EWR

A less-than pleasant memory came back to me the other night.

Me, around 13 years old. I'm walking over to my dog, who is sitting down in the middle of our living room. I reach down to pet the side of his head and – before I do – he winces.

-because he's expecting to be hit.

It was an unimpeachable accusation. I was lousy to my dog. Didn't know how to train him, didn't bother trying. Good dog? I patted his head. Bad dog? I hit him. Really bad dog? I hit him hard. Or a lot. Or both.

My dog got the message: when he opens his hand, he's going to hit you.

That one day in the living room, he finally got a message to me.

I'd love to say I was a better dog owner after that day – but I doubt it. I didn't hit him anymore, but the damage was done.

---

So the boy had a birthday – and it was a big day for him. All his buddies were over; he played his head off for most of the day. He got presents, was the center of attention, he had a ball.

But eventually it all had to end and he had to go home and listen to mom and dad again. He's tired, cranky and so are his parents.

We let him run off and play while we collapse in our chairs. At some point we hear the boy playing with his new cymbals and pounding them on things.

At some point our minds ask the question: what things?

And E goes over into family room to find our boy slamming his metal cymbals into the wooden leaf of our new dining room table. It's been in our house for a grand total of two hours.

And now there are cymbal-shaped marks all over it.

We do our usual discipline routine – even though that's hopelessly inadequate. He sulks, we sulk.

And then for some insane reason we decide it's bath night. I get the duty.

The boy's having none of it. He's beyond reason – but this is the decision so we stick with it.

I tell him to go upstairs or I will take him upstairs. I give him the 1, 2, 3.

3. I take him upstairs.

I put him in the bathroom, howling the whole time.

I don't let him leave the bathroom, despite many tries.

I tell him to get ready for a bath or I will get him ready. 1, 2, 3.

3. I remove his clothes and put him in the tub.

And put him back in it.

And again.

And then he begins splashing water out of the tub. And opening the drain. And wailing louder than I can ever remember him. In a room lined with tile.

I didn't yell. I didn't hit. I just made him do what I wanted. What I'd told him would happen. So he'd believe me in the future.

You will take a bath. Even if you scream. Even if you fight it.

---

Years ago, when I was visiting Begobug, I learned something about parenting. Something this bath had clearly made me forget. Begobug had worked very hard to impress on her daughter that her boundaries should be respected. That people who didn't respect them were doing something she had a right to complain about.

Her daughter was pretty young at this point, so this wasn't pre-date coaching – this was feel secure in who you are. Your parents respect your space, that kind of thing.

We were walking on the side of the road, and begobug's daughter stepped off the sidewalk onto the grass, headed towards the road –

-and I grabbed her arm.

She gave me a panicked look. What are you doing?

She wasn't close to the road. At least not yet. There would have been time enough to stop her – if she'd really been going into the street.

I sort of shoved her over to the sidewalk – looking around for approval. See? Just helping her back to the sidewalk.
I could tell this was something that she was not used to – that nobody did this. Begobug had a look of polite indulgence on her face- but I could tell this was not good.

Her daughter's space had been messed with, and now she had to explain the situation. Fit it into her daughter's expectations of civilized behavior.

I let go and said something inane – all the while thinking:

What am I doing?

---

So the boy is howling, splashing. I'm washing his hair, not saying a word. Trying to keep the soap out of his eyes so that we won't have that problem at least. And all the while I'm thinking about Begobug and her daughter.

I've just manhandled my only son. Pulled his clothes off and stuffed him into a bath while he screamed at me to stop.

And then he did something – I can't remember what. Threw something, splashed me, tried to stand up for the umpteenth time – and I palmed his head and locked eyes with him.

"Listen!" I hissed. "You keep doing this – it's just going to get worse"

He stops long enough to listen – and I do the same.

What am I doing?

This isn't Hollywood, so my son resumes his tantrum. I try to chat with him, but it goes nowhere. He's past listening to me.

Behind me, E quietly opens the bathroom door long enough to deposit the boy's new bath toys and a bubble bath-dispensing robot.

The distraction allows the boy to focus. He wants the robot. I say he can have it after he cleans up the toys he's thrown all over the place.

He does, and soon he's happily splashing around in a bathtub full of suds. I just sit there. Lay off. Let him splash around with his robot. I'm back in my head.

I'm wondering which one of us is the beaten dog.