Here’s the thing about parenting. As soon as you finally develop the skills you need to do the job well . . . the job changes. Completely. (I don’t want to sound paranoid but it’s almost as if this system is designed to make you feel COMPLETELY INADEQUATE.)
We had to evacuate our house on Saturday. Okay, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as it sounds. Our realtors wanted to stage the house and take some photos. And they wanted to do it ALONE. Apparently, they felt that we would get underfoot. And break their stuff. (Yes and yes.)
I think we may have traumatized our realtor. Poor Sam. He’s a single guy in his late thirties. Maybe early forties. No kids. Likes to spend his weekends watching football. And playing bass guitar. I’m willing to guess that Sam has never changed a diaper. But I sense that each time he walks through our door– and sees our children– he is struck with the fear that we might ask him to.
You know that awkward moment when you realize you’ve been completely played by one of your kids? Yeah, that. Turns out, if you want to know who’s in charge in my household, you need to look down. Nope, not at the four year old. Farther down. Just follow the trail of cracker crumbs on the floor. To Emma. The one-and-a-half-year-old. Sure, she looks innocent. Don’t be fooled. (Or she will play you too.) I’m pretty sure I saw a copy of Lean In stashed under her crib mattress.