When I was a little girl I never disobeyed my parents. Perhaps it wasn't really in my nature, but also I had the fear of God in me. This is what happens when you go to church three times a week. I was terrified of the End Times (Have you not seen the Rapture series??) and the thought of burning in hell for eternity kept me from telling lies and hitting my sister. The image of me standing before God as he looked over a long list of my transgressions was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Oh how I'd love to scare Henry with that image. I doubt he'd ever talk back to me again if he knew the horrors of eternal damnation, but I'm raising a godless child and so reminding him that Jesus is watching isn't going to do much good. Instead I holler about respect, kindness and accountability, but that doesn't pack quite the punch that hell does.
So, I've come up with something worse. Jail.
I have Henry petrified of the fuzz.
He thinks that jail is a horrible place where bad listeners and other criminals are locked up and made to eat broccoli. All it takes is one phone call to the police and naughty little boys are taken away.
Living in the city, where we frequently hear police sirens, gives me plenty of opportunity to look at Henry with wide eyes and say, "Sounds like someone wasn't obeying their parents."
This morning on the way to school Henry and I witnessed a young man being arrested and put in the back of a cop car.
"Look at that, Henry. "He wasn't a good listener and now he's going to have broccoli for breakfast."
It's horrible and I'm ashamed, but it works.
