Bad mommy

My grandfather immigrated to the Americas in the 1920s to escape virulent prejudice in the old country. But as soon as he stepped off the boat from Turkey, he discovered the physical threats had followed him. Navigating New York City’s mean streets during the Depression, he developed quite an impressive right hook. In fact, he soon began letting loose his frustration—while earning cash—by punching down foes in the professional ring.

His lessons on how-to-earn-respect-on-the-street made an impression on his daughter—my mother. After I came along, she became determined to pass on that legacy of self-defense training. But to her great chagrin,I didn’t instinctively share her faith in fisticuffs.

A product of the Age of Aquarius, I preferred to draw peace signs on my Earth Shoes. I was convinced that the oldsters in my family were out of touch with my g-g-g-generation; looking for models of tranquil existence, I turned to images of Woodstock, the 1979 Egyptian-Israeli peace talks…and The Brady Bunch.

When a mean girl beat me up in high school, my mother insisted it was my pacifist stance that had earned me a black eye. I disagreed, and frankly, lacking upper-body strength, I was scared to fight back for fear of losing. My mother clung to one last hope: that one day, she would turn her grandchildren into little ninjas.

Flash forward 20 years. My daughter is three, and my mother is her full-time babysitter. In a sincere effort to protect the Chicklet from any lurking pedophiles, Grandma launches into the good-touch, bad-touch talk one afternoon: Never let anyone touch you in private places on your body; if anyone tries, hurt him or her in any way you can. Unbeknownst to me, Grandma then demonstrated her arsenal of brawl tactics, from simple pushing to groin kicking and eye strikes.

The Chicklet, empowered by this new directive, found an opportunity to try it out the very next day at school. During pretend play, she chose to be a lion, roaring around the classroom. A girl named Isabella was doing her part as a monkey. When Curious Isabella attempted to paw the growling Chicklet’s face, it took only a moment for my panthera to bite the offending simian hand.

When I got the call from the nursery school director, I was shocked and vowed to get to the bottom of the attack. Aware of some parents’ litigious tendencies, I also asked her to promptly send my apologies to Isabella’s family. Then I phoned my mother and heard the details of her strike-force lesson. Later, I sat my little one down to get her side of the story.

My daughter told me this wasn’t the first time Isabella had prodded her. Until the monkey incident, the Chicklet’s response had been to say “Stop,” walk away and go play with someone else—just as I had recommended. There was one unforeseen problem: Isabella never took the hint.

On the day that my girl followed General Grandma’s marching orders and turned into a razor-toothed fighting machine, the Monkey backed off immediately. And let it be known, she never bothered the Queen of the Jungle again.

Listening to my daughter vent her frustration, my ingrained pacifism flew out the window. It was one thing to let people treat me like a doormat; my child was a whole other story. So I told the Chicklet she had done the right thing.

I don’t believe in corporal punishment, but when it comes to anyone hurting my child, I now have no trouble embracing the right of might. I decided to call the school director back. “How dare that monster bother my sweet baby?” I seethed into the phone. And you know what? While she didn’t buy into the monster business, she did agree—on the down-low—that Isabella was a bit of a pest: “That girl needed to be taught a lesson,” she said.And so did I. Thanks, Mom.

Got a Bad Mommy or Bad Daddy moment to share? E-mail Susan at BadMommy@timeoutny.com.

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