Judge, Jury, Homemaker

I’ve become the bad guy.  Bad cop.  The Muscle.  The Fist.  The disciplinarian. He Who Must Not Be Named.   You’re my kid and you screw up, you’ll see me Walking Tall, I’ll arrive with a Sudden Impact, and I’ll lay down the law like I’m Legally Blond.  I’m hard is what I’m saying.  It’s a complete surprise to me.

This is how I found out:  I went inside to do . . .something--probably I was either in the bathroom or “finding” something--while my wife and daughter were filling up the new kiddie pool.  Sweet pool, by the way.  Big, flexible, sturdy plastic, and it came with a slide that also functions as a non-pool slide.  Perfect place to sip your Cristal. 

In the midst of the pool filling party, there was an incident that led to whining.  My wife told my daughter that if she was going to be whiny, there’d be no going in the pool.  When she started again, my wife said, "Uh-oh, daddy’s coming soon, if he hears you, you’re not going to be able to go in the pool."

She replied, “Don’t worry, he won’t come out, he’s cookin’ dinner.”

What? 

My flabbergasted ears heard:

“Morning noon and night, daddy is either cooking dinner or breaking balls and don’t worry because right now, he’s doing the former.” 

I was both aghast (because I’m a middle aged women from the 1800’s) and resigned.  Somewhere inside, I knew.  Maybe it’s because I’m the parent at home, so I have to make the rules.  Or maybe it’s because every time my rules are questioned I scream, “I Am The Law!” and stomp out of the room.

In my youth, I was a good time.  Easy going, go along to get along ol’ Bachelor Man.  Often altered by one substance or another.  An always pleasant, regularly buzzed person.  And now, I’m the Strongman.  The Boss.  Super Fuzz.  Keyser Soze.  The hammered has become The Hammer. 

When my wife first got pregnant, every one said to her, “oh, you know you’re gonna have to be the disciplinarian.  He’s sweet, but you know, useless.  In the nicest way.”

Such was my reputation. 

Parenting can change a person.

My wife is tickled.  She's a high school teacher, so she spends most of her day cracking skulls and calling parents.  It's good for her to come home and be the nice one.

Me, I'll continue to do the job.  Take out the trash.  With extreme prejudice.

And you, right there.  You, with the cookies.  No eating at the computer.  No, now . . . crying will not help you.

Yours,

Drill Sergeant Homemaker Man