Last week I learned a startling lesson that, quite frankly, I suspect I was already aware of but too dense to admit it. These sorts of lessons are the very stuff that life is made of and, when taken to heart, make the life of a man much easier.

Maybe I had better explain myself.

I not only have a boss at work, I have a boss at home. She lives in the body of my wife and, although we make a concerted effort to keep up the appearance that I wear the pants in my family, when the rubber meets the road, my wife is the boss. Many men reading this may quiver at the thought of a man being ruled by a woman. Many men may take great exception to not being the boss in their own home. Many men may even froth at the mouth at the very idea that they don’t rule their own roost.

Many men may be in denial.

Last week, however, I discovered that two bosses resided in my home and I was not one of them.

Our daughter Salina is now rapidly approaching the threshold of being three-years-old and is beginning to show signs of a budding independence that may well be a harbinger of pending travail.

I returned home from work late and, not too surprisingly, Salina was still up. After greeting her, playing with her for about 20 minutes and reading her a book, I announced in my best paternal tone that it was time for her to go to bed.

Normally when I tell her to hit the sack, she trots off dutifully to her bedroom, climbs into bed and says goodnight.

Last night didn’t go as planned.

“Salina, its time to go to bed,” I said with much fatherly affection.

“No,” she responded.

Taken aback, I repeated my instructions.

“Salina, its time for bed. Now go to your room.”

“No.”

“Salina, Daddy said go to bed, now go!”

“No.”

I wasn’t prepared for this, nor was I prepared for what came next.

My precious little daughter jumped up off the floor and ran into my arms and said, “Daddy, hug me.”

Figuring I had the upper hand, I hugged her and carried her to the bedroom. On the way I explained to her, in no uncertain terms, the pecking order in the Turner household.

“Salina, there are a few things you need to understand around here,” I said with confidence. “Mommy is the boss and Daddy does what Mommy says. You have to do what Mommy says, too. Both Mommy and Daddy are your bosses, so that means you have to do what we ask you to do. Understand?”

“I’m a boss, too,” came her response.

“No, Salina, you are not a boss. Mommy and Daddy are the bosses.”

“I’m a boss, too,” she repeated. “I’m the fish’s boss and I’m Daddy’s boss.”

So, there you have it. The goldfish and I occupy the lowest rungs on the Turner totem pole and, in some ways, the fish may be better off than I am. At least he only has one boss and can hide behind the plant in his bowl if he needs to disappear.

I, on the other hand, am usually out in the open and vulnerable.

I have no doubt that Salina is probably right. Daughters seem to have a magic about them, a way of getting Daddy to do pretty much whatever they want. I suspect that my future is already cast. Daddy has two bosses and there’s just not much he can do about it. I can quiver. I can rail against it until I’m blue in the face.

I can even froth at the mouth like a rabid dog. But one thing is clear. I can’t change it, and if the truth be known, probably don’t want to. Pray for me.