Illustration by Jean Jullien

I am not Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, on “Game of Thrones.” But I am your mother. So when you don’t listen to me because you’re squabbling over Barbies instead? That angers me, and I must say to you, “I am your mother. Will you listen? Swear to me!”

And then do you reply, “My sword is yours, my life is yours, my heart is yours”? No, you don’t. You say, “But she started it!” How can your mother possibly respond to that? Can she say, “I am your mother! I am the wife of your father, and you sprang from these loins! The next time you raise a hand to me is the last time you have hands”? No, she can’t say that, because then Child Protective Services will come for a visit.

It bothers me that you don’t recognize how all-powerful I am or see how hard I have toiled, all these years, to keep you clothed and fed and stuff. Sure, you say things like “Mommy, you’re the best mommy in the whole world!” But we both know that’s not even close to true. You’re just in a good mood because I let you have sour gummy worms on top of your strawberry fro-yo. Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, would never offer her vast legions of freed slaves fro-yo, unless “fro-yo” is also an acronym for that chilling, you-only-live-once sensation that you get when brutally murdering fools who refuse to bow down to Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons.

I am not Ma from “Little House on the Prairie.” But I am your mother. So when you can’t do your chores without whining? That makes me mad. You like to pretend that you’re little Laura Ingalls, but would you play with a corncob doll for hours? No. You’d throw that shit at the wall and whine, “No fair! I want a real toy, not an old vegetable!” And I’d say, “That’s it! You’re playing with nothing but old vegetables from now on!” And then you’d cry and stomp your feet, and I’d send you to your room, and then I’d feel all guilty and conflicted, and, instead of churning milk into butter or frying up some lard cakes like Ma would, I’d assuage my guilt by ordering you some new Legos online.

And it would bother me how little you’d seem to care about your brand-new Legos when they arrived. Sure, you’d open the box and start building with them immediately, but soon after that you and your sister would be screaming over who gets this or that special block. Could I say, “Girls! Go milk Bessie and then stitch on your samplers for the rest of the afternoon”? No, because you have never lifted a gallon of milk, let alone pulled on a cow’s udders or used a thread and needle to sew anything. And if I tried to make you sew all day long? Then Child Protective Services would have to come back for another visit.

I am not Ron Weasley’s mom, from “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” I don’t knit sweaters for kids who aren’t my own kids, least of all creepy orphans with bad attitudes. I also don’t cook or shoot magic out of my fingers, and if an evil snake-faced man started chasing me I’d hide in the broom closet and let him take the creepy orphan, as long as he left me alone.

But I am your mother. So when you’re crying like crazy over not getting dessert tonight, shrieking and weeping as if your parents have been murdered and an evil snake-faced man is chasing you? That really pisses me off. So I say, “Girls who shriek like they’re about to be murdered when they don’t get dessert never, ever get dessert, ever! Now go to your room!” And then you scream and cry and stomp off to your room, and I start planning tomorrow night’s dessert, because I feel guilty and conflicted. Molly Weasley would never do that, and neither would Ma Ingalls. Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, might plan dessert, if by “dessert” you mean that relaxing time right after dinner when one invades a sovereign land and brutally murders all of its wealthy slave owners.

But I am not Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons. I am your mother. For your purposes, in fact, there is no difference. Because even though I would never cut off your hands, I could make you play with nothing but old vegetables from now on. That’s the kind of power I can wield, even though I never actually wield it.

You must obey me. I know it seems like I must obey you, but that is an illusion. I am the one in charge here. Seriously, I am. Stop looking at me that way! I will answer injustice with justice! I mean it! You have to do what I say, or else! I am the blood of the dragon! Why are you laughing? Reject this gift and I shall show you no mercy! Where are you going? Wait! Wa-a-a-a-ait! ♦