No taxation without representation

Let me do it. You you you want to.

When my 8-year-old daughter wants to let me know she is angry, and pulls out all the stops, she calls me names. In her opinion, the worst insult is “bossy”.
Isabella doesn’t like bossy behavior. In other people, that is, since she herself has it down pat. Or maybe she’s just channeling me while she tries to keep her brother in line.

Bossy can mean a myriad of things. It’s thrown at me when I tell her to clean her room, set the table, or pick up her dirty underwear and throw it in the laundry basket (why is that so hard?). I -apparently- am bossy when I ask her to brush her teeth, wash her hair, keep her knees together when she sits down, chew with her mouth closed, and keep her elbows off the table.

It’s true, I tell her al these things, and if I would make a check mark everything I give her an instruction, I’d probably be surprised at the frequency. Being eight must be hard: too young to remember all those pesky little details that make up ‘good behavior’, old enough to realize you’re not in charge.

I’ve told her, on several occasions, that being bossy is my job; it’s what moms do best. What she doesn’t yet realize is that even I get sick of it. Sometimes I am so tired of hearing my own voice that I’m tempted just to let things go. The question is, does a child need to be good all day long? Does she need to be reminded every single time she does something not exactly right? I think not. Maybe, on certain occasions, it is okay to turn the tables and let her call the shots for a while. Maybe we should allow her a part-time seat in parliament.

I recently put Isabella in charge of menu planning. Once a week, she comes up with five meals, and we write a shopping list (Friday is Shabbos which is non-negotiable, Saturday is leftovers) for everything we need. To my great surprise, we do not eat Pasta every night, she’s only asked for fast food once, and it’s been weeks since she’s asked me to cook macaroni and cheese from a box. Instead, she has me making salads, cook fresh vegetables, and serve fruit and fish. Not fish sticks, actual fish. She regularly mixes in some Dutch recipes because she knows I get homesick from time to time.
Basically, I am cooking what I would be if it was me making that menu; imagine that.

Being in charge makes Isabella happy. So happy, she’s asked to be part of my cleaning routine. “Let me scrub the floor”, she tells me. “But I can do it better and faster,” I protest, to which she says: “But practice makes perfect. If you don’t let me practice, I’ll never learn.”

When did she become this smart? And why am I even arguing about this? Because I have a hard time letting go, and because I am, indeed, bossy. I think it’s time I work on that. And yes, she mostly displaces dirt when she "cleans the floor", and I don't care. If anybody comes to my house and comments on the counters not being entirely clean, or the kitchen a bit disorganized, I’ll just have to tell them: we’re under new management. With an overwhelming majority of votes, Isabella has been elected into office.