Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger. (from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling)
There must be some recessive gene that is somehow triggered by the behavior of your children that makes you uncannily like your parents. Because today, and I don’t know how it happened, I counted to three to make my child obey. I doubt this counting tactic needs explaining–I think we all remember our parents employing the method. But I thought they had something in mind, some consequence if you got to three. When I did it, I had nothing in mind. It just flew out of my mouth in the same tone and with the same seriousness behind the eyes in which both of my parents were experts. I said, “One….” and thought, Oh my gosh, he has no idea that something is supposed to happen when I get to three! What do I do?”
Then, for some unknown reason, I said, “Two….”
And. It. Worked.
No one could be more astonished than I was when he hastily obeyed. I still don’t really know what I would have done after “three,” other than physically remove him from under the computer. (That was the problem, by the way. He was trying to play with the power strip under the computer desk.) But I’m not totally convinced it was the counting that did it. I think it was the look.
Like a saber-toothed tiger.