Candy is the great motivator, but I resisted it, even fought it. There has always been a running litany in my mind that started with my mother’s admonition “Candy will rot your teeth!” and ended with my own beliefs that an “attaboy” is just as rewarding as a physical token of congratulations, like a piece of candy.

Shouldn’t kids have to do certain things without a reward? Of course, a reward is in order when a child does something out of the ordinary, something you’d like to encourage. A report card with all A’s, perhaps, or raking leaves without being asked.

He might have raked the leaves so that he could jump in them, but you pretend you don’t know that and reward him before he has a chance to destroy the nice neat pile. Hopefully, the reward would be large enough to forestall notions of leaf pile annihilation.

Some things should simply be done without complaint and without reward. It’s practice for parenthood.

What if you have a child who will not do his homework? Note, I said “will not,” not “cannot.” What if this child needed a reason for putting himself through all that effort? What if it wasn’t enough to tell him that if he didn’t learn his multiplication tables, he would be living in a cardboard box outside of a train station? What if he thought living in a cardboard box could be pretty cool?

I thought about my mother’s admonition, but what good are great teeth if you live in a cardboard box? Your neighbors likely would not notice. At least if he learned his multiplication tables, he could get a job with dental insurance.

My own arguments about rewards did not hold water against this type of rebellion. He could make his own decisions about the type and location of his domicile later. It is my job to make sure he has a choice. I wanted him to learn. He did not want to learn — but he could be bribed.

I brought home a 5-pound bag of teeth-rotting treats and several toothbrushes. I plopped the bag down in front of him and said, “For every paper with a 100 percent on it, you get one piece of candy.”

I saw a spark of life. I’m telling you, it was a miracle. My kid suddenly became a genius. He ripped through math papers like a hay barn on fire. He learned his spelling words with all the devotion of a new monk. He spewed historic dates, people, inventions and documents like a social studies volcano.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my kid?” I asked him.

He smiled while chewing a wad of red Laffy Taffy. I winced and told him to go brush his teeth for the sixth time that day.

Pleased with his progress, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up now that I knew he would have a choice.

“A race car driver!” he answered.

I wondered if NASCAR has a good dental plan.