Ah, Seven. The age of testing boundaries, I see. No, you may not demand things in a gruff voice and hope I’ll think you’re adorable enough to give you what you want. You will be ignored and like it, little man, until you can ask nicely. What you practice is what you become, and you’d better stop practicing talking to your family as though we’re fecally constructed. Otherwise you’ll talk to your subjects that way when you’re dictator.

Oh, Three. The age of burgeoning independence. Yes, of course you can do it yourself. I’ve known that for years. But now you end every conversation with, “Mom. I can do whatever I want.” May I just point out how terrifically cute that is, despite its terrible foreboding? You’d better not contract  “second child gets away with murder” syndrome, because I can’t bear to know that you’re going to take my car without asking in 12 years and just tell me, sweet eyes shining, “Mom. I can still do whatever I want.” Didn’t you just hear me tell your brother to knock it off? You, too.

I remember when you were both just adorable and needy. What’s up with this capable and sassy authority-defying thing?

Where the heck did you get these qualities? Certainly not from me.