Chicago

Today I'm off to the windy city for 3 days. The temperature is a balmy 31 degrees, but they assure me it feels like 22. Good thing. (I wouldn't want to pass out from heat stroke or anything.)

I intended, while I'm there, to pay as little attention as possible to the cheesy corporate speakers who delivere dorky, calculated jokes whilst trying to make products and services for my industry "interesting". Especially since I KNOW they are going to turn the air conditioning down to -35 degrees to try and keep me awake. Bastards. Just for that, this is going to be my business casual look for both days:

And MEANWHILE, I think I'll bring my laptop and pretend to take notes, while I secretly plot my revenge on my boss, (whom I've now dubbed "Dickhead Dan") for making me go to this thing. Dickhead has no children of his own you see and he's recently married wife #4, so trying to explain why I don't like leaving Bill and Billy alone for 3 days envokes blank stares followed by ridicule, followed by his favorite one liner for me, "Suck it up and get back to work." Eh... I guess it could be worse. I guess he could have sent me with his super disgusting, vile, ex-junky, waste of life brother (YIKES!) AND I could have had to sit next to him on the plane and in the meetings (Nooooooooooooooooo......!)

And I got one more thing going for me besides the lack of company and the wonderful weather: I got my gold corporate AMEX card from Sharon yesterday. Ahhhh....yeeeah. I also recieved death threats regarding charges for $160 dinners and purchases from Bath and Body Works in the airport. So my plan for this trip is dinner that costs $140 and purchases from Bath and Body Works once I get to Chicago! See how I don't do what I'm told not to do? I know you want to hire me now, but really, I couldn't possibly leave my current job. No really, stop. I'm loyal. I won't go. I won't even consider....

Wait... how much? A 2% increase in salary and I won't have to travel? Where do I forward my resume?

Brew Day

Cue the Rocky Theme Music. (Dun Dun Dun Dun Dun Dat Da Da....Dun Dun Dun Dun Dun Dat Da....Do Do Dooo... Do Do Doooo)

Yesterday was Brew Day, lady and gentleman, my favorite day of the month! I decided to photo journal it for both of my readers so that you, too, could feel the burn and the sweet glory of that which is Brew Day.

It all begins with a recipe. Today's is Vinnie Cilurzo's Blind Pig IPA. My family and I are "extract brewers", which means we buy beer ingredients in kits and follow directions (like a cake mix). The alternative would be "all grain brewing", which is kind of like cooking from scratch, but you need about $1500 worth of equipment to do it and a lot of space.

First things first. Brewing beer requires EXTREME cleanliness. You can't use soap on things used to ferment the beer, so you use an acid wash and lots of hot water. My father has turned the guest bathroom into his brew room, which cause my step mother to frequently scream obscenities.

In order to prevent spending $35 on a 5 gallon batch of shitty tasting beer, you need to use only filtered water and lots of it. And you should always keep an extra pot of water boiling and ready to use.

The first step is a lot like making a giant pot of tea. You steep what looks and smells like grape nuts in hot water for 30 minutes. Make sure to keep your pinky turned out!

Of course you can't have Brew Day and not have brew. At this point the smell of the grains cooking makes you rather thirsty, so to hell with you're diet. Carbohydrates be damned! Let's drink some effing brew!

After you've made your tea, now you add the sugar. And by sugar I mean about 6lbs of the stickiest, mess-waiting-to-happen, malted syrup you've ever seen. It comes in those silver pouches on the left and it helps to heat those packages in your reserve water while you make your tea. Otherwise they seem to pour... well... as slow as molasses.

After you've got all the malt syrup stirred into the tea, your going to add your first increment of hops. Hops are of course what give beer it's beer flavor and are essential to making beer. That being said, you will be interested to know a few things about hops. #1.) Good hops are a lot like good weed; the skunkier they smell, the better. #B.) Hops look like rabbit pellets and that is really kind of gross. III.) There are about eleventy bazillion different varieties of hops. Right now their is a hop shortage in this country, which is why your favorite six pack went from $5.99 to $7.99 over the past few months. You may even notice a slight difference in taste the longer the shortage continues, as brewers have begun to substitute different varieties of hops when they can't get their regular kind. When you're brewing you will generally add about 3-6 different hop additions over the course of your brew. The first addition is to give the beer it's bitterness. The more hops and the longer you cook the "wort" (which is what the tea is called after you add the malt), the more bitter your beer will be. The last hop additions are generally to give beer it's beer aroma.

Here, by the way, is The Man. The Legend. The Guy who replaced his "six pack" abs with a "keg" in the name of home brew. The One. The Only. My Dad, lady and gentleman. Today we shall refer to him respectfully as "The Brewmaster". And next to him is what your wort will look like just before you pull it off to cool.

Before you cool, get ye to the store and get some bagged ice made with FILTERED water. Don't ever use ice made in your freezer or out of tap water, unless your interested in marketing "Funky Freezer Burn Beer" to thirsty Americans. (Besides, Budweiser already has the market on that.) The best way to cool the wort is to add the ice to a 6 gallon bucket and then pour the wort over it until you have a little over 5 gallons in the bucket. From this point on, you must ONLY allow things that have been sanitized to come in contact with your brew.

Strange but true: While the wort is cooling, you need to oxygenate it. Hmmmm... how do you get a concentrated amount of oxygen into a bucket that with a lid on it? The Brewmaster pondered on how to do this for awhile and then came up with a brilliant plan. He bought an air pump like you would use in a fish tank, drilled a hole in the top of the bucket and Wal-ah! My dad is much smarter than your dad, which is why HE thought of this all by himself. And NO he didn't get this idea from the guy at the beer store or out of his home brew magazine. And even if that's not true, this is my blog and how ever I spin the tale makes anything I say an absolute. The Brewmaster is a genius!

After 20 minutes of oxygenation, you add your cooled wort to a carbouy. (That's "car-boo-ee" for all you phonetic readers.) The carbouy is where your "wort" will turn into "beer" over the next couple of weeks. It is absolutely imperative that the carbouy be insanely sanitized and clean. We're talking OCD clean here, people. We use glass carbouys generally, because it is a lot easier to insure absolute cleanliness. Then again, if you're clumsy (like moi) and you don't have a Brew Master for a dad, you should probably use plastic and be really careful not to scratch it when you clean it. A 5 gallon carbouy is NOT your friend when you drop it and it shatters into an infininte number of pieces. Not that I would know that from experience or anything.

HA HA! Grossed you out! This is what is left in the bucket after you transfer the wort from it to the carbouy. Kind of looks like what you left behind in the porcelain throne the last time you ate bad take out, huh? HA HA HA!! (I know you're both dying to invite me to dinner now!)


The last and final ingredient in beer is yeast. Without it, you will have 5 gallons of hoppy, malty, sweet soup and no alcoholic effect to put a smile on your face. I have tried to capture in the photo on the right exactly what happens after you add the yeast and shake everything up, but my 4 mpx camera is a bit under par. Basically what you (can't) see is the wort doing this odd churning thing all on it's own. Yeast eats the sugar in the malt syrup and essentially "pees" out alcohol. The more sugar you add to your wort, the higher the alcohol content your beer will have. I can see the wheels starting to turn in your head, and believe me; I'm one step ahead of you fellow beer-o-holic.

Now that you've got your fermentation started, you need a way for the CO2 produced by the yeast to be allowed to escape from the carbouy, but not allow any air back in. This is where the carbouy reverse condom comes in. Made from day-glo orange plastic so that you can always find the hole, you attach an air lock (clear plastic vile) full of vodka to the big hole in the condom, and if you have an especially excited batch of beer, a hose that leads to a half full pitcher of sterile water to the smaller, penis looking hole. The batch of beer we brewed was not a particularly excited batch, so we capped the penis instead with the white cap you see. The photo on the right demonstrates the black plastic "berka" we make our carbouys wear in case of accidental exposure to the sun. Because we like to keep our carbouys in their societal place in Brewland. And we don't let them vote, either.

Once your beer has fermented for a week or two and you are no longer getting bubbles of air coming up through your air lock, you can keg your beer. Because the The Brewmaster is 6'3" and has the upper body strength of an ox, he usually adds the beer to the keg, pumps some CO2 into it, and then picks it up and shakes the mixture together with his Incredible Hulk/He-Man strength. However, you can get the same effect by gyrating the keg back and forth for several minutes while it sits on the floor. Last but not least, I thought I would incite some extreme jealously and thus loose the both of you as loyal readers forever by including the above photos. This is the kegerator The Brewmaster has built to keep 4 of his amazing home brews on tap at all times. He bought this used freezer chest and drilled two holes in the lid. Then he installed the two towers, ran some copper piping for CO2 and some plastic tubing for the kegs, added a thermometer and there you have it. You can see that 4 kegs fit very neatly inside the chest, and the beer from the kegs fits very neatly inside my belly. Which is why I gained 20 pounds in 6 months after we moved next door to The Bremaster. So maybe you're not so jealous of my situation after all.

Work Chronicles Part 2

When I started my job 2 ½ years ago, I had no idea what to expect. Billy was 12 weeks old, the bills were piling up and I was desperate to find a job that was close to home and to his sitter. Being the fAbUlOuSlY, fabulous gal I am I was use to a little *Glamour* in my profession. My previous endeavors have included Clinique girl, front office manager at a Hilton hotel and senior sales rep for an internet company. (They have also included Subway Sandwich Artist and Payless Shoes girl, but we won’t talk about that.) Anyway, the point is that since age 19 I have been use to heels, suits, make-up and lookin’ gooood, thank you very much.

I interviewed with my current company on a rainy, November Tuesday. I showed up to this house (hmmm….), and was let inside a sliding glass door by a woman in jeans and a T-shirt. She looked over my resume while I sat in a lazy boy recliner in a living room. Her questions were brief and odd.

“How do you handle stress… specifically the kind where someone is yelling at you for something you didn’t do?”

“How do you feel about foul language?”

“Do you have any problem with monotony or having to explain yourself over and over?”

“Would you say you have a thick skin?”

I remember thinking, WTF???!? Is she for serious with these questions? Am I on candid camera? Did I somehow make it into an episode of the twilight zone? Are these questions even LEGAL??

Upon answering all of these strange inquiries (truthfully, I might add), she asked me when I could start. I told her as soon as possible.

“How about right now?”

“Right NOW? Well… no. I have an issue with child care at the moment, but I could probably start tomorrow.”

“Good. Be here at 8AM. And wear something comfortable. As a matter a fact, wear something that will keep you cool. It’s hot upstairs.”

I left stunned. And confused. And a little worried. But I needed the job and I figured it was worth a shot. I could always find something else. This would put a little money in the bank in the mean time.

The next morning I showed up as instructed, but with make-up and earrings and cute shoes. I parked in the driveway, came in through the sliding glass door and was met by a very old man in the kitchen.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Beth! It's very nice to meet you. I'll be working upstairs."

"Huh. I'm Al*. Are you the one with the baby? I told them they shouldn't be hiring no woman with no baby. You'll be gone every time we need you and you'll do nothing but give us all his colds and flus. I voted against you, I just want you to know that. AHHH!!! And you can't wear those shoes. Take them off right now! All I need is for you to walk up the stairs in those and break your neck. 'Round here we wear shoes, girl, not floppy things."

You know when you stand there, and just blink over and over again because you're not sure what you're hearing is actually what you're hearing, and you're sure as hell not sure what to do about what you think you're hearing, but might not actually be hearing? Yeah. This was one of those times.

The woman who interviewed me (Sharon*) obviously overheard Al and came out of her office (bedroom) to rescue me. "Oh never mind Al. He's just had a really bad night. He works all night and some times doesn't end up getting much sleep. He lives here full time, so we need to make sure we respect that this is his house. You should really take off those shoes and just plan on wearing plain old tennies from now on. And I'd recommend you don't wear that makeup either, or any perfume. Fill out this paperwork and I will take you upstairs to meet Rick*."

Rick, it turned out, was a 65 year old Vietnam vet who had the memory of a gnat. I had to tell him my name about 6 times, and once I even had to tell him his name. This was the guy who was in charge of training me. So I had that going for me. Which was nice.

After a week of fumbling around, trying to figure it all out, I met my boss, Dan*. Dan is Al's middle son, and the current president of the company. The morning I met him, I came in the door and stopped midway, as there was a man yelling at the top of his lungs. After the initial "deer in the head lights" adrenaline wore off, I decided I'd better just sneak up stairs and write my time in later, since the yelling was coming from the direction of the time clock. All I could make out as I did so was,

"I f$*^ing told you I DON'T want any of these A*^holes getting a paycheck unless they turn in their yellow time cards!!! I am sick and tired of all of you A*^holes taking advantage of me! I am not a f$*^cking cash cow! You tell those idiots I said they DO NOT get paid unless I see what the f$*^ they've been doing out in the field all week. I'm tired of this sh^t! And if anyone of those bastard has a problem with it, you tell them I said "f$ck you!" and that goes for everyone of those mother f$*^ers!"

Not one to ever really be offended by the excessive use of the f-word, I was a bit intrigued. In all my years I don't think I have ever WORKED around anyone who took it that far. Human resources kind of frowns on that type of thing, you know, especially out of the mouth of someone in charge. What with all the lawsuits for harassment and all.

Not 5 minutes after I got settled in upstairs to get to work, this short, balding, dorky, pocket protector looking man comes upstairs and says to me, "Who the hell are you?"

And being the smart ass I am, the following just pops out of my mouth before I can even help it: "Apparently I am the newest a*^holes to work for you. I'm Beth."

A look of surprise mixed with a bit of amusement crosses his face. Everyone around sucked in their breath and could only stare at the two of us. There is silence for what seems like 10 minutes, but was probably about 20 seconds. (Because I'm dramatical like that.)

"I'm glad we finally hired someone around here with a f$*^ing brain. Now, here, make yourself useful and go get me a f$*^ing cup of coffee!" he said to me as he shoved his coffee cup at me.

And that my friends, was the start of the best job I’ve ever had in my life. Tune in next time…


(* of course I'm not going to tell you thier REAL names.)

Disneyland

We took Billy to Disneyland on Tuesday. It was the most perfect day ever to go, and I highly recommend that anyone who wants an outstanding day there do like we did and take a Tuesday off in February to do it! The weather was perfect, there was very few people in the park and the traffic was great both to and from. We had a lot of fun, although I think we will wait a few years before we take Billy again. He was afraid on a lot of the rides we went on. He did like the Buzz Lightyear ride, however, because he got to shoot the space gun at the bad guys.


Waiting in line to get in, Billy was insistant that he tell everyone HE was going to Disneyland.


Just inside the park.


On the Teacups.


In Mickey Mouse's house.


"MOM!! Stop taking my picture and let me play!!!"


His favorite part of Disneyland? The park in Toontown. So basically, we could have taken him to the park for the day and saved $150. Figures.


Finally! Mom and Dad can take turns going on Space Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain.

Some Recent Considerations

So over the past 4 days the plan of action to leave The Land of Irresponsibility has changed. Drastically.

Bill has wanted to attend The Culinary Institute of America ever since he decided to pursue his passion and become a chef. The only problem was that the two campuses for such an endeavor were located in upstate NY and Napa Valley, CA. (I don't think I need to go into how dire straits our situation would become if we were to relocate to one of those two fancy pants locations.) So the plan had been to move to Minneapolis, a city we both have always wanted to live in. Through networking with some people in my industry, we knew I would end up making a pretty good living there and then Bill would attend one of the culinary schools in the fall.

On Wednesday he discovered that The CIofA recently opened a campus in San Antonio, TX. And not only that, they have an emphasis on Latin food in their curriculum.

I can feel my ass expanding back out to it's pre-February proportions as we speak. As a matter of fact, I think I feel it exceeding them.

Sooooooo... the "pros" are that the move would be cheaper, the weather would be better, the school Bill would be attending would be the best and he would most likely have more job opportunity upon graduating. Also, when my sister and her husband become "civilians" again, they plan on retiring in San Antonio permanently. Which is huge since my sister and I have never even lived in the same state in our adult lives. We're missing each other's children grow up and it makes us both kind of sad.

The "cons" are that we're going to be surrounded by Bush loving conservatives and (maybe, possibly a lot more racists biggots than we're use to), I don't know anyone in my industry in that area and I hear the cockroaches there can some times be mistaken for small birds. On a more personal level, I have lived in Texas before for a year. I actually went to high school with Kelly Clarkston, believe it or not, but I am two years older than she is. I hated it. (living in Texas... not going to school with Kelly Clarkston.) I didn't fit in at all and "southern hospitality" just didn't agree with me.

But Beth, you're so... so... (likeable yet dorky? witty but with extra cheese? the kind of person who grows on you?), you say. I can't imagine YOU not being able to get along with the Texicans.

Believe it.

I was so unpopular that nobody even knew I existed. Except my sister, who was popular and had been there for 4 years prior to me. She just pretended I didn't exist. No dates, no friends, no football games or dances, nobody to hang out with, nothin'. And that was my senior year, believe it or not. And I CHOOSE to move there to spend a year living with my dad by my OWN accord, meaning this lonely existence was self inflicted. I know, Boo-effing-hoo. Whatever.

All that aside, I think I am willing to give this a shot. After Bill graduates from school, it's not like we can't pick up and move if I hate it we don't like it, right? Besides, maybe I can save some souls by preaching the democratic gospel.

Meh. We'll see. To be continued...

How They Roll in Fon"tucky"

Last night while Bill and I were lying in bed we heard the following story on KFI AM 640. For those of you who don't know anything about Fontana, it is home to the Fontana Speedway and an enormous amount of "trailer trash" in all colors, shapes and varieties. I'm not down on people who live in trailers, by the way, I'm just stating the facts, ma'am.

(02-18) 09:49 PST Fontana, Calif. (AP) --
A hunger for carnitas nearly led to some carnage after a Fontana man was robbed of a bag of tacos at gunpoint.Police Sergeant Jeff Decker says the 35-year-old victim had just bought about $20 in tacos from a street-corner stand Sunday night and was bicycling home when the suspect confronted him and said "Give me your tacos."Decker says the suspect grabbed the bag of food, punched the victim in the face and began to flee.When the victim demanded his tacos back, the suspect pointed what appeared to be a handgun at the man and threatened to kill him before running away.___Information from: Inland Valley Daily Bulletin, www.dailybulletin.com

I burst out laughing when I heard this. To me, this is the equivalent of robbing 7-11 for beer. WTF?!? I guess he must of been hungry. And I think I'd like to pretend he has 10 starving kids at home who hadn't eaten all day. Because you know the reality is he and his buddies were sitting around playing video games and all the sudden they were hungry. Not having any money amongst them, they came up with this brilliant idea. The gunman was probably chosen because he was the last guy to reach the next level.

I hope they catch this guy because I am going follow his trial like it was OJ part 2. Maybe I'll even show up for jury duty. And if I do, I am going to bring the whole jury and court staff tacos to eat while we watch this guy get prosecuted.

My Bubba

I am beginning to see blogging as a form of therapy. My intention when I began doing it 3 weeks ago was to basically amuse myself with my wit and my sense of humor, and hopefully a few other people as well. Last week I wrote about one of my worst nightmares as a mother, and I felt better when I was done. I also felt a little guilty thinking, "Well that wasn't amusing. Thanks for bringing everyone down with you."

Well, whatever. It is what it is. And the point is, I felt better. So I'm doing it again.

Today the "bring me down" subject is none other than my beloved, beautiful, amazing, 2 year old son. This is him when he was 11 months old. Back then, he was the best baby you could have ever asked for.

My labor with him was a mere 13 1/2 hours long. I had no drugs what so ever, the way I had planned it. My contractions were no worse than a case of menstrual cramps. The delivery took 4 pushes total and he was out. He was a little guy; only 5lbs 9oz., 18 1/2 inches long. When they laid him on my chest, he immediately started rooting. He got great Apgar scores, but they took him from me anyway and kept him in the NICU for 2 days because he was such a little guy.

Flash forward to a month old. I'm feeling more comfortable. Bill is feeling a little more comfortable. I'm getting a hang of the breastfeeding thing. We are falling in love with our child and learning that the adjustment isn't all that hard.

Flash forward again to 6 months old. Bill and I are full on, madly, crazy in love with our little boy. He is his daddy's boy for sure, constantly looking for him and giggling when he comes near him. He is also his mama's snuggle bug and will often lie on her chest and stare at her while she reads him stories. He loves the dogs and his excersaucer and his food!

FF to a year old. Walking around, checking things out is what it's all about. Mama follows him and hovers over him like a lunatic, but at least he never swallowed anything nasty! He remains a calm, loving, low key little guy, much to his parents delight.

FF to 18 months. The "theme music" is now the theme music to Jaws. Mommy starts getting very bad reports that this amazing child is now biting, hitting and pushing to get his way. One day when I picked him up, the babysitter informed me that he had some how managed to get up onto the kitchen table and push all of the baby seats off and onto the floor. She said when she caught him, he was smiling at her as if to say, "HA HA! I got up here even when you told me not to!"

Today I took him to see his doctor because he's been sick for almost 2 weeks and he keeps running a fever every 3 days or so. He woke up with a fever, we gave him some Tylenol and he stayed with Grandma until 2:45 when I took him in. While waiting for the doctor, he proceeded to charm the waiting room full of people by acting shy and then telling them all that, "I 2, actually" and "I have a hood on my jacket". And boots! "Lookit my boots!"

Meanwhile, we're called back to the smaller waiting room, and of course, now that the audience is gone, he immediately switches to what I call "crazy man mode". This is where he becomes possess by demons, and he starts running around touching, slamming, punching, breaking, ripping, destroying EVERYTHING. I tell him to sit in the chair and I try to play a game with him (Row, row, row your boat & itsy bitsy spider).

Yeah, right.

He wants to play, "I NOT sit in the chair, mommy. I NOT!!!" So I tell him, "Billy, what you're doing right now is very naughty behavior. We don't play in Dr. R's sink! We don't play in the trash can and we don't rip the paper off of the table. If you don't sit in that chair right now, I am going to have to spank your butt. Please sit down and we will sing a song."

"I don't WANT a song. I want my juice."

I hand him his juice. He throws it on the floor and smiles at me.

I pick up his juice and put it in my purse out of his reach.

"MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT MY JUICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"No, Billy. You may not have your juice now. Throwing your cup on the floor is very naughty behavior, and you know that we don't do that. Sit in the chair and wait for Dr. R."

"I NOT! I want my JUUUUUUUICCCCCCCCCCE!!"

"No. Now sit down and wait. Why don't we play "gimme 5?"

So that worked for about 45 seconds.

"I want my JUUUU...."

And then Dr. R walks in.

Billy now gets to sit up on the table that he has been ripping the paper off of for the past 10 minutes before he was confined to the chair. He allows Dr. R to look in his ears and his mouth, listen to him breathe and feel his tummy. He also is good while he gets weighted and measured.

Then while Dr. R is giving me the Rx for a little expectorant and an eye antibiotic, "crazy man mode" comes back in full force. So I say, "Dr. R, now that we're here I have been meaning to ask you about what I can do concerning Billy's behavior. Is THIS normal??" I gesture towards Billy, as he is now hitting the wall with his fist, and looking at us like, "What of it?"

"When I pick him up from daycare" I continue "I get a bad report almost every night. He hits, he pinches, he spits, he kicks, he throws toys, he doesn't do what he's told, he won't sit in time out when he gets in trouble. What can I do? I don't want to spank him every time he does something wrong." As I am saying this I am picking Billy up and physically restraining him on my lap, because he is up trying to play in the sink again.

He struggles against my hold and tries to hit me in the face, while screaming at me that he wants DOWN. Dr. R basically tells me over the next 5 minutes that he isn't going to say I should spank my child, but that I should spank my child. In fact I should tear his little behind up. He tells me that I can go on the http://www.aap.org/ (American Academy of Pediatrics) and read articles on behavior, but that my child obviously needs some pretty structured discipline and he needs it now before it's too late.

He hands me the Rx and Billy and I leave.

When we get in the truck, I think about how humiliated and defeated I feel that a 2 1/2 year old child can completely dominate me. I am thinking about Dr. R's last words which were, "Your going to have to show him that you're the mom and he's the child and that is all there is to it." Billy looks up at me and smiles and says, "I not get a spankin', mommy. I have good behavior."

And I say, "No Billy. You didn't have good behavior. You had very naughty behavior and now you ARE going to get a spanking." And just like I have done on 2 other occasions, I pulled his pants down in the truck and gave him three solid whacks on his bare butt. I followed it up by a lecture on why his is getting his spanking and how we don't behave.

When we got home, I reiterated why he got his spanking and then I put him in a 2 minute timeout. He is now sound asleep in his bed because he didn't even make it through his timeout.

So now that you know the whole story, here is the way I feel about all of this.

I DON'T WANT TO SPANK MY CHILD. I do not want to stand over him and dominate him with pain and fear. I don't like the look on his face when I cause him pain. I HATE IT.

Only now, because I feel this way, my child is a brat. He terrorizes his day care center, and some times he even terrorizes me. He does not do what I tell him to do, and often times he does the complete opposite just to see how far he can push me. Sometimes I am so mad and frusterated I cry. I don't want a bratty kid!!

So what to do?