Not much to talk about today. Feeling kinda sick. The child got on my last nerve yesterday to the point that I had one of those headaches that I only hear about in Tylenol commercials. In reality, I've never seen someone have a headache that's so bad that they start rubbing their temples while looking constipated, but that's what I was doing yesterday. I'm old school. I'm from an era where whenever a kid does something that you don't like, you just yell at them until they stop. Half the time the kid doesn't know what you're talking about or why you're angry so they keep doing whatever it is that they're doing which causes you to either keep yelling or switch to asswhipping mode. That's where I'm from. That's not where I live now.
I live on the other side of Asswhipsylvania. Over here we're still waking up with night terrors from our own childhood beatings, so we're a little more cautious about breaking out the Hot Wheels tracks and extension cords. I'm thirty years old and I STILL remember the last two beatings that I got. There was the Thrilla in Manila of Summer 1986 and then the Rumble in the Jungle of Spring 1987. That's right. The last beating I got occurred when I was only four years old. Most "urban" children have at least one beating that took place in their teens. They look at me and say, "Oh you must have been spoiled because you didn't get a beating anytime after pre-kindergarten." Nope. Don't assume I was spoiled just because your parents were entry-level ass whippers. My grandmother mastered the craft and my mother was her apprentice. Obi-Wan and Anakin all day everyday.
I've written about this before I think, so there's no need to go into a long detailed story. The first one happened outside of a church. My grandmother was singing as part of the guest choir at a church and I was sitting in the audience standing up on a pew trying to climb out of the window because apparently I was bored. My grandmother came down out of the choir loft, walked me outside and beat the hell out of me with the same cat o' nine tails that they beat Jesus with at the crucifixion. And just like Jesus...I wept.
The next and final beating took place in Brooklyn. You haven't lived a full life until you've been beat down in Brooklyn. We were at my great-grandmother's house and my mother decided to go hang out with her cousins. I wanted to go, she said no and I don't know what the hell was wrong with me but the word "Why" came out of my mouth. "Why" is a curse word in black households. The next thing I knew she was taking the paddle ball that I was playing with and beating the hell out of me (while still maintaining a rhythm to keep paddling the ball). I screamed and hollered to the smooth percussion of my own beating. It was so bad, that just the memory of it stopped me from doing anything beating-worthy for the rest of my life.
So anyway, with all of that said, my daughter got on my last nerve and if I were my mother or grandmother, then she would probably be pulling Payless 'Highlights' women's shoe rubber out of her behind. Because I am not them, she lives to sit normally another day, while I have a blinding headache that's been going on for two straight days. What's so hard about laying down the hammer is that I can tell when she's acting out on purpose and when she's just emotional, frustrated or unaware that what she's doing is wrong. I just know. Nothing she did yesterday was 'demonic.' It was just her being a kid. Her job is to ask me to read Fox in Socks 54 times. My job is to not try and paper cut my wrists with the book.
It's okay. I'll be avenged one day. When I show up to her high school wearing combat boots, a tiara, a too-too and long fur coat and then walk around making sure that everyone knows I'm her father...she'll cry and ask why. I'm going to point to this day.
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