I Am Not Mean
Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I’ve been having a little bit of extra fun with Bethie lately. You see, the other night Bethie was reading Lessons Learned and I looked over and noticed her staring for quite some time at this picture. (Yup, the one with the crossed needles through Lisa’s nipples.) Ouch.
So anyway, I was surprised to see Bethie lingering on that picture, since she usually hides her eyes when stuff like that appears on a monitor near her. (Sometimes she does peek between her fingers, though — it’s really cute.) She’s got something of a needle phobia, and neither one of us are much into anything that involves broken skin or the potential for blood. Still, she was looking. I guess it’s because Frank is such an artistic sadist.
Now for my fun. “You know how you are always calling me mean? Look closely at that picture. That is mean. Compared to that, I’m barely even mischievous.” Which is true, more or less (although I do love me my new tenderizing strap).
Call it laying the groundwork. Now, whenever she calls me mean (several times a day, invariably playfully) I say “I’m not mean. Who’s mean?” And I won’t be dissuaded from the line of conversation until she says “Frank.” And then I say “And what does he do that makes him mean?” By this time she’s always trying to change the subject, but I won’t have it; she has to say (usually she chooses a tiny tremulous voice) “He puts needles in Lisa’s nipples.”
For some reason she is amazingly reluctant to play this game, and I usually have to at least threaten to encourage her before she’ll say it. Vide supra “tenderizing strap”.
My plan (which seems to be working) is to associate that vivid mental image with the word “mean” in her mind, so that she can’t call me mean without thinking of those two sharp little needles. Now, when she calls me mean, I can see a little “uh-oh” look cross her face. So I think it’s working.
Thanks, Frank, for serving as a bad example! {grin}