Zoe vs. Daddy, the DFP

In honor of Father's Day, I'm dedicating a post to the long-suffering Husband.

Wrapped around her finger, literally.

Long-suffering because when all three of us are home and she's looking for a playmate, he's her first victim choice.

You see, The Husband is the DFP, the designated fun parent.

This was no surprise to me. If you've met both of us, it's clear he's the fun one. If you've met only me, you hope he's the fun one.

I don't mind. Especially since I've observed, and sometimes been the focus of, her "play." It's aggressive and terrifying.

Poor Daddy.

But he had it coming. He laid the groundwork when she was an infant by tossing her in the air and blowing raspberries on her belly till she practically exploded with laughter. When she was a toddler, he was the wielder of "the tickle finger." And he can sigh and act all put-upon if he wants, but no one made him do funny voices. So if he's now the go-to parent when she's looking for someone to do Hattie the Hippo from Doc McStuffins, he's got only himself to blame.

(Full disclosure: Sometimes I make him do Hattie too. Because it's hilarious. And because he does it grudgingly. Hmmm. This may be where Zoe gets her sadistic streak from.)

Another reason he's the de facto DFP is because I'm alone with her more, and by necessity Mommy's always "busy doing boring things," like making her dinner when we get home at night. And if The Husband's there, someone still has to make her grilled cheese, and so Daddy's the distraction/entertainment.

The Husband disciplines her, sure, but not as much as I do. In fact, here's a mantra we have her repeat: "Mommy makes the rules!" That's right. Because as Daddy can tell you, I have more of them, and each one has clauses and subclauses, and qualifiers. 

In general, I'm the heavy. The Husband has a sensitive heart and so, for example, doesn't "go far enough" for my requirements when washing her hair or brushing it. Zoe knows this, so she prefers Daddy to brush her hair. And runs from me and my merciless hairbrush. 

Daddy is wrapped around her finger. And though you'd think such a position would occasionally prove restful, it does not. Being the DFP is exhausting. The other night I saw him trailing after her in a defeated slouch, muttering under his breath, "Why is she doing this to me?"

And I smiled because I know it's because Zoe loves her Daddy.

Too bad her love hurts.

Happy Father's Day to the fathers out there, DFPs or otherwise!

P.S. You know what would make a great Father's Day gift? The new anthology I'm in, But Did You Die? Setting the Parenting Bar Low, the first in the New York Times bestselling Pee Alone series from Jen Mann at People I Want to Punch in the Throat to feature Daddy writers. So buy it, that way the Daddy in your life can believe Daddys are as funny as Mommys---he needs this!

Zoe: 97; Universe/Daddy: 0

If you like this post, you may like Zoe vs. Legos, i.e., Zoe vs. Daddy vs. Mommy vs. Legos.

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse. 

I need a win here, people. 

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Zoe vs. Doc McStuffins

Doc McStuffins is a Disney Junior show about a little girl who wants to be a doctor. When she puts on her stethoscope, her toys and stuffed animals come to life and she diagnoses and treats their illnesses.

Zoe rarely watches this show. But I'm thinking of forcing some viewings. All in the name of good health. My own.

Good proctologists double glove.
Great proctologists make sure one
pair is an elegant elbow length.

Lately, Zoe's been playing doctor. We lie on the couch while she examines us. Zoe does not have the gentle bedside manner displayed by Dottie "Doc" McStuffins, who seems like a very sweet, ambitious girl who may or may not be hallucinatory as well as milking a God complex. Zoe's bedside manner vacillates from the wicked glee of a Dr. Frank-N-Furter to the stern dictatorial style of a Nurse Ratched, with a soupçon of Dr. Mengele thrown in to keep you guessing.

For equipment, Zoe uses less-often-used kitchen implements. They are: three different tongs (clear plastic fork-and-spoon salad tongs, stainless-steel cooking tongs, and the plastic tongs that came with the bottle sanitizer), a rubber spatula, a potato masher, and a mallet.

There's nothing quite like the sight of a three-and-a-half-year-old approaching you with a mallet raised in her hand. If she's testing my reflexes, they're good. And getting better all the time.

Did they say how much we can kill him?

Each implement corresponds to a different body part and she applies them accordingly. She proceeds down my body touching "what hurts" with either a tong, the spatula, or the mallet. The spatula is relatively benign, and I have to admit it's rather peaceful when she gently grasps each of my toes and fingers with the plastic tongs or brushes back my hair with the salad fork. 

The mallet and the potato masher are another story. These bring a Russian roulette aspect to the proceedings. Will she tap my knee gently with the mallet or more forcefully? Will she rub the potato masher on my stomach or grind it into my ribs? Will the hapless patient escape Doc Zoe's ministrations in worse shape than she arrived?

We also have to do the reverse, where she's the patient and I'm the doctor. 

Finally. Revenge!

I'm kidding, of course. Put down the cell phones, alarmists. I'm not smacking my toddler in the head with a mallet. I don't live in a cartoon.

Before Ambien

In fact, without the suspense that comes with being her patient, when the tables are turned, the game is simply endless. If I try to do something new, like use a different spatula to tap her chin, she objects; we must follow the correct pattern, using the same implements for each body part. The only "creative" thing she let me do once was place the potato masher under her foot to lift it like she was in traction. This was a big win for me.

Curiously, she does have a stethoscope but she never uses it, probably because it's plush, so what's the point? Literally. Without any pointy ends it's incapable of doing damage; ergo, useless. So we continue with the usual utensils. I'm just glad I've been able to hide the garlic press and the serrated cake knife.

Tip to future dinner guests: Don't eat the mashed potatoes.

Zoe: 47; Universe: 0