A fucking good hiding: Does it still have a place?

I have just given Liam what my mother would call "a fucking good hiding". And let me tell you, he more than deserved it.

I'm not the 'fucking good hiding' type. I got a few FGH's in my youth and all they really did was make me resent my mother and write super-nasty things about her in my diary. That said, there comes a time when (and you'll pardon how vintage this sounds), if a child cannot hear, he must feel.

Last night, I got to bed around 2am. Ben woke up and screamed for almost 2 hours. This morning, I ran a 3 hour strategy session. When I got home, I sat outside with Liam, cuddled him, chatted to him and had a picnic lunch. I then took him out for a glittery cupcake and let him choose a nice smelling soap for my friend.

Later, we fetched Ben and the 3 of us went to Woolies (I'm having an op tomorrow and there's no food in the house). At Woolies, Liam nagged, cried, stamped his feet, made demands and just in general, behaved like trailer-park offspring. I, on a Monday, on 4 hours sleep, was the mother that nobody wants to be. Suffice it to say that when the polite Congolese chap in the parking lot took my R7 to unpack the groceries, I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Mon ami, if you take the 4 year old, there's another hundred in it for you."

When we arrived home, I unpacked the groceries and made supper for the kids. Liam ate nothing, telling me that the chicken was 'disgusting' and when I asked him to take his plate to the scullery, he informed me that I was no longer his friend and that I was rude. (This is about when the deep breathing they teach in ante-natal classes comes in handy.)

I left his plate on the table and took my rude ass to the playroom/TV room. The playroom area has a cheap n cheerful rug, lots of toy storage, an arts and crafts trolley and a small table and chairs. The TV room area has couches, books, art, a TV and a much-loved Paul Smith rug. While I'm deep-breathing, I notice that there is a substantial amount of blue playdough enmeshed in my PS rug. Needless to say, I am not happy.

So I ask, calmly, "Liam, please would you pick up the playdough bits and pieces."
No response.
"Liam. Please pick up your playdough."
Ignores me. Starts pasting South African flag tattoos ion his arm.
"Liam. This is the third times I'm asking. Pick up your playdough."

By the 6th time, Liam got a FGH.

Incredibly, whilst he did start sobbing uncontrollably (he'll make a great soccer player), he still didn't pick up the playdough.

So I shouted. And screamed. And felt like I was going to have an aneurysm.

Not a dent.

So I packed up the playdough, put it in a bag and on Wednesday, the playdough set will be delivered, in its entireity, to an orphanage. And Liam will be joining me on this excursion.

He is devastated.

I can handle a lot with my boys and I think that from lots of therapy and lots of love, I am generally a patient and understanding parent, but if I see the signs of 'brat-ness', Lord help me, there are plenty more FGH's where that came from.

So now I am holed up in my study, drinking decaf coffee (because vodka on Monday at 6pm would be bad) and trying to use this blog to blow off some major steam. Times like these, I wish I still smoked. I would pay a filthy amount of money for a Camel Light.

But I don't. So intead, for the rest of this Monday evening, I will breathe deeply, knowing that even though many of you won't admit it, I am not alone. ;)