Why do intelligent people spank their children?

Why do intelligent people spank their children?
If we are intelligent people, most of us educated, if we are thinking people, creative people, then why is the spanking of our children not frowned upon? I say we, but I don't really mean me. I do frown upon it, and I don't practice it. What I mean is this: why do intelligent people spank their children? It is something I expect out of the ignorant, the uneducated, the non-thinking peoples of this world, the people who come from a long line of other ignorant, uneducated, non-thinking people. I don't expect it from the smart ones.
Firstly, it doesn't make any sense. A couple who feels it is very wrong to hit one another out of anger or frustration will hit their children out of those same emotions, or even worse, to get their attention or prove a point. If I hauled off and struck my husband, whether on his face or on his ass, just to prove a point or get his attention, I would be considered an abusive spouse, and he's a grown man who can defend himself. Why is alright, in our society to strike a helpless child? Yeah, sure, you're not punching the child in the face, you're hitting him or her with an open hand on the behind, or slapping the back of his or her hand. But isn't hitting hitting? Certainly a punch in the face is painful, but a slap on the ass is humiliating. Why would anyone want to humiliate their child? Why would any intelligent and loving parent want to hurt their child's feelings and make him or her cry? Not only is it cruel and ignorant behavior on the part of the parent, it also sends a mixed message to the child.
We tell our children not to hit others. When they play with other kids and hit out of frustration, they get in trouble. Some parents put the child in time out, which makes sense. Other parents spank their child and say, "it's wrong to hit!" I suppose these same parents also bite their children to show them that biting is wrong, and will someday light up a cigarette while telling their child not to smoke. It's the hypocrisy that kills me, well, that and the hitting itself. These parents that hit, oops, I mean spank, right, because terminology is everything? It's these parents that say, "I was spanked and I know not to hit people." But did they know that at the time? As small children, did they understand that? "It's ok for mom and dad to hit me when they're mad, but it's not ok for me to hit anyone else, including mom and dad, when I'm mad?" Yeah, that makes lots of sense to a child.
I just can't get my mind around it. It's basic common sense, not to mention basic human decency. I can't even fathom striking my child, on her butt, hand, leg, anywhere. I couldn't raise a hand to that soft, tender flesh that I held in my womb. I couldn't bring tears to her sweet, innocent eyes out of violence. I honestly don't know how parents do it. Intelligent or not, I don't understand how they are even able. Are we not beyond violence? As intelligent people, as creative people, can we not find better ways to communicate with our children? In this day and age of information, can we not read about the psychological effects of spanking on children? Or are we still of that ancient mindset that anything our parents and parent's parents and parent's parent's parents did is still ok today? Can we not move forward into a new age of communication and understanding? Are we such base and primal animals that we can't use our minds in compassionate and creative ways? This is something that I just don't understand. Spanking is hitting, hitting is wrong, hitting is abuse, hitting is something base and primitive; it is not an action of the evolved mind.
If I have offended anyone, well, so be it. At least I didn't hit you.

excerpt from a short story in progress

She is trying to write at the computer. Anna has been trying to get on the computer for two days now. Her husband has been hogging it remorselessly. Now that she is finally on it, he keeps coming in the room about every fifteen minutes with a, “what are you doing,” or “what are you looking at?” or something to that effect. It is making her crazy. How is she supposed to get anything done if she’s not even allowed time to think? Obviously, what she does is not as important as what he does, because she doesn’t have deadlines. Deadlines make your work more important. So, when she’s on the computer, he can’t stand it; he has to see what she’s doing. He will sometimes spend six to eight hours on the computer in one day, and when she gets on for two hours, he has something to say about it. It is never a good time for her to get on; there is always something else that needs to be done. But now she is on, eight hours after he promised her she could get on, and he won’t leave her alone. He gets offended when she acts impatient with his questions. Anna feels as though she might have to hurt him physically just to get some peace. Next time he walks in the room, she’s decided to get up off of the falling-apart, rickety, old chair that they recycled from her uncle’s estate, and waylay him with the heavy, glass duck that sits on the desk. If she’s lucky, she can knock him unconscious without spilling blood on the floor, yet hit him hard enough to put him out for at least an hour. This way, she can actually get some writing done.
Of course, it won’t happen. Anna has these fantasies often, though. She feels it is healthy for her marriage, to carry out elaborate plans in her head. It calms her down and creates a sense of satisfaction that she wouldn’t get with mere frustration. If she can mentally maim or kill her husband every time he acts like an idiot, it will save a lot of arguments. For instance, when he uses her car and moves all of her within-reach things to the backseat or worse, the floorboard, she can imagine running him over repeatedly in their driveway. On the occasion that she asks him to bring in the groceries while she is otherwise engaged in something that she can’t get away from for a while, and he does, but leaves all of the frozen foods, raw chicken and dairy sitting out at room temperature because he “forgot,” she can entertain herself by mentally stuffing an apple in his mouth and cramming him into the oven. It’s great therapy.

ocean - a poem

ocean

there is blue
corduroy rhythm
looming
on the beach.

untitled poem

untitled

a waking breath
blazes open,
then dies.
soft
as a metaphor
for grace.

my mother-in law is coming (the guest room)

The Guest Room

The books are arranged on the shelves. I put them all up today. They are categorized, but not alphabetized: modern and contemporary fiction, classic fiction, ancient classics, literature anthologies, reference, general nonfiction, autobiographies, biographies, memoirs, gardening, drama, poetry, how-to, hiking/camping, field guides, ornithology, astrology, health, kids and miscellaneous. It has taken almost three years to do this; and it’s not because we have tons and tons of books. It’s because the books were in “that room.” You know the room, the one that no one uses, the one that no one is brave enough to walk into for fear of a foot or head injury. It’s the catch-all room, spare room, extra room, the guest bedroom for people who never have guests; that was us, the last one. But now we are getting a guest, two of them actually. My husband’s mom and sister will be here soon, tomorrow soon. It has created panic.
You would think the Queen of England was coming to stay. It’s mostly me; I always panic when it comes to company. I feel like the house needs to be perfect no matter who is coming, well, almost no matter. This is an unfortunate trait that I have inherited from my mother. It is a trait that drives husbands to the brink of insanity. By the time my in-laws leave, he will probably be close to death. Nevertheless, I must be tolerated in my time of high anxiety. My insistence that the house be practically remodeled is not excessive in the least. This is just something that women do. Not, of course, all women, but a lot of women. It is especially true pending a visit from Mother-in-law.
My husband does not understand. “It’s just my mom,” he says, just his mom. Now, if my own mother was coming to stay, I’d probably only clean the bathroom and kitchen, and push everything out of the way in the guest room to clear a walking trail. Maybe it’s because I know that my mom loves me no matter what. But my mother-in-law did not give birth to me. I have to knock her socks off. I have to show her how well I am taking care of her son and granddaughter. So, the house will look spectacular. The guest room (which is also our study/office) will look like the reading room of the Carnegie Library with a bed in it. I will make my best, from-scratch lasagna, and I will not sleep in late – not once! My house will be a bed and breakfast with a cute little baby for entertainment. At the end of their stay, I will be emotionally and physically exhausted. I will probably need my mommy.
But the guest room will be finished. I will have very clean floors. I will get to look at all the updated, framed pictures that I replaced the old ones with. The grout between the bathroom tiles will be white once again. All of the little tasks that my husband has been putting off until later will have been accomplished (if not all of them in their entirety), and I can relax a little and maybe get some writing done. It’s not such a bad thing, after all. Maybe I could get my mother-in-law to visit twice a year. Nah, on second thought, once a year is enough.

my first grey hair

my first grey hair

I gave a hard stare into the reflecting pool,
the white specks on it's surface.
Like a tall weed amoung creeping phlox
it came into my view
obtuse and smiling,
as if to say - I've got you now.
Rooted firmly at the bottom,
it stood up nearly erect
yet crumpled.
It looked like a tiny piece of fiberoptic cable
that had been mangled by a pomeranian.
I plucked it out and taped it
to the first page,
to begin the journey.

Parenthood is not for Sissies

What in the hell does “mother’s day out” mean? You’re supposed to take a break from being a mom? This is what I have been told, that I need a break. I stay home with my daughter, as well as working from home. People have actually had the nerve to tell me that I should put her in daycare, “mother’s day out,” a couple of days a week. Why would I want to do that? I understand that a lot of people don’t have the option to work from home. I understand that childcare, in some way, shape or form is often necessary. But here’s my question: How and when did parents get so detached from parenting? What is it that makes people in our culture think that it’s good to dump our kids off on virtual strangers while we get things done, or just hang out and relax? I know that not all parents do that. But I do know of some who drop their kids off when they don’t even have to; it’s just because they want to. Why did these people have kids in the first place if they weren’t prepared to do the job? Why do they even want time away from their kids? I know that some people really don’t have any other choice; they have to go to work. But isn’t that how it should be? Shouldn’t daycare be a last resort, used for when you have to go to work? Shouldn’t babies and toddlers be with their moms and dads? It’s one thing to hire a babysitter or rely on grandparents to occasionally watch the kids while Mom and Dad have date night, or when parents are required to do something in which kids shouldn’t or can’t be involved. But what is with all of these parents relying on daycare on a daily basis just to have “personal time” or “get more done around the house?” I actually know one particular mother who drops her kids off every day, and then goes home and watches television; she doesn’t even clean her house.
I have done a lot of reading on parenting since the birth of my daughter. I have read lots of different opinions and talked to a lot of other moms, both in person and on message boards. I have witnessed the behavior of kids who spend most of their time with their parents, as well as kids who don’t. What I have found is that the kids who are with their parents most of the time are calmer, happier, more secure, and sometimes even smarter. They’re less likely to lash out aggressively or throw tantrums. Basically, they are just more contented because they feel wanted. People are pack animals, and we want to be with our pack. Estrangement from it leads to restlessness and discontent. So then, what you get is a child who is quickly frustrated or upset. There are, of course, other factors that can attribute to this, such as letting babies “cry it out,” but that is a subject that requires its own article.
It is a sad reality that too many parents are unwilling to do the hard stuff. It’s easy to let someone else take care of your child while you do the dishes and go grocery shopping. It is very disturbing to think that parents take their kids to daycare just to make things easier on themselves. They want to clean the house or work in the yard or go run errands. All of those things are possible with your child. I do them, lots and lots of other parents do them. Why are these particular parents so anxious to get away from their children? Why do they think they need things to be so easy? Life is not easy, parenting is not easy. Did these people grow up on fairy tales where everyone lived happily ever after with no effort put forth? Or are they just so submerged in our culture of convenience that the only work they’re willing to do is kind you get a paycheck for?
Children need their parents. They too soon go off to school, off in cars, off to college, why rush the separation? Why send them out into the world without a strong foundation to build from? Time with Mom and Dad is the best thing for them. They need our guidance and our time. American families need to take off the blinders. A family is not a fast food drive through or a pay-at-the-pump gas station. It’s not about convenience; it’s about being together even when things are difficult. It’s about putting each other first. Kids just need love and attention. They just need their parents to want them around.

empty nest

empty nest


There is a birds nest
with a post-it note
stuck on.
It reads: Recycle,
Because It Works!
In it are woven
long threads of
blue plastic and
something brown/black,
resembling the guts
of an old cassette tape.
It is shaped like a
deep hammock,
suspended between two
thin branches of
an oak tree.
No one lives there.