Who's Yo Mama?

There is nothing more satisfying than winning an argument and proving myself right. Victory is infinitely sweeter when the person with whom I'm engaged in debate puts forward a line of reasoning that I, with my inherent cleverness, instantly recognize for its weakness, and I know that it's only a matter of time before his defense crumbles.

Heady with power and self-proclaimed omniscience, I face the person whom I shall call the Adversary, for purposes of privacy, clarity and sick humor. The Adversary may raise his voice a notch, but being all-knowing, I can tell that it's out of emotion; neither intent nor malice. Upon further inspection, I find that the content of his defense may be valid, but I figure there should be something between the lines that I can manipulate to my advantage and use for underhanded rebuttal. I search, but all I can find see is honesty, the desire to make amends, and genuine contrition. And I know the battle is lost. It's useless to argue with anyone who's so mature and respectful. My children never give me the satisfaction in an argument.

I'm all wrong for motherhood. I can't do anything right.