Recycling The Rules

| Related | March 9, 2015

(My dad and I are having an argument.)

Me: “That’s so unfair! I hate you!”

Dad: “My house, my rules. As long as you’re living here, you will do as I say. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

Me: “How could you say such a thing to your own child? How can you call yourself a father?”

Dad: “If you don’t like that I’m your father, then go ahead and leave. I won’t stop you.”

Me: “Do you even care? When you were a kid, did Grandpa ever say the same thing to you?”

Dad: “Yes, he did, actually. As long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules. It’s that simple.”

(Fast forward a few decades later…)

My Son: “Come on, Dad! My friends’ parents let them stay out late!”

Me: “Well, I’m not your friends’ parent. You’ll be home by 7:30, or you’ll be without a home, young man.”

My Son: “What is that supposed to mean!?”

Me: “This is my house. At my house, we follow my rules. If you disagree with these rules, then you can go ahead and live with your friends that you love so much more.”

My Son: “You’re unbelievable! Did Grandpa ever tell you to get out when you were a kid?”

Me: “Actually, he did. And before you ask, your great-grandfather told him the same thing when he was your age.”

(My son did smarten up as he got older. Sometimes I wonder about what will happen when he becomes a father.)

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