And No Plastic Hangers, Either.
I've sealed my fate... made my bed.... stepped in the proverbial sh*tpile. Worse yet, I've done irreparable damage to the O-Dog's psyche. I pray to the gods he doesn't end up in a clock tower at the University of East Jahunga in Nebraska, picking off students with an arsenal of firearms.
Last evening, the O-Dog gets pissed because I made him remove his Batman costume for pushing the Fletch into the rocking chair. After running around the upstairs hallway for ten minutes, bemoaning the injustice he runs into his room. As the Fletch-Monster follows him, he yells "Get out of my room!" and throws the door shut, with the Fletch's two-year old digits in the doorjamb.
That breaks two rules -
1. It's not 'your' room. He's four years old. Officially, it doesn't become 'his' room until he grows one of those wispy adolescent moustaches and I have to start respecting his privacy a little - until then all family has all-access.
2. No door slamming. Unless you're a guest star on All My Children, there's no real good reason to throw a door in somebody's face (or unless they're Jehovah's Witnesses or canvassing for politicians).
After making sure all fingers were intact...
Papa Prego - Fletch, wiggle your fingers like this....
Fletch-Monster - Waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh (unenthusiastic compliance)
... I walked into the O-Dog's room, read him the riot act and bent him over and gave him a couple quick swipes on his bare fart cage.
O-Dog - Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh (breath) Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh (catch breath... lower pitch) Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh.
At this point, I felt a little bad. It's not the first time I'd had to give him a little slap on the ass. I'm not sure how I feel about corporal punishment, but the little f*cker is either flinging die cast Matchbox cars at his brother's head, smacking him or making him fall. At some point you have to take action beyond "Now O-Dog, your brother doesn't appreciate a f*cking 1981 El Camino thrown at him," or 'time out.' Depending on the severity of the offence, a swift crack on the rump is enough to get his attention.
Now I could have handled this in another fashion. Considering it was the Fletch-monster's hand that was hurt, I could have done the old trailer park method.
"(hic) Here. (burp) Put your hand here... (hic)" SLAM! "Do you like how that feelshhh?"
Or I could have gone draconian old school - "Come here. Put your hand in this vice." (crank. crank. crank. crunch.) "The lord sayeth, 'Thou shalt not raise thy hand against thine brother.' Now sit here until I get the bible so I can read you the story of Cain and Abel... After I beat you over the head with it, of course."
Instead, I opted a tried and true method of getting his attention, have him acknowledge that what he did was 'bad,' and demonstrated that there are such things as consequences -- all without bruises and with only a minor infringement on his delicate pain threshold. Not the kind of thing that'd open up a case at CPS.
The O-Dog stopped crying, sniffled a couple times and sadly said, "I'm going to grow up and do bad things to you because you do bad things to me when I do bad things to the Fletch."
I looked at him for a second as his utterance took a chance to register (and to make sense), and thought, "F*ck. They write songs about sh*t like this. I'm going to incur the fury of Pat Benatar!" I picked him up and gave him the biggest hug possible, trying to justify the spanking while rubbing his bottom.
Unfortunately, the damage has been done. I'm going to have to check my brake-line before every drive... Make sure there is nothing plugged in whenever I take a bath (Hmmmm.... I wonder who put the toaster in the bathroom?)... I'm going to get put in the sh*ttiest f*king nursing home in the Northeast, never have any visitors.... and the ultimate "F*ck You?" I'm going to be the villain in A Child Called 'Eso'.
From here on out, it's all "Now, O-Dog... Your little brother doesn't appreciate his fingers being mangled in the door."
"Yes, Daddy Dearest."