“Ethan. Please tell me that’s washable marker.”

I checked the label.

“It’s permanent.”

Mom closed her eyes.

She took a long breath and knelt beside me.

“Okay, buddy. I can see you were feeling creative. But we don’t draw on walls. What do you think we should do about this?”

I thought carefully.

“We could paint the whole room to match.”

“No.”

“We could hang a picture over it.”

“Ethan.”

“Or we could tell Dad it’s modern art.”

Mom stood up.

“All right, little artist. Get the cleaning supplies. You’re helping me fix this.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“Then you’re about to learn.”

The gentle parenting experiment lasted approximately eight seconds.

We spent forty minutes scrubbing the wall. Some of the marker came off, but the spaceship was still visible.

Mom said we’d have to repaint that section over the weekend.

I looked at the black lines and felt bad.

“Are you mad at me?”

She sat back on her heels.

“I’m frustrated, Ethan. That’s different.”

“Are you taking away my video game?”

“For the weekend, yes.”

I sighed.

“That’s not very gentle.”

Mom stared at me.

Then she started laughing.

“Nice try, buddy. Gentle parenting doesn’t mean you get to decorate my house with permanent marker.”

I laughed too.

Later, she brought me a big sketchbook she’d found in the closet.

“For your next masterpiece.”

I opened it.

“Can I draw the whole family going to Mars?”

“Absolutely. Just keep everybody on the paper.”

I wrote:

Observation Number Four: Mothers get mad sometimes, but they still help you fix your mistakes.

PART 2 — THE JOB NOBODY SEES

On Friday, I decided to interview Dad.

He was sitting on the couch watching baseball, with a bowl of pretzels balanced on his stomach.

“Dad, who’s the boss of our family?”

He didn’t look away from the television.

“Your mother.”

I was surprised.

“I thought you were.”

“That’s a common misunderstanding.”

“But you fix things and carry heavy groceries.”

Dad nodded.

“That’s true.”

“So why is Mom the boss?”

He finally turned toward me.

“Because your mother remembers everything the rest of us forget.”

That made sense.

Mom knew the Wi-Fi password, Sophie’s shoe size, the dog’s medicine schedule, and when our library books were due.

Dad couldn’t even remember where he’d left his jacket.

He proved that ten minutes later.

“Jen! Have you seen my gray jacket?”

Mom was upstairs folding laundry.

“Behind the ironing board!” she called.

Dad checked the hallway closet.

There it was.

“How does she do that?” he muttered.

I wrote:

Observation Number Five: Mothers have a computer in their brains that stores everybody else’s stuff.

Then I asked Dad another question.

“Does Mom ever get tired of being the boss?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Probably.”

“Then why doesn’t she stop?”

Dad looked toward the stairs.

“I guess we’ve gotten used to her handling things.”

He picked up his pretzels.

“Maybe a little too used to it.”

I thought about that for the rest of the afternoon.

If Mom was the boss, why did she have to do so much work?

Being the boss sounded like a pretty bad deal.

THE DAY MOM FORGOT SOMETHING

Saturday morning, Mom forgot Sophie’s birthday party.

This was a big deal because Mom never forgot birthday parties.

Sophie came downstairs wearing her favorite yellow dress and carrying a present wrapped in purple paper.

“Mommy, are we leaving?”

Mom looked up from her laptop.

“Leaving for what?”

“Madison’s party.”

Mom stared at her.

Then she checked the calendar on her phone.

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

The party started in twenty minutes.

Sophie burst into tears.

“You promised!”

Mom stood up.

“I know, honey. I’m sorry. Go get your shoes. We’ll figure it out.”

But Dad had taken the car to pick up a part for the washing machine, and Mom’s car was at the mechanic’s.

She called him.

He didn’t answer.

Sophie cried harder.

“You always remember everything!”

Mom stood in the kitchen with her phone in one hand and her keys in the other.

For a moment, she didn’t look like the person who knew everything.

She looked confused.

Then she sat down beside Sophie.

“You’re right. I forgot. I’m sorry.”

I went upstairs and got my notebook.

Under my observations, I’d written that mothers never forgot important things.

I crossed that out.

Then I came downstairs.

“Mom, can we call Madison’s mom?”

She looked at me.

“Why?”

“Maybe she can pick Sophie up.”

Mom thought for a moment.

“That’s a good idea.”

She called, and Madison’s mother said she’d be happy to come by.

Fifteen minutes later, Sophie climbed into her car, still wearing the yellow dress.

Before leaving, she hugged Mom.

“It’s okay. I still love you.”

Mom smiled.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

After the car pulled away, Mom leaned against the kitchen counter and rubbed her forehead.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Just tired.”

“You should have some coffee.”

She laughed.

“I think I’ve had enough coffee for one lifetime.”

I hesitated.

“Mom, why did you forget the party?”

She looked at me.

“Because sometimes I have too many things to remember.”

“Like what?”

She glanced toward the kitchen table.

“Work, bills, appointments, groceries, the washing machine, your school project, Sophie’s party. All kinds of things.”

I looked around the kitchen.

I’d never thought of those things as jobs.

They were just things that happened.

“Maybe we should remember some stuff ourselves,” I said.

Mom smiled.

“That would be nice.”

I thought about what Dad had said the day before.

Then I made a decision.

If Mom had too many jobs, I was going to give some of them away.

THE FAMILY MEETING

That evening, I called a family meeting.

Dad was sitting in his recliner. Sophie was coloring at the coffee table, and Mom was folding towels.

“Everybody, I have an announcement.”

Dad looked up.

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably not.”

I put my notebook on the coffee table.

“I’ve been studying Mom for my school project, and I think she has too many jobs.”

Mom raised an eyebrow.

“Is this about the chocolate?”

“No. That’s classified information.”

Dad looked interested.

“What chocolate?”

“Nothing,” Mom and I said together.

I opened my notebook.

“Mom remembers everything. She makes lunches, pays bills, finds stuff, and tells us where we have to go. And I think we should do some of those things ourselves.”

Dad nodded.

“That’s fair.”

I showed everybody the chart I’d drawn.

There were four columns: Dad, Mom, Me, and Sophie.

Dad would check the school calendar every Sunday, take out the trash, and remember his own appointments.

I would pack my backpack, put away my laundry, and help Sophie get ready in the morning.

Sophie would feed the dog with supervision and put her shoes in the same place every day.

Mom looked at her column.

“Ethan, why is mine almost empty?”

“Because you already do too much.”

Dad smiled.

“I think the kid has a point.”

Sophie raised her hand.

“I don’t want to feed the dog.”

“Why not?” I asked.