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The Power Shift

Candy's Column

The Power Shift

There comes a time in every parent’s life when we realize we have lost all power to the offspring.  Okay, you’re right — the illusion of power.  Because, let’s face it, from the time that kid is laughingly headbutting our pelvis from the womb, FULLY aware that we have no recourse, any so-called control has been pretty much surrendered.

For my father, that time came when he repeatedly demanded that my two-year-old tushie join the family at the dinner table, and I defiantly turned my back on him and continued to play with my dolls — AND HE LET ME.  Something my dad never would have allowed with my older siblings, apparently, so my mom was stunned.  This is one of those stories that has become family legend.  You know, the story that is recounted at get-togethers time and time again, getting embellished to the point that the latest iteration ends with me planting a flag on my dad’s forehead and yelling, “I OWN YOU, BITCH!” before jumping down and returning to my Raggedy Ann doll.

For my mother-in-law, that time came when she told her youngest son he was forbidden from leaving the house.  To which he responded, “So stop me,” then continued marching out the door.  (No, that was not Mr. Candy, a boy allegedly so angelic that he used to give HIMSELF time-outs in the corner.  According to my MIL, Mr. Candy can also turn water into wine.  True story!)

For a friend of mine, that time came when she went to spank her son, and he grabbed her and SPANKED HER BEHIND instead.  (Not funny and yet… so funny.)

For me…?  The time arrived this morning when I went to the bathroom, feeling confident I had safely secured my daughter in her swing, only to find her like this when I emerged:

“Enough with this silly charade,” thought Miss Skye, rolling her eyes, as she easily unlatched the “safety” tray and proceeded to eat it instead — then LAUGHED at me when I gasped, “What is going on here, young lady?!” (before taking a picture).

It’s all over now, people.

Seriously.  Skye’s amazing (and frightening) dexterity aside, how can I keep up with a child who consumes PLASTIC TRAYS for breakfast?  That’s hardcore.  I’m gonna have to up my game, and add pots and pans to my diet if I have ANY hope of keeping up.

Okay, you’re right — any illusion of keeping up.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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