You're not the boss of me.

I have a special needs son. He's carded, labeled, registered with the government, or whatever other politically incorrect term you want to use. But the fact is, he's incapable of making safe and wise decisions for his own day-to-day living. (Not unlike most teenagers) As such, he qualifies for support financially, physically and professionally to ensure that his needs are being met.

We are in the process of putting together a long term plan for his future. This includes the input and professional counsel of someone formerly known as a 'social worker' now called a 'facilitator'.

In one hand the facilitator holds a pen that is scribing out a report requesting support for this young man who is unable to care for himself. Meanwhile his other hand wags a finger in Jed's face saying, "You are an adult now, you make your own decisions. Your parents are not your guardians anymore."

I'd really like the home phone number of the said facilitator about midnight when I'm being told "I don't need a shower, I had one last Thursday. And I will go to bed when I damn well choose. You're not the boss of me. [facilitator] said you are no longer my guardians. I make all my own decisions now."

Yeah, well go make them in your facilitator's house then.