Recently, we took my 4-year-old son to an Indian restaurant for dinner. He started out chatty and fun, drawing dragons with crayons in his Clifford notebook and thrilled with his tiny glass of Sprite. And then he said he wanted a hot dog for dinner.

I told him we were at an Indian restaurant and that they didn't have hot dogs on the menu. I suggested his favorite Indian dish, palak paneer, featuring the "white cheese squares" that he usually loves so much.

"I want a hot dog," he said, pushing his notepad away from him.

I told him again they do not have hotdogs on the menu, and begin to read other menu options. "I hate Indian food," he says in a loud voice. I try to ignore his behavior. I open the Clifford notepad and try to start a game of tic-tac-toe.

"X's or O's?" I asked cheerfully.

"I hate Indian food," he says again, looking at me dead in the eyes, waiting to see my reaction.

"Levi," I ask. "Please lower your voice."

"No," he says, pushing the notepad away and knocking over my water glass.

I know where this is going. I'm going to get frustrated. He's going to cry. Despite attempts to smooth everything over, we're going to make a small scene and leave the restaurant feeling embarrassed and defeated. For some reason, on this particular night, I refuse the scenario that happened once before.

Instead, I start thinking quickly, and realize that the Indian restaurant altercation brings me to a fork in the road. I know that my defiant son deserves some sort of consequence, but what?

For those of us who grew up with woodenspoon-wielding mothers or belt-cracking dads, this is new to us. Wanting to be "better" about discipline, many of us renounce physical punishment and are determined to empower our kids to make good choices, instead of fear-fueled choices.

But we forgot that there are years and years and years of teaching before they are able to make these good choices, and how do we handle downright bad behavior along the way?

We could pack up and leave the restaurant, but in this situation, that was more of surrender than a consequence since Levi wanted to leave anyway. I could take him out to the car or into the bathroom for a "time out," but after a couple years of using the "time out" system, I was finding it less and less effective.

After all, the "time out" seems like a punishment for being angry, and that doesn't seem right. I don't want to teach my boys that anger in and of itself is bad, because anger is unavoidable for most people. It's about how you process it -- what you do with -- that makes or breaks a person's emotional intellect and their ability to have successful intimate relationships.

Recently, Mothering magazine published an article about the "time in," and for me, it was like a divine gift from the media. The article suggests that, in the heat of the moment, you say, "time in," convene with your kids -- maybe even sit in a circle -- and then grab an object.

Only the person holding the object is allowed to talk. I grabbed a purple crayon, damp from the water spill. "Time in," I said.

"Time IN?" Levi asked, his eyes starting to twinkle at what he thought was a joke or a mistake.

"Yeah, time in," I say. "But only the person holding the purple crayon may speak. I'm first. I feel frustrated that you knocked over my water glass."

"It was an accident," Levi interrupts. "And I have to go potty."

Our first time in, and our second and our third, didn't produce any earth shattering communication breakthroughs, but what they did do is break the mood. At this age, that's enough.

But more importantly, time ins teach kids to talk about their anger, sort out their feelings and forces them to listen to the other person.

The problem with the time in is that is takes a lot more time and energy than other forms of discipline, and we don't always have those resources available. But that's OK. I figure that even if we only practice the occasional time in, they still learn how to communicate in the heat of anger.

It's touchy feely stuff, I know, but it's also a step toward unleashing one less a-hole into the world.