Something terrible is happening at our house. It’s been going on for weeks, but I’ve just now found the words for it. “Daddy” is becoming synonymous with “super fun playtime” and “Mommy” is becoming synonymous with “eating and sleeping.”
What’s wrong, you ask, with having your kid think you fart rainbows? Well, the problem comes when Mommy is already passed out and it’s time to put Little Man to bed but all he wants is more rainbows. And more rainbows. And more and more rainbows.
The other night, a sleepless Leigh Ann brought Nate out for his 1 AM feeding, and this was approximately our conversation:
HER: Don’t look at him.
ME: Oops, too late.
HER: Well don’t smile at him then.
ME: Why not?
HER: Because if he sees you smiling, he’ll spend the next two hours waiting for you to play the ukulele.
ME: What if I play the piano instead?
Leigh Ann was not amused. And, in fact, she was right about the next two hours. But that’s not the point. The point is that I have been stereotyped by my own son. And as someone who has struggled his entire life with the profound disadvantage of being a college-educated white male, I’m sick and tired of it. I’m a human being, for God’s sake. I deserve better. And I will not play another chord on the ukulele, or fart another rainbow until Nate smiles at me.
All right, then. Amazing Grace or Oh When the Saints?
Daddy's My Mommy 