When my husband’s daughter was here, the youngest was 2. He was kind of a shit. I had given them all home made Popsicle. A little later I wanted to be sure all the plastic sticks were rounded up.
I said, loud enough for my voice to carry, “Where are everyone’s sticks? Bring them here!”
The 2 year old stormed into the kitchen, angrily gestured at the oak kitchen table and yelled “IT’S RIGHT THERE!” and indeed, it was. Right there on the wood, Popsicle and all, melting on the table. I shrugged my shoulders at that, but stopped him in his tracks when he turned to storm out of the room. I snapped, “Hold on! Right there!” He spun around, eyes wide in shock, and I pinned him with my eyes (perfected that from years of teaching 30 million kids all at once, and discipline across the room at the same time.) and said, in a low, dangerous voice, “You will not ever, ever shout at me again, is that clear.” He just nodded mutely, mouth open, caught like a deer in the headlights.
For the rest of the night, every time he did something remotely “bad,” he’d nervously glance over at me. If I felt he should stop I’d just give the barest shake of my head and he’d stop instantly. He was scared of me! And he should be.
Towards the end of the visit though, I found myself on the couch, all the kids around me, the two year old snuggled up against me. I was showing them all the Pokeys I’d caught. The 6 year old was doing an excellent job of reading those crazy names.—Yeah, I turned it into a lesson plan. I usually do. I told him how impressed I was.
Then the 2 year old started repeating the names after the 6 year old read them, which gave me the opening to give him big hug and tell him what a great job he was doing too. He gave me a big smile, eyes shining, and I think he loves me.
And now that kid is mine. I won’t have any more trouble with him. And we can commence with the business of Having Fun With Gramma.