'You're not the boss of me,' she said

It is a well-established fact in our home that I, as father of three princesses, am a king.

So it shook me this week when Ashlyn, sprinting back in forth in front of the gym instead of walking to the car as requested by the king, sang, "You're not the boss of me! You're not the boss of me! You're not the boss of me!" And so on.

She was obviously just messing around with this choice phrase inherited from big sis, who had the great fortune to pick it up at school for handy and frequent use with both of her sisters. But never before had any of them had the audacity to say it to either of the ruling monarchs. (Never mind whether or not said monarchs have said it to each other.)

It was a playful caricature of defiance. (Which I kind of like as a name for the rock band my girls will doubtless found someday.) So I wasn't really mad.

But neither did I have the strength to leave it alone.

"Actually, Ashie-love, I am your boss. You're a princess, and I'm the king."

Without a beat of hesitation, she replied, "No. God is the King. And you are a prince."

OK, so she had me there.

I laughed, stumped for a moment, and scooped her up to plop her in her car seat. I'm actually still stumped, although I did eke out something lame about how God was King but He'd told me to be a good prince/king/boss to my three princesses. It was technically correct, but nowhere near as well-put as her line.

Sometimes the four-year-old argument is much more elegant than its 35-year-old rebuttal.

And sometimes, I need reminders that though my kids are under my command, in a larger sense, we're fellow subjects of the same King, brothers and sisters with the same Big Daddy.

On polygamy and insufficiency

I have never understood the draw of polygamy. Why would multiple women want to share the same man? And moreover, why on earth would a man want to try to keep more than one woman happy?

My incredulity at why any dude would choose such an arrangement has mushroomed since I have been living with four fair ladies.

Maybe a polygamist takes pride in being surrounded by beautiful women, accepting people’s compliments on their loveliness as if he deserved some credit for it. That’s what I do. For a man with multiple wives, loneliness would not be a problem—unless it’s the loneliness of sporting the only Y chromosome in the house. I can empathize there too. Maybe these guys enjoy the diversity of their various wives, basking in the glory of how so many different women could be married to him, the way I love pondering the contrasts among my daughters. Maybe it’s just about bragging rights with the boys, a chance for back-slapping and jokes about the absence of TV in the home—the kind I get when people see all my little girls and hand me coupons for cable.

But whether a guy is cursed with multiple wives or blessed by a wife and multiple daughters, both the polygamist and I end up with one thing in common: many, many bosses.

Sometimes I count all the bosses I have at work. Our head counselor quarterbacks the department, but the assistant principal is our real manager. Sometimes teachers tell us what to do when it comes to placing kids correctly. My principal ultimately rules the fiefdom of the high school where I work. What she says is law—until a big-wig from the district comes on campus and she kowtows like the rest of us. Sometimes we get mandates straight from the counseling gurus at the district level, or even the Governator. At the same time, I like to think that the students and their families are my real bosses--and often they act like it.

Though these many chiefs may have disparate ideas about what this little Indian should be doing at work, most of the time they let me do my thing.

My four delightful chiefs at home are a different story.

Sometimes their conflicting instructions come because they can’t agree. Ashlyn orders tofu for breakfast, but Brielle wants oatmeal. Melía insists on grits. Brielle wants to read Green Eggs and Ham, Ashlyn begs for Curious George, and Melía wants me to play wedding. Other times it’s their agreement that puts me in a catch-22, like when all three want to sit in the back of the minivan or on my lap. And there is always my dilemma over which list to neglect: the Honey-do or the Daddy-do.

Along with this is the role confusion I wrestle with as a Christian father. On the one hand, Christians tell me to be the leader of my home, to be the head as Christ is to the church. And yet Christ led by serving. I love this. But when does that mean laying me down to fulfill the requests of the family God has given me, and when does it mean saying “no” in an attempt to lead the family in what I see as the best direction, or just to keep from frying myself?

To say that I feel insufficient understates the thing, leaving me to resort to adverbs. I feel grossly insufficient, terrifically insufficient, spectacularly insufficient.

When I focus on this, it starves my love for my awesome foursome of womenfolk with whom I share a home. My eyes dart nervously from demand to conflicting demand, and my heart feels like my house often looks after a day of preschooler play—undersized, disheveled, disordered, confused…and dangerous. When will I ever get things together, weak and insufficient as I am?

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

This is my only hope.

Have mercy, Lord. I need your all-sufficient grace. You know I am weak. Please let your strength be what shows up as I lead and serve my family. I choose the awesome diversity of their wants and needs. You know how this feels, God, Father of six billion needy, greedy children. Let it make me humble. Give me love and wisdom--and the courage to live these out.