By The Wiz
This is a guest post from Hannah. Enjoy!
I have a seven-year-old son. In my experience with motherhood, seven-year-old sons are the low point. And please don’t tell me to just wait until he’s fifteen, because I’m barely making it as it is.
A few weeks ago in church Dad was home with sick babies, and I was in sacrament meeting with four older kids alone. Our stake has sacrament meeting last, so everyone is tired and hungry and ready to go home before it starts. My seven-year old was on a roll. He decided to see how far he could push it in public, in church.
First he started talking loudly. I shushed him, and he smirked and went louder. I told him he wouldn’t get his treat at home for being good if he wasn’t quiet. He went louder. I threatened to take him out. He punched me. Hard.(Of course, we were on the fourth row, not having gotten to sacrament meeting quickly enough, so none of this was discreet.) I grabbed his hand. He kicked me. I told him
he was going out. He told me that if I tried, he would kick everybody in our row on the way—in the face.
He had me there. We were in the middle of the row, with nice elderly couples on either end. He’s a big seven-year-old, and I wasn’t even sure I could get him out, let alone keep him from kicking the neighboring families in the face. There were still fifteen minutes left in sacrament meeting, and I was stumped.
I sat there trying to think while simultaneously holding his hands and feet as he kicked and punched me. The lady behind me said, audibly, “That boy needs a spanking!” I was close to tears. This went on for several minutes.
Then I had a revelation (I’m not sure from what source). I looked a couple of rows in front of me and saw a new family in the ward. The father was an officer in the army, (very impressive to seven-year-olds, in my experience). I leaned over to my son.
“If you don’t stop punching and kicking, I will ask Brother Anderson to take you out.”
And here’s the low point.
“He’s in the army,” I answered. “He could probably kill you with
his bare hands.”
(“He wouldn’t, of course,” I added, a bit shocked that I had just
threatened murder in church, “but he could.”)
My seven-year-old’s eyes got wide. He quit punching and kicking.
And he went home quietly.
I had succeeded. I increased reverence in church by convincing my son I knew how to hire a hit man.
I wonder how low I’ll sink when he’s eight.
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