My Only Adult Religious Experience

That whole "your kid gets half of their genes from you" thing is probably one hundred percent accurate scientifically. I'm not doubting it for a second, so don't try to bust me on it. I'm just saying in my kid's case, it feels a little off. Okay, maybe a lot off. He's like a carbon copy of me. No, fuck that. Not a copy of me...a younger me. A headstrong me with hopes and dreams (No, not "hope and change". He hasn't found pot yet); a me not particularly interested in what you think of him. I understand him, because I remember being him (me). But that was all before marriage. Now, don't get me wrong. There's no doubt I "batted above my average" when I married my wife. She is WAY too good for me. There has never been a person that isn't at least a little shocked to discover that we're together. It's not uncommon to hear "Really?" when I say, "I'm with her". Part of the reason she puts up with my lame ass is because she has me trained. "Whipped" if you prefer (How does this happen without sex? Oh. Maybe that's exactly how it happens. Sorry, back to the thing). It would be really, really rocky if she didn't have me properly trained. It would be...exactly what it's like when she and Jeffery talk to each other. He just doesn't care that there are things she doesn't like to hear, or things he does that drive her up a fucking wall. He's punk rock like that. I'm not trying to paint a loveless picture here. They have a great relationship. There are bumps in the road, however. And these bumps get weird, because like every other mother on the planet, my wife is more than happy to break out the "You just wait until your father gets home" card when she's really agitated with him. And then comes the scenario I dread more than any other. I'm now being asked (as the well trained second or third choice) to discipline a younger, better version of me. And there we are. There I am. Standing in a room...talking to myself. Like every religious person on the planet. And as we talk, I realize I'm not interested in correcting him. I'm wishing I could live up to his image. The father, the son, and my (our?) fucking dilemma.