Blake Snow

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“I’m bigger than you. Stop telling me what to do.”


I didn’t think anyone could be more headstrong than my second child. The pictured cutie with Gene Wilder hair—my third—proved me wrong.

“No!” she answers without fail, even if it’s something she wants. She does it so often, I often mutter under my breath, “Don’t tell me no. I’m your father.”

It’s futile. I realize this. But it’s a coping mechanism.

Someday, however, I’d really like to speak my mind. “Stop telling me what to do!” I’ll say with authority. “I’m bigger than you!”

She’ll then look up to me with bright eyes—her face about to break into a cry. And I’ll cave.

How can something so small—a tenth of my weight, even— wield so much power?

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