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Posted on 04/04/2010 4:38:57 PM PDT by James C. Bennett
LOL My parents were the same way. I can still see my mom looking over her shoulder at my brother, sister and me as the car would pull over to stop at our destination and issue the ultimatum.....”Any of you guys cause ANY trouble and you will rue the day.”
I was looking for that pic it was posted on a site along with 30 other pics called “things you should not do to your baby”the site is now dead...
Great pic:>)
I had a “breath holder” too. He was very strong willed. I used a paint paddle. At 16 he is still very strong willed but a nice kid.
I have said that to my kids many times too.
Now what kind nonverbal cue do you give to those who aren’t yours to indicate you are going to kill them without their parent(s) noticing? Finger across the neck in a slitting motion?
“I was quiet by age 7 in Church, my dad paddled my bottom to make sure I was!”
Dad would stop the sermon and yell at us from the pulpit — then the spanking at home after church.
One of my favorite lines! Along with the time mom said "I am so sick--" and he added sarcastically "AND tired..."
"I don't remember anything else that happened that day..."
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I always figured that I can throw a better bigger tantrum than they can.They hate that.
LOL...add the fear of heights...
“I do something similar with kids raising hell in a public space. I stop, look, and keep staring at them. If they and the parent are close to me in a line, I talk to the parent to reassure them not to be embarrassed.”
Do get right in their face and stare them down?
No Kidding! My mom used to leave all six of us in the car, and as she left, she would turn around and say (while wearing those “Jackie O” sunglasses) “And I BETTER not hear that horn!”
First rule of child rearing: ignore any advice coming from a child raising expert from a university.
Our kids learned not to make a scene in a store. They knew not to even think of going there.
And don’t forget:
“We’re going into the store for bread, milk, juice, cereal and lunch meat. You are NOT getting anything, so don’t even ASK!”
Man, I’m so messed UP! I probably need about 20 years of ‘therapy’ for my parents’ common sense approach to raising us, LOL!
My dad (who was a career naval officer) rarely hit us. He would usually advance at us slowly, speaking in a very low, slow menacing voice:
DAD: “What...did...I...tell...you...about...hitting...your...sister?” (As we backed up and he advanced, he would cock his hand so that it was nearly hovering in front of his left shoulder, knuckles out. As this entire exchange takes place, my dad would slowly and inexorably back us into a corner or other area with no escape)
US: “...not to do it...” (haltingly)
DAD: “You dumb bunny...don’t you understand english?”
US: “...yes...” (timidly)
DAD: “Yes WHAT?” (voice rising slightly)
US: “...yes SIR...”
DAD: “Apologize to your sister, and if I hear any more of this, you are going to regret it.”
US: “Yes Sir.”
At this point, he would back out of the way, and it was clear you were expected to walk by him out of the trap you were in.
This was the most dangerous spot which we all dreaded. As you passed, his hand, which had been cocked the whole time, would give you a short whack to the occipital bone on the back of your skull. His heavy gold Holy Cross ring with the big red stone, would put a small, stinging dent there as his wrist flicked at the end.
We feared his voice and his Holy Cross ring. But this was what he did when we were in our mid-teens.
When we were younger, and my mother had had too much of our misbehavoir, she would send us up to our rooms. As my dad entered the front door, we could hear them talking in low, uninintelligible voices.
As my father mounted the stairs, mixed in with his heavy footfalls, we would hear the metal clink of the belt buckle and the swoosh of the belt as he pulled it out with a flourish.
Then, like a hangman testing the trapdoor for his gallows, my father would fold the dreaded belt double, holding in in both hands and vigorously snap it several times.
Upon hearing this, we would quail and back away from the door...he would enter, using the same voice and flail at us with the belt. We would cry and squirm, but...the belt never hurt. It was all show. There was nothing behind his poorly aimed swings at your legs, and the ones that did hit didn’t hurt at all. But we got the point...
However, we feared my mother.
The belt was her tool of choice, and with her Italian and Armenian heritage, she wielded it with righteous anger and a wild excess of emotion and power, shrieking like a banshee at us as she did it.
She left red welts on our legs, and we always realized that my three brothers and two sisters had pushed her too far when my dad was out at sea in the Navy. For many years, she had to handle the six of us by herself, and for our deliberate tortures, she was justified in delivering the belt.
Well, at least that is what we think TODAY...:)
I would pay money to see that...:)
There was a glass covered room for a parent to take babies in the rear of the church. We did not want to go there..so we kept quiet.
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