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.

Nowhere to Hide

Up until my book, Call Me Tuesday, was released earlier this year, only my family and a few close friends knew about my childhood abuse. For years, I went to great lengths to keep it hidden because I feared people might think I was mentally ill, somehow damaged by the horrific abuse I had suffered.

Now, because I made the decision to publish my story, and openly admit the book is based on my own true-life experience, hundreds of people--most of which I've never even met--know I once had to dig around in the trash for food, and drink from the dog's water. That I had to defecate on a piece of notebook paper because I was locked in a room and had nowhere else to go. They know I've had my face smeared in vomit, was made to eat disgusting food and do degrading things.

Don't get me wrong, I am thankful so many people have shown an interest in my story, and the feedback has been both rewarding and therapeutic. But the last thing I want is to be defined by my abuse, nor do I want to be labeled a victim. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a proud and private person.  

Why then, you ask, would a proud and private person reveal such humiliating truths in a book? 

More than anything else, I love to write. From the first essay paper read aloud by my teacher in grade school, to the recent publication of my  book, writing has been my strength, my go-to in times of stress. It's the one thing I have always been able to do well. The only thing I've ever done that made my daddy proud.

I was taught in school to write about what I know. My childhood abuse left me with this really bizarre, yet compelling story to tell, so it kind of made sense to make it my first serious endeavor as a published author.

But, I naively thought I could hide behind the word "fiction." Change all the names, locals, time lines, some of the details of what happened, give the story a happy ending, and no one would ever know it was really about me. And I probably wouldn't have even included the words, "based on a true story" in the description, if my best friend (I'm convinced she's also my guardian angel) of over 20 years had not implored me to reconsider. She said that without the element of truth, the story would not have the power to help as many people. And that's the point of the book, right? To purge my soul of poison, and to help others.

Well, partly.

Like I said before, I love to write, and I just so happened to have had this strange and unfortunate childhood that I thought might make for pretty good reading. Sure, the writing of it was cathartic. Sure, the book might possibly help some people, But, in all honesty, I wrote it because that's what writer's do. They write.

When I had finished the book, which is slightly fictionalized, I realized the pain in the words was so raw, so frighteningly real, it was obvious that I, the author, had been the one who had endured it, and there was no use trying to hide from the truth any longer. There is nowhere to hide. 

The Kirkus Review of Call Me Tuesday pretty much says it all:
"Byrne conveys a horrifying story inspired by true-life experience, according to the jacket copy, and though it’s well-written, it’s also very hard to take because the prose so vividly and evocatively portrays suffering."

Kleen-N-Kleen = Ch-ching!

I open my front door and I am greeted by a giant toothy smile with a small man connected to it—a Bob Marly-esque man dressed in a crumpled white button-down and khaki shorts.

I am thinking of how much I love reggae music, when I see, on the porch at his feet, an industrial spray bottle, half-full of a yellowish liquid.

I give an internal eye-roll. Oh my God he’s going to try to sell me something! Is it too late to shut the door?

“Good afternoon, Miss. Is this a bad time?”

Did he just call me Miss? I like to be called Miss. Much better than Ma’am—sounds younger. “Oh, no, no it’s okay,” I assure him, poking my head out the door.

Extending a weathered hand, the man says, “My name is John.”

John? I was hoping for Ziggy, or something more artsy or island-y. I take his hand. “Hi John. What can I do for you?”

“Just a minute of your time, please.”

Is that a Jamaican accent? I love a Jamaican accent. “Okay, John, shoot,” I say. “But make it quick, I have to cook dinner.”

“Quick, yes, quick. Tell me, Miss, do you have kids?”

“Yes, our youngest is off to college this fall.”

“No!” he leans back, eying me. “You can’t possibly be old enough to have a kid in college!”

Giggling, I step out onto the porch and shut the door behind me. It’s a step that will cost me. I don’t know it yet, but specifically, it will cost me $42.79.

Without wasting any time, John picks up the spray bottle, unscrews the nozzle and runs his tongue across the length of the nozzle tube, lapping up the yellow liquid. “Before I show you what this amazing cleaning product does, I wanted to prove to you that it’s non-toxic.”

I am grossed out. I am intrigued. I am skeptical. If it’s non-toxic, it can’t possibly clean anything...

As if he had read my thoughts, he puts the nozzle back on the bottle and pulls a white washcloth from a well-worn backpack, and then a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. He hands me the Sharpie, and somehow I know, without him having to tell me, that he wants me to mark on the washcloth. So I do. And as expected, he sprays the cloth with the cleaner. Almost immediately the mark begins to disappear.

I am not impressed. Spot Shot—$2.99 at the Wal-mart—will do that.

Sensing that he’s loosing me, he quickly begins cleaning my storm door with the liquid and the washcloth.

Okay, I think, you can’t use Spot Shot on glass. That’s why there’s Windex. But I allow him to continue, because he thinks I look young, and because I have a weakness for a Jamaican accent, and because he’s blocking my way back into the house.

When he has polished the door to a sparkling shine he runs the palm of his hand down the center. “No smudge!” he says. “Now you try. My hands are dry, but a lady like you usually wears lotion.”

I try to smear the glass with my fingers, but it remains clean. I think of my Jack Russell’s wet nose against the back sliding glass door. I could use some of this stuff.

I am now trying to decide whether I want to pay by check or charge.

But John isn’t taking any chances. He produces a wire brush from his backpack, drops to his knees and proceeds to clean a large rock (yes a rock) beside my porch. When he has finished the rock appears to have been bleached. He moves on to another one.

“No, John, stop! You don’t have to clean anymore rocks. I’m sold.”

“Thank you Miss. Thank you very much. What is it that made you decide to buy?”

“Actually I think you had me at Miss.”

This is For You

This is for you, the sentimental one who cluttered your refrigerator door with drawings of smiling suns and stick people with oversized heads. You, who glorified the dandelions we picked with a crystal vase. If we were to look inside your jewelry box, we would not find flashy diamonds, but a dozen or so little teeth wrapped in tissue paper. And in that “secret drawer” that we were never allowed to open, there are no expensive clothes, only locks of our hair and every Mother’s day card we ever made for you, preserved with care.  

This is for you, the selfless, who bought us silly toys at the grocery store when you knew they would most likely be forgotten the next day, and most surely go unappreciated. You, who went without second helpings at supper so we could have thirds.

This is for you, the overprotective, who made us wear life preservers in the kiddy pool and jackets in May. So what if we were the only teenager on the block who had to mow the lawn in catcher’s equipment and steel-toed boots?

This is for you, the tenderhearted one who, with tears rolling down your face, switched us all the way home when you caught us playing in the street. The one who gave us quarters for the gumball machine, and still slips us a twenty when things get tight.

It’s a little late, as usual, but you know us, we would forget our heads if they weren’t tied on, happy Mother’s Day, and we love you for all you have done, and all that you continue to do.

World Peace

The great thing about having a blog is that when you feel bitchy about something you can always write about it, and maybe one or two people might read it and say, “yeah, that pisses me off too!” Or not. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because the point of the bitchy blog—or as I like to call it, “the blitch”—is to vent. And we all need to vent; Dr. Phil (or maybe it’s Dr. Oz) says it’s good for your mental and emotional health. So, in the interest of my sanity, and in the spirit of doctors Phil and Oz, here’s my “blitch.”

Back in September of last year, NBA player, Ron Artest of the LA Lakers changed his name to Metta World Peace. His new first name, the Buddaist word Metta, means "loving kindness and friendliness towards others." His new last name is, well, self-explanatory. Mr. Artest...excuse me...Mr. World Peace, (or maybe it's Mr. Peace, and his middle name is World) according to his own words, changed his name "to inspire and bring youth together all around the world."

Now isn’t that special.

The name change sounds like a lovely gesture by an obviously lovely man who, out of the goodness of his lovely heart, is taking advantage of his privileged position as an NBA star to influence millions of young people around the world.

HA! 

For those of you who aren’t already familiar with the professional athlete formerly known as Ron Artest, allow me to give you a brief history of his humanitarian nature, his “loving kindness and friendliness.” I’ll start with his most recent gesture of brotherly love toward one of his fellow ball players. It happened Sunday before last, during a game with the Oklahoma City Thunder. After an admittedly impressive fast-break dunk over Durant and Serge Ibaka, World Peace came down growling viciously, pounding his chest with one fist and threw a hard elbow to the head of Thunder guard, James Harden.

It was an accident, according to World Peace. An accident forceful enough to cause Harden to have a concussion. WP later claimed he was merely celebrating the dunk and got "real emotional and excited.” But when the officials reviewed the tape and realized it was clearly no accident they ejected him on the spot. Last Tuesday the NBA announced that he is suspended for seven games. Looks like he’s probably going to miss the first round of the playoffs. Pity. In this humble “blitcher’s” opinion he got off easy, given his history of violence.

The elbow incident was only the finale to World Peace’s long list of aggressive behavior. During the 2011 playoffs, in a game against the Mavericks, he slung a forearm and struck J.J. Barea in the face. Before he joined the Lakers he had been suspended 12 times in his 13 year career. In 2007 he was arrested on a domestic violence charge. In 2004, back when he played for the Indiana Pacers, he leaped into the stands and attacked one of the fans. Now that was classy. There’s more, a lot more, I could go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Being the huge NBA fan that I am, I can appreciate World Peace’s talent and passion for the game. And in his defense I believe he tried to clean up his image by changing his name. He appeared on Dancing With the Stars and the cast of the show thought he was a really nice guy. Last April he was presented with the NBA’s J. Walter Kennedy Citizenship Award for his work on mental health awareness. He tried, God love him.

Every time a commentator says his name “...and World Peace goes up for the block...” I bust out laughing. As I write this I can’t even type it and keep a straight face. But that’s just me; I’m a sucker for irony. And maybe I have a warped sense of humor because whenever I see him a vision of Miss Piggy pops into my head. She’s got on her wig and false eyelashes and lipstick, but it doesn’t change the fact that underneath all the glam she’s still a pig. And she always will be a pig.