The following story may or may not have anything to do with your kids. If you’re feeling guilty, then maybe it does. You probably should feel guilty. You see, I am a perfect critic of other people’s kids. My kids are mostly perfect, so let’s talk about those of you who feel guilty about your kids’ behavior, as you should.
I had three lovely children, of the female variety, visiting my home the other day. The oldest is sort of spacey, but very sweet. She busily did her homework in another room, where I didn’t have to see or hear her. Remember, kids should be seen, but not heard, as my parents used to tell me. I don’t know if this explains anything. I would like to further amplify this statement to read, “children should neither be seen nor heard.” Child number two was keeping my youngest busy. They were making a complete mess of his room, but that’s why we put the door back on.
Let’s discuss child number three for a moment, shall we? It was apparently necessary for the child’s aunt, to whom I am married, to brush this child’s hair, as microscopic bugs were feeding on child’s scalp. Her parents had given up on this task, but they apparently saw a sucker at my house. Number two–of course there is no pun intended here!– had her hair combed and uttered not a sound. When child three entered the batter’s box, the peace of the house, and the yard, and, well, the whole neighborhood would be forever changed. The child screamed, kicked, clawed, and sent forth words that would make sailors wince. The sheer decibel level at which this child was capable of producing sounds of terror continues to vex the limits of human understanding. After approximately seven hours I finally intervened for the sake of my own sanity. Okay fine, it was fifteen minutes. I was afraid that troops were being deployed to my house to cause cessation of the slaughter of the many innocent young that was apparently taking place in the very neighborhood in which I live.
When the child, who is five and weighs forty pounds or less, arose from her place of torture, she explained that she hated her aunt and that she was rude. The child threw the nearest object, a bicycle, to express contempt. She then entered my home wearing a very fearful scowl. She marched into my son’s room, who was still playing with child number two–older sister of the tortured. I then heard the two older children scream. Chaos ensued. My son was found dragging this ‘angel’ out of his room by her feet. He was bleeding from the eye. She then announced her intention to kill him and left the area. The parents, fearful of their young, panicked and escorted the child to its chariot.
I would like to offer some guiding advice to these parents. I am a perfect parent, you see, so I am well suited for such things.
Here is my advice: lock that child deep in the annals of your home until such time as it can be exorcised! Wait! That sounded harsh. Let me rephrase: show that child plenty of love; feed it, I mean her, whatever she wants; give her whatever she wants, especially if she screams, cries, and threatens to kill you. In short, give her whatever it is she wants, at any time she wants it. After all, it seems to be working so far.
The story has a happy ending. All is well at the home again. My son is adjusting to his glass eye. Bicycles have been replaced. The priest has prayed over the house, finding only three legions of demons. The aunt is getting therapy. And, my PTSD is in remission for the time being.