If you know me well, take a minute to have your hearty laugh at the thought of me being ferociously tough. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Unless, of course, you happen to be my husband, who knows very well that I can be quite stubborn when I put my mind to it, often and without warning. I’m a good wife. Really. No, I mean it. Wanting to get my way all the time isn’t necessarily bad wifely behavior, is it? Is it? But I digress.

If you are not my husband, now that you’ve recovered from your laughing fit I will tell you why I am writing this post. I recently sent a stern “get tough” e-mail to a friend, half serious and half in jest, prodding some action on a matter of relatively minor importance in the grand scheme of things. I have to laugh at myself for this tactic—which was a rousing failure and not likely to be repeated—because had I tried to take on this attitude in person rather than via e-mail, I could never have done it with a straight face. However, it reminded me of a funny story about a time when I was successfully tough with a total stranger. It’s true. My sister witnessed it and thought me trying to be “tough” was one of the funniest things she ever saw.

Imagine if you will, a mother cheerfully embarking to set up for her daughter’s 2nd birthday party at the local park. Further imagine the threat of rain, and you will understand the natural desire to hold said party under the cover of a pavilion. A large pavilion. Easily home to 10 or 12 long picnic tables. Now suppose for a moment there are two solitary people with lawn chairs and a cooler staked out in this pavilion, attempting to reserve it for a reunion to take place later in the day. They try to turn me away. I am NOT happy. I, former Most Shy, very resolutely point out the error of their ways. I only need two tables. They can have the rest. They don’t even have anyone there yet! Are they really so heartless as to disappoint a two-year-old? They push back, but I steadfastly stand my ground and, surprise of surprises, I win! To make peace (see, I’m nice that way) I offer them birthday cake, which they refuse, but that’s okay. We go on to enjoy a fabulous rain-free party with a special appearance by Blue (a clue! a clue!), the other group never uses more than 3 or 4 of the remaining tables, and I feel good that I have paved the way for another birthday party that sets up as we are leaving.

Moral of the story: Don’t mess with me when it comes to my kids! Unless you are my husband, in which case, don’t mess with me at all. It’s just safer that way!

(For Kent’s eyes only: I’m just kidding about that last part, it’s only for comic effect, I swear!! XOXO)