"I'm just playing the devil's advocate, not being critical," he said.
"Why do I have to justify my opinion? It simply differs from my mother's."
I tried another tack. "Maybe it's like believing in capital punishment but not willing to pull the switch. Maybe at some level spanking works, but I'm not willing to do it. Call me a hypocrite, but that's how I feel. I can't even picture hitting Karen or Timmy. I'm not the person my mother was and Paul's not my dad. It took a special person to be able to communicate why hurting a child was being done so a child understood and didn't hate the parent for doing it. My parents pulled it off. I don't even want to try."
"How would you punish Karen if she did some of the more serious things that earned you a spanking?"
That question bothered me all week.
Timmy was as excited as I'd ever seen him. He was going to see a real live baseball game! Could he maybe get an autograph? He'd have to bring his glove so he'd catch a foul ball. Did you really eat peanuts and cracker stuff like the song? If Karen were in the room she'd be rolling her eyes, but surprisingly she remained upstairs.
"Where's your sister?" I asked as father and son were about to leave.
"Kari's got a belly ache. She doesn't feel good. She's in bed."
I hoped she didn't have what was ailing me. I hadn't felt good since New York and had trouble keeping food in my stomach.
"I'd better see what the problem is," I answered. However, she came down stairs, looking a little under the weather, in time to kiss her father and brother good bye as they left for Boston. When the dog and I returned from walking them to the car, Karen was back in her room.
"Timmy claims you have a belly ache," I said as I approached her bed.
"The little nark," she mumbled into the pillow.
"What's the problem? Is this the wrong time of the month?" I asked in spite of knowing she despised discussing anything of so personal.
"No. I just feel crappy." I told her of my upset stomach and asked if she had the same problem.
"It's not what I ate. It's lower down, in my belly."
"Maybe you're constipated. When's the last time you had a bowel movement?"
"God, Sarah! I don't write it down and I don't want to talk about it either!"
I pressed. "Today? Yesterday? The day before yesterday?"
"I don't know. What's today? Friday? It was earlier in the week. The day you guys got back from New York."