A picture of my sister hangs above my desk. It has no date, but she looks about 14 and is wearing a brown suede fringed jacket with striped bell bottoms.

My sister was a child of the '60s who taught me to question authority. Until I questioned hers.

Laura is 8 years older than I am and helped raise me when my mother went back to school. She continued to nurture me when my parents divorced and pursued their personal post-marital passions.

She was the one whose bed I crept into when I was scared. She was the one who sang along with me to the soundtrack of my youth. She was the one I called in tears as a preteen.

And when I rebelled as a teenager, it wasn't against my parents; it was against her.

By then, Laura had moved into "the city," away from our suburban childhoods. My swinging single father followed her. And on my 13th birthday, I moved in with him.

As stability found us, my sister's nurturing felt like nudging, and her interest felt like an inquisition. So, I began to wonder who she thought she was anyway, telling me how to live my life, as if she understood, as if she'd done such a great job with her life. As if.

I was offended by my sister's brash and sassy style. While she was the wild child, I was tamed. I developed a more subtle way than she of resisting authority. I kept my criticisms cool and unemotional, while remaining a free spirit who wouldn't accept anything at face value.

I questioned everyone and everything, including her. For years, we openly competed to be right, neither ceding to the other's authority on anything. Nevertheless, for years, I believed I'd won.

I learned the art of subversive subservience. I was a model employee who learned to raise "concerns" (not questions), acknowledge "challenges" (not problems) and offer "possibilities" (not solutions). I became a quiet authority who lived by my own rules -- one of which was: never wear fringe.

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Until I had a child.

We did OK until Colter, who is now 7, learned to talk. And then it was always, "Why?"

"Why can't I play outside?"
"Why do you always make me do my homework?"
"Why don't I ever get to do what I want?"

Why don't you respect my authority?!

I've never actually said, "Because I'm the Mommy, that's why!" But I've thought it. Just as my sister must have thought -- but never said -- "Because I'm older and wiser and I've already made those mistakes." It wouldn't have done any good in either case.

Implicit in both statements is this mandate: "Trust me." And at its roots, independence requires distrust. It requires reliance on this sole truth: I alone know what's best for me.

To grow, there are some things we have to learn for ourselves. As a child and young adult, I knew this. As a parent, I know now how very maddening and saddening it is to have my authority questioned.

It's also frightening. What if he's right? What if I don't know better?

I don't like being questioned because it requires me to question myself, to step outside my certainty -- if only for a moment -- and consider the possibility that I am neither omniscient nor omnipotent.

My impulse is to assert my authority and forge ahead; after all, doubt is the enemy of determination and I am nothing if not determined.

I want to yell, "I'm in charge!" and throw a tantrum. "Don't you understand?" I want to ask. You should respect me. I'm older and wiser and have already made those mistakes.

Once I was able to respect my sister for who she was, what she'd accomplished, all she'd learned, she gladly returned the favor. Respect is mutual or irrelevant. And authority is based on respect (which is why it's so maddening when people we don't respect don't respect us either.)

I keep my sister's picture above my desk because it reminds me of this lesson. It also reminds me that I need to be nicer to her. And I need to ask her what happened to that jacket.

Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.