The other day, Minor asked me for a fruit cup. That’s right, fruit cup: Single-serving, individually-packaged, environment-killing, high-fructose drenched death snack. Get DSS on speed dial and conference in Al Gore, because I’m the worst mother in the world. I opened it and placed it on the kitchen table for him. “TV room?” he asked hopefully.

I don’t have a hard-and-fast rule about eating in the TV room or anywhere else in the house; it’s just not something I can get too exercised about. I usually ask myself two questions: How much of a mess would it be if they spilled it? And, how likely is the dog to eat it off the couch and, subsequently, throw it up? If the answer to either of those questions is, “Ewwwww,” then the answer is no, it must be eaten in the kitchen.

“No, honey, you have to eat it in the kitchen,” I said.

He looked at me thoughtfully. “Daddy yes fruit cup in TV room,” he said.

“Well, I don’t care if Daddy lets you eat fruit cup in the TV room. I’m saying you have to eat it in the kitchen.”

He took a minute to parse that. “Daddy yes, Mommy no.”

If that’s not a concise summation of the difference in our parenting styles, I don’t know what is. It’s also a convenient shorthand for Minor to rat out his father’s overly permissive decisions.

“No, you can’t play with that electrical cord.”

“Daddy yes, Mommy no.”

“Honey! What the hell?”

“Gee thanks, Minor.”