I've got a three-headed dog guarding the gates to Daddy Nirvana, and its name is MagDarGaverus.
The fun is being stubborned out of this whole Mr. Mom thing by the ganging-up that was inevitable and is solidly here. I hear 'No' as much as I hear 'Can I have?' Then there's the seemingly-illogical choices that slow things down as seats are fought over in the van; shiny objects distract when focus is needed; 4-year-olds named 'Maggie' decide that since 'Maggie' didn't make the mess, 'Maggie' doesn't have to help clean it up.
And on and on. Today, they all chose leaving the playground as Daddy's soft white underbelly, and each made me chase him/her. I carried the twins, asking Gavin to pick up my keys from a bench, and when we got to the van, them laughing all the way, no keys.
I didn't hear them fall, so I retrace steps with them in my arms and don't find them until we return to the bench. He of course had not snagged them from the start. Darcy escaped and I had to start over. Got Gavin to the van, returned to chase Darcy, got her in the van, returned to chase Maggie. I spanked her while I carried her, imagining what a casual observer of this mayhem might think as they reach for the phone to report an abduction.
Calgon, abduct me!
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the whole concept being that your kids know, deep down that you are trying to stay in shape and they're helping you along. Of course when you're older and can't get out of a chair without pain, or moaning and groaning, they're off on a date; but definitely not where you are and in need of help! Parenthood works that way sometimes. You'll look back on all this someday and realise how very lucky you've been to have this opportunity to be around your kids full-time. love 'em to bits, and you.
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