We went Bill Frist on his butt

Tonight, we went nuclear on The Boy.

No, we didn't do our part to dismantle the democratic process in a childish fit -- "Vote on my nominees. C'mon, guys. Pleeeeeeeeeeeease??" -- but rather sent Junior to bed well before his appointed bedtime. His crime: Spitting milk on the couch, after repeatedly being told that once something goes in his mouth, it stays in his mouth. (Insert requisite N.C. State/Duke oral sex joke here.) The punishment fit: In the past week, he has become increasingly obstinate. He challenges. You say, "One story, The Boy," and he grins at you and says, "Two story!" He needs to know who's boss.

For the record, Judybat is boss. I expected to be a tough, firm, disciplinarian. Instead, I'm weak. Kansas City Royals weak. Democratic Party weak. Seriously weak. When The Boy does something after I've explicitly told him not to, I respond. But when he's merely on the verge of misbehavior, I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm discovering, to my chagrin, that you don't do that with children. Or at least, good parents don't. So I'm thankful, as we all should be, that I've got a much firmer voice in the house. Tonight, when the kid crossed the line, she scooped him up and had him in his PJs before he could announce his protest, or begin a kicking, screaming tantrum.

If only our friends in Congress knew how to play the alpha dog.