Lately I have been thinking that I am married to the best father in the world.  Two days ago, we bought a new bed for The Boy and Derek spent the next 6 hours putting it together.  An earthquake could hit this house, it would come crumbling down and STILL that boat shaped bed would be together.  I'm sure of it.  But his act of putting it together isn't what made me think he was the best father ever.  It was how it all went down. 

For 6 hours, Derek let The Boy "help" him put the bed together.  He handed him a flathead screwdriver and let him try to turn the screws.  Occasionally he would let him actually do it.  For 6 hours.  I know that part of this is his personality and part of it is his intent to have his patience be the direct inverse of his father.  His father loved him very much growing up but I don't think there is a person on this planet that would describe Papa as patient.  And Derek has the patience of Job.

About 5 hours into the project they called me to come upstairs and help.  Something about holding two heavy pieces together.  After 30 seconds of trying to hold the pieces and screw them together, I found myself searching for the right words of profanity to express my displeasure with The Boy.  The bed is 110 inches long and he wanted to screw EXACTLY where I was screwing.  My husband apparently didn't see anything wrong with this.  I, however, wondered aloud why ANYONE has children and how ANYONE gets anything done.  My husband just plodded along as he always does, silent and methodical. 

And so it goes with the dishwashing, house cleaning, making dinner, and everything else the two of them do together.   There is never a job that is too difficult for The Boy to try and there is never an end to the amount of instruction Derek will give him.  Last night I listened as they were getting ready for bed. 

D:  What's THIS letter? (tapping on the world map mural on the wall)
E:  EEEEEEEE.
D:  That's right.  And what color is the "E"?
E:  Bwooo.
D:  That's right.  It's blue.  And what's this?
E:  Pwan-et.
D:  That's right, it's a planet.

On and on it went.  My son laughed gleefully as his dad drilled knowledge into his head.  Then I realized the failure that was bound to come.  My failure, that is. 

D:  Do you want to go potty?
E:  Os, Daddy.

Off they went to go potty, where The Boy proceeded to put #2 in the toilet.  I couldn't bribe him to do it for the last 3 days (and there may have even been an incident where he was screaming "NOOOOOOOO!!!"   and I was screaming "YEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!" in direct conflict with every single potty training manual known to man) and then dad asks him once and he is doing it. 

Once again I find myself pondering how we came to the decision that he work and I stay home.   Because he is a much better parent than me.  Hands down.  And there is no one happier about that then me.