"Me wan. Me! Me!" screamed I, at three years of age as I raised my rounded chubby arms and viced my chubby fingers around the corner of Mother's apron. Mother was clearing away the breakfast dishes, and was carrying the sugar bowl to its place in the cupboard.

"Me, me, wan!" whiningly I screeched.

"No! No! You can't have this! It's not a toy. Father needs it for his porridge and coffee."

Instantly I dropped down and began to flail my hands and feet and bang my head against the floor. "Me! Me! Me!" I shrieked along with other meaningless syllables. In ear-piercing high G tones I threw a tantrum.

"Stop it! Stop it or I'll spank you!" fell on deaf ears. The tantrum continued. Mother pulled me up with one hand and gave me a few taps on my bum. As soon as she let go, I was back on the floor with an even more energetic performance. Again Mother pulled me up and, with greater force, increased the number of spanks. This didn't daunt me; it only enhanced my screeching and flailing.

By now Mother was getting impatient and determined to stop me. She yanked off my diaper made of Father's threadbare fleece-lined long-johns (combination, it was called), and with increased vigor whacked me quite a few more times. No result. I was just as determined. In a split second I was back on the floor kicking and screaming "blue murder". By the fifth repetition Mother became angry. She knew she couldn't stop until she had won. She struck me so hard and so often that her fingers left red welts on my tender backsides. Her own palm was stinging too.

The shock of this powerful spanking seemed to knock the wind out of me. I couldn't shriek. I ran out the door and hid behind the chicken coop. Mother watched but didn't follow. Several long minutes passed. Slowly I emerged and walked toward the house, stopping intermittently to pass my hand gently over my searing butt.

That afternoon my Aunte Motryna came to visit. Mother related in specific detail the events of the morning. She concluded almost on a triumphant note, "Finally! I've cured Nettie of tantrums."

Without appearing to listen to the account, I played with my clothespin doll in the wagon made out of a match box and two halves of a spool of thread. As soon as Mom finished I stood up, took a determined stance and, in a voice bordering on insolence, averred, "But I rolled around a little behind the chicken coop."

Was there really a tantrum? Or was the last tantrum only in the mind of the performer?

---