‘We have modest goals now. Like trying to get out of the house at 7am. Why are we so bad at this?’ – My wife, seventy-twenty-three.
…while I drag the almost three year old towards the car by her ankles. The old gods, Wotan and Freya raise their clipboards in unison, I’m in serious jeopardy of loosing my status as a bona fide German, punctuality is not an optional extra in this geographically bound subcategory of Homo Sapiens. I may have to haul out some cultural stereotypes to rack up some quick credit. Socks and sandals (apparently) is a surefire ten points to ease me back into the Teutonic bracket.
Most days it feels like this though… maybe its the threat of violence and ironclad discipline that is lacking? Maybe we should enroll my daughter in assassin school instead of a more traditional kindergarten. (A lot of my favorite fantasy books start like this) But then we’d have to fear for our lives as well deal with the constant frustration of a toddler exerting her will. I’m not sure I’m ready for that level of constant vigilance. I already got eye-gouged once this morning (she gets her dirty fighting prowess from her dad, I’ve genuinely never been this proud)
On the plus side, I feel confident about being able to transition from early-stage parenting to hogtying livestock in Montana (should I ever need a change in vocation) … I look forward to being able to assert with confidence that this, ‘is not my first rodeo’, and for once, actually mean it.