Most of the time I like to revel in my Mama-Knows-Best smugness. I re-read the same book 10 times daily with nary a complaint. I obligingly remove offending sandwich crusts. I placate, encourage, entertain, persuade and cajole.
Meanwhile, I think my husband sometimes forgets that our darling dear, while quite precocious, is still a child. He gets frustrated because she has a limited attention span. She's messy. She can be loud and quite demanding. I tell him that she's not trying to be difficult. She just couldn't help herself - the ketchup/pudding/ice cream just looked too inviting to NOT smear all over her face/hands/table.
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But invariably I am reminded that sometimes daddy is the better parent. The other night, Sydney refused to sleep in her own bed, demanding to sleep in ours. My gentle but firm talk about making good choices fell on deaf ears. My nightlight suggestion was met with high-pitched shrills. Blubbery tears ensued when I shut the door.
In stepped Daddy to the rescue. He lay on the floor, head precariously perched on a miniscule Dora pillow, holding her hand. They discussed mundane things. How pudding isn't a fruit. That our dog Jake is a sweet puppy. And why doesn't Mommy put whipped cream on strawberries like Netty? All fears of monsters and darkness abated and she was instructed to keep counting sheep until Daddy returned from the store with whipped cream.
This guy is good. Thanks, honey. I'm so grateful we share this parenting gig.
But I'm still not doing your laundry.