I am. That’s who.

At least that’s what I try to tell my seven-year old, Rachel. At four-and-a-half that was hard for her to understand. Now she’s accepted it…except when it comes to her sister. She wants to be the boss of Hannah, who is at that difficult four-and-a-half I-want-to-do-what-I-want-to-do-and-why-can’t-I age.

“You can’t tell Hannah what to do. That’s my job. I’m in charge. I’ll tell her what to do.” I explain to Rachel for the 86th time.

“Why do you get to be the Boss? It’s not fair,” she complains.

“It’s fair. I’m the Mom. When you’re the mom, you get to be the boss.”

“So that means, when I’m a mom I get to boss you around.”

Hmmmmmm.

“Well, okay, you can boss me around when you’re a mom but that means you have to do what I say now.”

I must say, I think she’s on to something there. Becoming a mother has turned me (once pretty laid back and compliant) into a control freak. I do boss the girls’ grandmothers around. I’ll admit it.

But here’s a little secret about grandmothers that Rachel doesn’t need to know right now. You can boss them around all you want, but 70 percent of the time, they are going to do exactly what they want to do. That’s the beauty of an older woman. She doesn’t waste time being compliant.

Another thing Rachel doesn’t need to know is that my memory is pretty much shot. So anything I promise her now….well, I may not remember it in twenty years.

But here’s an interesting thing. When I imagine myself being older and having her boss me around it makes me feel good, like a weight has been lifted, like I’ve done my job, like the world doesn’t rest on my shoulders, and in a way, like I can be a kid again.

I almost can’t wait.