And for your patience, which far exceeds that of your parents, you win a . . .

At my house, children who have worn out the tolerance of their adult caretakers, specifically their father and me, get sent to sit on the stairs. Depending on the day, hour, and temperament of the child, sooner or later he starts yelling, “Can I come back now?” We shut down the plaintative cries with a resounding, chorused, irritated “No!”

My husband and I would never admit to our offspring, however, that we appreciate these little reminders. In fact, we frequently follow-up with, “Don’t ask again. You can’t come back until we say you can!” Of course, thirty seconds later we call the punished child to join us at the dinner table. No need to push the limits of our short-term memory.

Tonight after we excused the children from the table to finish homework, take baths, and rub their knuckles on each other’s heads, my husband and I stayed behind to clean the kitchen and chat, peacefully, uninterrupted. Twenty minutes of fuss-free bliss. But then, the volume elsewhere in the house rose and we knew it was intimacy’s curtain call.

I turned off the kitchen lights, proceeded through the dining room, stopped in the living room to kiss my 12 year-old on the head, and turned the corner to climb the stairs. There sat my 6 year-old daughter, elbows on knees, chin on hands, pout on lips. “What’s wrong,” I asked, surprised to see her. Then I vaguely recalled an incident involving her brother and a pink cup and some sassy squealing. “Did we send you to the steps?”

Working hard to get “Yes” past her puffed out bottom lip, she slumped her shoulders and pressed her face even further into her palms.

This had the intended effect on my heart and conscience. “How long have you been here?” I quizzed, then said, when I realized what all this meant, “Were you finished eating?”

For her patience and staying power, we awarded her a never before proffered GET OUT OF TROUBLE FREE CARD. She can use it the next time we deal out punishment. I encouraged her brothers to help her remember she has it, but, from the looks on their faces, I already know they won’t.

They don’t want us to lose our tempers, accuse them of butting in where they don’t belong, and send them to the stairs, never to be seen or heard from again.

(Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist and author of If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny. She lives in Thomson, GA with her husband and their four children.)