When it rains

I damned near drown.
My oldest boy, whom has been the subject of many a blog, is still a rotten, poorly behaved heathen who got sent home from school today because HE REFUSED TO WASH HIS HANDS>.
I don't know who I am more angry at--him or his first year teacher who decided this was an appropriate battle.
Okay, Bug was being a jerk about not washing his hands and shouldn't have run away from the teacher. Got it. Working on it, along with the 8,000 other issues we have with him right now. If he hasn't just shat and forgot to wash his hands, I truly don't care right now. There's my line.
But, when the situation began to deteriorate, he did as he was told. When he felt the urge to run, he asked to go to the safe place (in this case, the principals office) and was told no. BY THE DAMNED TEACHER WHO KNEW THE RULES FOR HANDLING BUG!
Then the teacher didn't implement the three tiers of people we have to deal with him when he gets like this--in classroom, out of classroom, and principal--she called us.
So I took off work, trooped down there, and got him. When he had less than an hour of his day left.
And talked with the principal, who had heard nothing and wasn't happy at all.
All because she was being a hand washing Nazi.
My child is far from innocent and far from perfect, but a little dirt in his food to save the ensuing meltdown? Am I the only one who says who cares if he washes his hands that one time?
And child two--oh, my beloved Boo--has entered a lovely defiant, screaming stage, complete with crumpling onto the floor and fake tears.
And he's practicing his excuses.
Ask him to clean up his room? He's too tired or it's too hard.
Ask him to make his bed? He's too little.
Ask him to do anything? He has an excuse.
And if he doesn't, he throws himself on the floor and screams.
People who don't understand why a parents sometimes needs to spank their child should just stay the hell away from me. Today, and probably in the days to come.
Especially after my mom tells me I did that. Exactly once.
There are times when a bare hand on a child's backside is the wake up call both parent and child need in order to reorganize their world.
Do I believe in beating my children? Some days.
Have I ever done it? No.
Do they routinely beat me, emotionally and physically?
Every damned day.
With a damned big switch.
My arse is raw and bleeding, I can't sit down, and the only thing I've learned?
It's time to take back control of my life as a parent.
I will have their respect.
Will I have their fear? No. Fear is not respect.
But I am determined to stop being their whipping post.
Children need firm boundaries. For children who can live within those without an occasional reminder, kudos to their parents for birthing a perfect damned child and get the hell out of my face before I whip your arse.
For those children, like mine, who have pushed boundaries since conception, I will speak for those parents when I say enough is enough.
I'm taking back my arse, my house, my life, and my children.
And I'm doing it cowboy style.
So giddeeyap partners.
It's rodeo time.
And I'm breaking my broncos.
Ene.
Two.
And three.
And then I'll deal with the hand washing Nazi.