I know all about secret police and the wily, psycho means they employ to have their way with you. I know how they flit from charming smiles one minute to spit-flecked, eye-bulging rage the next; trying to cajole you into giving them what they want, and taking it by brute force if that doesn't work - all the while pushing your buttons, pushing, pushing, pushing. I know this from watching movies starring people with Russian accents, but also because I live with someone who appears to have attended their training school. And, through her methods, she's managed to reduce me to a quivering wreck of my former self, submissive and willing to give in to even the most outlandish demands.
That person is, of course, Leya. Secret police trick number one: the sleeplessness. This needs no further explanation, suffice to say that two years on, I have yet to experience a full eight hours. I no longer believe that sleep training causes psychological damage that will only emerge when the child is a needy adolescent and frankly, if it does, I couldn't care. It's probably no more than they deserve after inflicting all those hours of bouncing on a gym ball in the middle of the night.
Secret police trick number two: Having successfully scrambled my brain, she tries to catch me out. "Where's Samantha?" she asks accusingly. "At home," I answer. "Where's Samantha?" she asks again, a mere second later. The words "At home" have not yet left my mouth when again she roars, "Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha?" If I had another answer to give, believe me, I would. But the reality is that my sister is sitting at her house probably being submitted to a similar torture by her own kids, and it just doesn't seem worth it to make up a lie about her going trekking in the Andes with a pack of alpaca.
Secret police trick number three: the mind games. "Mommy, I want tea." Of course, I've learnt by now that any thinly veiled 'request' is actually a command that must be obeyed within three seconds, else there will be severe repercussion (read: she will unleash her wailing siren, a sound that makes Banshees and harpies sound like nightingales). Naturally, I hop to it; my fervid actions accompanied by a soundtrack of "I want tea I want tea I want tea." Eventually, the tea is placed in her hands. She looks at it with scorn and disgust. "I don't want tea," she states coldly, and tosses the bottle away.
One day, I swear to myself, I will rise again. I will shake off the wretched thing I have become and stand, once more, as a human of worth. I will wait until she is a teenager, and then I will embarrass her non-stop. I will post love notes on her Facebook page, or ask publicly if she remembered to use her rash cream. Hell, it won't actually be as hard as that at all. All I will have to do is walk next to her in public and she will cringe. My time is coming.
That person is, of course, Leya. Secret police trick number one: the sleeplessness. This needs no further explanation, suffice to say that two years on, I have yet to experience a full eight hours. I no longer believe that sleep training causes psychological damage that will only emerge when the child is a needy adolescent and frankly, if it does, I couldn't care. It's probably no more than they deserve after inflicting all those hours of bouncing on a gym ball in the middle of the night.
Secret police trick number two: Having successfully scrambled my brain, she tries to catch me out. "Where's Samantha?" she asks accusingly. "At home," I answer. "Where's Samantha?" she asks again, a mere second later. The words "At home" have not yet left my mouth when again she roars, "Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha? Where's Samantha?" If I had another answer to give, believe me, I would. But the reality is that my sister is sitting at her house probably being submitted to a similar torture by her own kids, and it just doesn't seem worth it to make up a lie about her going trekking in the Andes with a pack of alpaca.
Secret police trick number three: the mind games. "Mommy, I want tea." Of course, I've learnt by now that any thinly veiled 'request' is actually a command that must be obeyed within three seconds, else there will be severe repercussion (read: she will unleash her wailing siren, a sound that makes Banshees and harpies sound like nightingales). Naturally, I hop to it; my fervid actions accompanied by a soundtrack of "I want tea I want tea I want tea." Eventually, the tea is placed in her hands. She looks at it with scorn and disgust. "I don't want tea," she states coldly, and tosses the bottle away.
One day, I swear to myself, I will rise again. I will shake off the wretched thing I have become and stand, once more, as a human of worth. I will wait until she is a teenager, and then I will embarrass her non-stop. I will post love notes on her Facebook page, or ask publicly if she remembered to use her rash cream. Hell, it won't actually be as hard as that at all. All I will have to do is walk next to her in public and she will cringe. My time is coming.
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