The Recent Paterfamilias is proud to state that he is the man of his house. He is the head of his household. The sergeant of his platoon. The king of his castle. The chief of his village. The chief of his tribe. The chief of his chiefdom. The Recent Paterfamilias is master of his domain. He is Neanderthalic Primo. He is The Man.
The R.P. calls the shots in his family. And the most recent shot called? The final decision on a little baby-sized baby armchair for his infant baby’s room.
As has been mentioned previously, the room of the infant of the R.P. is on the small side. Space is at a premium. So, a multitude of infant chairs were vetted. Chairs for an infant to pull herself into. Chairs to feel all grown up in. Chairs in which to look cute so that somebody could go run into the other room, grab the camera, run back, and then find said infant out of the chair and back on the floor, on all fours, playing with that stupid bongo toy that drives the dog (let’s call him “Tedward”) bonkers.
Ultimately, after endless searching, the R.P. found a chair of his liking.
It was small. It was cube-ish. It was uber-designed and kind of awesome and saddled with the inherently obvious (and pretentious) name of “The Cubino Chair.” Frankly, in all honesty, the chair was awesome. It was perfect.
As it turns out, the wife of the Recent Paterfamilias didn’t like the chair. The wife of the R.P. liked other little chairs, bigger little chairs, little chairs from Pottery Barn Kids and The Land of Nod and some other place that the R.P. can’t think of at the moment.
But the R.P., himself, didn’t like those other chairs. They weren’t of his taste. They weren’t of his style. He liked the chair he had picked. And all those other chairs were at least six inches larger in every dimensional direction, making them, as he protested, impractical.
As has been said, in the nursery of the R.P., space is at a premium.
So, the Recent Paterfamilias put his foot down. He told the wife of the R.P. how it was going to be, how his decision was final, and how there wasn’t going to be any more debate on the topic, one way or the other. Period. End of discussion. Case closed. Man of house has spoken.
So, now that the decision had been made, the wife of the R.P. logged onto the Internet, located said Cubino chair at its (as it turns out) single U.S. distributor, picked a color (brown/pink), inserted credit card info, registered for email confirmation of both proof of purchase and shipping confirmation, placed order, and then pressed “Submit.”
Sometimes, it must be stated, it feels good to be the Chief of the Clan.
(On a side note, it should be noted that the little infant baby chair has since arrived at the apartment, and it just barely fits into its niche in the room, which consequently means that all those other chairs would have been returned anyway, no matter what the Master Cave Clubwheeler thought about any one of them, one way or the other. “Ooga! Ugh! Me want more sophisticated design! Ooga! Ugh! Eames Ottoman good for fire kindling! Ooga! Ugh! Molded plastic chair good lines have!)
Ooga. Ugh. It’s got to be said: It ain’t all that great being a Neanderthal.