Who's The Boss?

The other night, with my son asleep on my lap, I rocked back and forth in a content and tranquil rhythm.  Mom was in the kitchen and everything was peaceful, a rare occurrence in my new life. I looked down at my son, studying his face with with all the wonder of a new parent when my thoughts were interrupted by a familiar chirping. 

Looking around, I focused on my phone, rattling on the table and just out of my reach.  I rocked forward, my movements slow and measured as my eyes darted from the phone to the child.  I inched towards the table....slow and easy...there we go...

Keep me content or pay dearly...

Boom goes the dynamite.

A shake of the head before the nuk shot out of his mouth. His eyes started blinking to life as the hands began to flail. Then my tiny son wound up and really got it going  All was lost, words with friends would have to wait.  I don’t have time to deal with the baby crying while thinking up words as some teenager sends me messages like UR SLOW.  
 

So who’s in charge here?  It’s not dad that’s for sure.  Mom?  She may think so, but in all honesty this kid is calling the shots.  I've often heard dads jokingly refer to the kid as the CEO or The Boss, and now I see why.

Pre-kid, my morning routine consisted of pouring a bowl of cereal, checking my mail, and then watching videos targeted at the 15-24 demographic before heading off to work.  Okay, maybe this wasn’t world changing stuff here, but to say my mornings have changed is an understatement.

At six weeks in, the little guy makes the rules. Sure, we've managed to establish a schedule, but we often have to plan around his mood, which can be like that of a high level corporate executive.  His days are bursting with turbulent activity. Eating, fussing, napping, eating, pooping, fussing, screaming, bathing and so forth. Throw in the occasional board meeting and he could command a competitive salary. 

The house is his as well. His stuff can be found in every room and even our cars.  From the baby swing to the play pad, the books, diapers, blankets, bottles, the breast pump and its endless accessories. 

The dogs are adapting to baby life.  Well sort of anyway. Sometimes when the baby's screaming, (usually after his mother has eaten broccoli), our oldest will look up at me like one of those dogs from the SPCA commercials, as if to say What have you done?

And at times I don't know...we're all adapting.  The baby books can only take us so far, so I'll continue to learn the ropes, using what works for us and scrapping what doesn't. And after 37 years, I'm finding that it's not as hard as I thought to make some sacrifices for my son, that's actually the easy part.