We are all familiar with the original game of chicken. Freeze at the threat of oncoming danger until that last possible moment. Well the parenting version is a tradition you also know well, but may have not had enough self-actualization to give it a proper title. In fact, this is a game that many of you would surely win medals in, if there was a division of the Olympics tailored specifically to parents. However, I do fear it would end up being a male dominated event. Now before you get upset by my seemingly sexist statement, read on.

My husband and I have decided that we actually find it easier to adventure into the world ALONE with our lively three, rather than as a fearless (make that fearful) fivesome. Here’s our reasoning. When you are alone with the pack, something happens inside of you. It is almost like the adrenaline rush someone might experience if they were to come upon someone trapped under a massive vehicle. Somehow you would find the superhuman strength to do the impossible, because it simply must get done. Without even thinking about it your body and mind would simply complete what needs to be accomplished. My lonely battle cry is the same, “I will get through this battlefield known as Target with all three little obstacles in tow, while avoiding the threat of Disney branding and the far more dangerous dollar section (they know my weakness for deals), while narrowly escaping the candy at the checkout (they also know my weakness for chocolate…and pretty much Target in general). Focus, Kate. Focus!” In contrast, to envision what it is like with both parents in the driver seat, you must imagine the same scenario discussed previously, of the victim found beneath the car. However, if you were to approach that same scene at the same time as another good citizen, would you still go on automatic? Pull every muscle in your body without even a thought? Risk your life? Or might you hesitate, just for a moment, to see if that other idiot (although a noble idiot) might put their own life on the line instead. That pause would last just long enough so that the necessary benefit of adrenaline would never fully kick in. And thus, what needs to get done, never does. However, you could always blame the other guy for his lack of courage, to help divert the attention from your own lack of character. This is the origin of Parenting Chicken.

When one of our kiddos begins the inevitable symphony of, “Mommy, Daddy, Mommy” in that tone that cannot be effectively described in words <oh, how=”” i=”” wish=”” fb=”” had=”” audio=””>, or when a battle between the babes breaks out, each of us pretends we don’t hear it. Now for those of you who have been reading my confessions, and know of the Vokoun Children’s Vocal Superpowers, you know that “not hearing” our children, even if they were miraculously trying to whisper, is literally impossible. The trick is, who will face the danger (or in this case, ignore the children) and refuse to move (or in this case, refuse to help). Needless to say, I often lose. In fact, David has been known to join in the symphony of “Mommy, Mommy” at times, just to prove his dominance in the sport. As much as I hate to admit it, I think most women are genetically inferior in this game. Our children’s whines and cries are perfectly programmed to literally drive us to insanity. I swear I am awakened from a dead sleep if one of my kids so much as turns over two rooms away. Thus, my kiddos often now just omit the “Daddy” in their chants, and go straight for the weakest link. In fact, my husband is such a stealth ninja at this game that even when daddy is just inches away, and even after shutting at least two doors between me and the chants and even when the beloved baby gate is up…if a battle breaks out over a show, or accusations of toy theft begin, or even if they simply can’t find a shoe (now I know to check the toilet…see Day 5), they would rather hop the gate, push down the doors, and climb on in to my cherished thirty second oasis I call my monthly shower, to proceed with their symphony of “Mommy, Mommy,” then even to attempt to defeat Daddy, the master of Parenting Chicken.

Now, before I start getting messages in defense of my husband, please know that I am already aware that he is an absolutely incredible father and husband. The BEST! His strengths as a human being are too many to count. AND please know that HE is fully aware of his talent in this specific sport. Not only does he admit to his gift, he brags about it. He has tried many times to share with me the wisdom of his ways. He will tell me, “Just ignore them. Always ignore. And earplugs help,” never acknowledging that this Art of Zen is a gift, and not something that could ever be truly taught. In fact, even in my most desperate times, when all three of the little monsters are in full contact attack, and I call out in desperation, rather than peel them off of me, his usual response is the brilliant diversion tactic, “DOGPILE ON MAMA!” He is truly the master!