A Queen-Sized Lesson......

As some of you may know, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are Rach's days off. So most of the time for me, the drive home on those days are the scariest 15 minutes that you could possibly imagine. The gamut of possibilities is incredible. Is she renovating something? Is she remodeling something? Is she redecorating something? Is she having boulders installed in the yard that I have to move? Did we get a new pet? Did we get a new kid? It could literally be ANYTHING. So imagine my surprise when I come home from work to............silence. Beautiful silence. Horrifyingly skeptical, I tip-toed further into the house like a ninja. And when I got to the living room, I saw something so shocking that my eyes could barely process the information. I saw no kids in sight, and Rach under a blanket on the couch....reading a book. That's right. A book. I was about to ask her where the kids were, but then she glared at me with one of those 'If you dare ask me about the kids and somehow jinx my quiet time, I will fly over there and Superman punch you in the throat' looks. At least I'm pretty sure that's what 'look' it was. It was either the 'Superman punch in the throat' look, or the 'I velcroed the kids to the ceiling so I could get some peace' look. But I heard footsteps upstairs, so I figured smart money was on the Superman punch.

And of course, if you're walking through the desert, and you come upon someone drinking water out of a puddle, you don't stop and ask that person why they're drinking that water. Or ask them how they found it. No, you shut up and start drinking. And that's what I did. I sat on the other couch and quietly answered emails on my phone. After about a half hour, I got bored. I looked over at Rach, and she was showing no signs of prematurely ending her quiet time. So I got up to make dinner, and noticed some chicken breasts defrosting on the counter.

I said, "Hey Rach, you got anything in particular planned with these chicken breasts?"

And she said, "............................................"

I'll take that as a no.

So I start making dinner. Nothing special, baja chipotle marinated chicken with stovetop stuffing and mac and cheese. That's my signature dinner. Chicken, and boxes of crap. No one makes chicken and/or boxes of crap quite like I do. In fact, I may open up a restaurant where I serve nothing but chicken and boxed macaroni and cheese. Maybe a baseball themed restaurant with fried chicken balls called 'Fowl Ball, and Battered Box'. I'm pretty sure that's genius. Nobody steal that one.

Anyway, about 45 minutes later, I call the kids downstairs to eat. Rach is still reading her book. I fix the kids plates. Rach is still reading her book. I got the kids drinks. Rach is still reading her book. Finally, Rach looks up and says, "Wait--Is it done? Did you cook already? That was fast."

Me (being sarcastic and patronizing as I make her a plate): Would you like for me to make you a plate and bring it to you? I would hate for you to have to get up.

Rach (laughing): Aww, thank you.

Scarlett (From the Peanut Gallery): I can't wait until I get married, so I can have someone to do everything for me too!

At this point, we all started busting out laughing, but then we thought about it a little more. And Rach said, "That's right. And you get rid of any man that treats you any different." So then it turned into a 45 minute lesson. We talked to Scarlett about respecting herself enough to not settle for a douche bag. We told her that if she did, in fact, try to settle for someone who is even a little bit douchey, that I would knock his teeth out and Rach would Superman punch him in the throat. We talked for awhile, not just to Scarlett, but also to the boys. We talked to them about the right way to treat women. Taught them about respecting women. Putting them first. Taught them the "If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" rule.

It's a life lesson, sure. But did we get through to them? I don't know. Is this one night going to transcend into their adult lives? Probably not. Are they even going to remember this incident a week from now? I doubt it. It is, however, a reminder that they're watching us. They're paying attention. Every step we take. Every move we make. They'll be watching us. Just like Sting. They notice our interactions and how we treat other people. They're copycats, like little Carlos Mencia's. And I guess the hope is that, as parents, if we can string together enough of these little lessons, that maybe, just maybe, we can keep our sons out of jail and our daughters off the pole. Or our daughters out of jail and our sons off the pole. Now I'm confused.