Bratlings
Was invited to dinner along with the rest of my office at the home of my boss’s boss, and thought it politic to go. Besides, boss’s boss is a woman I like.
But ye gods and little fishes, her bratling!
When he turned on the programmed music in his tinny electronic keyboard to a decibel level very little under that of a Boeing 767, drowning out the Latin jazz on the boombox as well as any hope of actual conversation in favor of such classics as “La Cucaracha” and “Jingle Bells,” I put up with it. Eventually I managed to sneak out and reduce the volume, though he went back in and turned it up—finally a coworker helped me tag-team him, and it was turned down for good.
When he got scatological during dinner, I shrugged. He’s four, what do you expect? When he interrupted his mother ceaselessly, such that she could neither cook nor complete a thought—well, he’s four, and better his mama than a guest.
I do not, however, expect to be climbed on, repeatedly, when dressed in a moderately nice outfit for dinner at someone’s home. I’m sorry, I just don’t. Nor do I expect to be practically kicked off the couch by a bratling burrowing behind the couch cushions.
Man, I don’t even let the Goth-kitties get away with that stuff when I’ve got a guest! (Yeah, they climb on tables when they shouldn’t.)
I got off easy, too, because I give off loud and strong “I do not particularly like small children” vibes when I want to. My cheerful, playful, good-hearted coworker became bratling’s favorite person, which involved extra climbing, small bare feet in her face, added dollops of scatology, and finally getting repeatedly whacked in the back with considerable force, at which point she finally told him very gently that she didn’t approve.
What I would have done you don’t want to know, trust me. It wouldn’t have got me arrested, but it would have been a severe shock to bratling’s nascent ego nonetheless.
And. Mama. Did. Nothing.
The most she did the entire night was to explain to bratling that people didn’t like that sort of thing. Now, I approve of the rational approach to dealing with kids, even as young as four. At times, however, stronger sanctions are warranted, be they time-out corners, early bedtimes, or whathaveyou. I do think last night was one of those times.
Right before we escaped left, Mama started remonstrating with bratling over his couch-burrowing (all three people on the couch were being discommoded), at which point bratling set up such a howling and a screaming that my husband had to leave the room. In my humble opinion, bratling should have been carted off to bed 90 minutes previous, but then.
Bratling was still screaming as we drove away.