So you should see my boy. He’s got a bruised foot, a cut along his left cheek, a tiny cut on his lower lip and somewhere on his oversized thick skull is a small raised bump.
These war-wounds are not from wrestling with other eight-year-old boys. They’re not from a lost battle with a slippery tub or a botched attempt at eating with chopsticks.
No, they’re from our sweet, beautiful, innocent, smiling little blond-headed devil daughter.
She’s taken a liking to making her older brother bleed, bruise, and beg for forgiveness.
Thursday she slammed a door in his face as he was running full-tilt towards it. The left side of his face became swollen, cut and bloody.
Thursday afternoon she threw her cowgirl boot at his head because he called her “meany.”
Friday, he wouldn’t play a game with her so she snuck up next to him then stomped his foot.
Saturday in the car she back-handed him during a giggle fit creating a tiny cut in his lip.
As a result, I have a pile of her most prized possessions next to my desk which I’ve confiscated from her. Beside the pile is a reminder note to myself that on January 15 the girl can start watching TV again.
I feel like a warden of a prison being tormented by a gang leader trying to claim her spot as Chief Badass.
The boy…well, he definitely doesn’t take the lashings like a man.
Instead, he’s turned into a professional soccer player blessed with the greatest abilities to over-exaggerate even the tiniest of pushes.
For example:
The boy’s quietly doing his homework. The daughter comes strolling by him looking beautiful and innocent. The wife and I are in the kitchen wrapping-up dinner.
The girl: “Do you want to play Wii when you’re done?”
The boy: “No.”
The girl: “Please Grayson?!”
The boy: “No, I don’t want to.”
The girl, angered by this latest development in her very complicated and difficult life makes the split decision to take matters into her own hands. She’s going to make the boy pay for his bad decision making.
Her tiny little fist flies through the air, landing on his arm creating a sensation that couldn’t be any worse than a friendly pat on the shoulder.
The boy drops his pencil, a look of horror takes over his face, and neurons begin to flash and fire telling his brain, “holy shit I can get my sister into serious serious trouble if I over-play this tragic event!”
He immediately flies from his seat and onto the ground as hard as he can. A blood-curdling yell leaves his scarred lips, “MAAAAACCCYYY!!! OOOWWWW!!! Why did you do that to me?! Why is this happening to me and my life! You’re so mean and you’ve hurt me soooo badly!!”
This usually ends with the wife and I running into the room to find the boy holding his shin, despite the fact he was hit in the arm, and screaming while the daughter continually says, “I’m sorry Grayson!!!”
But we’re getting a handle on it! Despite explaining to her how much we love her and that hitting is not OK, we’ve also explained vividly how if it happens one more time she will experience a room containing one mattress, a pillow, a blanket, and nothing else.
And it’s times like this that make us, as parents, regret the hell out of threats that ultimately result in a whole shit-ton of manual labor.
Here’s hoping she learns her lesson and stops hurdling down the road to become the next Lorena Bobbit!
