Why My Kids Will Someday Need Counseling

Here are three things I used to do to my daughters when they were little. This will explain the strange facial tics they’ll surely develop as they get older:

Throwin’ her out the window! One time, Daughter Number 1 did something very naughty. When she was caught, a punishment of some kind was certainly expected, but it so happened that that day I was in a whimsical mood. So I said to her, “Do you know what I with little girls who do that? I throw them out the window!” Before DN1 could respond, I scooped her up, belly down with her head aimed toward the window, and started to swing her. “One…!” I said. “No!” she screamed. “Two…!” “No, Dad!” Then I swung her way up in a big arc and yelled, “Three! Throwin’ her out the window!”

That punishment was so harrowing she asked to have it done to her again. Then Daughter Number 2 demanded her turn. So until they got too heavy, I periodically had to throw both my girls out the window.

Tickle machine. This usually happened whenever I’d be sitting on the couch with, let’s say, Daughter Number 1 (any daughter will do of course). I would randomly turn to my right or left, look down and say, “Huh? What’s this?” DN1, eyes fastened on the TV screen, would abstractedly respond with, “What?” Then I’d say, “Uh oh, Princess . . . look!” Up would come my hand with the fingers all contorted, opening and closing in an ominous way. Then, in a low voice, I’d eerily intone, “tickle machine . . . tickle machine…” with the sinister hand continuing to grasp at the air. “Oh no!” DN1 would scream and start to scramble. I’d grab her ankle with my other hand and say, “Yes, get away! I can’t hold it off forever!” “No, Dad, don’t!” “Flee! Flee while you still have a chance!” I’d say, tightening my hold on her ankle. “Why don’t you run? Can’t you see it’s almost upon you?” I’d ask, until finally, after several excruciating, anticipatory seconds, the tickle machine attacked!

The heart attack. Here’s one I used to do if I walked into the TV room and saw, for example, Daughter Number 2 laying like a zombie on the coach, eyes glued to the TV in an opiate-like trance. I’d walk over near her and suddenly seize my chest. “Oh!” I’d exclaim. “My . . . my heart!” DN2, fully aware of what was coming next, would start to make her escape, but not before I could flop down on top of her and start writhing in pain. “It’s . . . it’s the big one! I’m comin’ to meet’cha, ’Lizabeth!” I’d yell, scrunching her way down into the sofa and pressing my upper arm into her face while she screamed, “Dad! Get off! Mom!” “Oh, the pain!” I’d continue. “Barely . . . maintaining . . . consciousness. Blacking out. Losing . . . control of . . . my body!” Then I’d start getting all twitchy while she fought to get me off. If she tried to slip under me in one direction, I’d be sure to block her by falling that way in my convulsions. Finally, after a good long while, I’d eventually “recover” and let her go. “Whew!” I’d remark. “I thought I was a goner for sure!”

Question du jour: What do you do to traumatize your kids? OR what did your parents do to traumatize you?