When asked if this guy penciled his name on the hallway wall I just painted, or if he carved his name in the banister, or marked his name on the leg of my jeans, or inked his name in large letters across his older brother’s favorite shirt, or fingered his name in spit on Matt Daddy’s computer screen, or stabbed his names with hundreds of fluorescent marker dots on my cutting board, his shrugs each and every time, “Well, it wasn’t Tulip.” Love that he is not throwing his siblings under the bus. But, I am worried that despite my best parenting efforts, I am witnessing the rise of a white-collar criminal. I have dreams I am in tears on a cable crime channel describing my brilliant-yet-errant son’s youth. Also, if I’m asking off a night of rotten sleep, I get the distinct impression that he questions my intelligence. When I tell my friends and family of these happenings, they fly their optimist flags. “Maybe he will be an artist,” they say. “Maybe he will own the world.” I offer only fair warning to you all.