Kids love me. I don't know why, but they do. It could be my goofy sense of humor. Perhaps my ability to be engaging with youngsters. Or possibly my extremely low IQ and propensity to throw temper tantrums and poop my shorts. My wife thinks it's the latter.
The one downside to my sunnyside is that I have a temper. I'm the type of person who can be extremely patient and calm 99% of the time. But once the line is crossed to that last 1%, then I can turn quite Hulk-ish -- but without the green and rippling muscles.
One night, Lisa told Andrew and Emma to go upstairs to brush their teeth. Andrew merrily galloped up the stairs, but Emma stubbornly remained downstairs playing with her toys. I was recaulking the kitchen sink, so I asked Emma to follow Mommy and Andrew upstairs since my hand were full of caulk.
Emma ignored me.
This went on for many minutes. Between smearing up the kitchen sink with caulk and Emma's civil disobedience, I was about to enter 1% Anger Land. I gritted my teeth and mumbled, "Emma. Last time. Go. Up. Stairs."
And guess what Emma said to me? She said, " . "
That was it. I wiped my hands, stomped to Emma, picked her up, and sternly said in her face, "That's it! You need to go up to Mommy RIGHT NOW!" Then I put her back on the rug where she buried her face and began to cry.
Sure. There was a part of me that wanted to give her a hug, but there was also a part of me that was afraid my terrible caulking job was about to dry up. Emma continued to cry as I completed resealing the kitchen sink. As I walked by her, I asked if she wanted to come upstairs with me. She said nothing, so I went to put Andrew asleep.
As I told Andrew another Lightning McQueen story, Lisa went downstairs to get Emma. I was getting into the groove of my Mater impression a la Larry the Cable Guy, when Lisa entered the bedroom with a hangdog Emma.
"Daddy," said Lisa. "Emma has something to say to you."
I cocked my head towards Emma expecting an apology, a hug, or most likely, both. Like I said at the beginning of this entry, kids love me!"
Emma wiped away her tears and said, "Daddy hit me."
WTF? Unplug the phones and pay off the social workers! What did Emma say?
"Daddy hit me," said Emma.
That's what I thought she said! I have no idea how she came up with this story! I tried to retrack my steps, but at no time did I hit her! All I did was lift her up and put her back on the play rug. Perhaps when I put her down on the rug, her knees hit the floor? I had no idea where Emma came up with this story.
As I explained to Emma that I did not hit her NOR would I ever hit her, Lisa looked at me with a devilish grin. The sort of grin that says, "I'm the better parent and will never be put into a convalescent home."
Soon all was well, the kids got their good night hugs and kisses, and Lisa and I left their bedroom. This whole incident exasperated me. I bemoaned to Lisa how this could be a terrible thing if Emma ever said anything like this at school. And this is when I got the double whammy.
Lisa recalled a story at preschool when she was talking to the teachers. The teachers were commenting how Lisa seems to be the disciplinarian, and I'm the nice and fun parent. But unfortunately for me, Lisa opened her unusually big Japanese mouth and told the teachers a little bit about my personality.
"I guess I'm stricter than Scott," Lisa agreed. "But the one thing that Scott has that I don't is a temper. When his patience is worn out, watch out!"
OOOOOOOH GREAAAAAAT! Lisa has already planted the seed with the preschool teachers that I have a temper. And one day, Emma is going to go to school and tell her teachers that her Daddy hit her. Next thing you know, the cops will take me away, Lisa will remarry a wealthy lawyer, and I'll be someone's Twinkie biatch in prison.
Sigh. Kids hate me.
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