I've got that certain "je ne sais quoi"

The word on the street is that I'm bossy.

Moi?

I overheard Tweenie scheming with BFF for a possible weekday sleepover, or at least a bowl of ice cream before dinner.

"Mom's not the type, like if you beg and beg and beg, she totally won't give in. Even the fluttery eye thingy only works on Dad anymore."

Indistinct mumbling from BFF.

"Anyway, she said I have to clean this pigsty up this instant. And, well, I believe her. She's kinda, you know, bossy."

That's kids for you, right? They always think their parents are tyrants whose only pleasure lies in inventing odious chores.

Recently, Husband tried to help out by throwing a load of laundry in the washer. I came swooping from another room and shooed him away. He doesn't read the tags, ok? Doesn't make me bossy.

"Helping" Tweenie pick out her clothes for school isn't bossy either. It's a teachable moment.

I was observing Rascal today in a quiet moment. I have always said he takes after Husband, in looks and attitude.

He was "helping" Kye.

Lesson #1: When pouncing on Big Sister, you must land on the soft mushy stomach part, not the bony pelvis. If you make a mistake, you will have to repeat the maneuver until you have it right.

Lesson #2: When tossing rocks at the cat, you must throw overhand. No sissy stuff, got it?

Lesson #3: You are not allowed to eat the part of the sandwich that has no peanut butter smeared on it, even if Mama has taken care to cover every millimeter. Also, Mama is not allowed to re-smear or cut the offending part off. The whole sandwich would be ruined.

Rascal: "No, Kye. Nooooooooo dat. I show. Dis, okee?"

Kye: "Deh?"

I guess he was paying better attention than I thought.