Today with Cousin and Neighbor-Friend-From-Graduate school, five (count 'em, FIVE) kids in tow, ranging from 8 months to 8 years. The whole time I'm thinking to myself: Holy Shit! Some women have this number and this age-range of kids and. . . They're THEIRS!!!
This is Friend's first visit as a parent, and being all relatively neophytes about the whole thing, much parenting discussion ensues over bottles of wine, such as: when you have more than one kid, who gets screwed most? The first or the ones that follow? Or what's up with all those parents sending their kids to genius schools at age five and thinking they're prodigies? You know. Conversations like that.
Or often it is comparing our (little) experience as parents to those of our parents or doing some sort of parent-anthropomorphism where we are suddenly late-sixties, early seventies parents smoking and drinking and talking and spending very little time monitoring our young children.
Friend has a story in which her four year old brother and three year old sister were allowed the freedom of the cul-de-sac to go over to the neighbor's to play. He was subsequently hit by a car and suffered a broken arm.
No wonder we over-parent. . .
Anyway. At the zoo, at one point we were walking over some monkey exhibit (I don't know all monkey species) but it was one of those two-storied, outdoor-indoor exhibits. We were at the upper-outdoor part wandering toward the exit when Big said he wanted to go "in there". I said that sure, I'd throw you in! Then he said: Then I'd be a gorilla and you'd say 'look at that big gorilla'!