Oh, I see what’s happened here. You two boys think the three of us are peers.

That my words to you are suggestions for you to take under advisement, perhaps get a second opinion.

That you may tell me what time you expect me to be home.

That you may disagree with how I spend my time or fold my laundry.

That you may tell me when you’re planning to be gone, or even more, that you may simply head out and make your plans.

That you may throw a fit and make a scene, cast out emotionally maniuplative untruths, like, “You’re never with us!” and “You don’t even want us!” You can be angry, and you can tell me how you feel; but you may not say things that are not true. And you know – you know that I know that you know – those words are not true.

You believe our bedtimes should be the same and our dessert servings should be equal.

You are six and seven. And I’m about to shake up the hierarchy around here.

I am the lord, Your Mother. I do not change.

Brace yourselves, little dictators.  It’s not going down this way.

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