Turning the tables

       It hit me a couple of years ago, while having drinks with friends one night, that I may lose my part of the battle in raising (I know you rear children, but who actually says that? And I'm a stickler for grammar) our little girl. She was three at the time. My friends, who are women, squealed with delight over the thought of this little girl taking down her mean, old Dad. I will add these two women do not have children. They were using their childhood as evidence that sweet, innocent girls always conquer their fathers and only an agonizing life of pure frustration awaits me for decades to come. I'm not sure if their glee was more about predicting that my daughter would follow in the footsteps of her millions of predecessors or their expectations of me swirling in pure heck for eternity as the result.
      Now, I will say, I stood firm that night over drinks. Likely because I was sitting down. I boldly declared that my daughter would not own me, despite the pink and purple of her room, the tens of princess dresses, the overflow of Disney merchandise. My mother, God bless her soul, raised (reared) two boys by herself on a small nurse's salary through the 60's, 70's and 80's. She was never battle-tested by a daughter, but I doubt she would've caved. Plus, she was a mother. Apparently, only fathers have to face this specific type of dilemma.
     My friends went on and on about the trials, tribulations and trauma I would face as the years passed. Their smiles grew bigger and laughter got louder with each prediction. Those decibels were surpassed when I proudly proclaimed I would win more than my fair share of battles with the "tike going on teen."
      Three years have passed since then. My daughter likes to tuck her hands under her chin, tilt her head and give me a sad, puppy dog face when she wants something. I pull out my company line, "That won't work on me." To her credit she continues to make that her 'go to' move. Never surrender!
      I am also proud to say, I stand tall and firm with my demands when it's Dad's turn to make and serve dinner. My daughter and her older brother (by four years) do not like it when it's my turn. Let's say they're getting an elegant meal of chicken nuggets, broccoli and rice. My daughter starts out with one nugget, a complete serving of broccoli and rice.
LT. PRINCESS-"Why do I have only one nugget?"
GENERAL DAD-"BECAUSE YOU'LL TEAR THROUGH ALL OF THE NUGGETS FIRST AND NOT EAT YOUR BROCCOLI OR RICE."
LT. PRINCESS-"But Dad, (channeling her inner Kerrigan) whhhhyyyyyyy?"
GENERAL DAD-"Finish your broccoli and then you'll earn more nuggets."
LT. PRINCESS-"Can I have some ranch dressing with it?"
GENERAL DAD-"Sure, but my pour."
     As you might imagine, she sweeps up the entire pour (small, mind you) of ranch dressing with her first piece of broccoli. The frenzied request for more ranch dressing falls on deaf ears as I wonder what my wife and I will have for dinner at yet another late hour of the night. With the volume of a bullhorn I repeat my victorious line, "FINISH YOUR BROCCOLI AND YOU'LL GET MORE NUGGETS." I stand proud on the battlefield of Fort Kitchen!
      Suddenly, as I think I have breezed to victory, an alarming shriek goes out, carrying past the refrigerator, the oven, the sink, the dishwasher, growing as it nears my ears, "DAD, THE RANCH DRESSING TOUCHED MY RICE!"
      My initial reaction, a suppressed laugh, avoids detection. A more suitable, but challenging "REALLY?" is released from my widening lips. Poor rice grains. Ten of them never stood a chance as the thick, white lava rushed toward them, steered by a giant green monster with tiny trees growing out of its head.
GENERAL DAD-"It's all going to the same place anyway, your stomach."
LT. PRINCESS-(Head hanging) "But it touched the rice."
GENERAL DAD-"I will separate the fallen grains from their comrades. If you don't want them touching then be more careful the next time you swipe your broccoli."
LT. PRINCESS-(Apparently thinking she had distracted me) "Can I have more nuggets?"
GENERAL DAD-"WHEN...YOU...FINISH...YOUR...BROCCOLI!"
      She finally caved. Each floret wearing just a trace of ranch before disappearing. I assume the ranch-laced broccoli and rice had a good laugh in her stomach later as they danced together.
      Dad won that round. I'm smart enough to know the battles will grow in volume and strength. She will grow smarter, more savvy. And more challenging...just grow up period. But I will always have the advantage of being able to tell her, "I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know."
     Let the games begin.