The Trial

Pink Floyd, The Wall 1979

I have always had a nagging sensation that  I was not quite good enough as a mother.  Something was lacking, but I could not put my finger on it. Something....something....something.... What could it be, I always wondered?  I mean,  I know I can do better but how?

Well, thanks to Amy Chua, I now know that a Chinese mother is superior.  And last I checked, I am most certainly not Chinese. Way to take the pressure off, right?  Thanks, Amy!

Cue the Greek chorus, folks.

Despite my maternal deficiency that resides in my white skin and mid-western breeding, I do have a significant trick up my sleeve. That is, when I am not busy driving my kids to harmonica lessons, arranging playdates for them, or playing Super Mario Bros with them.

However.   Lest you think that I am rending my garments and bemoaning my mid-western culture, 'tis not a problem, Gentle Reader. Ah yes, while I am most certainly a lost cause, there just might still be hope left for my own precious progeny.  Perhaps.

You see, I have a Cobra Daddy.

Cobra Daddy?  What's that, you say?  Well, they come in an assortment of flavors and colors! They generally hail from the sub-continent of Asia (Pakistan, India, Bangladesh and in a pinch, Sri Lanka).  For myself,  I chose a delightful varietal from Kerala, India, in a lovely sepia tone with smoky hints of mocha that resulted in some pretty darned cute kids.  I also went "Catholic with an Anglo last name", which downplayed a chasm of cultural issues for us.  Try it, you might like it!

So, what makes a Cobra Daddy special?  Oh trust me, Gentle Reader.  When your Cobra Lover morphs into a Daddy, the transformation is spectacular!  Don't forget your sunglasses.  Our house is now like a constant rave around here sans glowsticks and the goddamed disco ball. Which leaves Guess! Who! to fill the role that can only be referred to as the Enforcer (hint: Me!)  But that's okay, because as long as the kids don't cry, then we are totally cool.

You see, that is the #1 Article of Faith by which a Cobra Daddy lives:

Children shalt not cry.  Ever.  

Want to sleep in your parents' cozy bed, little fella?  Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will whisk you out of that crib faster than you can shoot that pacifier outta your mouth.  Speaking of pacifier, what the hell, woman? Give me the real stuff, you lactating loser.  Cobra Daddy to the rescue!  By the way, little fella, you look a little cramped. Perhaps, Cobra Daddy should move to the other room.

Don't want to pick up your toys?  Just cry and your Cobra Daddy will tell your mama what a relentless nag she is.

You want to wear the sparkly, satin party dress in 15 degree weather, baby girl?  Just cry quietly and before you know it, your Cobra Daddy will be fumbling with the sash.

You want ice cream at night, just before bed?  You want a West Highland Terrier instead of a Labrador Retriever? You want 10 packets of raw sugar, just before dinner?  You want to watch Shaun the Sheep for the 5th time in a row? You want Ovaltine in your milk?  Just CRY, goddammit.  CRY.  Cobra Daddy has your back.  No worries, dude.

Chore charts?  Cobra Daddy rolls his eyes.

Acting classes? Cobra Daddy cackles.

Soccer?  Cobra Daddy snorts.

Dance?  Cobra Daddy shrugs.

Art classes?  Are you fucking kidding the Cobra Daddy?

I wonder what would happen in a Parental Thunderdome between a Tiger Mother and Cobra Daddy?

I'd pay good money to see that show.