Child abuse is a serious crime, as I am sure we all agree. Child abuse can leave scars that might be invisible, but are certainly felt by the respective victims for a lifetime. As a kid myself, I was lucky to get off with a little whack here and there, mostly for things I wholeheartedly deserved. What people don’t tell you is that abuse can go both ways. I am considering opening the first chapter of ‘Parents Abused By Their Children’.
My son, Axl, has always been known to have a temper if things don’t go exactly his way. Some people call this phenomenon a result of genetics (true), others are less philosophical about this and chalk this up to being a brat (also true). I recall a few times when the boy would land a few good kicks to his old man’s mid section, and there were times when I would have to catch his fists in midair before they had a chance to reconfigure my face. Sometimes a simple headbutt would also do the trick. At thirty pounds, you would think that his little head wouldn’t be strong enough to go through paper. But then you need to remember that there are animals that can be more vicious than their size might indicate – dogs or ermines, to name just a few, not to mention a certain five pound cat who has fought off entire veterinary staffs. It’s the size of the fight in the dog (cat), right?
Q.e.d., then. A couple of days ago I am cycling home, peddling a little harder than I usually would, simply because I am happy to get home after a long day at work. Surely my son will be happy to see me, right? The reality hits home as fast as you could say ‘blood’. When I order the didi (nanny) to go home, I take Axl by the hand and am about to lead him upstairs when he throws a fit bigger than any strait jacket out there. He protests at this unauthorized removal from his nanny, flailing away with his little arms and legs the way I have only known this before vaccinations at the doctor’s office.
Easy does it, I am thinking. We’ll have to let the rules of physics run their course. I pick him up, my arm firmly clasped around his waste when his little head shoots up and pops me squarely in the mouth. A good jab at the least, a strong uppercut at best. I don’t need to feel for my mouth like Jimmy Stewart did in ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ to know I have drawn blood. I walk up the rest of the stairs with my chin up, wishing to avoid an encore.
Inside his room, he is still sobbing and gasping, unable of comprehending the grave injustice that has been done to him. Props to the nanny, for sure. I have had nannies who've made my son cry before he actually saw them in the morning. It seems to me I have now reached the bottom of the barrel, with my wife and the nannies clearly outranking me. The curse of being a man. And the curse of having to be the only person who has to say that dreadful word ‘no’ to him. One of my colleagues once told me that some people were born to say no. I don’t consider myself part of that sector, but for my son, I must make an exception.
After Mr. Hyde’s short reign of terror has gradually subsided, Axl finds his toy play tool box and is fresh as a daisy again, barking out orders to me and using his favorite tool (my hands) to get done what he wants to see accomplished. I look at him long and hard and finally rub the spot where he cold-cocked me. The terrible twos, they always say. Maybe, since he will be two in a month or so. All right, so it’s rebellion then, as billions of other fathers before me have already discovered. I’ll just have to roll with the punches. And keep my chin up, or duck the next time.
My son, Axl, has always been known to have a temper if things don’t go exactly his way. Some people call this phenomenon a result of genetics (true), others are less philosophical about this and chalk this up to being a brat (also true). I recall a few times when the boy would land a few good kicks to his old man’s mid section, and there were times when I would have to catch his fists in midair before they had a chance to reconfigure my face. Sometimes a simple headbutt would also do the trick. At thirty pounds, you would think that his little head wouldn’t be strong enough to go through paper. But then you need to remember that there are animals that can be more vicious than their size might indicate – dogs or ermines, to name just a few, not to mention a certain five pound cat who has fought off entire veterinary staffs. It’s the size of the fight in the dog (cat), right?
Q.e.d., then. A couple of days ago I am cycling home, peddling a little harder than I usually would, simply because I am happy to get home after a long day at work. Surely my son will be happy to see me, right? The reality hits home as fast as you could say ‘blood’. When I order the didi (nanny) to go home, I take Axl by the hand and am about to lead him upstairs when he throws a fit bigger than any strait jacket out there. He protests at this unauthorized removal from his nanny, flailing away with his little arms and legs the way I have only known this before vaccinations at the doctor’s office.
Easy does it, I am thinking. We’ll have to let the rules of physics run their course. I pick him up, my arm firmly clasped around his waste when his little head shoots up and pops me squarely in the mouth. A good jab at the least, a strong uppercut at best. I don’t need to feel for my mouth like Jimmy Stewart did in ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ to know I have drawn blood. I walk up the rest of the stairs with my chin up, wishing to avoid an encore.
Inside his room, he is still sobbing and gasping, unable of comprehending the grave injustice that has been done to him. Props to the nanny, for sure. I have had nannies who've made my son cry before he actually saw them in the morning. It seems to me I have now reached the bottom of the barrel, with my wife and the nannies clearly outranking me. The curse of being a man. And the curse of having to be the only person who has to say that dreadful word ‘no’ to him. One of my colleagues once told me that some people were born to say no. I don’t consider myself part of that sector, but for my son, I must make an exception.
After Mr. Hyde’s short reign of terror has gradually subsided, Axl finds his toy play tool box and is fresh as a daisy again, barking out orders to me and using his favorite tool (my hands) to get done what he wants to see accomplished. I look at him long and hard and finally rub the spot where he cold-cocked me. The terrible twos, they always say. Maybe, since he will be two in a month or so. All right, so it’s rebellion then, as billions of other fathers before me have already discovered. I’ll just have to roll with the punches. And keep my chin up, or duck the next time.
