Life Imitating Art
Some days I feel like an actor with my children auditioning me for different parts in films. Today, for instance, I’ve felt like I’ve been in an old Western film. This afternoon my sixteen month old stood by the television, finger poised to turn the TV off for the ninety eigth time in the last hour. I’d decided that enough was enough. He, however, wasn’t going down without a fight. Imagine the scene:
I stand on the threshold of the room, hands on hips, and say in my most authoritative voice, ‘No.’ He turns, smiles with his eight teeth and turns back to the television, index finger at the ready. ‘No’, I repeat, this time a little louder. He jumps slightly, less sure of himself than he was previously. He smiles again, hesitantly, wondering if we’re playing a game. I narrow my eyes. The chubby finger starts to rise once more. ‘If you turn that television off again I’m going to smack your hand.’
He knows this time that I’m serious. We stand facing each other across the dishevelled room, Mickey Mouse singing the ‘Hotdog Song’ in the background. If we’d have had hats we’d have tipped them down over our eyes. If we chewed tobacco we would have spit it into a tin bucket with a resonating ‘ding’. If there had been tumbleweed it would have rolled across the floor at this very moment (but to be fair we probably wouldn’t have noticed it amidst all the other mess).
‘Step away from the television and come here.’ (Imagine Western music on repeat, na-na-na-na-na na na na). My hands are sweating at my sides and I massage my palms with my fingers, not wanting to smack the cute little hand still greasy with butter from lunch and with tiny dimples on the knuckles, but I’d threatened it now so I ‘d have to go through with it.
The pointy finger starts to rise yet another time and my heart starts to beat faster. My own hand begins its ascent to issue the punishment. I step towards the toddler, he stands his ground. I go to take another step, swallowing hard. He wavers and I wonder about his intentions (but then remember he’s only been walking for two months and he’s probably just regaining his balance). I keep my hand poised, ready if unwilling to go through with this unsavoury deed. Then slowly, slowly, he lowers his ‘weapon’.
I breathe a sigh of relief; I know it’s only a small victory and the battle will begin anew tomorrow, raging for another twelve hours and yet the unsteady stranger, with blue eyes, a button nose and monkeys on his top, has admitted defeat (for now).
We shake hands and call a truce (or rather I give him a big cuddle, tell him he’s a good boy for coming away from the TV and tickle him till he giggles), until the next time…
The End.