She Ain't Heavy...
...she's her mother.
No, I'm the Heavy. The Heavy Artillery. The go-to guy when a little ass needs whipping. This is how we maintain the balance in our small corner of the universe.
Just a bit ago, the klaxon sounded, and I rushed stat! into the bathroom to lay about smartly with a stick on Thunderbunny, who was screaming loudly, in the tub, for "Just one more minute!" and carrying on like a Sabine Woman.
When I heard the Bane Mate cry my name in that special tone, I had swept up the bamboo back scratcher to indulge in a little minor caning, but upon seeing the Bane Daughter in all of her chubby, sudsy Glory, I took pity, dropped the weapon, and grabbed up a large plastic cup, instead. I turned the sink on high and cold, and filled that sucker several times as I hollered "You!"SPLASH"Get!"SPLASH"Out!"SPLASH"Of that damn!"SPLASH"Tub when your mother says so!" and by this time she's clambering overboard like a pink rat fetus, howling like an exorcised demonic cherub, and her brother is huddled safely in his corner of the tub, goggle-eyed and going "fuhfuhfuhfuh" from all of the cold water collateral damage he's been taking from my precision bombing.
I do not let the wife whip on the kids. She's not very good at it, and has long nails as well. If you're going to hit something as small and fragile as a child, you should have the skill for it. Children break easily, and now more than ever, they give you the fish-eye at the emergency room when you bring one in that you have carelessly broken.
One of the keys to proper child abuse is to make them think they are getting it a lot worse than they are. Go all WWF on their ass, gesticulating wildly, and stomping your foot as the blow lands. If they think they are approaching their imminent death at the hands of a madman, they are unlikely to repeat the behavior for at least a week.
That's about all I've got with Johnny. He is so fucked up everywhere, that it is difficult to find a spot to strike properly. I am limited to nerve plexii and stern rebukes, and the occasional threat to barbecue his train set or kill Barney (or whatever appropriate holiday related fantasy creature is in vogue that month).
Regardless, do not shake a child. This does not adjust them, or actually shake anything out. If you shake your child in front of me, you will be lucky to wake up in a hospital wondering why it hurts so much to move. I will not talk to you. I will not warn you. I will just move in and give you a beating your child will always remember.
As to whuppin on kids, remember, pain compliance is what we're after. You do not need to go to the muscle. It is not our goal to bruise or incapacitate this midget, and if done properly when said midget is small, they will fear you enough to respect you as they grow larger.
You do not want to inspire enough fear so that they will begin to eye the gun and knife cabinets for ways to take you out in your sleep.
No, make sure the punishment fits the crime, and that you have warned them enough so that whatever trauma they are now enduring is something that they brought upon themselves and that it is making the Baby Jesus happy to see them getting their just reward.
I recommend a 1.5 to 2 inch wide belt, folded in fourths, and wielded to the buttocks. The child should not be dancing around, but laid out over the side of the parental bed, if possible. This has the extra benefit of the little creeps not seeing said bed as a place of comfort where they can come and wake you up at 3am for some quality time.
Plastic kitchen utensils work well as spur of the moment kid-beaters, too. Just watch out for slot marks and cutting edges. It is not recommended that you beat your child with any pans, though a ten inch omelette pan does show promise.
Try to not have the pan's brand name show up on the Polaroids they will take at the emergency room, though.