Like in every Hollywood police drama since time began, there are two main characters in our home-drama. The good cop, my husband, and the bad cop, me.

As the bad cop, I am the disciplinarian, the enforcer, the layer-down of the law. I set the schedules, assign the chores and dole out the punishments.

As the good cop, Steve is the cajoler, the pleader, the one pushing the kids to “just do what the crazy lady says so we can move on with our lives.”

There was no discussion about the roles we would play, because they are who we are. And to a great extent, they are how our parents raised us.

I am, in many ways, my father. I expect that when I tell my kids what to do that they will do it. And, I believe that my children should speak to me, my husband and their grandparents with respect. No back talk. No whining. No arguments. Sometimes it works, and sometimes my children dissolve into a pool of tears, snot and screams.

Steve is his mother. He reacts emotionally when the kids bump their heads, dresses our children as they sleep in the morning (rather than waking them) and stops the madness when the kids and I have rolled out of control. He asks the kids to listen to him, rather than demands it – sometimes it works, and sometimes they walk all over him.

In general these roles work for us because, let’s face it. Neither of us is about to change.

But on mornings like this one, when, after I dragged our 2 year old daughter out of bed kicking and screaming, and was hit with a barrage of insults and slaps, I often think that I don’t want to be the bad cop anymore.

I don’t want to be the one that my daughter runs away from, in favor of her father. I don’t want to be the one that has to dock my son’s allowance because he forgot to make his bed. I don’t want to be the one that gets yelled at by my kids after I turn off the television and make them go to bed. I don’t want to have to make the rules or create the punishments. I don’t want to be the one who drops her daughter off everyday at the daycare center, once again "abandoning" her so I can go to work. And I don’t want to be the one who makes the kids eat their dinner, the same dinner that they eschewed 3 hours previously.

I want to be more like Steve. But, remembering how I came into the house on Friday at 9:30 pm, to find my kids awake AND running wild, I realize that with two good cops in our house, nothing would get done. And if there were two bad cops? Well, I think that would probably end with a call to DSS or a divorce lawyer.

So I guess I’m stuck being the bad cop. Maybe I should get myself nightstick.