The louder you get, the less I sympathize.

Dear Eirinn,

Next time you want to finger paint the couch with raspberry jam, ask your father.  He’ll say no, too.  And throwing yourself onto the floor, kicking your legs, and screaming like a banshee won’t work with him either.

Jam is for toast, not furniture.

Love, your mom.  The boss. (Remember that.)

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