There was a game I used to play with my siblings. You stand about eight inches apart, which is barely enough room for your toes. You place your hands in front of you with palms facing each other. Then you push. Or push back. Or not. The idea is to throw each other off balance, so that your opponent will fall. You cannot move your feet to catch yourself. 

 

Last summer I suddenly felt annoyed at how much time my son Zachary was spending watching movies. He was asleep, having stayed up late the night before. I gained momentum in my monologue, about how he was wasting his summer, and there were many better ways to spend his time. I had at least five rock solid points for my case.

 

When he woke up he appeared in the living room and I let him have it. 

 

"Zack, I feel like you are watching too many movies..." I barreled into my speech.

 

I fell forward, in my dignity if not my whole body. The force of my own mental freight train catapulted me onto the floor.

 

"I agree. I am going to limit it from now on."

 

That was it? No resistance at all? I felt like a jerk, which was ridiculous considering I won. Or did I?

 

Yesterday I was fussing around the house. I found evidence of sloppy inhabitants everywhere I looked, because I was looking for it. Hosanna had left a smushed banana in her room which had been attracting every ant within a square mile, the twins plunked their back packs on the couch which made it irrelevant as a sitting device, John's computer and papers were sprawled on the kitchen table, shoes had been sneaking across the floor and then freezing to the spot when I cast my evil eye on them. In the kitchen was the dirty bowl from when Zack and his girlfriend had enjoyed their signature breakfast date on Sunday. At the time I emitted sounds like "Awwwww" from the cuteness but now I was miffed. I had blatantly ignored the bowl each day I had done dishes since then. There was a broken dresser drawer on the living room floor, which he had removed from the room he was currently moving into, having been displaced from the third floor by three college boarders. The fact that he had actually been roomless for two nights, since the spring renter moved out on Sunday and the summer ones moved in on Friday did not mute my disapproval.

 

I sprung to action. I texted him.

 

I used the font called Reprimand.

 

He called back immediately. 

 

"I'm sorry. I kept meaning to wash that bowl. I will do it today. And I will move the drawer too."

 

That was it. No resistance. I fell to the floor, remembering that this happened to be exam week, and he had literally stayed up all night on his final project. What a schmuck I was.  How long would it have taken to wash a bowl? Ninety seconds, max. It's not as if he doesn't cheerfully put Ben to bed when I ask him to, which takes considerably longer than ninety seconds.

 

It is embarrassing having a son who is nicer than me.  Maybe if I buy him some ice cream he will give me lessons.