This must be what's going through Ryan's head right now. Absent of any other ideas to try to get her to stop this primadonna ride she's on, I've succumbed to the tried and true technique of guilting her into straightening up.
Time Out doesn't work, neither does taking toys away. She's fighting constantly with Jax, pulling, pushing, hitting, teasing and refusing to share. In turn, he's pulling, pushing, hitting and crying when she teases him and refuses to share.
The kid is awesome -- she's got a heart of gold, or at least, that's what her teacher says. I've yet to see it directed at her bro, though. In fact, earlier this week I used that tactic to try to get her to act nicer -- no more playdates until she starts treating her brother as well as she treats her friends.
It's not working.
So I've enlisted Baby Jesus and His posse. "Baby Jesus is watching" has become my new motto, one which was burned into my brain by my mother and she by hers. We're Catholics. It's how we roll. I used to be wary of instilling the guilt complex, but I'm at my wit's end, and she'll have the rest of her life to pull herself out of the self-loathing and fear that will follow.
Earlier today, when I'd used Baby Jesus for the umpteenth time and she still wasn't obeying, I resorted to calling in the big guns. The REALLY BIG GUNS.
Me: "Ryan -- I guess you don't want to go to Heaven and live with Baby Jesus when you die. Looks like you'd rather burn in Hell with the Devil for all eternity."
Ryan: "Yeah, that would probably be more fun."