My brother visits annually from Switzerland with one of his young sons, hoping to balance each kid's German language and culture with a dousing of "Rock on, dude" and such classic Americana as monster trucks and spray cheese in a can.
In contrast, I've bebopped through life as a non-breeder, thus sparing the planet any progeny of my own. Luckily, my auntie-ness percolates with dormant child-rearing expertise. Yup, 40 years ago I done got me a B.A. in psychology.
That golden degree launched many a Boomer toward a lucrative, prestigious career as a train conductor, school crossing guard, taxi driver or - with the right connections -Amway sales rep.
Etched in our noggins were skills in handling lab mice and crocheting fitted straitjackets, along with behavior modification concepts like stimulus-response and…what else…maybe Id, eagle, supereagle…. Whatever.
But there's more. You ready? I have pets! We animal lovers shape behavior with limits, praise, and consequences. Our ace in the hole? Peanut butter!
That's why the peanut-loving monkeys who sign up for psych experiments are called Reese's monkeys. Anyway, when my brother recently darkened my door with his three-year-old, I bleated a hearty "Wilkommen!" to mein precious nephew. His name…in English how you say…?
Beelzebub.
Last Christmas I'd sprung for a gift certificate for a pediatric exorcism. But within minutes of li'l Bubba's recent arrival, I keenly deduced it hadn't taken.
My wide-eyed beagle fled from a shrieking entity in bib overalls waving a five-foot section of nail-studded door molding. Alrighty.
Time to ransack the cerebral files for those tattered psych notes and housebreaking tips. Or that dusty book report on Jane Goodall's chimp life. Sadly, I report to you that theory and reality came to blows.
PRAISE. Leapin' lederhosen, how strong you are, Bubba! Hand me that door molding…careful of the sharp - aaaaagh! Okay, gimme the tourniquet, and you get a jelly bean! Thank you, that's a good ? no, no, drop the blow torch!!
LIMITS. It's okay to not like spaghetti but we don't dump it in the aquarium. Want some jelly b- Nein!! No spaghetti for Mr. DVD Tray!!!
REDIRECTION. The car's power windows are tired. It's raining ? let the windows sleep! Here, play with your dinosaurs. (Fact: A plastic T-Rex hurled from the back seat can slice your ear and still retain enough momentum to break the rear-view mirror.)
ASK, DON'T ACCUSE. Who left the car windows open in the rain? Has anyone seen the TV remotes? Where are my car keys?? Why do we have drain spouts lying in the driveway? And who the hell stuffed jelly beans in my A-drive????
COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS. Not the Jungian concept, but a collection of exhausted adults. I awoke on the couch to hear my brother snoring in the rocking chair. Bubba, however, hadn't slept.
My cat's fat white belly was smeared with red and blue marker, making him into a furry election results map. And I lay buried under a pile of …what the…linoleum!?!? The guest bedroom had been strip-mined for a delightful 70's sunken floor ambience.
REWARDS. We ran out of jelly beans, so I slathered peanut butter on a rawhide chew. Worked like a charm - not for the dog, slurping spaghetti sauce out of the DVD tray - but for devil boy, who gnawed quietly for hours.
IGNORE BAD BEHAVIOR. Oh, that's hilarious. I prefer begging the waitress for crayons and paying for damages on the way out.
CONSEQUENCES. Forgotten restaurant crayons will always abandon their little wrappers if later tossed into a hot dryer. Ooh, pretty colors! At least, the kid flew home with whiter teeth and a glossy coat. Ever bathe a cat? Happily, der stitches in mein arms come out next week.
In closing, you're not paranoid if you think the salt shakers in many local restaurants don't pour well. Humidity? Well, that's one theory. The reality is...how in English to say...? I know who licked them.
Copyright © 2007 Mary Tompsett
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