When you’re in your thirties, you think you know yourself. And then you find you live with a two-year-old.
It began with our car. I went to Jake’s school to pick him up at the end of the day and he fought me like a warrior when it came to getting into his car seat. Then, in between screams, he pointed to the front passenger seat and sobbed, “Mama, seat down chair! Seat down chair! Daddy’s car. Daaaaddy’s caaaaaar…” So, as I had suspected when I became a Caltrain regular, I’ve lost all rights to a car that was originally “mine.” Jake did not want me driving Daddy’s car. It clearly was upsetting the world order for me not to be riding in “my” seat. And making the highly compelling argument of “Who’s going to drive the car?” had absolutely no discernible effect. Now I make it a point to chauffeur Daddy around to prove that it’s Mama’s car, too. There has been a marked improvement.
Then one night I was drinking water out of a glass that I got from a tour at Gordon Biersch. It has a silhouette of a stout man and the tag line: Never trust a skinny brewer. I guess I never actually use this glass as it sent Jake into a conniption, “Daddy’s glass! Daddy’s glass!” What exactly is mine little Mr. Possession Policeman?
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long for my answer. A few days later, Daddy was drying off with a white towel. “Mama’s towel… Mama’s tooooowel!” (Really, crying over a towel?) Apparently, unbeknownst to us, Mommy always uses a white towel and Daddy always uses a dark brown towel.
I wonder what else we haven’t noticed about ourselves? I’m going to try and build-up my cred in expensive artwork and jewelry… Daddy can have trash cans, diaper pails and laundry.
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