The Day Ozzy Quit His Job
As I’ve said before, Miriam and I play two very distinct roles when it comes to raising our kids: Good Cop and Bad Cop. Miriam, being the daughter of a Catholic priest and a natural goody two-shoes, slides right into Good Cop territory. Me? Maybe it’s my time in the Corps, or maybe it’s just my one truant emotion called “empathy,” but I usually end up as the Bad Cop—the one our pesky little criminals are already plotting to stick in a nursing home ASAP.
That means most of my blog posts revolve around me confronting Noah’s less-than-angelic behaviors. If a situation requires more than one of Miriam’s banshee wails, she tends to vanish poof!—and Bad Cop appears in her stead.
This particular incident didn’t start off looking like much. I was upstairs in our bedroom, chatting with Miriam, when suddenly the TV downstairs roared to life, blaring Masha and the Bear at roughly 89 decibels. I stepped out to the landing and looked down over the railing. There sat Noah, rocking happily in front of the glowing screen, grinning ear to ear.
Now, Noah knows he isn’t supposed to be watching TV. So I called down, raising my voice to be hear over Masha’s squeaks. “Noah.” He looked up, smile slipping.
“Please turn the TV off. You know you’re not allowed to watch it right now.”
That’s when he pulled out his favorite trick—the Downs Look. It’s a carefully crafted mask of total incomprehension, the kind of vacant stare that says, “What’s this English language you speak?” It oftentimes works on Miriam. Me? I like to think my platinum-grade BS Detector catches 99% of his chicanery.
“Noah,” I tried again, firmer this time. “Please turn the TV off.”
He held the stare for a beat, then reached for the remote.
“Thank you,” I sighed, already turning back toward my room.
Premature gratitude, as it turned out.
Because instead of turning the TV off, Noah just turned the volume down.
I spun back around. “Noah,” I growled, irritation rising. “Turn… off… the… TV.”
Same vacant stare back at me. Head tilted. Mouth ajar. Mind empty of thoughts.
And so I began the countdown. “Five… four… three—”
That’s when something snapped in my boy. He sprang to his feet, yelling, “N-n-n-nooo way, man!” and hurled the remote at the coffee table.
Dads, you know exactly what just happened. My boy had officially “manned up” and asserted his alpha male status. Yep, this had just turned into a full-blown challenge for pack leadership.
Challenge accepted.
Now, some parents may try to keep talking and reasoning with their child here—and if that works for you, God bless. But Noah? Reasoning and logic bounces off him like Nerf darts. And he knows that around here, there are exactly two fast tracks to time-out in his bedroom:
Telling me or Miriam to shut up.
Destroying something in the house.
And since this kid has already smashed two TVs, assassinated several hundred dollars’ worth of my trees and shrubs with hedge trimmers, taken a pickaxe to my car fender, to name but a few incidents, I take “destruction of property” real personal.
So down the stairs I went. I arrived to find Noah squared up, ready for battle. For those who don’t know, kids with Down syndrome are freakishly strong. My boy does crunches like it’s his job or prepping for a beach body to impress the busty babes. Lucky for me, I’ve got a background in wrestling and grappling, and little Mighty Mouse Noah does not.
In one swoop, I slid behind him, scooped him up with his back against my chest—the way you’d hold a rabid raccoon if you wanted to keep your limbs intact—and marched him upstairs. A minute later, I deposited him on the far side of his bed and sat down by the door, ready to let him rage it out on the pillows.
Except this time, he didn’t go for the pillows.
He wanted his pound of flesh from ME.
With a blood-curdling shriek, he launched himself at me like a feral spider monkey—fists flying, feet kicking, maw opened wide to rend my flesh from my bones.
And right on cue, I heard claws skittering on the hardwood floors downstairs. Ozzy, our sweet, patient, supposedly loyal service dog, came bounding up the stairs.
Finally, backup! I thought.
But when Ozzy reached the doorway and saw me holding Noah off with one outstretched hand like Iron Man firing a repulson beam, I swear I heard him mutter in a Scooby-Doo voice, “Ruh-roh… they don’t pay me enough for this sh**,” before spinning 180 degrees and sprinting back downstairs.
So much for man’s best friend. Traitor.
With my four-legged backup gone, I resorted to backup Plan D.
“MIRIAM! MIRIAM!” (And yes, my voice may have spiked a couple octaves there at the end. Don’t judge me until you’ve had your own sweet child transmogrified into little orc from E.A. Poe’s worst nightmare. )
Seconds later—though it felt like hours—Good Cop’s head tentatively poked around the doorframe. Three Hail Mary’s and the sign of the cross later, she’d plucked up the requisite courage and entered the orcs lair. Together, we managed to talk Noah down just enough for me to pry off his ironlike grip and retreat.
I gave him several few minutes to cool down. Then I went back in, explained why he was in time-out, and told him he’d lost the privilege of sleeping with Ozzy that night. Tough love, sure, but Noah does best with strict boundaries and routines that don’t wobble. We’re hoping this defiant stage won’t last forever.
But what did I learn that day? That Ozzy is a mercenary. And if I want him by my side as a stalwart companion in the next battle, I’d better start investing in some premium dog food and high-end treats.
Bah.
Ozzy
