Here is the extra chapter with the action I believe was sought in the request. I have received one last request that I will begin to work on. I have a few with Liam as an adult that I am holding to share at the end, rather than going back and forth from Liam as a child then adult and back again. I may have to take a week or two of a break to finish everything up, but I will be back. I believe I have written all the requests, other than one, so if you haven't seen yours yet, it's coming. Thank you for all your suggestions.

P.S. I received a few more ideas last night and will see what I can do with them.

The Finger

I am busy attempting to make a burrito that both Liam and I will eat when I hear the TV come on. He is being quiet, so I don't think much about it until I hear a bunch of gunfire erupt and some bad words flow. I walk over to see he has some adult themed movie on and I quickly change the channel to a show on remodeling your bathroom.

"Dad," he immediately complains. "Paxton said he watched this movie and told me it was really good."

"I highly doubt that Paxton watched this movie and even if he did, you are not going to see it." I tell him as I turn the TV off and head back to the kitchen with the remote. I stop to turn around to tell him we'll watch something later when I discover that he is waving his middle finger at me.

My reaction is immediate as I glide towards him. He puts his arm down and begins to apologize. "I'm sorry Dad, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry." But his efforts don't faze me as I pull him off the couch and land a blistering blow to his backside. I only do it once so I ensure that he feels it.

"Get your homework and bring it to the table," I order.

He disappears and returns with backpack in hand. I point for him to sit down and he scrunches up his face in distaste. He uses the heels of his hands to wipe the tears from his face as he sits. He pulls out his math workbook and finds a pencil, setting both on the table.

"Get to work while I finish dinner." I tell him moving into the kitchen a few feet away.

I hear him complain about how much he hates math while believing that it is me that he actually hates more than math at this point in time, but I let him vent without further retribution.

He finishes his page as I head to the table with dinner. We begin eating in silence and end the meal equally as silent. I get up and set my dishes in the sink and wait for him to do the same, but when I look over he is gone. "Liam," I call out to him. "I need your dishes." I wait and wait and go see if he had a sudden need for the bathroom, but the door remains open and the room empty. His bedroom door however is closed.

"Hey," I say as I knock and swing his door open. He is lying on his bed reading and doesn't seem to hear my approach. "Liam, you need to come and clear your dinner plate."

"Why can't you do it?" He asks without looking up from his book.

"Because it's your plate and your job. Besides I'm not done with you yet."

"What do you mean? I did my homework. I ate dinner. What else is there?" He asks, his eyes still focused on the pages in front of him.

"Your punishment isn't over." Now he puts the book down to glare at me.

"Yes it is. You spanked me. It's over," he says, his face sullen.

"Oh son, that wasn't a spanking, that was a simple swat. That was something to get your attention. You have yet to suffer a true spanking." He doesn't move, just looks past me into the living room. "If you would like to find out the difference, keep sitting on your bed. This gets him moving, albeit slowly.

He lays his book face down on the bed, its pages spread-eagled and stands up and follows me to the table where he grabs his plate, silverware and glass and set them in the sink. He turns, folds his arms and stares back at me as I try not to explode in several directions at once. "Sit down at the table," I order and could die of boredom in the amount of time it takes him to get there and seated.

"Find your notebook and pencil," I tell him as I grab his backpack from the corner where he had flung it after his math homework. He digs through and finds what he needs and sets them on the table. I open the notebook, find an empty page and write, "I will not disrespect my father" on the top line. "Read it to me." I say pointing to the sentence.

He does, taking a second to sound out disrespect. "Do you know what it means?"

"I'm supposed to do what you say—all the time."

"You're supposed to do that because you respect me. It means that you understand that I'm in charge, and the decisions that I make are in your best interest. Get started," I tell him as I nod at the paper.

"How many times?" He asks, as if I just requested him to build a cabin out of Popsicle sticks.

"Fill up the page. One sentence on each line."

"That many times?" He asks aghast.

"That many times." I agree.

He gets started while I deal with the dishes, but when I check on him later he hasn't gotten far. "You don't leave the table until the front is filled. And if you keep delaying, tomorrow night you can fill up the other side."

"But my hand hurts." He complains.

"Take short breaks." I advise as I move into the living room and turn the TV on.

I can feel his anger and frustration seep my way, but I am resolute in my discipline. I deal with far too many juveniles that don't employ any respect towards anything, not even themselves, and I refuse to let my own son fall into the depths of the obnoxious and over-indulged. My father was a good example at demanding and most of the time receiving respect. And if he didn't, well that's how I know Liam didn't get a good and proper spanking as I am somewhat of an expert on the subject matter.

Twenty minutes later I check on him to see he has gotten up for a glass of chocolate milk. He has nearly finished and I realize my presence will be needed in order for him to get this done before he graduates high school. "You have a few minutes of work left and bedtime is in less than an hour. Do you think you can make it?"

He lays his head down in response. "Maybe," he sighs.

"How about I sit here until you do," I tell him as I set my chin on my hands which are palm down on the table, and look across at him. He picks up the pencil as if it weighs ten pounds and scribbles out another sentence. The irony doesn't escape me that the sentencing of his misdeed is writing out sentences. But I'm sure he wouldn't get it or care to.

This was a favorite punishment of my mother's. She would sit us down and make us write out whatever she thought we needed to learn. I recall things like: "I will not argue with my brother. I will not leave my toys on the stairs. I love my brother. I will use my inside voice." And on and on it went. Dad was more of seat the pants guy if you get my drift, so apparently I'm using both tactics tonight.

"Here," Liam says, his head down on the table, he slides the completed paper my way. I look it over and agree that he has finally fulfilled my requirements.

"Get ready for bed," I tell him and I get an ugly look. Has he learned nothing? Kids today. "Look pal, you still have another side to complete if necessary and that can be followed up by a true honest to god spanking if you really want to push it. Is that what you want?"

All I get in return is a shrug. Is he hanging around some new rebellious hooligan at school or is it at age eight, he believes he doesn't need to answer to anyone?

"Use your words." I tell him.

"What was the question again?"

"I told you to get ready for bed. No question there. But if you do not get up and move it then you will be writing sentences tomorrow night and you will find out what a spanking is compared to the swat that you received earlier. So which is it going to be?"

I can see this weighing heavily on his mind as he keeps his head on his arm, which is splayed out on the table. Several seconds go by and I have no idea why this is so difficult of a decision. Though I guess I do. I still remember doing incredibly stupid things at that age. Does he believe I'm bluffing and will cave to him, something I'm generally not known for or will he simply comply and make are final moments of the evening a pleasure.

ENDING ONE Liam chooses wisely

He reluctantly gets up and heads to the bathroom, understanding that he doesn't need me to back up my words, that I don't make false promises and I am relieved. It does take him over an hour to take a bath, brush his teeth and find his pajamas, but he's a kid and that's what kids do—push you to your limits. But I know that I must have a limit for him, and he has to know that there is one. Because out on the streets, I see on a daily basis what happens when you don't.

ENDING TWO Liam chooses poorly

He sighs dramatically and I'm afraid for what that means. He finishes his milk, gets up, and sets the glass in the sink. He then comes back to the table and sits down across from me. "I want to watch TV instead."

Being the calm, levelheaded father that I am, I give him an out, but I will only give it once. "No TV tonight, bath, teeth, bed. If you get moving now, we'll have time to read." Hoping the book part will override the part of his brain that is preparing to make a major mistake. If he doesn't do what I ask then I have to do what I promised. There is no wiggle room here. If he gets away with dictating what he is and isn't going to do, then I have no purpose, and I very much would like to have a purpose.

"But I haven't had any TV time tonight," he whines.

"That was your choice, by misbehaving. You can have TV time tomorrow if you do what you are supposed to."

"I'm supposed to watch TV," he argues and I know it's almost show time. I'm about to snap his leash.

"Not tonight you aren't. Get up and get ready for bed. I'm not going to tell you again."

But he doesn't. He doesn't move. He isn't dramatic, no bursts of you can't tell me what to do, or you're stupid or even standing up and crossing his arms. He remains seated, looking down at the table, tracing invisible shapes and lines with his finger so I stand up hoping that this will encourage him, but again nothing.

"Okay then," I say in one last effort for him to snap back into sanity. I guess he is going to find out that I mean what I say and I say what I mean. I just didn't see this coming for a few more years. "One last chance." I offer. But he doesn't move—until I move him.

I pull his chair back and take hold of his arm tightly and head towards the couch. He doesn't help propel us forward at all, as if this is some kind of surprise that has landed out of nowhere. He drags his feet in disbelief that this is actually going to happen. Even though it's not far to the couch I lift him off the ground to release the friction between his shoes and the floor. I sit down on the edge of the couch and flip him across my lap. I find that he fits nicely as if mother nature is saying, "yep, right on Dad." He's tense, I can feel his core tighten right up. I remember feeling so—so—not helpless, but powerless, not mad, but angry, but unsure of at who. My emotions were all jumbled up whenever I found myself staring at the floor from my father's lap. I hated him, but I hated me more. I hoped this would be the one and only time that Liam and I would find ourselves in this position.

I had a good grip on him with my left arm, he tried to kick his legs as if that would help him. But I turned so that his top half was more over the couch now and I could shift him forward and only had to use one leg so that I could employ my other one to hold his legs still. I had him clamped in and I believe at that moment he had changed his mind and reconsidered his actions. But it was too late. I could hear him call out to me. "Dad. I'm sorry." He had made his decision and now he was going to live with its consequences. He has to understand that you can't take everything back once the reality of it all comes to pass. The idea is not to put yourself in that situation to begin with. And that lesson will be learned tonight. I raised my palm and brought it down on his small, jean clad behind. I was firm, but not ridiculous. I wanted him to feel this, I wanted the sting to travel to his brain and make him understand what he was incapable of grasping mere minutes before. I count to six in my head and then decided to brandish one more and make it pretty hefty. I then release him from my lap but don't let him leave. I hold is hand, then his other hand as his tears fall down his flushed face as he tries to pull away from me. He yanks, but I don't let go. I let him try a few more times but hold fast.

"Let me go," he cries out. But I know this is the most important part of the whole thing. I let him flail another minute before he relaxes a bit. I wait for the "I hate you" but it doesn't come, despite the fact that I'm sure that is all he can think of right now.

I look at him, his face doing everything to look away and I track it, my hands still firm on his. "Look at me son," I demand and he ignores. "You might as well look at me because you aren't going anywhere until you do."

He finally looks my way, his eyes red and moist, his cheeks red, his nose dripping. "What," he yells.

"Hey, no yelling." I have taken a lot of care not raise my voice and to remain calm throughout this, well at least attempted to, my cool exterior doesn't quite match my internal, flaming hot hellfire inside. "Why are you in trouble?" I ask.

"Because you hate me," he replies attempting to pull away again. Was I this horrible at his age? This stubborn?

"No. I love you and you know that. This happened because of the choices that you made."

"I did what you said." He tells me as if the prior ten-minute showdown never happened.

"No you didn't. I told you to get ready for bed, but you insisted that you wanted to watch TV and didn't do what I asked, despite me warning you that this would happen. Don't you remember that?"

He shrugs. "If I tell you something and don't follow through then I'm not being a good parent. You are important to me so how you act is important to me. You have to understand that there are consequences when you make poor choices. Why do you think the jails are all full?"

It takes a minute but finally he whispers, "bad choices."

"Exactly. Is that where you want to be instead of sitting at the table writing sentences? Or in your room?"

"No," he replies in a raspy whisper.

"Okay then. That's why I did what I did. You have to understand there are rules for a reason and that you have to follow them. Now listen to me, I am going to let you go and you are going to get your bath. Then you are going to brush your teeth and go to bed. No reading tonight. Tomorrow while I'm cooking dinner you will write more sentences and then we can put this behind us and move forward having learned how to respect the rules and the people who are in charge.

"I have to respect the rules and the people in charge just like you do." I add.

"But you don't get spanked." He counters.

"No, but there are consequences. And when adults don't obey the rules the consequences can be huge, like going to jail."

"You don't go to jail."

"Because I learned a lot of lessons when I was your age. I respect my bosses and the rules."

"All the time?"

"Most of the time. When I disagree with something, I explain why and if the reason isn't good enough I get stuck with doing paperwork or working late. Consequences."

"But if you have to work more then it affects me too because I don't get to see you."

"Yes, consequences often affect people who aren't at fault. Just like tonight."

"How did tonight hurt you?"

"You think I like punishing you?" He shrugs. "I don't. Especially with what happened tonight. But I need to know that you understand the rules and you learn to respect them."

"Cause you don't want me to go to jail."

"Something like that."

"Cause you love me."

"Very, very much."

He heaves out a huge shuddering sigh and finally relaxes. "Okay. I'll get ready for bed."

I let him ago and he disappears into the bathroom where I immediately hear the water start. I take a couple of deep breaths and try to gather myself, happy that little episode was over. I tell myself that I did what I had to do because out on the streets, I see on a daily basis what happens when you don't.