My apologies to Dr. Seuss

Husband is the Preschool Grinch.

Overheard at bedtime recently...

Rascal: "Daddy, you sing Twinkle Twinkle Star now."

Husband: "Ask Mama."

R: "No, I want Daddy sing."

Husband doesn't sing. Ever. He often reminds me of Robert De Niro in the Focker movies (and I think H was secretly taking notes for any pimply boys that one day will come a'calling for Tweenie).

Rascal went through his list. Itsy Spider? Happy clap your hands? EIEIO? Theme song from Little Mermaid?

I heard Husband hollering for me. "He wants a kiss from you," he said as he beat a speedy retreat to the living room and the soothing sounds of Seinfeld.

I dutifully sang all the songs, although Rascal was still peeved that Daddy wasn't joining in on the fun. He was probably annoyed from before, because Daddy showed no interest in gluing pipe cleaners to the fireplace bricks and definitely wasn't going to double as a tent pole for the boys' playroom fort while making Polly Pocket talk.

Husband did, however, greatly enjoy the game where you knock over Barbies with a soccer ball - that he approved of.

I think he's waiting for the day when Rascal and Kye can go fishing without great peril to life and limb and fix lawnmowers and go for test drives at the dealership that sells BMW motorcycles.

It's just this disconcertingly androgynous stage of toddlerdom that has him sweating.