I am not someone who takes kindly to being told what to do.  I am stubborn to a fault and have never been a strong candidate for assertiveness training.  It is for these reasons that when my son acts the boss of me, telling me where to sit, what to eat, and even when to stop singing, I become extremely agitated.  The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I clench my teeth and begin trembling inside, seething with the realization my child has an overly developed sense of self-importance. 

I get really upset while I’m changing chairs, eating ketchup-dipped bananas and halting my engaging rendition of the theme song from The Backyardagins. 

But in my head I know I can beat him up if I wanted to, so really I'm winning.  I keep having anxiety dreams that one day Crusher will tell me to jump off a cliff.  Then what am I supposed to do? 

I take great comfort in knowing that the amount of respect I receive from my children extends far beyond my maternal reaches.  Just this afternoon I sent my twenty-year-old former student-turned-babysitter an e-mail asking her if she could stay an extra hour tomorrow so I’d have time to go grocery shopping.  I just received an e-mail back from her.  This is a direct quote:  “What, are you all out of hot dogs and Easy Mac? Hah!”

And for the record, no, we are not out of hot dogs and Easy Mac.  If we were out of hot dogs and Easy Mac, what would Crusher eat for dinner tonight?  Duh!  We are out of  SpaghettiOs.  We are not, however, out of Dora-shaped SpaghettiOs with meatballs, a completely different dish then regular SpaghettiOs.  If it weren’t a completely different dish, then why would I be serving them on consecutive nights? 

Yes, I did just refer to a canned good as a “dish.”  Welcome to my world.