Who's the Boss?

According to my very scientific method of keeping track of these blogs, this particular entry is number 80. And as much as I enjoy writing these parental insights, I’m beginning to wonder if I have repeated myself in the previous 79 entries. If I have, I apologize. There are only so many ideas I can keep in my brain anymore. So, if I think I have a particularly clever anecdote and I don’t remember putting it down, I’m hoping you all are like me and don’t remember reading it!

With that said, it has recently come to my attention that my role in this whole “family” thing isn’t quite what I was led to believe. But then again, I’m basing my view of the average family on television from the 70s and 80s, so I guess I can’t complain too much. But even after realizing we probably won’t be traveling around in a multi-colored bus playing rock and roll as a family or living on the Love Boat, I have also come to realize that I – as the father and husband – am not really in charge around here.

Technically, I lost any hope or claim to that mantle during the wedding vows, but as little Miss Finley Ella has gotten bigger and developed more of a personality, I’m not even a close second.

It’s true that I get a few hours a week to go on a bike ride or go golfing, but for the most part, I’m on Finley Time. And that secretly means I’m on Finley and Mommy time. Because Mommy pretty much makes all the decisions and it all centers around Finley’s schedule. Well, that’s not entirely true. I get to choose when I get to do the dishes (kind of) and I have free reign over packing the car. But for the most part, the household is run by a 17-month old girl.

Mornings start out pretty much the same… I hear a high-pitched squeal of excitement as Mommy plops the daughter onto our bed and Finley comes crawling across the sheets like Michael Phelps. But instead of reaching for the timing pad at the end of the pool, she’s searching for my face to let me know that it is time to get up.

I eventually make my way to the couch in the living room as some sort of way-too-cheery morning fare blares on the tube. Usually it involves Mickey Mouse or the Wiggles, but it’s just background noise as the Princess of Cute holds court, waiting for Mommy to finish getting ready.

If I’m lucky, she’ll be sucking away on a sippee cup full of juice or munching on a handful of organic cereal. Then she’ll decide to bring a stack of books over for me to read to her – which at this time in the morning is really just her thumbing through the pages as I groggily come to life.

Soon, the little whirlwind has her shoes and as I help her put them on, I get a whiff of her hair. And that’s what wakes me up. Well, that and a very slobbery kiss as Finley and Mommy head out the door to daycare. Suddenly it’s very quiet… and very lonely. But that all changes in about eight hours.

You can hear her working her way up the stairs – with Mommy’s help, of course. She’ll either be giggling or counting the steps in her own language. And once the door flies open, she struts into her domain looking around to make sure everything is to her liking. On good days, I’ll get open arms and lift her for a real quick kiss. On other days, she’ll head straight to her high chair and start pulling it out all on her own. She wants dinner, and I’m just in the way.

Depending on her mood, dinner can be quick and easy or drawn out and difficult. A mess is guaranteed with both versions. And depending on the night, she’ll have a bath before she gets into her jammies and is ready to create havoc in the living room.

These days, she’s letting us know – in her own language – if we’re in the way or if she needs help. Tonight, she actually shook her finger at me and said “No, no Daddy” when I did something she didn’t like.

But for the most part, she’s a very good kid who just wants to discover as much as she can before bedtime. She’ll even give in a bit when it’s time for “nigh-nigh.” And I always get a big smooch as she heads to sleep.

And as she starts to wind down from what was most certainly a very busy day, I’m left to survey the battlefield that is the living room. Dolls and cars are scattered across the ground like soldiers and tanks. There’s just no smoking rubble… well, not yet, anyway.

Heather informs me that we’ll be eating OUR dinner in a few minutes – even when the kid is sleeping, I’m still on her schedule – and I get a few moments to breathe.

And it’s here that I realize I have no control. I am not, nor will I probably ever be, in charge. And I think to myself, “Thank goodness for that!” Because between the organization of the Momma and the busy life of the daughter, I’m just glad I fit in, somewhere. I’d just mess things up anyway. Besides, all I want is a few sloppy kisses and to smell baby hair. Sounds like a good deal to me!