My mother often tells me how rebellious I was. Like I need her to tell me. My adolescence was spent trying to thwart her every disciplinary tactic. I did not — and still don’t — like being told what to do. I didn’t go quite as far as the “Live fast, die young” motto, but I liked to think I was close.

I’m a Taurus. We’re notoriously stubborn. But I think it goes deeper than that. I’m just hard-wired to resist authority.

Over the years, I’ve mellowed. Growing up hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve learned to accept that parking tickets have to be paid and bosses appeased.

Becoming a mother has been a huge part of this growing “up”. I’m often humbled by the task of raising children, as it brings me to a place beneath fire and brimstone to just being open.

The boychild, now 6, has inherited my inner rebel. He’s been telling me for years now that he wants to be “the boss of me.” Tonight, while reading The Little Prince to him in bed, he repeatedly asked me what the word “authority” means.

Thankfully, he listens to me when I attempt to steer him in the appropriate direction. Because discipline, at this point, is still primarily about behavior that’s “socially acceptable.”

As in, please don’t whip out your diddly bits out in public. Please try not to pick your boogers and eat them. Try sitting down at the table to eat your dinner.

It’s strange, at times, to be “the authority” figure in my child’s life. I’m more comfortable in the realm of play than doling out disciplinary tactics, especially as I haven’t got that seemingly natural knack French women possess of keeping children “in their place.”

And while my son’s rebellious cravings sometimes scare me, it also puts a smile on my face. I recognize his independent spirit. I admire it. I hope he can channel it to some greater creative good. And it reminds me of my younger, more fiery self.

There’s not much in my immediate universe to successfully rebel against any more, unfortunately. Sure, I can advocate for reform in areas of the broader political and social landscape — I’m always signing petitions against those evil overlords Monsanto, for instance — but standing up for what I believe in doesn’t quite invoke the same pleasure that my 15-year-old self took in slamming a door in my mothers’ face.

Where, oh where, can I stage rebellion today, and not be either locked up or shunned by my local community?

Don’t laugh, but it occurred to me while writing this post, that after my recent mini-rant about twitter parties, perhaps my rebellion lies within the walls of social media. Has anyone actually staged a twitter sit-in? Or a twitter strike? Forced the tweeting masses to go on a twitter holiday?

Oy. The idea bores and intrigues me at the same time. I just have this thing about twitter that I’m resisting conquering. What is it? Am I just a lazy technophobe? Do I secretly want to use twitter but don’t know how, thus presenting a hearty defense mechanism to the world? Or does some elemental part of me deeply resist the reduction of thought into sound bites?

Probably all of the above.

Please share your thoughts on rebellion and authority with me, while I drum up some more worthy strategies for mid-life rebellion.

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