OldeDominionDad

By austininva

There comes a moment in every parent’s life when you realize that the inmates are no longer just running the asylum… they’ve unionized, appointed a representative, and now they’re demanding hazard pay in chicken nuggets.

For me, that moment came last Tuesday.

We were in the thick of post-dinner cleanup, which, if you don’t have kids, is basically like crime scene cleanup—except with more ketchup and other random stains, just fewer police reports. I was mid-lecture. The kind where my voice gets very calm, very even, because I’ve gone past mad and into that strange parent dimension where you can see sounds and smell colors.

The older three had been waging their usual civil war. Something about who got the blue cup, or who “looked at me weird,” or whose foot touched whose sacred square of couch real estate.

So there I was, in full Dad Orator Mode™️. Monologuing about respect and consequences and “how we treat each other in this house” like I was delivering a TED Talk titled “Surviving Sibling Apocalypse With Only Mild Parental Screaming.”

And that’s when she arrived.

My youngest. Barefoot, smug, eyes twinkling with the mischief of a thousand gremlins. In her tiny hands, held aloft like Simba in The Lion King, was… the Spanking Spoon.

Like a symbolic holy relic, its revered. It’s like the nuclear football: you don’t want to use it, but you keep it around to keep people nervous. A psychological Cold War of parenting.

But my youngest? She treats it like it’s a microphone at an awards show.

She strutted into the room, spoon in hand, held it out to me solemnly, with a look of firm resolve—like a medieval squire to her liege lord:

“Your duty, Father. It is time.”

I froze.

The older kids, sensing impending doom, stopped fighting mid-breath. Time itself paused. Somewhere, a Gregorian monk began chanting.

And there she stood. Waiting. Beckoning. As if I were the executioner in some 1st-grade Game of Thrones spinoff called House of Timeouts.

I tried to maintain authority. I did. I really did.

But boy it’s hard to discipline when your preschooler is offering you the instrument of wrath like a holy relic, whispering, “Do it, Daddy. Smack them all down.”

I sent her out of the room. Holding the implement of her wrath. She came back ten seconds later, this time with a second spoon—backup, in case I broke the first one on their insolence, apparently.

Long story short, no one got spanked this day, one person got a very serious lecture, and that person was me, by my two-year-old, about “not doing my job right.”

I now live in fear of the day she learns about gavels, or swords, or robes of judgment.

But I suppose I’m proud. She obviously believes in justice. In discipline. In fair and equal spankings for all, as long is all does not include her.

She just wants to make sure Daddy does it right.

Have a great day,
austininva

By austininva

Once upon a time, I went to work. I do this most days—it’s a thing. Well, the funny thing about this day in particular was that it began with me being late for work. Okay, that’s not all that bad. I mean, we’re all late at some point.

No, the most interesting thing about this day was that on the drive home from the hangar, my wife called. I, being the caring husband I am, answered—and the day got crappy.

I should have known something was amiss when all I heard was uncontrollable sobbing through the handset of the phone. I pressed for answers—was everything okay?

Crying, with the word “everywhere” understandable.

I asked again: “What?”

Crying, with the word “Logan” understandable.

I was worried. Logan is everywhere? Did he pull the TV on him?

Crying, with the word “No, it’s everywhere.”

I only have a 10-minute drive to work, so I was pulling into the driveway at this time. I rushed inside, and Jo was at the door waiting, tears in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

She pulled herself together for one last attempt at communication.

“Logan pooped. It’s everywhere.”

I was relieved. Obviously my son had a bad diaper, and my wife had a long day. I know the two don’t mix well—she was just in hysterics.

I said, “I’ll clean him up. Take a break.”

I went upstairs to clean my son off and change his clothes. My world was about to change—and not in a good way, like I just bought a new car or I won twenty bucks on a scratcher.

More like… I ran over my dog while late for work, and then got a flat tire on the highway, and when changing the tire got splashed by disgusting puddle water, and then little raptors rained from the sky to eat little bits of my flesh over the next three days kind of bad.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was a bad one. I was reminded of camp—when it got hot and the wind didn’t blow in the latrine. But this was Virginia summer, so it’s humid, which makes smell 1,000% stronger and adds the effect of taste.

I walked into Logan’s room, and there he stood—a pillar of all that is baby. He turned to look at me, cheered, and pointed to his handiwork.

On the wall, the toy chest, the bed, the chair, the bookcase, the books, the Duplos, the pushcart, the stuffed animals, the nightlight, the mattress, the carpet, the door, the trim work, the window, the drapes, the closet, the hanging clothes, the shoes, the dresser, his hands, his face, his one sock—and his body.

In his other hand was a diaper. His palette.

And the good news is—it was almost the cleanest thing in his room.

I walked in carefully, as if navigating a minefield, to survey the damage…

Then I looked up and saw my two-year-old had somehow painted on the ceiling. I was both shocked and impressed, all at the same time.

After the damage to my soul had been accomplished, I pulled out some cleaning supplies, and we began to clean. We cleaned for a long time—a very long time.

After we cleaned and had a long talk about why we don’t draw on the walls, we went downstairs for dinner.

While our family ate in silence, I thought about the artistic talent my son possessed.

Then I remembered the drawings on the wall.

They were pretty poopy.

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Have a great day!
— austininva