Disciplining the Boy

The UG's post HERE about fathers disciplining their children reminded me of my own dad - being somehow inherently frightening without even trying to be he rarely raised his voice, and any whippings he administered I believe I detailed HERE.

For my father to actually make the effort of beating one of us it would have to be the World Series of beatings, the kind of beating where for days after you’d make sure he saw you hand off that day’s school drawings etc to your mother with a happy “I love you!.” Or, even better, you’d cut the grass without being told. My father would beat me once a year, it was as if he’d realize his license for spanking a kid was about to expire for the year and he had to get his licks in.

Now that I'm in charge of a kid a lot of the time, I view "discipline" as "a controlled method of making the child aware of what is right and wrong." Which is different from when I was the kid, when it sure seemed that the adult was blinded with rage and could only think "MUST. KILL. THE. BOY." I find it hard to believe my parents thought of disciplining me in the same way I just described myself doing it. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't; either way, I find it impossible to believe that genuine discipline is something I can pull off.

There's been two times I've actually tried to "discipline" The Short Bus. The first time, he was dangerously close to coming close to touching a wall socket. I immediately thought of something Mamalizza had once said re: if it's something DANGEROUS, like the kid running into a street, you hafta really SCARE them. So I pointed and barked something to make sure he backed away. To which he kinda looked at me, shrugged, and moved on. I wouldn't say I scared him; as a matter of fact I wouldn't say he even got my point as much as I simply distracted him into noticing something else of interest, such as a firetruck or a copy of Huge Black Titties that had fallen outta my jacket pocket.

Then a coupla weeks ago he slipped back into an old habit of throwing his food on the floor. "Okay, okay," I thought, "next time he does it, speak sternly, look meaner than normal and drive the point home that such behavior is unacceptable." I practiced in my head a few times, and felt confidant I would nail it. He picked up his half a banana as if to hurl it on the floor. "a HHAAAAAA" I thought, getting ready. He looked right at me; I raised my eyebrows giving him my best "You better not" look. He did not throw the banana on the floor. He did, however, throw it AT ME. "Showtime!" I thought, and launched into my little performance. He looked a little caught off-guard, which pleased me. Tho as I was going back over my little show in my head ("stern! no smiling! great job!!)" he gently blew marijuana smoke rings into my face while pulling a chain that lit a neon sign on his shirt that said "EAT SHIT, DICKHEAD." Sigh.

Of course, he's not my kid, so disciplining him isn't really any of my business. Which is good, cause I think he's already seen behind the curtain of that fucking Broadway play.