This morning Phil was washing a teetering heap of dishes in the sink and I was eating breakfast with Archer. About five minutes in, the boy got restless and began his meltdown ritual: sweeping food around his highchair tray, banging his spoon against his bowl, dropping chunks of bread in his cup of milk, etc. I consider this mild behavior and usually take it as a casual signal that mealtime is ending.
However, today I was distracted by other tasks (sure, maybe it was looking up new artists for Pandora Radio), and failed to recognize the impending truncation of a pleasant morning meal. In an instant I see Archer climbing to his feet and trying to hang over the edge of his highchair. I darted over and commenced scolding, panicked mother style: "NO! STOP THAT! You DON'T do that! Sit DOWN! SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!!..."
At this point I hear Phil stop the kitchen tap and mutter, "Okay..."
As in, "Enough already, you hysterical woman - ease up on the poor kid."
A clenched fury broke free in me that unleashed all of my uncharted fears of the future of discipline in our household: Dad the laid-back, sympathetic, isn't-your-mom-a-nut-wink-wink guy and Mom the hard-edged, rigid, order-above-all-else tyrant.
Yikes. We need to talk about this over dinner.