Parenting is a lot like watching the TV show COPS

A few weeks ago, I was minding my own business, when my freshly-turned-two-years-old daughter expertly threw my cellphone, from across the room into the only remaining cup of Tang® left in the house. (I can't drink orange juice daily, or I might get cancer. Long story) Huddled over the mess of sticky orange carpet and citrus scented malfunctioning cellphone, I remained there, motionless, whimpering like a defeated wus. And as she did her happy dance, I could tell that, in her mind, she was saying: "Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Look at Daddy cry! Hahaha!"

Kids! am I right, fellas?

One spiffy little day in February, I was sitting at this very desk, and realized that I was the only one in the room watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Not a big deal, really, because I enjoy the "grown-up" jokes, like The Six Million Dollar Man sound effects, and the actors Ernest Borgnine & Tim Conway and Adam West and Burt Ward playing young and old Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy, respectively.

But where was little Miss Julie?

I peeked into the kitchen to see a shirtless toddle sitting under the table. If there's one thing I've learned from watching COPS, it's that if you are shirtless when the authorities arrive, you ARE GOING TO GO TO JAIL.

She spotted me, hurriedly put something in her mouth, and looked away, hiding her face from me.

"Julie?" I asked. Nothing. "Julie..." I said, more sternly this time. She immediately stood up, scrambled toward the living room, and some how pranced around me, evading my grasp, and panting like a mad-man all the way. And as she passed, I heard an all-too-familiar clanking noise coming from her mouth. A PENNY! 


"JULIE! COME HERE!" I shouted, as I tried to catch her. I don't know how a kid can be that fast! By the time I got into the living room, she was already half-way up the stairs. "Julie, STOP!" I yelled.

"NYO NYO NYO NYOOOO!" she replied, as she hurried into her room. I finally grabbed her, and she started wrestling away from me.

"Spit it out." I said, in my most authoritative dad voice. "Spit it out! Get that out of your mouth! Don't swallow it! Spit it out!" Sound familiar? Come to think of it, not only was this like an episode of COPS, it was a lot like my old job. (security/private police)

"Spit it out, Julie!" Finally, she complied, by spitting the penny into her hand. She then flung herself to the floor, laying on her hands.

"Julie!" again with the dad voice. "Julie, give me your hand.... Julie... Gimmie your hand, Julie! Get your hands out. Gimmie your hands! Julie! GET YOUR HANDS OUT WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! STOP RESISTING! STOP RESISTING!" She threw the evidence. She threw the penny underneath her bed, like oh so many crims have done before... running from the police... throwing their bag of wee or crack out the car window, or into some shrubbery. She. Threw. The Evidence.

And that's not the only time, either. I swear she's never once seen an episode of COPS, and yet she knows, almost everytime she has something she's not supposed to, that if she THROWS AND HIDES THE EVIDENCE, mom and dad won't be able to prove anything!

But, lucky for me, parents don't need proof of penny consumption to place an offender in time out. After that particular penny incident, I gave her a harsh, 30 second sentence in the corner. Sadly, she didn't learn her lesson. Yesterday afternoon, I heard some papers rustling, and found her with my math notebook in her hands. All I said was "Julie?" in a normal, not dad sounding voice, and she tossed the notebook under the desk.

Gee Whiz!

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UPDATE: Just now, she was struggling with her pink, pint-sized folding chair, so I put it upright for her. She screamed "Nyoooooo!", whimpered, and melted to the floor like a fun-sized puddle of depression and angst.

"I'm sorry, did I ruin your life?" I asked her, "I'll never do it again. Except, every day, probably, because I'm a dad, and that's just how we roll."

Then she chased both cats with my replica phaser screaming "DIE DIE DIE!"

I'm scared.