Living With the Police

I begin to notice that I am living with the police as I drive Spitfire to skating lessons at the Galleria, muttering unpleasantries under my breath while trying to bring up a video on my phone for her to watch (stopped at a light for all you other policement out there). It is taking long minutes to load.
"Be patient," Spitfire admonishes, as though she bathes in patience each night. I find myself defensively replying that I am being patient. Who is the adult here?
Soon after, we are humming down Central Expressway with thousands of other hurtling fiberglass weapons of mass destruction, when she asks if we are going the speed limit.
"Of course," I lie, decelerrating. Is this the Spanish Inquisition?
We arrive at skating, where she barks orders about how to put on her skates and where to stand so we can best watch for her skating friend, Dylan. Though I try to temper her words with some admonishments of my own, I have an uneasy feeling about who is the boss here.
Back at home, we break out bubbles after dinner, and though I wish it is the Champagne variety, it is the soapy kind that leaves wet residue all over the floor when she scarmbles to pop them as they fly from the wand. She reminds me that it is best not to hold the bottle up because you can spill it that way--better to leave it sitting on the ground in a steady position. I am a little on edge now. I leave her to the bubbles and drop a glass dish of leftovers onto the floor, which sounds like a cannon ball being fired as it smashes into a million tiny pieces. Lieutenant Dart Guy gets involved now, looking smugly on as I resentfully begin Clean Up.
"Whose idea was it to get rid of all the plastic in the house?" he asks. As if he doesn't know. I give him my narrow-eyed glare, which causes him to look very pleased with himself, then step nimbly up on my soap-box, which is conveniently located, anywhere I am. I fire off on all the health hazards of plastic containers, the havoc they wreak on the environment, and then announce, haughtily, that he could soon sprout two heads from all the chemicals that leach from them into our bodies.
Lieutenant Dart Guy smirks, sweeping Destructo up just before diving head-first into the shards of broken glass and splattered spaghetti. "Two Heads are Better Than One," he says.