April 1, 2012

When The Dad's In Charge

On Tuesday evening, I picked up two endlessly bickering kids who bore a striking resemblance to my daughters.  They fought about whether the temperature in the van should be 72 or 73.  They fought about whether or not we should listen to Taylor Swift or Taylor Swift.  They fought over whether 36 was speeding if the sign said 35.  (It's not.)  It was torture for them, and it was especially torture for me.

When we got home, we did homework at which time we fought about how long it takes to sharpen a pencil.  We fed the dogs at which time we fought about who gave which dog more food.  We went to the bathroom at which time we argued over who washed their hands the best.

One. Thing. After. Another.

Eventually, I kicked them out of the house and told them to not come back in until they were being nice.  They were out there for over an hour when Daughter 1 poked her head in and said, "I'm letting my sister throw my boomerang.  We're getting along now, Momma."

That lasted until Daughter 2 actually made the throw.

I knew it landed on the roof even before I saw it on the roof because I heard Daughter 1 announce it to the whole neighborhood.  Then I heard Daughter 2 announce to the whole neighborhood that it was an accident.  Then, the whole neighborhood got to hear the bickering.

I stepped to the front door just in time to see The Dad pull up.  I ran to his truck and said, "They're fighting.  You're in charge."  Then I ran in, poured myself a cold drink and sat down by the front window to watch the show.

The Dad, who is ever so calm, cool and collected, walked over to them and listened attentively as they each squealed their own side of the story.  He nodded his head at the right times.  He patted little backs that needed reassurance.  He even shrugged his shoulders in sympathy.  I was sincerely glad that he was handling this event, but I also felt completely incompetent as a momma that I couldn't get a handle on it this easily.

I peered out the window and all three of them were locked in a group hug.  Then they broke and high-fived before running to the front of the house.  OK, fine.  I had no part in this peace-making, but I still wanted to be involved.

I opened up the front door and found The Dad and Daughter 1 staring straight up into the sky.  Not wanting to be left out, I went out and stood beside them and cast my gaze in there same general direction.

Of course I took a picture.
What kind of momma do you think I am?
Holy. Schmoly.  I died a thousand deaths.  My baby was on the roof.

Daughter 1 called out to her sister, "Shake your groove thang!"

Daughter 2 obliged, and I died again.

"Get her down!" I shrieked to the sperm donor of my children because I'm sure a DAD would NEVER place their child on a roof, for heaven's sake.

"She's getting the boomerang," he replied with the same fervor that he might announce, "The sky is blue."

"We can make another boomerang.  I am NOT making another baby!"  I continued my tirade.  "Get her down!"

"Chill," he said, channeling his inner 14-year old, "It's not like I'm dangling her over a balcony in France."

Did he really just equate this situation to the Michael Jackson baby-dangling incident?

"Well, Michael had a HOLD of the baby.  You have a hold of nothing!" I continued my hysteria as my baby girl made her way to the edge where she jumped - Yes.  Jumped! - into her daddy's arms.

"See?" he said, "Nothing to it."

It was then that I breathed again.  And looked into the sweet face of Daughter 2 who took the boomerang in her hand and flung it again.  "Watch this," she gleefully yelled.

So we watched her send the boomerang flying.  Right up to the roof yet again.  She ran over to her daddy who picked up her and hoisted her to the roof yet again.

"I'm outta here," I said.  There's not enough sangria in the world...


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