I’m the Tyrant Who Dares to Request Bin Duty

I’m not unreasonable. And up until recently, I was one of the cool parents!  Dante’s friends practically worshipped me in primary school. I was the mum who ran all the good fundraisers. Dominos, Krispy Kremes, sugar on demand. I didn’t just bring cupcakes to birthdays I brought full-blown sugar platters that could send a fairy into cardiac arrest.

Back then, I was fun. Respected. A walking vending machine of joy. His friends still come and give me hugs! 

Now I’m the oppressive regime enforcing a brutal dictatorship consisting of two chores:

Empty the dishwasher

Take out the bins

That’s it. That’s my entire wish list. And yet, somehow, this small ask launches him into a full-scale uprising.

Every chore is a negotiation, every request is a debate.
“Why do I have to take the bin out?”
“Kaedyn’s plate was in the dishwasher, that’s basically his job.”
“I didn’t even eat today, so technically I produced no waste.”

Clothes? He’ll get to them. Eventually or have a full fledged meltdown after being told to fold half a basket and empty the entire contents of his wardrobe onto the floor and fold them all in protest, probably expecting me to come and help. IT WAS HALF A BASKET!

But you know what makes it worse? The betrayal. The utter, shameless public betrayal.

Because any time I’m trying to maintain even a whisper of professionalism...say, with a therapist, a teacher, or literally anyone who shouldn’t know how many times I’ve cried into takeout—he pounces, like a spicy kitten with razor sharp claws.

“Mum, remember that time you—”
NO... SHUTUP, I do not. And neither should Miss Jessica from student services.

Why is it that the very moment I need him to act like a loyal, grounded, respectful member of our household, he decides it’s open mic night for all my worst parenting moments?
“Mum, remember when you had a meltdown over.....?”
“Mum, remember when you accidentally.......?”

Sweetheart. Angel. Light of my life. REMEMBER WHO FUNDS YOUR LIFESTYLE.
Remember who gives you limitless money for the canteen so you can eat like a hotshot legend instead of a rationed peasant with a warm apple and a broken spirit...Remember who remembers which nuggets you like best when I do the grocery shopping and gets you that Grape Fanta that runs through you traitorous veins. You hostile little negotiator!
This lifestyle? Sponsored by the same woman you just sold out to the therapist I HIRED TO HELP YOUR BROTHER.

But sure. Keep revealing my worst moments like I’m a guest on The James Corden Show. 

And while we’re here, can we talk about the obsessive chatter?

Right now, it’s Astroworld.... Astroworld. The Travis Scott concert that happened FOUR years ago. He was NINE. He was still eating chicken nuggets (nothing has changed). But suddenly he’s an expert on crowd control logistics, music festival lawsuits, and why Travis was (or wasn’t) at fault.

I swear he talks about it like he was there. Like he personally tried to escape the mosh pit and is now on a healing journey.
“See, Mum, what actually happened is.....”
DANTE! Please...shhhh.
I was there. Not literally, but I was an adult, functioning in society, reading the news while you were busy building Lego sets.

If this boy paid HALF as much attention to his grades as he does to Astroworld conspiracies, we wouldn’t be living on the edge of scholarship doom right now.

That scholarship? It’s hanging by a thread. A single, fraying, terrified thread. It’s dangling from the ceiling like a fancy chandelier and every report card this kid hands in is a little folded paper plane he casually flings at it.
“Oh, I forgot how to do math that day.”
“I didn’t know that assignment was due last Friday.”
“What even is algebra?”

FUCKKKK!!

But by all means, give me a 35-minute breakdown of why Travis Scott’s stage design was “engineered for chaos” and how capitalism is to blame. That’s clearly the priority here.

And this is only thirteen....THIRTEEN.

What does fourteen look like? Fifteen??
Will I still be the evil overlord enforcing radical ideas like "clean your own room" and "don’t microwave a fork"?
Or will he be out there, funding his own very expensive lifestyle and maybe catching a little glimpse of the truth?

Like ohhhh…
“Maybe Mum was right.”
“Maybe I didn’t need to publicly announce that she farts in her sleep to my teacher.”
“Maybe the woman who paid for my Spotify Premium and packed lunches for my friends who didn't have food isn't so bad after all.”

Maybe, just maybe, when he’s standing there at 7am in his first job, making $12.50 an hour while a 45-year-old Karen complains about oat milk, he’ll have a spiritual awakening...or maybe he'll hurl the oat milk at her and just get fired! Who even knows...

Maybe he’ll remember me. Not as the monster who asked him to move literal trash from point A to point B, but as the woman who gave him her last chicken nugget, bought every overpriced school excursion ticket without blinking, and single-handedly ran a donut empire for his Year 5 fundraiser.

Maybe he’ll remember that I was the canteen manager who brought in the slushy machine.
That’s right. That icy beacon of popularity? That shimmering temple of frozen sugar? ME. And I had to clean it, I even broke it once and got soaked in syrup, and when the bell rang for home time I let him and his friends fill their water bottles with slushy!!
I made that happen. You’re welcome, son. Your social status was built on my back and my spreadsheets.

And let me tell you, my kids would not have survived my parents.

We’re out here gently suggesting tasks and negotiating screen time limits, while my mum was out there swinging bamboo like a gladiator.
She’s 4’9 on paper, but spiritually? 7-foot-5 and carved from pure molten rage. She didn’t talk to us kids unless it was on the phone with a distant relative she hadn’t seen since 1973, and she wanted to prove we were still breathing. Those phone calls? Minimum 4 hours. My dad used to time them like it was a sport.

And if she’d reached that dangerous level of silence, you prayed. Because if Mum tapped out, Dad tapped in and that man had a leather belt that sang through the air.
We didn’t get “gentle parenting.” We got “last smacked generation, raised on fear and Flexi-sticks.”

You didn’t argue, you just shut your mouth.

Now? I say “please pick up your dirty undies” and my son looks at me like I’ve just trampled on his civil rights.

I am not raising a child. I am raising a human rights lawyer with access to canteen slushies and no memory of the sacrifices that built this empire.

But one day, he’ll know. One day, he’ll have kids of his own who roll their eyes and say, “ugh, you’re so dramatic,” and I will be sitting there sipping a wine, watching karma roll in like a slow, sweet tsunami.