Daddy’s Home (don’t mind me)

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Do you hear that? I think I hear time itself stop….

… Oops. My bad. It’s the front door.

D A D D Y’ S   H O M E ! ! ! !

Here he is – the man of the hour – swanning in through the front door with his non-chalant swagger (and rugged good-looks), full of pride and joy watching his little mini-me’s race each other up the hallway to see who can get a hug from him first.

Hey guys, don’t mind me.

Yes I’m talking about you, Daddy. Daddy wearing the tired but contented look of a man who has worked the day away in a safe little office. Perfectly protected from biting babies and defiant Threenagers. Deaf to the incessant questions of the curious kindergartener. Superbly shielded from the snotty smears, the tearful tantrums, the mind-bending negotiations [and brain explosions] that have taken place in our home for the past ummm… let me see… T E N   H O U R S.

But Daddy’s home. Three cheers for him.

You totally deserve ALL the adulation of our kids. You deserve to open up that front door and with merely the sound of your house key flick a magical switch [which I can’t seem to locate] that instantly turns our kids onto ‘perfect-child-mode’. You deserve to see them bursting up the hallway, jumping out of their skin in excitement as you walk in, screaming ‘Daddy’s Home’, as if I hadn’t noticed. As if the long reign of tyranny from Yours Truly has finally come to an end and they are now safe and F R E E in your arms.

Don’t mind me. Can I get you a beer?

Clearly, Daddy, you da top dog in this household – with a capital D. But enjoy the fame and glory while it lasts ‘cos it’s as fickle in here as a Real Housewives Reunion Special and I’m watching, waiting, willing your bubble to burst. Why? Not because I don’t love you. Not because you aren’t the best Daddy I know. But because at this time of night I’m a bitter and twisted itch with a capital B. And frankly my dear, it’s just not fair.

Let’s examine the kids’ definition of us as evidenced by their behaviour:

  • Mummy : a villain who says ‘no’ to everything fun and makes us eat broccoli
  • Daddy: a tirelessly hardworking hero who turns up just in the knick of time every night to ‘save the day’ and rescue us from Mummy’s evil clutches

Are you picking up what I’m putting down, dearest? I’m the one who’s refereed 10 hardcore smackdowns this afternoon, who’s dressed, nursed and bandaged four injuries, (two of which were imaginary but just as life-threatening), and who’s talked down terror-style hostage situations like a consummate professional.

But. Don’t. Mind. Me.

Huge congrats to you, Daddy. And keep up the good work with your I’m-so-calm-under-pressure voice. Our children think you’re some type of Demigod who can turn rain into rainbows, so why should I be any different. Why should I be envious.

Oh, did I mention that dinner tonight is a big pot of GET-IT-YOURSELF? Should even be enough for seconds. If you’ll excuse me family, I’ve got some ‘work’ to do in my ‘office’ [read: taking a stupidly long bath with wine and locking the door].

Don’t mind if I do.

1 comments on “Daddy’s Home (don’t mind me)”

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