Yesterday was a frustrating day in the life of raising kids. Anyone who is a parent knows that occasionally those days come along. You acknowledge that whilst you buckle up real tight to ride the storm out.
The Boy was just full of...well, I don't know what he was full of yesterday but it almost cost him some precious butt skin. Hard headed and stubborn were the massive understatements of the day. Lately, he's gotten into this nasty habit of throwing things when angry, sad, happy, or simply because he has something in his hand. This is not a good thing to do around Dad's new television. At all. Suffice it to say, throwing in the house has been strongly discouraged.
I'm going to stop here a minute and say this. I'm on my third child here. I've kept children in my home for 12 years until my semi-retirement last year. I may not always know what I'm doing, but I do know what works by now. In the past couple of days, I've come to a sad realization. Talking and popping the leg just doesn't work for that son of mine. Desperate times called for desperate measures. I went to my bedroom and got Dad's belt off the hook. Oh quit puffing up already out there those of you who don't believe in corporal punishment and all that rot. Did I say I held him down while putting whelps across his sweet little back? Let me finish before you go calling Child Protective Services on Miss Hope. If you own a lovely man's dress belt, you have access to a serious listening tool. You can snap that thing to make a very loud impressive noise, guaranteed to catch the attention of every child in a half mile radius. Then? When it's time to let that piece of leather talk trash? You use all of 6-10 inches to pop the leg. I promise it will make your life way easier in the long run. I will tell you this, Internets. I am NOT going to have a 16 year old boy who, I know, will be taller than his mother's 5'6" self, look down at me and proceed to tell ME what HE's going to do. Oh, no. I'm going to nip that mess in the bud right now and make sure he knows that Mama may be slow, but she's still The Boss of him until she takes her last breath.
Now that we have that out of the way, we can continue with the story.
Vitt decided that the matchbox car in his hand would look better hitting Mak in the face. Around the nose area to be exact. Yeah, wincing and saying ouch would be totally appropriate right about now. Not to mention he was supposed be laying down on his pillow and Spiderm*n blanket for his afternoon relax time. (Read that to say we girls needed a small break before taking on the evening shift.) What could I do? I could grab that belt, that's what I could do. So, I might have added an extra inch or two when he got popped. Two pops later he was under the blanket and not daring to move. He never took a nap, but his fear of getting up gave us all a small break we surely took advantage of.
Fast forward to supper time. It's been a long day for that Boy and we had long since tied a knot in the end our ropes when it came to him. The final straw came when he started acting all froot loop in his chair. Jumping around and flailing his arms. Then he knocked Mak's plate of spaghetti into her lap. (Poor thing, she really caught crap from him yesterday.) I put my face in my hands and said, "Put him to bed right now. Right this minute. I do NOT want to see his face again until tomorrow morning." Dad put him to bed and within 15 minutes, he was down for the count. Peace reigned throughout our home.
This whole incident took me and Paige down memory lane. She reminded me of a time back when she was around 7 or 8. It was just Paige, Mak, and myself making it in this world. Fred and I were dating, but I was on my own. She had frustrated me (don't ask me over what) and I finally sent her to her room around 4 or 5 p.m. with the sentence of "Do NOT let me see your face until tomorrow". This was fine and dandy. For about 30-45 minutes. Then my child comes around the corner with a bag on her head. She was bored in her room and tomorrow wasn't coming fast enough. In her brilliant mind, she decided a bag over the head would prevent me from "seeing her face" and all would be well. I just remember laughing my butt off when I finally realized what she was doing.
For all of you out there who have smaller kids? Don't feel bad when every cell of coolness you own is lost in the face of a child under the age of 10. It happens to all of us. Accept the fact that this spawn came from 50% of your very own personal DNA. You do know what that means, right?
You can breathe easy and light because you can always blame the bad 50% on the other parent. When both parents think this way, everyone feels better.
All of this I'm dealing with? Totally came from Fred. My mother-in-law should back me up on this. Why not? I DID give birth to her first grandson.