When I was little and didn’t know anything about anything, I used to pride myself on being mature for my age. Teachers made notes on my report cards that said things like, “Jim is 8 going on 33,” and I took those things to heart and made them a big part of my self-identification growing up. That was who I thought I was at my core. As someone who is now actually 33, though, there are a lot of times when I suspect that I am still just mature for an 8 year old. I have a more nuanced handle on things now, but there still a number of areas (Batman, eating my vegetables) where my opinions have not changed much in the last 25 years. I am still a kid at brain.

But now, of course, I’m also a parent, and it seems likely that the kidbrain is going to fade. As my little one gets less little with each passing day, I keep waiting for the point where I go from thinking everything my parents said was stupid to saying all of those stupid things.

It doesn’t seem to be happening.

This is on my mind today specifically because I’m wondering: when do you reach the point in your relationship with your children where you start to see them as field hands?

“…and it’s his job to cut the grass,” I overheard some tubby IT lazy-ass say to his coworker in our office this afternoon, “and, you know how it is, all I get is ‘it’s hawwwt outside, what are you gonna paaay me?’ And I’m like, ‘I pay you in room and board,’ amIright?”

Suddenly, I was having some kind of post-not-particularly-traumatic stress flashback to every Saturday in 1987, and I wanted nothing so badly as to sneak up behind this complete stranger, tug on his waistband, and empty a coffee cup into his pants while bellowing, “Cut your own ****ing grass, fatty.”

See, I’ve had the yard work foisted on me before. That was “my job.” When you’re a kid at home, where no labor law can save you, employment works a little differently. You don’t even have to be looking for work. One day, someone with a lot of frustration in his life walks into your room and sees you playing Nintendo and announces that you have a job. Your resume and interests are a non-issue, and asking about benefits or vacation time would be a mistake. It’s more like olden times, when you’d be walking down the street and someone would bludgeon you over the head and put you in a sack, and when you woke up you were in the navy.

My parents hated the task of mowing the lawn so much that they would sooner put their only son into regular close contact with gasoline and a rusty whirring blade, but my dad was stunned and affronted that I would even ask to be compensated for doing this task which he literally vowed never to do again the day he showed me how to start the mower. As an 11-year-old boy, that seemed insane to me, but now that I’m 33 I realize that it is actually ****ing insane. It is a sign of deteriorating mental health when grown people refuse to part with ten dollars in exchange for a manual laborer caring for their property.

If it’s your mess? Absolutely. If you splayed the Barbies all over the floor, yeah, you’re cleaning those up without a payday. If those are your Cheerios all over the tile, there isn’t going to be an awards ceremony after you put the broom away. If a cat lives in my house because of you, exactly one person in the house will be handling cat puke in the course of that vile creature’s lifetime. But I cannot imagine getting to a place in my life where I think, “I bought that, and I still want it, but I don’t feel like taking care of it. Ooh!: I’ll make a child do it. That way, it’s free.”

My money and my mouth are adjacent here. When my wife and I bought our house, the lack of a backyard was 40% of why I liked it. When we look at new houses, and I say, “My God, look at the size of that lawn,” the real estate agent thinks she has made a sale, but she is mistaken. At home, her kid is pouting as he power-washes the boat.

And I love the “room and board” thing. That takes me back. I wanted to go shake the guy’s hand today. “Wow. I can’t believe your child isn’t more grateful to you for meeting the bare minimum expectations keeping him out of state care. You both house and feed the baby you willingly had? And he has the nerve to wonder why your lectures about the value of a dollar do not apply to his conscripted labor? Sir, I don’t like to use the word ‘hero’ lightly, but your story reminds me of some kind of film. The Right Stuff. No, wait! Sorry. I mean Cinderella.”

Will I reach the point where I forget being a kid? Wanting things on days other than my birthday and Christmas, and wanting the means to obtain those things without shoplifting? Will I one day expect my daughter to kiss my ass in gratitude for providing her with the exact same standard of living I have provided her every day of her life, like she’s supposed to know any better? Will I one day grow irritated when she doesn’t say, “Oh, yes, father, I would love to spend my time away from school pacing an acre of land, cutting down plants I just watched you water all week expressly so they would grow this tall; I wouldn’t dream of asking for anything in return; you go watch the ballgame in the air conditioning”?

Even as I sit here, I can feel the wheels starting to turn. “My God, we can make the baby fold the laundry and go to the movies.”