Then there’s my counting backwards to indicate that all bedtime begrudging must come to a silent end or there will be no song time. The popular requests of late are for Irish traditional songs, in particular “Spancil Hill.” I’m sure my neighbors are relieved that I’m no longer rapping “Gold Digger,” or screeching “Welcome to the Jungle,” but they’re surely counting backwards themselves as I belt out all seven verses for all the street to hear. See, the louder I sing, the faster they fall asleep. Might be some kind of pain-reflex.
I also do a backwards three-finger count at least daily, to indicate that I mean business. I pause to count five split seconds between each very emphatic finger to be sure the person on the receiving end of my very serious finger waving has adequate time to pick up his toys/go brush his teeth/have Dad make me a cup of tea. I’m always amazed at the power of this simple technique. The backwards counting grabs their attention. The build-up feeds their fear. In fact, it’s so powerful that I don’t even have to count at all—I just have to threaten to count—and my will is done.
I count down to photo-taking, rocket-blasting, time-outing, birthday candle blowing, guitar practicing, football tossing, tea-brewing, and tooth brushing. I even count down along with the microwave. I can’t count all the times I count down, or even the reasons. It could be that counting backwards it far too fun to limit to once a year. Could be that counting backwards keeps me moving forward, but without getting too far ahead of myself. It keeps me in the moment. Try it: three … two … one … NOW!
