First, I was King for a week--best job I ever had. Then, Britney ruled my world, before I let the Pros take over for a week.
This time, I'm staying closer to home, and giving the little guy a chance.
I'm allowing my 7-year-old son Daniel to have the one thing kids all over the world want more than anything else. Total control. Lord, have mercy on me.
When I told Daniel that I had to do whatever he wanted for a week, he literally shook like a wind-up toy and giggled at the same time, his laugh building to mad-scientist-scary levels.
He was rendered virtually speechless, though the one sentence he got out he repeated over and over.
"Oh, I'm going to like this. Oh, I'm going to like this. Oh, I'm going to like this totally!"
I felt like I'd just handed Lamborghini keys to a 16-year-old. Bill Gates' business acumen to Donald Trump.
That all took place the night before Day 1. So I wondered if Daniel would remember his powers first thing the next morning.
This is a boy who forgets to wear clothes, and, when he's playing with his Legos, he'd forget to breathe if it wasn't involuntary.
Daniel, however, was not going to forget having total control over his Dad. When he awoke Monday morning, he came to the office smiling like it was Christmas.
"Dadddddd," he said coyly, "what's your silly thing this week? You can't say no to me, right?"
Did you ever wonder how you'd feel if you'd been born centuries earlier and were forced to walk the plank? I now know the feeling.
From my new perspective, sharks circling below my feet seems equally inviting.
"We might need some ground rules on this," I said weakly. "I mean, I'm still your daddy."
"Can you make me breakfast and let me eat in front of the TV?"
Okay, that's fair enough, and actually a pretty basic request for a kid. "And don't worry, I won't force you to go to Toys 'R' Us everyday and get me a toy."
Maybe not, but obviously he was thinking about doing it.
He went on to request a glass of milk and insist I call to make a playdate with his friends since they were off from school.
As the morning wore on, I realized Daniel had yet to fully grasp his true power.
We played the board game "Sorry," and after I let us tie in the first game, I was winning handily in the second game when I realized he didn't know he could control the game's outcome if he wanted. He's not a benevolent boss, he's a clueless one.
After I won, he stuck out his hand and said, "Congratulations." Suddenly, Frankenstein's monster came to life.
"Actually, I declare that I won," he said, and laughed hysterically. The scheming has begun.
He began prefacing his sentences with "I declare" and following his requests with two quick hand claps, as if to say, Chop chop now, and get to it.
"I declare you make me lunch." Clap clap. "I declare more milk." Clap clap.
I declare I'm going to be haunted by those clap-claps like Ichabod Crane heard the thundering clap-claps of the Headless Horseman behind him.
He caught me writing that last sentence. "What are you writing?" he asked.
"Just some thoughts, nothing important," I said.
"I declare," he said, "tell me what you're writing." Clap clap.
I declare I'm dumber than Gilligan for coming up with this idea.
Day 2
Daniel rat-a-tat-tatted requests at me first thing Tuesday morning as if he'd been thinking about them in his sleep. Maybe he was, since he's grinning like a clown now that he's running the show.
He wanted to play on the computer, he wanted breakfast in front of the TV, and then, after a glance over his shoulder, Daniel said, "I have 'a declare' for you since Mommy is sleeping."
In other words, he was about to make a major request and there was no one around to stop him.
"I declare you buy me a Lego Monster Crab set," he said.
"You know this is just for one week, right?" I asked him.
"I know, but the week is just starting," he said.
It's only been one day?
Anyway, we looked up the price online and came to an agreement: I'd buy him one small toy sometime during the week, but that was it. He couldn't make a daily toy request.
"I'm glad you don't go to work because we have lots of time for play time," he said.
I'd say he's laying it on a little thick, but that comment actually seemed genuine. Of course it was nicely timed after I just said I'd buy him a toy, so you never know.
As we were eating, Daniel made a predictable request: "I declare no school all week."
"We can't do that--you'd get in trouble," I said.
He responded, "I declare that you say you made me do it, so you get in trouble." Clap clap.
I've worked for bosses who've made similar requests, oddly enough. They didn't clap-clap afterwards, at least not in front of me, but otherwise the similarities are eerie.
Later, walking home from the bus stop, Daniel asked to get ice cream after dinner, to which I agreed. But Daniel's ever-reliable forgetfulness kicked in after the meal.
"Remember," I said to him, "we have something to get after dinner."
He forgot about the ice cream, and as he tried to remember, I wished I had a way to see what his brain was thinking.
If so, I'd have watched image after image of Lego toys parading by, each more enormous than the one before.
"I can't remember," he finally said.
"If I have to remind you what you wanted, maybe you don't really want it," I said.
"I declare you remind me what I wanted," he said.
He's growing into such a fine little dictator. My pride runneth over.
Good thing for him he made up for it as he ate his ice cream.
He turned to me--with chocolate ice cream-covered lips, nose, and cheeks--and said, "Daddy, I declare I love you. This is the awesome-est week ever."
Day 3
Daniel has fully embraced his ruling power and he's planning and acting accordingly. "I declare we go to Burger King on Saturday," he said.
"Why Saturday?" I asked.
"Because that's the first day I don't have lunch at school," he said. "And that's when I can get my kingly crown."
The king wisely turned to his council to help maximize his authority. At his friends' house, he asked Eli, "What should we make my dad do this week?"
That reminds me of a joke:
Boss: "What's worse than having an impatient boss?"
Employee: "I don't know, wh--"
Second Boss: "Two impatient bosses--and we both can't wait all day for you."
Anyway, that's why I picked up Daniel after school and drove to Toys 'R' Us Wednesday.
Eli suggested Daniel request a Lego Monster Crab Clash toy, and that's what Daniel opted to do with his one and only Buy-Me-A-Toy command. It cost about the same as a Starbucks coffee, though it'll be enjoyed much longer.
I made him wait a day before we went to the store, though, just to be certain he really wanted the Monster Crab toy and it wasn't a passing fad. He assured me he did, and that he couldn't wait to get it.
Still, Daniel's mind can wander like an Appalachian Trail hiker, and in some ways he's like Coach from "Cheers."
In one episode, Coach receives a phone call: "Walt, Walt, it's good to hear from you! I'm so glad the operation's over! I didn't want to say anything beforehand, Walt, but I didn't think going in there your chances were too good. [Pause] Oh. It's tomorrow?"
Daniel's "Coach" moment occurred exactly eight minutes into our drive to the toy store from the school--where only moments earlier he'd been pulsating with excitement about getting the toy.
I looked in the rear-view mirror and said to Daniel excitedly, "Here we come, Monster Crab!"
He looked around, smiled, and said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot why we were driving out here."
I guess I should just be happy he gets my name right. Occasionally.
[In the photo, Daniel holds up his new toy in his left hand, and the ice cream cone he requested I make for him when we got home, as he watches TV--his version of the perfect day.]
Day 4
Word is out on the street in little-kid land: Daniel can make his dad do whatever he wants.
When we arrived at the bus stop Thursday morning, I'd like to think the kids were looking at me so wide-eyed because they saw me as a kind, caring, involved dad.
But that'd be more delusional than thinking my hair isn't receding like the tide.
The bus-stop kids looked at me with such wonder because they couldn't believe it was true. "Do you really have to do whatever Daniel tells you?" asked 9-year-old Elliot.
He, his 11-year-old brother Calvin, and 10-year-0ld Jack were looking at me like they were lions and I was raw meat just thrown into their den.
They wanted in on the bossing-around action. I was like a shiny new toy, and if I came with a remote, they'd probably karate-kick each other for control.
"Well, I do what he says, with some exceptions," I said.
"I'd have you do my homework!" said Calvin.
"Mom, you've gotta do that for me," Jack said to his mom.
"No way!" she shot back, a voice of sanity finally.
I explained that I don't do everything--for example, when he told me to keep him from school and to take the rap for it--but most of his requests were fair game.
"There's been a lot of chocolate ice cream this week," I said.
I could see the kids trying to think of ways to make this pay off for them. And for Calvin and Elliot, it almost did.
Their mom Ann called later in the day to say she was on her way home from work but would be late to get her boys at the bus stop. Could I take them until she got home?
"No problem. But," I joked, "since they can have Daniel tell me what to do, they may never want to leave."
We both laughed, but I thought I heard her engine rev louder.
I hoped she didn't get a speeding ticket in her race to prevent do-whatever dad from spoiling her kids worse than child TV stars.
Calvin and Elliot weren't off the bus 20 seconds before they wanted to confirm their new reality. "Can we ask Daniel to have you do things for us?" Elliot asked
"Yep."
"We want ice cream!"
For kids, ice cream is the adult equivalent of free all-you-can-eat surf-and-turf, empty Caribbean beaches, skiing without lift lines, and a private visit from Oprah all rolled into one.
Turns out, though, that Ann was able to out-race Smoking and the Bandit, as well as the police, so she drove up as the three kids and I were walking up the block.
And while Daniel didn't get to have his friends over, he recovered.
After all, there's only one thing better than chocolate ice cream: relaxing in your favorite chair as it's hand-delivered by your own personal servant.
Day 5
Daniel hasn't bossed me around much the last two days, almost as if he's forgotten he can. I'm beginning to feel like last year's Christmas present.
And when he does command me to do something, it's pretty basic. I'm on a five-day streak of making him breakfast and cleaning up for him afterwards, but then I'm forgotten.
Now, I know how Wheezy, the squeaky penguin in "Toy Story 2," felt.
Daniel did unveil one new wrinkle as I was cleaning in the kitchen: "I declare you freeze!" he shouted.
So I did, and he cackled uproariously. He has enormous potential as a future evil mad scientist.
He froze and unfroze me for a few minutes--just because he could--and then left me frozen for two minutes.
I happened to be in front of the kitchen's heating vent, so I told him I was melting, and when I fully melted, I would catch him and hold him upside down by his toes.
He panicked, screamed "You're unfrozen!" for some reason, and took off running as I chased him.
In his haste, he forgot that he has power over me, and at any time could have frozen me again, or commanded me to stop, or even told me to dance like a funky chicken.
He may have the mad-scientist laugh, but when he panics, he thinks like Igor.
Instead, he jumped on the couch and immediately declared it "Base!" He has a wonderful way of discovering "bases" just when he's about to get caught.
It's a superpower bank robbers would love, and it will serve him well in his evil mad-scientist future.
He sat there catching his breath and laughing as I waited to catch him when he stepped off base. Then, the light bulb went on: "I declare the whole house is base," he said.
Good move; when in trouble, pull out an egomaniacal power play. Very evil mad scientist: I'm so glad he's found his calling so early in life.
Days 6 & 7
As requested, I took Daniel to his much-awaited Burger King lunch Saturday--so he could get his "kingly crown"--but then he forgot about me and moved on, barely capitalizing on his power for the rest of the weekend.
He did declare that we wrestle, which for us is one part Ben Affleck-bad acting (me) and one part battle to the death (him). He somehow just manages to win our best-of-seven matches, 4-3, every time.
However, this match would be different. "I declare you use your worst-est strength so I win," he said.
After his laugh-filled, too-easy pin, he changed his mind, so I won the second match. Almost. "I declare that didn't count," he said.
So maybe he misused his power a little. Still, when I mentioned that Sunday would be his last day, he didn't fully take the bait.
"Okay, then I'm going to think of something good tomorrow," he said. It wasn't my responsibility to tell him he could think of something good today, too.
No, when it comes to abuse of power, my friend Phil is my Lex Luthor. Sure enough, he stopped by Sunday to pick up his son Sam after a playdate with Daniel and immediately stepped into the role of Agent Provocateur.
Phil, a diehard Pittsburgh Steelers fan who probably wears Steelers footie pajamas, whispered a request in Daniel's ear, and Daniel lit up like the White House Christmas tree.
Daniel said, "I declare you say, 'Go Steelers!'"
"Okay," I said, pausing. "Ghost healers."
"No, Go ... Steelers!" he corrected. So I did.
That was followed by requests to cheer on the Boston Red Sox (Phil's other son Eli's team), the Yankees (Daniel's team), and to say, "Boo Phillies!"
While it was nice that Daniel rescued me from the Island of Misfit Toys after a few days of relative inactivity, I suddenly wished to be back on the island.
"You don't have to listen to Mr. Handwerk," I told Daniel.
"Hey, I'm not the one who comes up with these ridiculous rules," Phil said. "I just abuse them."
After Phil left, Daniel took the opportunity to make his standard request. "I declare ice cream for dessert," he said, before unloading his big command.
Sitting at the kitchen table with me, he lowered his chin to his chest, stared intently at me with what he considers to be his serious face--and what I consider to be his face I try hard not to laugh at--and said, "I declare you give me $10."
His concept of money is only slightly worse than mine, so to him, $10 is just about all the money in the world.
If I laid out just $3 worth of pennies and nickels on the table, he'd think he could buy Disney World.
He wasn't thrilled when I overruled his $10 declaration, but it was good preparation for the beginning of the end.
With less than five hours til midnight--and roughly two waking hours for Daniel--his reign of error was drawing to a close.
After I said goodnight to him, I asked if he enjoyed his week. He said he did, and I told him this was the last night.
Ahhh, but my favorite evil mad scientist didn't go down without one last shot.
He needed just an instant before he shouted, "I declare I get to do 'I declare' forever! Sweet mama batooty!"
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