I know you’ve interacted with this mother (or father): “Stop that. Put that down. Don’t do that. Don’t make me count to THREE… one… TWO…”

Yep, and then comes three. Anyone who attended public school has known that little tidbit since at least the fifth grade.

It’s been quite a while since we threatened our four ingrates…umm, children… with the Final Countdown. We usually stopped at one, as in: “Number one, buy your own damn alcohol.”

But everywhere I go (a massive list that includes the grocer, the big box retailer and the big box home improvement retailer), I run into a parent who inevitably will threaten their little Lucifer with the dreaded countdown.

Moms at the grocery store are the most fun. It was once said that if you’re single, the grocery store is one of the best places to pick up women.

Well, I’ve been doing the grocery shopping for this household for about a decade now and I can’t confidently say that the originator of that expression is, well, a liar.

Unless I’m shopping at the wrong stores, the only women I encounter are dragging around their preschoolers and counting down because of candy-, juice- or cereal-aisle infractions.

And then there are the ones who pack four kids into the SUV-size kiddie grocery cart and commit the kind of traffic violations that – on real roads – would result in license revocation. But we’ll save that little nugget for another day and another blog.

These ladies are anything but available – save for the role of surrogate starter pistols at the track meet. Or at NASA’s Mission Control (Houston, I’m not telling you again to launch that shuttle…one…TWO).

Hmmm… perhaps the proper verbiage would be count up, but then my title that references an album release by the horrible Swedish ‘80s band, Europe, would be rendered moot. 

Anyway, I even crossed paths recently with my daughter’s sister-in-law, who happens to be married to a Hispanic gentleman, and she had their three offspring in tow. Five minutes into the meeting, you guessed it: uno… DOS.

Ay carumba!

This past Sunday, when the children and our little grand gnome came home to roost (roosting to an empty nest parent, by the way, means they visit for no more than five hours – six if I’m drinking), I met yet another counter in our family room: the mother of the grand gremlin.

My daughter – or Ayatollah Kho-mommy as she’s known to my grandson – has become one of those who are implementing numerical nomenclature into disciplinary tactics.

‘Justin, put your toys in the toybox. Justin, toybox, please. Justin… one…TWO.’

‘Justin, put on your shoes. Justin, the shoes. Justin, one…TWO.’

‘Justin, don’t make me count. Justin, you don’t want me to count. Justin, one…TWO.’

I want to scream THREE THREE THREE, for god’s sake THREE, just so someone will get a spanking or a flogging or a darn good thrashing! Or, at the very least, an extended time out.

Of course, as my daughter is showing off her mathematical prowess, my grandson is flapping his arms like they’re on fire, bursting into the kind of tears that normally accompany crying with no sound, and running around in circles like the other two stooges are chasing him with mallets.

Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, indeed.

Just as little Justin reaches the point that will soon bring dictatorial arrest and incarceration, he performs the desired task and goes about the business of being smack in the middle of his terrible twos.

I never did understand the counting premise - maybe because my father never bothered to count. At the point of infraction, my dad would simply grab my arm with all the force of, I don’t know, a vice grip and lean in for a soft whisper into my ear.

“Douglas, unless you want to spend the next hour crying and unable to sit down I recommend you do what I told you to do.”

Yeah, dad was never a big fan of one or two, but he sure was a huge proponent of three.

By J. Doug Gill