I spend my entire days now counting. Okay, that’s not a hundred percent true. I spend a good portion of my day threatening to count.
I don’t even know where this counting started. I think somehow, somewhere, there was some book that advocated counting. Oh, I didn’t read the book. Someone just told me about it. And about the counting. So I count. Or I threaten to count.
“Doodles! Doodles, get out here right now! Doodles, I mean it! Don’t make me start counting! Fine! That’s one!”
The boy scurries out before I hit “three.” Because “three” is the be all end all of counting. At three, it happens. It goes down at three. Man, you do NOT want to see three.
At least I don’t. Because I’m still not sure what happens at three. So I tend to avoid three at all costs.
“Pie, close your eyes and stop playing. Pie, you are too old for me to still be lying here in bed with you! Daddy may put up with this crap, but Daddy abandoned the family tonight for some freakin’ Red Sox game and so you’re stuck with me, and I DO NOT PUT UP WITH THIS! Close your eyes! Now! Don’t make me count to three! Okay, that’s one! Stop kicking your legs and go to sleep! I’m going to get to two. If you don’t stop, I’ll be at two. Pie! Fine, that’s two! Don’t make me go to three. I’m serious here. I’m about to get to three! You are at two. Do you really want me to go to three? Pie! That’s two and a half! I’m almost at three! Close your FREAKIN’ eyes NOW!”
Thankfully, she generally drifts off somewhere around two and seven-eighths.
Because, let’s face it. What am I going to dole out at three? No TV? God, just let me slit my wrists right now if I can’t plop that girl in front of Disney Channel for a half hour. And what else could I possibly take away? Can’t take away stories–must read to our children every night in order to enlighten and educate and fulfill our duties to the public school system. Can’t take away dessert–we don’t do dessert except for Friday nights. What else is there? Not much. I paid too much for dance lessons and piano lessons and all the other lessons to withhold those. So it’s critical–critical, dammit!–that I never reach three.
And God help me if the two of them ever figure that out.
Yeah, it works much better in the book than in the real life.
At 3 — well, 10, but I count faster — I send ’em to their rooms for the rest of their lives, or dinner time, whichever comes first. This punishment is surprisingly effective. Though that might just be because my kids spontaneously combust if they have no one to talk at, I mean, to for more than 90 seconds at a time.
I love when you describe my life with such wit and precision :).