During one of my psychology classes in college, we studied the cycle of abuse.  It was very distressing and depressing. However, I the one thing I remember the most was reading one paragraph that went on and on about how children are especially vulnerable to verbal abuse.  They stressed how unkind words, degrading speech or threats of any kind caused severe scars and emotional trauma for life.

I just remember being in a total state of shock.  Obviously, the person who wrote this text was not Italian.  According to the author’s assessment, I should either be a complete basket case or a homicidal maniac, because I grew up with threats of great bodily harm on a daily basis.

“Get in this house right now or I will break both your legs!”

“Touch it again and I will chop that finger right off!”

“If you so much as utter another word, I will rip that tongue right out of your mouth!”

Worse yet, as far as any of us kids knew, this was all according to God’s will.

“Dear Lord, give me the strength to beat some sense into this child!”

“As God is my witness, I will never cook another meal in my lifetime and you will all starve to death!”

“So help me God if I have to get off of this couch, you will never see another sun rise again!”

I mean, c’mon. Even though I was threatened with such atrocities, I knew my mother loved me and there were no lasting scars or traumatic consequences as a result.  No matter how loud my mother’s voice got, I knew she would never really crack my head open with that wooden spoon.

Still, now that I am a mother and have a child of my own, I must admit that the author was right about one thing.  Children tend to adopt the same behaviors and continue the cycles with which they grew up.  In other words, I am just as much an Italian drama queen as my mother was, and as her mother was, and so on.

Mind you, my daughter is barely three years old.  Needless to say, I wouldn’t dream of threatening her with physical punishment.  No, those threats are saved for the middle years when they really have some effect.  Likewise, the teenage years are saved for threats of disinheritance or being thrown out on the streets in the dead of winter without a penny to your name.  As for the wee young years, us drama queens stick to the more benign stuff, like begging all the heavenly saints for more guidance or questioning the Lord above what we did in a past life to deserve such torture. 

Considering my age and how much practice I have had being an adult drama queen, it should come as no surprise that I had mastered this trait by the time Piper was even born.  Let me tell, I know how utterly shocking this must seem to anyone that did not grow up in such an environment.  It was years before my husband could shrug his shoulders and walk away, without really worrying about whether or not I was going to have a nervous breakdown over dropping the dish towel.  But I must say, my daughter has adapted quite well, probably because she knows no other type of life.  The other night when I was just about at my wits end, she seemed to be barely phased. 

After an agonizing trip to the potty which took thirty minutes longer than humanly possible, we were heading back downstairs.  We were almost there, about halfway down the steps, when she decided she had to go back upstairs to turn the light out.  Well, I basically lost it.  I stood on the steps, clasping my hands together in prayer and asked the sweet baby Jesus for the patience to get me through this ordeal.  I shook my fists up to the high heavens and ask why my dear God insists on putting me through such anguish.  I made the sign of the cross and swore before all the saints and angels that I would never ever again complain about being bored if they could just make this child get to the bottom of these steps before I die.

The entire time Piper watched me with mild curiosity.  When I finally paused for a breath, she cocked her head the side and asked me with sincere concern in her voice, “What’s the matter mommy?  Am I killing you again?”