My parents are having a dinner party, and I’m not invited. I’m 5 years old, so maybe that’s why. The upstairs neighbors are coming over, and I’m excited, because I love Carol so much. She’s really, really tall, taller than my father, who isn’t short, and she’s very skinny (maybe a little too skinny) and she’s beautiful, and has blond curly hair. I’m fascinated by her hair. No one in my family has it, and I don’t know a lot of people who do, so this adds an extra layer of uniqueness to her. She has a soft voice, it’s a little trembly, and a high, fluttering laugh. She only raises her voice if she loses patience with her 2 boys, which doesn’t happen often because they’re very well-behaved, or with her husband, which happens much more often, because he’s not so well-behaved.
I love being around her because she loves me. She doesn’t have little girls, just her boys, and I overheard her telling my mom that she wished she had a daughter, too. She always wanted one. So, she treats me like her honorary kid, and it makes me feel special.
Her husband Saul is totally the opposite. He’s very tall too, and very handsome. He has black, wavy hair and he’s not as pale as Carol. He loves me, because he also wanted to have a little girl. But he’s cranky, and sad, and bossy, almost all the time, and he’s very impatient.
They arrive at our door right before my bedtime, so I get to stay up to say hi, and Carol gives me a big hug, kneeling all the way down to my level. Saul looks down on me from his very great height, and affectionately palms the top of my head with his enormous hand, and says, “Hi, kiddo.”
While my mom is getting the food ready, my dad excuses himself to take me to my bedroom and tuck me in, kissing me goodnight on my lips and then on my forehead. He goes to the doorway, and standing there, before he flips the switch to turn my lights off, says “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite, I love you Princess Pussycat.” He says that to me every night. It always makes me smile. As I lie in my bed, in the dark––with a crack of light streaming in through my partly opened door––I started worrying about bedbugs. What are they really? Do I have them in my bed? Do the bites hurt a lot? I push those thoughts out of my head, and listen to the grown-ups laughing and talking––I can’t make out what they’re saying––but the noise coming from the dining room makes it hard for me to fall asleep. I don’t like to miss out on anything, especially when it seems like so much fun. My parents told me that when I was littler and still sleeping in my crib, I would hear them in another room enjoying each other without me, and I’d yell out “Stop that laughing!”
It occurs to me that if I’m very, very quiet, I can sneak into the hallway outside of my bedroom. There’s a wall I can hide behind so I can listen and not be discovered. I get out of bed––very quietly––and tiptoe into the hallway to eavesdrop. I stand there, listening, as mom brings dinner out to the table. And then, I hear Saul start to complain. I don’t know what my mom has cooked––it smells like chicken, and smells really yummy––but whatever it is, Saul doesn’t like it. In fact, he seems to hate it, and he hasn’t even tasted it yet. He lets everyone at the table know. He isn’t polite at all. He’s rude and whiny, worse than any little kid I’ve ever heard. My mom always makes me taste just one bite of something if it looks icky to me, and then if I don’t like it, I don’t have to eat it. I think that’s fair. Saul won’t even try it.
I get really mad, and think, how can he talk to Mommy that way? He’s acting like a big baby. He has no manners. It’s not a surprise, he’s always kind of grumpy. I try to calm down, but I feel so angry, and I don’t understand why no one’s defending her.
I hold on for as long as I can, but I’m getting angrier, and finally when I can’t stand it anymore I march right into the dining room, and stand right next to him, craning my neck to see him towering over me, even while he’s seated. I yell: “Don’t talk to my mother that way!” They all look at me, look at each other, and burst out laughing. I don’t understand the reaction, and it does nothing to calm me down. They’re making fun of me, saying how cute I am. It just makes me angrier.
My dad says, in a stern voice, “Okay, Nancy, back to bed.” But I don’t budge. I want Saul to apologize to my mother, but that’s not happening. I don’t move––probably for about 30 seconds––when my dad begins to count to three. ONE…TWO…That usually gets me going. He never reaches three. Until tonight. When he gets to TWO, he hesitates, and says, drawing out the words, TWO and a quarter––I squirm a little––TWO and a half––I shift my feet, and feel my heart beat a little faster––TWO and three-quarters––I can’t believe I’m staying put, it’s as if I’m glued to the spot. I know in my heart that I’m in the right. He waits for me to respond. I just stand there, a scowl on my face. Before he gets to three, he threatens me with a spanking. Surprised, I stand my ground ––I’ve never been spanked in my life––and cross my arms over my chest. I scrunch up my face, and try to look as scary and serious as I can. I think to myself that I must look scary, because I feel scary.
And then, he hits “THREE.” He stands up from his chair, and slowly places his napkin on the table. He walks toward me, and now he’s mad. He says “turn around and march into Daddy’s bedroom!” I’m flooded with confusion. He’s never talked to me this way before. I walk into my parent’s bedroom, with Daddy following close behind, and then he sits down on the edge of his bed, and sounding a little nervous, says, “Come here, and bend over my knee. I’m going to spank you, and this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.” I’m not too worried, because he sounds more afraid than I feel. I say to myself, “whatever you do, don’t laugh.” The thought just popped into my head. I can’t believe that my father would hurt me that way.
He raises his soft, beautiful hand a few inches away from my butt, and softly taps it three times, and as I hold back my laughter, trying to switch my smile to a sad face, he lifts me off his lap, and places me on the floor, and faking an angry tone, points to the door, and says, “Now, back to bed!” He doesn’t tuck me in that time.
He’s right. It does hurt him more than it hurts me. I can only imagine that he was holding back his smile too, as he spank-patted me, not sure that he was doing the right thing, afraid to harm me, his Princess Pussycat.
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