Immediately after telling El Guille he couldn’t go play at his friend’s house and instead had to come to the market with me, he had a Chernobyl Level 7 meltdown.
“YOU IDIOT,” he screamed.
Can’t say I’ve ever been called an idiot by my child before. He proceeded to rant, rail, kick, scream, and execute all manner of awesomely bad behavior (including trying to steal my purse.)
“You IDIOT!” he screamed three more times, once outside the car and twice inside it. Now, I don’t know what your managerial structure looks like, but in our house, that kind of insubordination is not tolerated.
I bought a bottle of Tabasco at the market. We were out. And I had plans.
On the way home, I offered EG two choices:
1. Clean the playroom
2. Four drops of Tabasco on his tongue
He howled at the choices and cried at the possible ramifications of either decision; weighing them both over and over until he’d worked himself into a virtual lather of tears and anguish.
He picked the Tabasco.
“Hold still,” I said, and ordered him to stick out his tongue. I dropped one drop onto it. For two whole seconds, silence. And then the freak-out started. The terrible sounds! The evil of peppery vinegar! I insisted he stick out his tongue again, and not willing to put up with a mini-tantrum at every drop, I put three more drops inside. Oh, the horrors! Never has a child been so brutally punished! Cursed be the Avery Island and its infernal Mcllhenny inhabitants!
"It's KILLING ME, MOM! I'm NOT KIDDING! I'm going to DIE! I MEAN IT!"
I went back to chopping onions.
After the ten longest minutes in the cosmos, EG said in a tragic voice, “Mom, it hurts so bad, I think I’m bleeding.” I turned around to find this:
Yes, that’s fruit roll-up applied to his face to mimic blood and to elicit sympathy.
It didn’t elicit even a drop of sympathy, but it did prompt me to laugh hysterically.