Wellll,someone is not coming home again
My mother ruled with an iron fist. She kept 5 teenagers in line while my father traveled for work.
She was only 5’2” tall, but possessed the dexterity of Stretch Armstrong and the smack force of Bruce Lee.
If Will Smith tried his Oscar trick on my mom, she would have b-slapped him off the stage, gone into the audience, and b-slapped his wife, too.
This kid would not have survived 5 minutes in my mother’s house. She would have whipped his behind, made him clean his room, and then sat him down for some home-made brownies to find out what was really bothering him.
When my son turned 13, he shot up to over 6’ tall. He was a linebacker and ate us out of house and home. He also decided he didn’t need to listen to me anymore because he was bigger and stronger.
Foolish boy.
My husband heard his disrespectful tone, barged in, and got right in his face. “She is my wife! YOU do not talk to MY wife that way.” Because my husband is so strong, he always checked his strength, didn’t raise his hands to our children, and was notorious for not letting his emotions show. Both my son and I were shocked by his ferocious growl and the implied threat in his tone. I realized it was a masterful move on my husband’s part to reframe the situation as a powerplay between two large males.
Our son turned three shades of green before sheepishly apologizing.
He never talked back to me again.