I am the boss of you.
Someone remind me that I love this girl, please? She stands there, arms akimbo, and tosses her dark red hair defiantly.
This isn't your house. It's my house, and Ricki's house, and my Mommy and Daddy's and not yours. You're not the boss of me. I'M THE BOSS.

Only, her Daddy's laid up in bed with a bad back, the most mobility he can manage is a slow shuffle, 2 full minutes to get to the bathroom a mere 8 steps away from his bed. And I am actually the boss. I, the ever loving sister/aunt, am taking care of his daughters, darling, smart, precocious redheads, and (can you tell?) things aren't going to smoothly.

Moose is 4 going on 15, full of ideas and manipulations and observations. Ricki is 2, idolizing and snuggly and very easily reduced to tears. I am 21, tired, and trying awfully hard to come up with a new game to distract the three of us, testy females.

We're going to play house now. I'm the Mommy, Ricki is the sister and you can be the baby. Sit there.
Perfect. Mommy bustles around, bossing Ricki into homework, playtime, shopping and cleaning.
Don't move, Baby!
Baby doesn't move. I sit on the daybed, delighting in the verbal exchange between siblings, thinking about how much I love these girls, glad I'm not actually in charge of their discipline and I can just enjoy them as they are.

That's the fun in neices and nephews... when they get too bossy I can give 'em back.

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