Who's the Bigger Tyrant: Parent or Child?

The screaming child has just been carried out of earshot, much to my relief. Kids can be such self-indulgent little shits, can't they? Though they are naturally generous: every time a spark of annoyance ignites in their brains, they feel compelled to share it. Whine, whine, whine. Often I openly mock the child into submission, then act brisk and change the subject. It confuses her enough that nine times out of ten, it succeeds in re-directing her attention and mood.

The only sound which equals a whining child in hideousness is an adult assuming the All-Powerful role, and using the Voice. Stern and terrible, it makes pronouncements like "If you don't pick that up, there will be no vanilla yogurt with honey" and "There is no more juice until you eat these three pieces of chicken." Sometimes it gets followed up with appeals to the child's rational side, i.e. you must eat protein so you will grow big and strong like dad, etc. Usually, it works. Sometimes, the kid really doesn't give a shit, countering with the inarguable: "But I don't want to."

Faced with such logic, there is only one thing to do: up the consequences. So it's no longer "Come away from there, you might fall down the hill" or "Stop at the end of the sidewalk, please!" It's better to describe in a grim, world-weary voice what will really happen. You will break both legs falling down the hill and roll into a prickle bush, where we won't be able to find you for days and days and you will have to to drink your own pee to stay alive. Or you will run into traffic and no one, nobody will stop, and a truck will roll over you and squish your guts all over the road and we'll have to get a spatula to scrape them up. Gruesome consequences worked for the Brothers Grimm and it works for me.

Making up horrible ends for a three and a half year old's Choose Your Own Adventure story breaks up the monotony of looking after a small child. At its best, silence is granted for a brief period of concentration during make-believe with stuffed animals or drawing or trampoline time. The only noises they might make at this time are breathy little songs of narration ("Now I'm jumping on this foot...now I'm jumping on that foot..."). This is the golden time, when one can sneak a glance at the absorbed child and allow an inward spasm of affection and feel like a good parent. Most of the time, it isn't like this. It's a maze of tiny chores, each branching into dead ends of failure or just another intersection. Respite occurs when the child falls asleep or gets dropped off at daycare aka being made someone else's problem.

The frequent ascents into towering kidrage further break up the monotony. It's like the scene in Sleeping Beauty where the evil queen transforms into a giant dragon. Nothing to do but either run, if it's not your kid, or get clinical. If you panic, you're done for. I pried the screamer off my partner the other day when the house-painter showed up (our crime: waking her up from a nap in the car) and took her for a walk. She had two options: stand up and cry, or be carried and stop. Up, down, up, down. I made her take a deep breath at every sign or hydrant. She calmed down in under ten minutes and was shortly as chipper as ever. I have none of the maternal pangs of guilt other women report, just an icy resolve to get 'er done. Could be because I'm a step-mother and thus biologically removed, or merely because I'm as emotionally stunted as a bonsai tree. Tomayto, tomahto.

Must work now, pumpkins.
GR