Today, I was a child again. For one whole day, I became the daughter of my daughter, and she—my spirited, witty little girl—became my mom. Sounds complicated? Not really. Just wildly entertaining.
We decided to swap roles for the day. And so, this morning, I stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily scrolling between tablet, phone, and my book. I read sneakily, of course—because kids only read under threat of losing screen privileges, right? When my eyes started to blur from too many gadgets, I shouted:
“Moooom, I’m huuungriiie!”
Off she went—my daughter (sorry, my “mom”)—to the kitchen, cookbook in hand, speaking her second language while prepping breakfast. She pulled out four eggs, whisked them with great determination, half ending up in the bowl, the other half on the floor.
“Drie eetlepels melk,” she mumbled. One spoonful of milk. Two. Oops—third one spilled.
“Mooom, I spilled the milk!”
“Are you talking to me?” I called back from the couch. “Sorry, I’m the kid today—I can’t come to the kitchen!”
She shot me a stern look that she clearly inherited from her father, then wiped the floor with grace and carried on cooking.
Naturally, I turned on the TV. Disney Channel? Perfect.
“Mom, hurry up, I’m starving!” I called again, with the urgency only a seven-year-old can master.
Eventually, breakfast was ready. I did my job as a kid—I complained. A lot.
“I don’t really like this.”
I refused the vegetables outright but made a vague promise to maybe eat them tomorrow. We negotiated my plate like world leaders—75% of the meal was set as the bare minimum. She agreed. A good mom indeed.
After breakfast, I returned to the TV while she washed the dishes. I didn’t make my bed, tossed clothes around like confetti, and even left an apple core on her notebook. She scolded me. Something about being messy, dirty, and punishment—but honestly, the music was loud and I didn’t quite catch it all. I just closed the door to “my room.”
“Mom, what are we doing today? I’m boooored.”
She thought for a moment and then reminded me of the rules:
“Today I’m the mom. That means I decide what we do, you can’t say no, and I can buy whatever I want. Deal?”
I nodded.
“Okay, then we’re going to the park with our bikes, and later—guess what? We’re going to see Smiley!”
Of course, I had to protest, at least a little.
“Ugh, Smiley is boring. I want something else!” I whined dramatically.
She stayed firm. Just like a real mom.
At the park, I complained again. She carried my water bottle and even her bag for a while, as I zoomed around on my bike, wild and free. Eventually, we both got hungry. I sent her off on a food mission. She returned triumphantly with two sandwiches.
Then I asked for everything: water, juice, cotton candy, ice cream. She provided. What a mom.
We stayed out late because “Smiley” was waiting. I complained about the mosquitoes, the cold, and the sleepiness. In the final stretch of the night, she cracked.
“I don’t want to be the mom anymore!” she wailed.
“But you are my mom!” I teased.
“I am NOT your mom!” she snapped, completely fed up.
At home, she crawled into my bed, exhausted.
“Being a mom isn’t funny at all,” she whispered. “You have to think of too many things at once. You whined about everything. And I had to spend so much of my money today. I think I want to stay a kid and let you be the mom again. But I promise I’ll complain less and clean up more. Deal?”
I kissed her goodnight.
She’s sleeping now—my daughter, my tiny whirlwind of wisdom and sass. And I, her real mom, am typing this up with a smile. Every now and then, she sighs in her sleep, and I smile wider.
She had a hard day. She was the mom.
P.S. The hardest part of this whole day? Pretending I didn’t love her omelette. Truth is, it was delicious—even if it came with a little milk on the floor.