My eight-year-old blonde-haired daughter stared up at me from the couch, a sullen look in her eyes, and a glower underneath her growing blonde eyebrows. Her dripping-wet hair from her shower was slowly soaking the shoulders of her nightdress, her chubby cheeks flushed pink in anger.
“But we didn’t even get to finish family night!” she shouted at me, false tears growing in the corner of her eyes.
“Done or not, it’s time for bed for you. You’ve delayed long enough, and now have two choices: you may get to bed on your own power, or under my power,” I replied. I’ve used that phrase enough times now that she’s familiar with it: it means that if she doesn’t choose to move as asked, she will be carried by me to where I’ve asked her to go. It’s a “Love and Logic” thing: present your children with two choices, and allow them to choose the least objectionable. We know that it’s manipulation, and the logical part of me screams ‘false dichotomy! false dichotomy!’, but it makes things proceed so much more smoothly, and helps maintain at least some pretense at discipline in our house.
She voiced a small, closed-mouthed scream, balled her hands up in fists, and glared at me. Her right foot inched forward. Her left foot inched forward. This was too slow. I’ve learned that, in dealing with my children, resistance, or slowness in performing that which is required, is the same as defiance. They simply try to push the limit as far as it will go. I’m no disciplinarian, but there are certain daily routines where I’ll provide the motivation if they fail to. I choose to see in black and white: she was not yet in her room, so she had obviously chosen to have me propel her there.
I set down my laptop, lowered the recliner footrest, and stood up. I generally do not spank my children (except in cases of violation of certain critical instructions that may be life-saving, such as come, go, sit, no, and stay, or if they lie to me), so rather than cower in fear at some sort of retribution, she began to fight back with words. “I’m going, Dad, I’m going!” she said, as she picked up her pace slightly.
“Not fast enough, and in my book, that means you’re disobeying. It’s no problem, really” I said as I bent down, grabbed her around the knees, and hoisted her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, “you’re quite light”.
Hmm, saying she’s light was a lie. She’s 89 pounds now. She’s built like much of the rest of the family: pudgy, but solid rather than flabby. I grunted slightly with the effort. Who spanks me now when I tell a lie like that one, I wondered.
“No! No! I was going, I was going!” she squealed. But she didn’t sound sad, upset, or mad enough. I think she was actually enjoying being carried upstairs at some level. I realized it had been a very, very long time since I’d carried her upstairs.
Just then, I felt a spank on my rearend.
I pondered for the briefest of moments — should I respond with anger, humor, or not at all? Humor comes much more naturally to me than anger. “Come on, you can do better than that!” I reassured her. “That spank didn’t hurt at all! I know you’re mad at me, so hit me like you mean it.”
I felt another smack, this one harder.
“That’s more like it. Now I know you’re angry; that one even stung a little.”
Smack. I chuckled.
Smack. I laughed harder at her efforts.
SmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmackSmack… a veritable flurry of open-palmed hits landed on my backside. I was surprised at the strength of the little girl over my shoulder — I wouldn’t think she’d have the leverage to deliver such stinging impacts. The flailing ceased as I leaned over and set her down.
“Well, at least you let me have it for carrying you upstairs in such an undignified manner,” I said, as I winked at her and chuckled again. “Those were some pretty hard smacks!”
“I didn’t!” she responded, with half a grin fighting with the mad expression she was trying to muster.
“I did!” a little voice sprang up from behind my trousers. I turned, and there stood little Zachariah, holding up both palms bright red from the blows, a grin crooking the corner of his mouth, eyebrows raised high in self-satisfaction.