I was approximately six years old, the baby of the family and accustomed to getting my way. I just happened to be tormented by some huge injustice and was verbally attacking my dear mother with an onslaught of verbal refuse. Mom quietly stood by the sink washing dishes, every once in a while she would offer a sigh to let me know that I was becoming redundant. For the life of me, I can not recall what my lament entailed, but I do remember just raining down a barrage of never-ending complaint that must of sounded something like “blah!blah!blah!blah!,” etc.
Finally, mom threw her Wagoush glare at me, those narrowed eyes, black with annoyance. That particular Wagoush look was accompanied by another tell-tale sigh of vanishing patience. I chose to ignore those narrowed killer eyes, and refused to be sidetracked by those tell-tale sighs. I forged ahead with my diatribe of six-year old angst, and I was really picking up the momentum. I was on a fanatical roll, and could not cease my verbal attack. It was like being on a bicycle going down hill, the wind blowing through your hair, and the black flies left far behind. On and on I went, fanning my own flames of discontent, and beating fabricated circumstances of utter anguish upon my mother’s exhausted ears.
Mom stopped washing the dishes, looked out the window, and with her body still facing the sink, her head slowly and deliberately turned to the left. She locked those black, narrowed Wagoush eyes onto mine. My mouth clamped shut, my mind and body paralyzed by her ungodly mind power. Unwillingly, my eyes became glued to hers, the blood drained from my face. It dawned on me that I had gone just a bit too far, and now it was too late to take it all back. My eyes held fast by the sheer power of mom’s fierce stare, she made my eyes follow hers to the counter top to my left. She released me from her gaze as her mind power forced my eyes to rest upon an object on the counter. I recognized the irrelevant shape of our red fly swatter. I looked at it, and thought “So it’s the fly swat?” Then my mind screamed “THE FLY SWAT! RUN!”
Suddenly released from my paralysis, I spun around on my heels, and managed to take one long stride to safety. SWAT! The single stinging, nanosecond flick of the fly swat touched upon my right inner thigh. Quick as lightening, that devil that nestles discreetly upon my left shoulder, waiting for such opportune moments, leaped to action and whispered to me, “throw yourself to the floor and scream like your life is in danger.” So, I did.
“Wail, and cry,” the devil told me. So, I did. “Milk it, make mom’s heart bleed for fly swatting you!” Those were direct orders from my genius little devil. I obeyed and I milked and milked my eyes for all the crocodile tears I could muster. Between feigned gasps of air, I whimpered “you…hit…me…mommy…” So dejected and beaten down was I, all strength sapped from the one and only “whipping” I had, or ever would receive. Peeking out from the corner of my eye, mom knelt beside me, comforting me, apologetic and rendered completely aghast by her loss of control.
Forehead resting on my arms, my face hidden from view, the imp and I smiled our victory.
Truth? That fly swat lashing was delivered with a mere flick of mom’s wrist. And that “incalculable” pain I wept about? It was not any more painful then the discomfort brought on by a bee's sting. No doubt, I would have won an Oscar for that performance.
Del Jacko
~ 2008
As I'm sure you know (and anyone with the basest knowledge of child psychology), my reaction to the one and only "whipping" I ever received, was more from the shock I felt that MY MOM, of all people could be driven to such unthinkable methods of discipline. As I lay there on my stomach, I do remember my heart and emotions hurting more than the sting on my leg. But I tell you, when I look back now at the way I ranted and raved to my mom...I can honestly say that I deserved it. But shhhhh! Don't tell my Mom that!
;)