The Wages Of Sin Is, Eventually, Soap

The worst, most feared, ultimate corporeal punishment to which my grandchildren can be subjected is a fingertip's worth of liquid hand soap administered to their tongues.  This sanction covers the same pantheon of misdeeds as, when I was a lad, required my father's leather belt, a ping pong paddle, or an 18" strip of linoleum, whichever was in closest reach.

Anyhow, Young G's synapses are firing with increasing enthusiasm, sometimes forcing his tongue and demeanor to respond in ways his mother deems unsuitable.  It's difficult to stop when you've got a really inventive riff going on the word "diarrhea" or you've found a way to make a noise reminding of a Yeti being emasculated by a barbed wire fence.  And, as everyone knows, when mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  For this poor, disabused young'un, out comes the soap (which mama now keeps in a handy, purse sized container in her, well, you get it).

Young G understands the arrangement.  He recognizes his sins, and understands the atonement process.  Maybe he wants to please too much, I don't know.

Recently, SB was forced, in her mind, to pull the car over and Administer The Soap.  G squirmed and fought and snorted, and then announced, "Nope, didn't get any on my tongue."  Process was repeated, replete with spitting, snorting, squirming, and after each application, his mother's failure was duly, thoughtfully noted.

Even though, with a lash or a club of some sort my parental units didn't have to go through this repeat process, I really think the new way is better.  Gonna take a couple weeks off of whispering in his ear "She's not the boss of you" though.