"You mean he tugged on your sneaker and it ripped?" I asked.

"No, he said. It ripped when he threw it across floor and it hit doorway."

"He threw it across floor?" I tried to keep my voice guarded.

"Yeah, if your sneaker comes off, he throws it. My sneaker ripped when it hit doorway and flew into hall. Then I had to go get it."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, but I struggled to keep my emotions to myself. If this teacher was so concerned about safety, how does he explain forcing a child to run across slippery gym floor in bare socks to fetch his sneakers? What about embarrassment and humiliation? Isn't that a form of bullying? I thought my son was exaggerating. But what if he wasn't?

I had a hard time accepting my son's explanation, but I couldn't let it go. Either he wasn't telling truth, or this teacher was way out of line. Both scenarios needed to be addressed. I made an appointment to talk with principal next morning.

The principal met my concerns with doubt. When she tired to dismiss me, I told her I wanted to speak to gym teacher in person.

The minute this man walked into her office, I could tell there was a problem. I knew my son had told truth. The gym teacher barely said hello. He didn't reach out to shake my hand, nor did he return my smile. He had a cocky attitude, but he didn't even know why I was there yet.

I bit my tongue, complementing him on his concern for safety. He shrugged his shoulders in response. Then I told him that my son came home with a rip in his new sneakers. Another shrug. Diplomacy wasn't working, so I asked him if he threw my son's sneaker across room. "Yeah, so?" was his reply.

"Yeah, so?" My emotions kicked in. "Who do you think you are? This isn't boot camp and my son is not a Marine. He is a sixth grade student. You mean to tell me you whipped his sneaker across gym, and then made him fetch it like a dog?"

"Hey, they weren't tied," was all he said.

"Don't you ever, I mean ever as much as touch my son again. If his sneakers aren't tied, make his sit out of class, give him demerits, or call me, but if you touch him again, I'll come into that gym and throw you across room. Got it?"

"Hey, whatever," he said. "I have rules. His sneakers weren't tied."

For a brief moment, I floundered. The principal's silence made me uncomfortable and gym teacher's attitude was intimidating. I gathered my thoughts, took a deep breath and said, "Don't you realize how damaging your actions are?

"Is that all?" he said, directing his question to principal. Then he left room.

Two weeks later, gym teacher was gone. I'm not certain what happened, but I believe his attitude aided in his demise. I wasn't looking for his dismissal, just common courtesy and respect for my son and his classmates. I guess that was more than he could offer.

In my imaginary world, children eventually transmogrified into those horror-movie monsters called teenagers. They would overrun house for a few years, scorching and pillaging along way...but leaving no lasting damage that a new mortgage and a five-year Caribbean cruise couldn't fix. They would then transmogrify into wistful longings and fond memories of when they were just babies – when parents were still in control.

My innocent notions have been sliced, diced and fed to that green creature so loyally following Captain Hook across seven seas. My daughters are still both toddlers, and already their mutiny is almost complete.

Little Lady is just three-and-a-half. Two days ago, she took over kitchen.

"No. Don't sit there. That's Lulu's chair."

"Lulu?" my wife asked?

"She's my imaginary friend."

"Well I have a real sandwich and real hunger and I'm going to sit my real bottom down on this real chair," my wife responded.

That's when revolution began. Little Lady kicked up a fuss, wailing about how her imaginary friends had knocked on door and how she had let them in and how could Mommy be so cruel as to sit on one of them.

"Your imaginary friend can sit on an imaginary chair," my wife finally said.

"Nooooooooo..."

"Do you want me to leave?" my wife asked.

"Yes. Go away." And with those words, kitchen was formally occupied by rebel insurgent army – one toddler and a handful of her imaginary friends.

Editor's note. The wailing eventually stopped. I was able to squeeze an apology out of Little Lady. And my wife did return to kitchen. But Lulu was keeping one sentry eye trained on us.

This morning I was taking a business call. Nobody important, just Lady Banker. Yes, same Lady Banker who technically owns at least half of our home and can at any moment shake rug and send us tumbling into winter snow.