It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your spine whisper, “Something’s coming.” I should’ve known then. Should’ve clutched my coffee tighter. Hidden the markers. Braced for impact.

But I didn’t. Because I was on the couch.

Jack, my eldest—the smooth-talking negotiator with Target in his eyes—was curled up beside me, buttering me like I was toast. “Moma, you’re my favorite girl,” he whispered. He was about to emotionally bankrupt me & cost me two boxes of legos and my retirement fund. I was defenseless. Mid-snuggle. Vulnerable.

And then…

The table creaked.
A rogue cap clattered to the floor.
The air grew thick with danger and lemon-scented marker ink.

I turned.

And there he stood. The momentary silence said it all: “Your three-year old has initiated a coup.”
JAMES. Our little “gator”.

My youngest. My wild card. My three-year-old with the moral compass of a rabid raccoon and the balance of a drunk Cirque du Soleil performer.

He was standing on the kitchen table. Arms wide.

Surrounded by uncapped markers like he’d conjured a preschool séance. His eyes locked with mine. His tiny hand gripped a yellow Crayola marker like it was forged in fire. He raised his prize like a flaming sword & pointed it at me.

His face bore the expression of a general addressing his army on the eve of revolution. Eyes blazing. Shirt sticky. Hair questionable.

And then—He growled.

I dared to whisper, “Yellow?”

Channeling Braveheart, a Viking war chief, and an overly caffeinated preschooler in one glorious outburst, James raised the marker to the heavens and roars:
“YELLLLLLOOOOOO!”

The floor shook. Birds scattered. Somewhere, the power flickered. It echoed through the house. Possibly the neighborhood. Somewhere, a dog howled in agreement.

And I…I stood still. For I was no longer his mother. I was a footnote in his rise. A forgotten civilian in the chronicles of The Yellow Rebellion.

Will he take over the world? Perhaps.

He is not just a toddler.
He is a leader. A General.
Of what, no one knows. Possibly a gang of future feral kindergarteners. Possibly a utopian society based on nap equity and goldfish cracker trade. A disruptor of peace and table decorum.

And me? I’ll be here.
A witness. A survivor.
Taping off the crime scene with Paw Patrol bandaids and whispering tales of the night he rose.

One thing is clear:
He rides at dawn. And the war paint? Washable. Probably.
And Jack? He’s somewhere behind me watching the terror & whispers softly, “Does this mean we can’t go to Target?”