The Heavy Gets Mushy

In our house, I am the Heavy. In your house, you may have a different name for this position - El Jefe, Enforcer, Sergeant, Captain Bossy Pants. Whatever you call it, chances are good there's at least one of you in your household...and chances are good that if you're one of the aforementioned persons, then you are NOT your kid's favorite parent.

I'm OK with being the Heavy. I'm home with the kids during the day, I spend the most time with them and I firmly believe they need a certain amount of rules and routines in their daily lives in order to make them functioning members of society. No, I don't expect them to be running a government by age 5, but I do expect them to be able to go to the grocery store and behave themselves in a reasonable manner so the store doesn't come crashing down around us.

Being the Heavy, however, has its pitfalls. I'm the one who says no - no, you can't have candy for breakfast; no, you can't throw your sister in the toilet; no, you can't stick your broccoli up your nose. I'm the one who tells them to be quiet when another sibling is sleeping; the one who makes them change their underwear; the one who makes them go to bed at night.

In essence, I'm not the Fun One.

For the most part, my husband gets to be the Fun One. And he's really good at it. Now don't get me wrong...he's perfectly capable of being the Heavy when he needs to be...and he backs me up when my Heavy-ness enters the equation. But by and large, he's the Fun One and also the Favorite.

When the Fun One enters the house after work, the girls shriek in delight and the baby can't get off my lap fast enough. The girls do everything in their tiny powers to keep the Fun One's full attention, while the baby bounces up and down, trying to get in the middle of the action. When the Fun One enters the building, the world comes to a screeching halt...at least our little corner of it.

The Fun One says he's the favorite only because he's not home enough. And I can see his point. I also know the Fun One says this to make me feel better. The Fun One is a smart man.

So, what, exactly is my point here?

My point is this:

The other night, all the kids were in bed, as were the Fun One and I. The house was quiet. It was dark. Everyone was where they were supposed to be, sleeping away the night. All of the sudden, my middle kiddo starts screaming in her sleep. She must've been having a bad dream. I woke up immediately, of course, since the Heavy is known for her listening prowess. The kiddo starts screaming, "Mama! MAMA!" I go in and check on her...she's still sound asleep, but restless from the dream. I tuck her back in, smooth away her hair, kiss her forehead. She quiets down and rolls over. I go back to bed.

As I get back into bed, everything once again in its place, I have an epiphany:

I may not be the Fun One, but I am the one all the kids call for in the middle of the night. I'm the one they call for when they need something - anything; be it soothing from a bad dream, a wipe for their butts, a kleenex for their noses, a cookie or a hug. Sure, the Fun One does all these things too, but in the clinch, they're all calling for the Heavy.

Being the Heavy can be a downer; it gets tiring being in charge of all the rules and regulations. But realizing the Heavy benefits, at 2 a.m., when the house is dark and quiet, is pretty freaking great.