I just learned of a syndrome called "legal fatigue," described in a newspaper column by a lawyer who likened it to battle fatigue, where soldiers act like they're in combat even when they're not. The lawyer knew he had legal fatigue when his wife asked if he would pass the salt.

"I can't answer that," he said. "It's a leading question."Recently, it occurred to me I'm suffering from something similar.

A colleague made an offer to those within earshot.

"Anyone want a peach melba yogurt?"

She explained she had grabbed it by mistake. It wasn't the variety she prefers.

"Oh, at least try it," I said. "Give it a chance. You might like it."

She assured me she would not.

"Please," I said. "At least one bite."

She gave me a look. Why was I talking to her like she was 5?

I apologized. "Sorry, it's habit."

Call it parent fatigue.

She said she understood. No offense taken. Now, was I interested in the yogurt? Really, please take it, she hated this kind.

I told her she didn't hate anything.

I remember a movie in which Teri Garr played a homemaker who took an office job after years of raising children. Soon, she was having a business dinner with the company president. He ordered chicken marsala.

On reflex, she leaned forward and began cutting it into tiny pieces.

It did not help her career.

I've never gone that far, but I've shown other signs of parent fatigue at restaurants.

"I think I'll have the chicken marsala," a 40ish friend said to the waitress.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

He turned my way. "What do you mean?"

"Please," I said.

"Please what?"

"You forgot to say please."

He did what many adults do when told this. He apologized and repeated his order correctly: "May I please have chicken marsala?"

Then he realized I'd pushed an old button and he told me to knock it off.

"Sorry," I said. "It won't happen again."

I meant it. But I couldn't help myself. Soon, another waitress walked by with a dessert selection. "I might have to have that mud pie," the friend said.

I eyeballed his plate.

"Don't you think you should eat a few more bites of chicken first?"

"Don't you think you should quit patronizing me?"

"Sorry, you're right. I'll stop."

"I hope so," he said, a bit too loudly.

"Excuse me, do you think we can try to use our restaurant voices?"

My low point was perhaps a few weeks ago, when I was visited by one of my brothers. He, too, is 40ish. We were heading out the door for a car ride. I stopped.

"It's kind of cold out, Dougie. You got a heavier jacket?"

"I'm fine."

I headed for the car, then stopped again and this time asked if he wanted to use the restroom.

No, he didn't. "Now come on, Mark, let's go."

"Dougie, are you sure? Once we get going, it won't be easy to stop. Can you at least go back and try. . . ."

He gave me the look again.

"Sorry."

He told me "sorry" doesn't cut it; the next time I laid a parent line on him, he was going to tell me to shut up.

I looked at him with disappointment. "Is that a way to talk?"

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That was it. He'd had it. He brushed past me, got into the car and shut the door. As I got behind the wheel, I noticed he was rolling his eyes over my behavior.

And kind of grimacing. Clearly, he was annoyed.

But I hope he doesn't grimace like that too often.

His face could stick that way.

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