The Potchy Tushy Incident

In case you've never had a Jewish grandmother or never known someone who does, a "potchy" on the "tushy" (or potch on the tush) is a swat on the behind. And a few weeks ago, Z got a potch on the tush.

I could use every bit of space in the blog-osphere to explain what happened and why. But this is all that matters:

1) The force of said potchy was comparable to that of brushing dirt off your pants (dusty dirt, not the ground-in kind); 

2) Hubby and I were at wits' end with Z's behavior, and the potchy was an act of desperation.

I do not want to say who actually carried out the deed. But that person, Parent A, believed it was the right thing to do at the time. A form of discipline to be used sparingly. Only in cases when behavior is deplorable. And only after attempts at time-outs and removal of beloved objects or activities have failed (as they had that day).

Meanwhile, Parent B went batshit. Absolutely batshit, unleashing a torrent of recriminations on Parent A. "How could you?" "I don't care if she's the devil incarnate, you do not lay hands on our child!" "You are starting a cycle of violence!" "What kind of example are you setting?" 

An argument over discipline ensued, barely out of earshot of the tushy in question. By the time hubby and I retreated to opposite corners of the house, still fuming, the day was shot. We both deserved a potchy tushy.

And what of Z? The bad behavior stopped immediately, though her parents' spectacular meltdown probably had more to do with it than the potchy. Other than that, she seemed unfazed, until a few weeks later, when she started hitting us (only us, thankfully) in moments of anger or frustration.


Like you didn't see THAT coming.

So the three of us sat down and agreed that there would be no more potchies on anybody's tushies. EVER. We apologized to Z. And we apologized to each other. Lesson learned.

That's not to say it won't happen again. The arguing in front of Z, that is. It's something we're both pretty good at. But we're also good at apologizing to each other in front of her. And at making sure she knows, and we know, that her daddy and I love each other, no matter what.

I learned another important lesson the day of the potchy moratorium—one about not dwelling on who was right and who was wrong. Because Parent B had every right to dance circles around Parent A and chant, "Told you so! Told you so! Toh-oh-oh-old you so!" But Parent B didn't—and won't. Lesson learned.