You know, I don’t consider myself to be the world’s greatest father or husband for that matter.  However, I do think I do a good job of both (no asking my wife either).  As a father of three young daughters my house is filled to the brim with estrogen.  A fact that my friends regularly remind me of.  As if, by some mysterious power of the universe, I fail to realize it on a daily… nay hourly, basis.  That’s beside the point, also beside the point how when, in the unfortunately not so distant future, all of them are menstruating it will occur on a great convergence of pms.   For a week. Every month.  I am currently in planning stage to convert our garage into my man cave, complete with tv, fridge and bidet.  I figure having a bidet in my man cave will prompt my progeny to avoid entering said cave and thus give me a brief respite from the witches brew within my home.

I digress.  The point is I am a pretty good dad and husband.  But, I must admit a failing, a complete, total failing at times in trying to determine the motivations of my daughters and wife.  Granted the baby can’t talk so she either demands fluids, solids, has pooped or peed or wants attention or is tired or bored.  I merely go through a best guess each time and one by one eliminate the possibilities.  DONE.  No fuss no muss.

My older daughters are a different story.  The middle child has, when I fail to give in to her demands, threatened to call the police so they can take my pants away.  She apparently believes that I view my pants much the same way she views her precious Rapunzel doll, as if it’s an inextricably intertwined part of me that I would die without.  That I would break down into a shrieking, snot infused, tantrum as she does when we take said doll away.

My eldest child has her own peculiarities in that if she doesn’t get what she wants she will withhold things from me such as hugs, kisses, and the most important thing: aid in cleaning up the house.  Apparently, in her mind she believes she is the maid of the house.  How do I know this?  Not from trying to extrapolate meaning from her rants, but merely having her repeatedly utter ‘I’m not the maid.’  (I do listen… at times.)  Let’s get this little cognitive dissonant issue into the light.  SHE NEVER WILLINGLY CLEANS UP.  But, she may misremember us repeatedly asking her to clean up as her willingness to clean up.

Be that as it may these are my realities.  And really, they are not mine, but their’s.  As such they don’t make much sense to me and I just try and blunder my way through it all.  Take for example yesterday.  I arrived home to be greeted by my middle child.  Though she smiles and hugs me tightly I can't help but notice, she has a fat lip.  The eldest greets me, equally enthusiastically, and she has red marks on her face.  My wife gives me a knowing look as if to say, just ask how my day went, punk.  Just ask.  So, I ask.  And am told to ask my children what special game they played.

“The Punching Game,” they yell and laugh.  Apparently, my daughters have devised toddler fight club.  My wife says to them, to tell me where they punch. On the face, on the back, the kidney areas, on the bum.  Nothing is sacred.  I picture my middle child smiling with a bloody mess of a mouth and my eldest holding a broken hand and giggling.  I try not to laugh, but fail totally.  You see, this is funny.  My wife, frustrated over my lack of seriousness, explained that my dear, sweat, innocent daughters, laughed maniacally as they jammed knuckle sandwiches into their soft pliable cheeks and lips.

“Don’t play that game anymore,” I try to recover, though they see right through that.  We, my wife and I as a wonderful team, then threaten to take their toys away and each daughter responds as outlined above, my pants will be gone and the place will be an affection-less mess.  Great.  Let’s eat. In awkward silence.  With our baby daughter smiling and taking this all in.  Pray for me and often.  I’ll likely need it.