Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

Father Knows Best (About Some Things)

I'll bet Don Draper never got peed on while
changing a diaper.

Men have come a long way in the past 30 years. Back when I was growing up, most of the dads I knew had the following responsibilities: bring home the paycheck, take out the trash, mow the lawn, play catch with his sons, dole out the serious punishments ("Just wait 'til your father gets home!"), give pep talks, BBQ up dinner two times a summer, and maybe coach soccer or little league.

My very own father likes to brag that he's never changed a diaper in his life.

Nowadays, things are P-R-E-T-T-Y different. Roles and responsibilities are more evenly doled out; however, even when the dad is the sole breadwinner, he's still expected to change diapers, babysit while mom goes to the grocery store, handle the midnight feeding, and pitch in with housework--plus most of the things listed above. It's a big change over the Mad Men era, when Dad walked in the door after a hard day's work (those three-martini lunches must've been grueling) and was greeted with a steak dinner, a scotch & soda, and a smile.

However, despite the strides fathers have made, there is still room for improvement. Here are some things dads still can't do:

1. Give their daughter a neat ponytail.
2. Cut the kids' raviolis just the way they like it.
3. Put the baby's diaper on tight enough.
4. Figure out which toothpaste is for which child.
5. Bathe the kids without flooding the bathroom.
6. Put the kitchen utensils in the correct drawers.
7. Do more than two things at once.

These minor short-comings aside, fathers are the family unit's unsung heroes. Everyone talks about how hard motherhood is, and moms usually clean up on Mother's Day--jewelry, spa visits, etc. But you never hear people commenting on how difficult it is being a dad. And what does Pops get for Father's Day? A card, if he's lucky.

We moms really should thank our partners more often for all the great things they do. Are they perfect? No way. But we couldn't live without them. Nor would we want to--because life is more fun with Dad around. Dads make awesome paper airplanes, will play dinosaurs for hours, and most importantly, help us moms to not sweat the small stuff.

So a big thank you to all the fathers out there. We appreciate all you do and we love you.

I Love You, Dad

Father's Day is coming up, and it's got me thinking about my dear ol' dad.

My dad is the greatest. Thanks to him (and my mom) I had a wonderful, stable, secure childhood. My dad was (and still is) reliable, consistent, and loving--when I was little, he was always telling me how much he adored me, that I was beautiful, that I was his "little dahling" (Boston accent).

He was exceedingly proud of my academic achievements, so in addition to feeling loved and beautiful, I also felt smart. He assured me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up; however, that didn't stop him from telling me what he thought I should be.

When I was seven or eight, I informed him that I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up (I'd just read an inspiring biography of Clara Barton).

"Oh, no, no, no, honey, you don't want to be a nurse. Being a nurse is such difficult, thankless work. Nurses empty out bedpans and bathe patients. If you want to go into the medical field, be a doctor, not a nurse."

I considered his advice...and decided I wanted to be a doctor instead (though that didn't last long).

Yes, my dad has always been reliable and consistent, yet he's also human and occasionally makes mistakes. One of my most vivid childhood memories was one of these mistakes.

I was around eight or nine. My dad had taken the day off work because he had some sort of important luncheon. Much alcohol was imbibed. Now, this was the 1970's when three-martini lunches were pretty common, but my dad didn't travel in those circles and was never a big drinker. But for some reason, he drank way more than he should've that day.

I was upstairs playing in my room when my dad got home (drunk driving--nice!). I must've been bored, because when he stumbled upstairs to change clothes, I said, "Hi, Daddy!" and followed him into my parents' room. I don't remember exactly what happened or what he said, but it went something like this: My dad slurs/yells at me to leave him alone, lurches by, falls onto the bed, and passes out.

I ran back to my room and cried--and have never forgotten it to this day. See, my dad hardly ever yelled at me (he saved it for my brothers); I only got it if I really, really deserved it. Which wasn't too often because I was a good kid. This event traumatized me because I hadn't done anything wrong, and besides, my dad looked weird--he was all disheveled and crazy-eyed. He scared me.

My dad in 1984, not long before boys started
messing up our relationship.

That was pretty much it for traumatic fatherly events during childhood. High school, however, was a completely different story. Once boys came into the picture, my dad became THE ENEMY. He was super-protective and strict, and I hated him for it.

One of his crazy rules was my weekend curfew: 11 p.m. if I was on a date, midnight if I was with friends. (Yet my brother, who was only one year older, had no curfew at all.) So, yeah, once or twice, I lied. I said I was out with friends when I was actually with my boyfriend. Of  course I did! It was a terrible, unfair rule that deserved to be broken.

Because I was a good girl by nature, I wasn't great at subterfuge--I didn't inform my friends of my plan to lie, so unfortunately, while I was out with my boyfriend, the friend I was supposed to be with called the house. As this was before cell phones, my dad had to wait until I got home at midnight to ream me out. I have blocked out most of the ugliness, but the one thing I do remember is him hissing: "You lied to us! Look at you! Look at your face...those lips have been kissed!" He said it like I truly disgusted him. By the sound of it, you would've thought he had found me naked in the back seat of a car. He made me feel so dirty.

I yelled back: "You made me lie! It's totally unfair that I have a curfew while Alan gets to stay out as late as he wants!"

"It's different with boys."

Arrggh! That was his favorite argument, and I deplored it. Whenever I argued that lots of my friends were allowed to stay out past 12 a.m. he'd end the discussion with, "Nothing good happens after midnight." It sucked, because when I was out with friends, it always felt like I was leaving just when things were getting good (and by good I mean bad).

But now I'm all grown-up, with kids of my own, and my dad and I are close once again.

And here's what I want to say to him: Although we had a few rough years when I wished you were more of a pushover, thank you, Dad, for always letting me know that you cared about me, worried about me, and were watching me. Because, although I hated every minute of it, your discipline led me to behave better than I would have otherwise.

To paraphrase Chris Rock: Thank you for keeping me off the pole.