I've done it. She pushed me to the edge. Girlchild got a spanking. Now don't get me wrong. I am not one of those parents who ride a high horse and condemn those that spank. I was spanked, I think it's an effective discipline tool, but said to myself I wouldn't use it until absolutely necessary. I haven't had to do it until now. I reached Older Sibling Jealously Saturation Point and turned to the one thing I was actually proud to which I hadn't had to turn.
Baby naps for shit. If I can eek out an hour to get something done, I'm fortunate. I get him asleep in the swing, finally. Girlchild asks if we can take a walk to the park. No problem...I could use a break, too, but I explain we can't go until the baby wakes up from his nap. Go to the office to get something done, and hear the swing stop, and baby begin crying. Go to check it out. Girlchild is on the couch watching TV.
"Why is this not swinging?"
"I dunno"
"who turned it off?"
"I dunno"
After a long lecture on selfishness and the importance of leaving a sleeping baby asleep, I got the baby back to sleep.
Later that day, I hear the call for help from the bathroom. We're out of toilet paper. I tell her to grab a tissue from the back of the toilet and I'll come replace the toilet paper in a few minutes. Problem solved. She comes in, goes outside to play.
An hour later: I go in the bathroom to use the toilet. Pull down my pants, turn to lift the lid and sit. I am faced with a toilet seat SMEARED WITH SHIT. Not just a few "oops, I slid off the toilet and did a poor wipe job" smears. Nope. An "I took my hand and wiped my ass, then made sure I swiped around the entire seat with it before replacing the lid so as you won't find my handiwork until I am long removed from the scene of the crime" smear.
I gag. I retch. I do not use the toilet. I run outside and confront Girlchild, asking her if she thought it was a good idea to not only touch her own feces, but then decorate the toilet with it. She's four years old for Chrissakes. I drag her into the bathroom and show her what I mean. I get no more than an "I'm sorry, but we were out of toilet paper". Oh. My. God. It is then I conclude she hasn't washed her hands. I then realize that she has since eaten, touched the baby, touched me. I really am going to puke. And then kill her. But I still have to pee.
She's so in trouble, I don't even know where to begin to take away what she loves dearest.
Dad finally comes home at 8, where he finds me feeding the baby and Girlchild sitting on the couch in front of a TV tray containing one untouched PBJ sandwich, which I have been begging her to eat for the last 45 minutes. She gets up and cautiously hugs dad, waiting for me to announce what kind of day we've had. I don't say a word. I am waiting for my moment. I say "okay, time to come back and eat your dinner". She actually CROSSES her arms, stares at me and says "NO". I am soooo done.
I say calmly, "that's it. You have until the count of five to sit down and eat, or you're getting a spanking".
She still stares at me, now with a furrowed brow. And has the balls to say "NO" again. She knows I'm feeding the baby and thinks I wouldn't quit just to punish her. Oh, how much she has to learn.
Five can't come soon enough. I calmly unlatch the baby and set him into his pack and play. I walk over to her and grab her arm. I take her into the office, where I sit down and put her over my lap. Three whacks on her clothed rear. My hand is stinging a bit, but my parenting confidence is shot. How did it get this far? I don't feel guilty. I thought it out, I'd come through on my threat, I hadn't really hurt her and certainly hadn't broken her spirit. And at least she has learned her lesson, right? I tell her she now needs to go upstairs to her room and think about what happened and what she's learned from this.
She crosses her arms and says NO. So much for the "correct" way to use discipline.
To make a long story even longer, I drag her upstairs, throw her on her bed, shut the door and hold it closed, since she will inevitably try to escape. Much door kicking, much blood curdling screaming, and a few "I HATE YOU MOM"s thrown in for good measure, just to ensure my Recovered Catholic guilt rears its ugly head yet again as I question my parenting skills.
After ten minutes or so, she comes down, apologizes, says "I don't hate you mommy, I love you" and gives me a hug.
Then she kisses her brother and plays with him, gently leaning down and whispering in his ear "I love you". Later that night she crawls in my lap and tells me a story about the princess in a tall tall tower, her favorite.
This time she left out the part about the wicked queen.
I guess she'd had enough of her for one day.
