by Kate Willoughby Hall, Richmondmom.com CEO, lover-of-her-three-kids (but not always their friend). 
After wrestling for thirty minutes, gathering up sandals, sunblock, and snacks in a feeble effort to get these three kids out the door and to the pool for some fun, my five-year-old, affectionately dubbed “DevilBoy” yelled “Mama I’m not going and you’re NOT MY FRIEND!”
See, you have to know a bit about DevilBoy. He is the middle child. He is adorable. He has a temper that would make an Irishman blush. He is a joy, and a frustration, and a little heap of love all wrapped up into one pint-sized, blonde bowl-headed package. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. Then he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want anyone telling him what to do. He doesn’t want to be bored. He doesn’t like wearing clothes (jammies are preferred) and definitely chooses not to wear underwear most days. He is wonderful and challenging and stirs up the household on many days. And when he told me I wasn’t his friend, I stopped in my tracks.
“No, I’m not your friend. But I love you. And my job is to take care of you. Some day you’ll understand.”
He ranted and raved and stubbed his toe while kicking the wall in his crocs. “I’ll NEVER BE YOUR FRIEND!”
“Yes you will. I’ll always love you, and you’ll always love me, and that’s the way it’ll be. Even if you’re mad at me.”
I’m a firm believer than my job is not to be his friend. Yet. When he’s twenty-three and bringing home his serious college-girlfriend and we’re having a civilized dinner over a nice bottle of wine, we’ll be friends. When he brings home his first job offer, his first apartment lease, his first child (many years from now I hope!) we’ll celebrate. Joyously. And we’ll be friends.
For now, he can hate me. But my suspicion is that he really DOES like me. I just can’t let on.
