We live on the tenth floor in our apartment building. Today as Mae was leaving the house with Jesse and Roma to meet me at the office, the boy darted off to the elevator as he so often does. The lift arrives and both Jesse and Roma get in, which is all fine and good - except, for some reason, Roma decided to step off to see what's holding Mae up. Which was a pretty dumbass thing to do.
Expectedly, the lift door shuts and the lift starts descending with my poor, frightened little boy inside. I can only imagine what he must have been feeling at the time and it probably wasn't the best day in his life.
Long story short, the poor kid gets to the ground floor, steps off and wanders around our lift lobby bawling his eyes out searching for Mommy. By the time they get to my office a half hour later he was all fragile and still crying.
I cradled the boy to my chest with my left arm and comforted him. WIth my right hand I reached out to Roma and gripped my fingers around her neck. I squeezed. She writhed about struggling to breathe. Her eyes bulged out of the sockets as life ebbed from her now limp body. "That's for scaring my boy!!!!" I yelled in her face, my spittle spewing everywhere all over her white-washed expression and dark green lips.
Nah. I didn't reprimand her at all. I expect the trauma of the entire event was punishment enough.
As for Jesse, I'm not sure if I prefer him to forget all about the experience and live happily ever after, or to remember it so he never rushes to get into the lift without us. *sigh* Does that make me a bad father?