against him, just two things to check before we agree. The first question is: Does this actually matter for you, specifically? The second is: Do we have any proof this will do what you need it to do?
It sounds too simple, but it works. After we got home with the protein drink, I pulled it out and asked him the first question: “What do you need after soccer practice?” He thought for a second and said “Something to drink that doesn’t make me feel tired for homework.” Then I said “Okay, do you need extra protein right then?” He shrugged and said “I guess not, I eat a protein bar on the way anyway.” Then the second question: “Did the guy on TikTok test this on you, to see if it doesn’t make you tired?” He laughed and said “No, he gets paid to sell it.” He still wanted to try one, so we opened it, and sure enough, he was yawning through homework an hour later. He hasn’t asked for it again.
When he brought up the $40 socks, I had him borrow a pair from his friend to try for a practice first. After, I asked the two questions. He admitted they felt exactly the same as the $5 pack we have, so he decided he didn’t need them. It doesn’t work every time. A few weeks ago, he was convinced we needed to go to the viral pop-up mini golf course an hour away, because all his friends said it’s “way more fun than the one by our house.” I asked the questions, he still wanted to go, so we went. We paid $30 each, waited 45 minutes in line, and he said halfway through “It’s just mini golf. The one by the house is fine.” That’s okay. Some lessons stick better when you see it yourself.
It’s not about teaching kids to be distrustful of everyone. It’s about teaching them to pause before they go along with something that sounds right. Most of the time, the statements that persuade us sound reasonable, but they don’t hold up when you ask those two simple questions. I’m still figuring it out, some weeks we have more standoffs than others. But so far, those two questions take less time than arguing, and they stick with him longer than me just saying no.
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