In the morning, my son and daughter wander downstairs whenever they want. I don’t bother waking them at a reasonable hour, since my highest priority as a parent is for my kids to see me as their best friend, rather than an authority figure.

I believe that any attempt to regulate my kids’ eating will give them eating disorders, so I let them choose their own breakfast. They always choose granola.

My kids get dressed, but when I see my daughter’s clothes, I inform her they’re not revealing enough. I retrieve a pair of scissors from my unnecessarily open kitchen and cut her shirt in half horizontally to reveal her midriff. I convince both kids to put on more makeup.

Next, I drop the kids off at school because they’re too soft to walk the six miles uphill. I’m always careful to pack their water bottles, even though I never brought a water bottle to school, and I didn’t die of dehydration.

Now it’s time for work. In theory, at least. Because I have one of those fake jobs where you don’t have to clock in or out to prove when you’re there, I can start whenever I want. So I do made-up exercises like yoga with my friends who have similar fake jobs. Afterward, we go out for mimosas, cosmopolitans, cappuccinos, or some other drink that was cool on ’90s television. We plot for a few hours about all the pretend disorders we can get our kids diagnosed with.

I finally go to work, eat lunch (avocado toast, a kale smoothie, or anything green and trendy and gross), check my email (there are two emails), and come home. (I mean, I close my computer. Because I work from home, I’m already lying in bed making a mockery of the previous generation’s work ethic.)

After school, the kids choose a chore from the chore chart to earn the allowance they don’t actually need since I already immediately give them anything they want. Favorite chores include feeling personally guilty for a historical atrocity, researching the transgressions of a historical figure previously considered a hero, and brainstorming ways to “solve” social problems that the previous generation actually already made significant but overlooked progress on. If the kids don’t feel like doing their chores, they don’t have to; after all, they are in charge.

We don’t say grace before dinner. I’m committed to raising my children as godless heathens because the religious tradition I was raised in wasn’t good enough for me. During dinner, I probably give my kids rickets or something because of how few animal products are served. They don’t say “please” or “thank you” because, oh shoot, I plum forgot to teach them any manners.

After dinner, we play board games—not Monopoly, obviously, as I have no interest in these children learning the value of a dollar. And not Candyland, since it glamorizes added sugar. Sometimes we play Risk, but due to my idealized vision of how the world works, we cut the guns off all the little army guys, and we don’t battle for control of the countries. We simply roll the dice to move through the nations’ open borders. The game ends once everyone gets to Scandinavia.

At bedtime, I tell my kids fairy tales about people who live in a fantasy land (i.e., us), and then we write some nonsense in our gratitude journals. As I tuck them in, I notice they are adorable, sweet, perfect angels. I suppose they’re turning out so well because their grandparents babysit twice a month. Or maybe it’s just good genes.

Despite having tons of spare time all day every day, at no point do I call my parents.