Chapter 6: The New Household Manager
The following Saturday, I woke up with a plan.
I was going to reclaim my dignity.
Not in a dramatic way. I wasn't going to challenge my wife to a debate or deliver a speech about the rights of husbands everywhere.
I was simply going to enjoy a peaceful morning without my five-year-old acting like the supervisor of my personal life.
That was all.
I walked into the kitchen wearing my charcoal T-shirt and gray joggers, expecting to find Tasha preparing breakfast.
Instead, I found my son standing beside the refrigerator with a sheet of paper in his hands.
He wore his red hoodie.
His hair was neatly brushed.
And he looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had not yet eaten breakfast.
I stopped in the doorway.
“Jordan?””
He turned.
“Good morning, Daddy!””
I looked at the paper.
“What you got there?””
He held it up.
“My list.””
I blinked.
“Your what?””
“My list.””
Tasha stood at the kitchen island, stirring pancake batter in a bowl.
She didn't look at me.
That was the first warning.
I walked farther into the room.
“Baby, what list?””
Jordan held the paper with both hands.
“Mama said we can help with chores today.””
I slowly turned toward my wife.
Tasha continued stirring.
“That's right.””
I looked back at Jordan.
“And what does that have to do with me?””
He pointed to the paper.
“Everything.””
I closed my eyes.
It was happening again.
I could feel it.
Somewhere between the previous afternoon and this morning, my son had decided that his brief success as the household timekeeper qualified him for a promotion.
He wasn't merely checking whether I had permission to play video games anymore.
He was organizing the family.
I reached for the paper.
Jordan pulled it against his chest.
“Wait, Daddy. I have to explain it.””
I looked at Tasha.
She bit her lip.
I pointed at her.
“You knew about this?””
She nodded.
“He wanted to make a list.””
“And you let him?””
“Of course.””
I looked at the ceiling.
“Lord, give me strength.””
Jordan tapped the paper.
“Okay, Daddy. First, we eat breakfast.””
I nodded.
“Good plan.””
“Then we clean up.””
“Reasonable.””
“Then we pick up the toys.””
I glanced toward the living room.
“That sounds fair.””
“And then…”
He paused.
I didn't like the pause.
I had learned that whenever Jordan paused before announcing something, the next sentence was usually the problem.
He looked me directly in the eyes.
“Then you can play your game.””
Tasha lost it.
She leaned against the island, laughing so hard she had to put the bowl down.
I stared at my son.
“Why am I always the one with the schedule?””
Jordan looked confused.
“Because you're playing the game.””
I rubbed my face.
“I'm not playing the game right now!””
He glanced at the controller resting on the kitchen counter.
Then he looked back at me.
“Not yet.””
I turned toward Tasha.
She was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
I shook my head.
“This family is against me.””
Tasha finally straightened.
“Marcus, nobody is against you. We're just trying to make sure everybody helps.””
Jordan nodded enthusiastically.
“Everybody helps!””
I looked down at the list.
There were three items written in large, uneven letters.
EAT.
CLEAN.
PLAY.
The words leaned in different directions. The letter A in PLAY was backward, and a small drawing of a controller occupied the bottom corner.
It was adorable.
It was also a surprisingly effective management document.
I crouched beside my son.
“Did you write all this yourself?””
He nodded.
“Mama helped me spell some words.””
I smiled.
“It's a good list, buddy.””
His face lit up.
“Really?””
“Really.””
He handed it to me.
I studied the paper again.
Then I looked at the bottom, where Jordan had drawn three small circles.
“What are these?””
He pointed to them.
“Those are checks.””
“Checks for what?””
“To make sure we did everything.””
I stared at him.
He had invented a checklist.
At five years old.
I looked at Tasha.
She shrugged.
“He likes organizing things.””
I returned my attention to Jordan.
“Okay, boss. What's my first assignment?””
He glanced at the list.
“Eat breakfast.””
I saluted him.
“Yes, sir.””
Breakfast was surprisingly pleasant.
Tasha made pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit. Jordan sat between us at the kitchen table, carefully arranging pieces of banana around the edge of his plate.
Every few minutes, he checked his paper.
At one point, I reached for another pancake.
Jordan looked up.
“Daddy?””
I stopped with the serving spatula in my hand.
“Yes?””
“Did you finish eating?””
I glanced at my plate.
“I'm working on it.””
He nodded.
“Okay.””
Then he looked at the paper.
I slowly set the spatula down.
“Son, I'm not going anywhere.””
“I know.””
“I'm just eating.””
“I know, Daddy.””
“Then why are you checking?””
He thought about that.
“Because it's on the list.””
Tasha turned toward the sink, laughing silently.
I pointed at her.
“Don't encourage this.””
She raised her hands.
“I haven't said a word.””
“You don't have to.””
Jordan finished his breakfast and carried his plate to the counter.
I watched him.
He placed the plate carefully beside the sink, returned to the table, and made a small checkmark next to EAT.
Then he looked at me.
“Your turn, Daddy.””
I looked at my plate.
I looked at my son.
And I realized I had two choices.
I could spend the morning fighting a five-year-old's organizational system, or I could admit that the system was actually helping us get things done.
I carried my plate to the counter.
Jordan made another checkmark.
“Good job!””
I bowed slightly.
“Thank you.””
Tasha laughed.
The next task was cleaning up the living room.
That should have been simple.
We had done it dozens of times before.
But Jordan had apparently decided that our usual approach lacked sufficient structure.
He stood in the middle of the room holding his list.
“Okay, everybody. Pick up the toys.””
I looked around.
“Everybody?””
He nodded.
“Everybody.””
I pointed toward the kitchen.
“Even Mama?””
Jordan looked toward Tasha.
“Yes.””
Tasha appeared in the doorway carrying a small basket.
“I've already got mine.””
Jordan nodded approvingly.
“Good job, Mama.””
I stared at my wife.
She gave me a look that said she had never been happier to be on the receiving end of our son's praise.
I bent down and picked up a plastic dinosaur.
Jordan watched me place it in the toy bin.
“Good job, Daddy.””
I picked up a second toy.
“Thank you, sir.””
“Good job.””
I picked up a third.
“Thank you.””
I was beginning to enjoy this.
Then Jordan pointed toward a toy truck beneath the sofa.
“Daddy, you missed one.””
I stopped.
I looked at the truck.
Then I looked at him.
“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?””
He nodded.
“Uh-huh.””
I reached beneath the sofa and retrieved the truck.
“There.””
Jordan smiled.
“Thank you.””
I placed it in the bin.
Tasha leaned against the doorway.
“Honestly, Marcus, this is the most organized I've ever seen you clean.””
I turned toward her.
“I am being supervised by somebody who still needs help tying his shoes.””
Jordan looked down at his sneakers.
“I can do it sometimes.””
I immediately softened.
“I know you can, buddy.””
He grinned.
Then he returned to his list.
By the time we finished, the living room looked better than it had all week.
The toys were in their bins. The coffee table was clear. The cushions were straight, and the blanket that usually lived in a heap on the sofa had been folded neatly over one arm.
Jordan made another checkmark.
“Done!””
I put my hands on my hips.
“Look at that. We did it.””
He nodded proudly.
“We're a team.””
The words stopped me for a moment.
We were a team.
Not because one person gave orders and everybody else obeyed.
Not because someone paid the bills or held the list.
We were a team because we had worked together, each of us doing a little part.
I looked at Tasha.
She smiled at me.
I smiled back.
Then Jordan glanced at the clock.
His expression changed.
He looked down at the paper.
Then up at me.
“Daddy?””
I felt a familiar sense of dread.
“Yes, buddy?””
He pointed toward the television.
“Now you can play your game.””
I laughed.
“Finally!””
I headed toward the sofa and reached for my controller.
Jordan followed me, carrying his list.
I sat down.
He stood beside the coffee table.
I turned on the television.
Then he cleared his throat.
I slowly lowered the controller.
“What now?””
Jordan looked at the list, then at me.
His voice was calm, polite, and full of the confidence of someone who believed he had prepared for every possible situation.
“Daddy, before you play, we need to talk about tomorrow.””
I stared at him.
Across the room, Tasha stopped folding the blanket.
She looked at our son.
Then at me.
And for the first time all morning, neither of us was laughing.
May you like
Because whatever Jordan had written at the bottom of that paper, he had covered it with his little hand.
And he was clearly saving it for last.
