So, as kids tend to do, young JP has been pushing a few boundaries lately, testing, like a velociraptor, the strength of the electrified fence that is my parental authority and dignity. (His sister, on the other hand is so irresistibly cute at 14 months that even JP is having a hard time disliking her–not that he will admit it.)
His newest thing is to start calling me Dad instead of Daddy. A minor point you say? Well, who asked you! I like being called Daddy; I’ve given up most of my life, time, money, hair, and sex appeal (such as it is) in order to reserve the right to choose how my son will refer to me–and I’m not ready to downshift to Dad.
JP sense this, he understands it, he gets it with innate ease, and he’s been exploiting it, mostly by dropping the shortened-d-bomb from time to time, daring me to correct him, which I do, because I’m an idiot. I did, however, come up with a better system at dinner last night. To wit:
JP: Pass the pot roast, DAD.
Me. Don’t call me Dad. I’m Daddy. [passes pot roast, directs child to neglected green vegetable on said child’s plate]
JP: Daddy, when can I call you Dad?
Me: When you turn 17. [ignores eye roll from wife]
JP: What can I call you when I’m 18?
Me: King. You can call me King at that age. [JP puzzled, not really sure what a king is, and with little concept of the age of 18.]
Silly but effective.