Recently a girlfriend and I were chatting when she shared a typical day-in-her-life as a wife, mother, sales manager, food blogger, and that’s the short list.

Apparently Saturday is chore day in their home where each family member does a chore-or-two so things get done, the family participates and kids learn ownership-of, and well—you get the picture. Like setting your watch, she tells me, when chores roll around on Saturday she hears her son in his room stomping as if wearing lead boots, lamenting the scourge of Saturdays, the tyranny of the ruling class, reciting the thirteenth amendment loud enough for the neighbors to hear– his thinly veiled attempt to incite revolution or at the very least a neighbor to call Child Protective Services. His argument, “ shouldn’t someone else be in charge of cleaning my room?” As she retold the story my imagination morphed her words into pictures, taking license to embellish fully. I figured him a Viking warrior descending on a peaceful coastal village and ruthlessly sacking it, as he drop-kicked dirty clothes to the laundry hamper, hurling basketballs across the room in defiant outrage—the closet taking the brunt of the abuse in carom shots. LEGOs lobbed as if grenades into the toy box, while books became lethal iron sickles, slicing through the air in utter contempt at the bookshelf, all-the-while protesting—“this is not fair!” On one such Saturday the routine uprising which otherwise left his mom nonplussed, wore on her last nerve and so she seized on the “not fair” comment to offer a sage life-lesson, soberly reminding him–“yes and well Q, life is not fair — I recommend getting used to it,” then disappeared into the mists out of ear-shot while he prolonged the agony of a ten minute chore into an hour.

Some months later during his sisters birthday party, in a bold Occupy Birthday move, her son procured each freshly unwrapped gift before his sisters tinier hands could explore them, escalating the otherwise joyous occasion to nearly riot proportions, at which point his mom interceded, redirecting with what she felt was a reasonable, non-violent solution saying, “it’s not fair that sister does not have the chance to play with her toys first—let her play with them at least once, then you both can play with them and enjoy them together.” To which her son wisely said, “…but mom, you told me life is not fair.”

While my girlfriend was half frustrated by her son’s wildly creative, imaginative mind, she was equally celebrating his particular brilliance. As am I! I’ll have some of what my friend’s son is having, and unleash unbounded creativity, and imagination!