Do Your Kids "Feel" the Love?

When it comes to disciplining kids, things have really changed, haven't they? I guess it never dawned on me just how much until a few days ago while waiting in line at a Subway in the mall. Standing behind me was a young mother with her two sons of approximately six and eight years of age. The boys were arguing about something--I think it was because they were going to have to split a foot long. Anyway, they were pushing and shoving one another like brothers do, while their mom seemed oblivious to what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, the youngest boy spit on his big brother, at which time Mom finally responded. "Jacob!" she said, wiping the spit from the older boy's face with a napkin she'd plucked from a dispenser on the Subway counter "That wasn't very nice!"

That wasn't very nice? I thought. That's all the punishment Jacob gets? My grandma would have skinned me alive if I'd ever spit on anyone in her presence! And little Jacob gets by with nothing more than a scolding?

For those of you who have read some of my previous blog posts, or my book, Call Me Tuesday, which is based on my own true-life experience, you know that as a child, I was severely abused by my mother, and for that reason I spent all my summers at my grandma's house. Any healthy discipline I received during my childhood came from her. When I was going through the abuse at home at the hands of my mother, I didn't know there was a name for it. All I knew was something didn't feel right about the way I was being treated.

Unlike when I was growing up, kids these days know the word "abuse" all too well. Some of my friends have told me that their kids have even threatened to report them to the authorities. Thank God my own children never did that. If they had it would have probably sent me into hysterics. I didn't give them a chance, anyway, because I was so afraid of turning into my mother that I left most of the discipline to my ex-husband, which, looking back, I now realize was unfair to him. But that's an entirely different blog altogether.

I remember when I was about ten, while I was at at my grandmother's house for the summer, one afternoon I decided to walk to a nearby grocery store for an Orange Crush. I had been playing in an old washtub Grandma used to fill with cool water on really hot days days, so all I had on was a two-piece swimsuit. I scraped up some change from my room, put on some flip-flops, and without telling Grandma I was going, headed down the street to the grocery store.

When I got back, Grandma was standing in the front yard, holding a length of freshly peeled tree twig in her hand. I knew I was in big trouble. She whipped my hind end all over the yard that day, and it hurt like hell. But after it was all over, a strange calm came over me. I believe somehow I instinctively knew I deserved every stripe that switch left on my legs. For reasons unknown to me then, the boundaries Grandma set for me made me feel safe, cherished. Something terrible could have happened to me walking down the streets of Nashville all by myself wearing nothing but my swim suit. Simply scolding me wouldn't have been punishment enough. Grounding me wouldn't have driven home the point either. What I needed was a good old fashioned whipping. As much as it hurt Grandma to have to do it (I can remember, the whole time she was thrashing me there were tears streaming down her cheeks), she wanted to make sure I didn't wander off again. And, you know, I never did because every time I took a notion to, I remembered the sting of that switch.To this day, I can still feel it, still hear it whistling as it sliced through the air.

My point is, sometimes a whipping is the only discipline that will do. When fear really needs to be instilled, when the consequences of what a child has done needs to be branded into her memory. But now, because child abuse awareness has gone from one extreme to the other, parents today don't feel at liberty to spank their kids. And that's a pity, because I think when done properly, a good old fashioned whipping has a way of making a kid really "feel" the love.

Murder at My House

My husband is on a business trip. I am home alone. It's about ten o'clock at night. As usual, I curl up on my bed with my laptop.

All of a sudden I get an uneasy feeling, you know, the one you get when you think someone is in the house. I'm just being paranoid, I think. But to be safe, I tip-toe to my bedroom doorway to take a look. That's when I see him, his larger-than-life shadow projected on the wall.

The realization washes over me that I'm going to have to deal with this alone. Ouickly, I back-pedal and sink into the closet for a weapon. I find a five pound dumbbell. It'll have to do. I clutch it with a death grip, assuming attack position.

As I make my way back to where I spotted the intruder, I try to remain calm, but fear is beading on my forehead and upper lip. I take a deep breath and lunge out into the hallway only to find he's already vanished from sight.

Now he has gained the edge, because nothing is scarier than that which I cannot see. My heart starts to pound like crazy; I can feel it in my throat. I search around me in a panic. Where is he? For the love of God where is he? 

He's behind a door, or under a piece of furniture, waiting for me to seek him out. And I will seek him out; I have to, because the very thought of him lurking in my house somewhere is too much to bear.

I race through every room, flinging furniture aside. I spot him in the kitchen crouched beneath the table. He is there, staring at me, in plain sight as if he's daring me to come after him.

And I do--go after him--swinging the dumbbell as I go. A miss! Damn it! I grab a skillet from the stove (thank God I had a grilled cheese sandwich for supper and didn't do the dishes) and strike him again, giving the blow everything I have. He's seriously wounded, I can see this, but I don't stop there. I continue to beat him over and over, startled by my own violence, by how much I am enjoying the killing. Yes, by now, it is officially a killing. When I finish with him he is nothing more than a black, pulpy spot on the linoleum.

Spiders are particularly bad this year. And freakishly big too. Don't you think?

To Daddy, With Love

My previous blog post was supposed to be a tribute to dads, which I thought would be appropriate since I'd written one to mothers around Mother's Day. But when I sat down with my laptop to write it, I couldn't bring myself to type the words--it was too close to Father's Day, always a difficult time for me ever since my dad was killed in a car accident years ago.

Although my mother is still very much alive, it feels to me like she's dead too, like she died when I was a child. Still, it wasn't hard for me to write the blog about mothers (This is For You), even though I've never really had one, not for any length of time. When I began writing, I just thought of all the sweet, nurturing mothers I've known in my lifetime, and what my friends have told me about the way these special women have made them feel. I thought of my own mother-in-law, of how much she means to me, and the words came easy.

Now that Father's Day has come and gone, and the deep ache for the loss of my dad has softened, I have something to say.


For those of you who haven't read my book, Call Me Tuesday, a story based on the true events of my childhood, I was abused and tortured horribly by my mother, and although my dad was aware of most of what was going on, he did little to stop it.


In the wake of the publication of the book, I have been accused, many times, of being blind when it comes to my dad. Kirkus stated in their review of the book, "... hard to take is her father’s passiveness, partly because Byrne is too easy on him. He tells Tuesday that intervention “could break up the family...”  http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/leigh-byrne/call-me-tuesday/#review .


And what they say is true. But Daddy tried to do something early on; there were fights--serious ones.  He said he kept hoping Mama would stop on her own. He had faith that she was a good person because she had been when he married her, and he was so insanely in love with her. Then, before he knew it, things had gotten out of hand. He was sure if social services intervened, all of us, kids would have been placed in different foster homes. Truth be told, he was probably right. That's what he said, anyway. And I guess I bought it because I wanted to.


He should have turned her in, you say. But don't be so quick to judge. Take a look at your own spouse, your son, or daughter, brother or sister. How easy would it be to send him or her to prison, or to a mental facility for abusing only one child? What if the other children involved were begging you not to take their mama away? If you thought you could possibly stop the abuse on your own, wouldn't you at least try before you tore a family apart?


I know my father was a weak man where my mother was concerned. But because he was a wonderful man in so many other ways, it's  hard to hate him. Believe me, I, of all people have reason to and I've tried, but I can't. I think it's partly because he owned up to what he did--or didn't do--apologized and tried to make things right between us. And yes, I forgave him because he asked me to, and because he's my daddy, and because somehow, in the midst of all the madness that was my childhood, he was one of the few people who made me feel loved.