My mother made two signs out of foam board and hung them on a closet doorknob where I'd always be aware that she was ready to force one or the other on me.

One read "I am a grouch" and the other read "I am a crybaby" and I would have to wear them, often outside where neighborhood kids could see me, whenever my crying or objections to her mandates inconvenienced her.

It didn't take long before "do you want to wear a sign?" became as familiar as "do you want me to give you something to cry about?"

This was an alternative practice to hitting me with my own toys on the backs of my naked thighs.

To say I took a reckless trajectory as I aged would be an understatement. I have a genius level IQ if such things hold any meaning but you'd never suspect it based on my life's accomplishments which are nominal and unnoteworthy. Perhaps the greatest thing I've accomplished is ending her cycle of abuse with my own children or perhaps my recovery.

It is fascinating how many people I related this to over the years LOVED the idea of humiliating children with signs and thought my mother clever for it.