The Sheriff

My husband is the “good time” parent. He’s a big softy. He is the really fun guy every kid should have for a dad. He is patient, good-natured, fair, and to top that off, he is hilarious. Our kids adore him. I adore him.

           

It’s a good thing he has me to help co-parent our lovely brood of patty-cakers.

           

I am not the “good time” parent. I am the parent who requires our little sugar-muffins do what we ask. For example, our littlest was sitting on the arm of the couch and my big, brave husband told him to move his little body from the, “my butt doesn’t belong here spot,” to the “my butt belongs here spot.” Do you think my delicious cupcake moved an eyelash? Nope, he didn’t even blink.

           

I, who was minding my own business in the other room, gladly ignoring any misbehavior from our little people, say to my little lazy one, “Why are you still sitting there?”

           

“Hey,” my husband grumbles, “how do you know he is still sitting there? All these years of marriage and you never let on about your x-ray vision?” (I told you he's funny.) Then he asks our son, “and why do you move that cute little behind just because your mom asks? I am the sheriff around here. You have to do what I say or you’ll get in big trouble little man.”

           

My littlest, obviously the smartest of all my little people, replies, “Daddy, if you’re the sheriff, Mommy is the mayor.”

           

I think I like being the mayor.