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A Tale of Two Brothers

So I have two brothers. Twins.

They couldn't be more different.

One is gay, gregarious, effusive, and a democrat. The other is straight, somewhat stoic, undemonstrative and, republican.

I have genuine appreciation for both of them, but of course, being that I lean to the left, well, I suppose I have a bit more in common with the aforementioned gay one.

The other day I caught the other one on the phone and we, tentatively, began talking politics. Usually this is a mistake, but I came prepared and careful.

Let's face it, if you have a modicum of intelligence, you can't support a Palin Vice Presidency, regardless of the role you played in Vietnam (he is a Vietnam vet) or your long history in the U.S. Navy (he's a retired Lt. Commander) or your extraordinary success as a small businessman. As you can see, he has an excellent republican voter's resume. So much so that I'm not sure which came first, the resume or the political stance.

That is all to say that he does have a modicum of intelligence and I have a healthy respect for POW's as well as for libertarianism (in theory), so we have some overlapping ground on which to base a conversation.

So after a few Palin-digs, he says to me something to the effect of being okay with Obama until he mentioned "redistributing the wealth".

Ugh.

Of all the over-used, misunderstood notions in American history. . .

I responded that ALL politicians redistribute wealth. It's just a matter of whether you get Peter to pay Paul or vice versa. And, of course, whether you, yourself are Peter or Paul.

I wish I had read this week's New Yorker article by Steve Coll prior to this conversation.

It talks about Obama's interaction with Joe the Plumber in which he said:

I do believe that for folks like me who've worked hard but frankly also been lucky, I don't mind paying just a little bit more than the waitress who I just met over there....She can barely make the rent....And I think that when you spread the wealth around, it's good for everybody.

"The principle that Obama evinced, which most economists would regard as unexceptionable, can be traced to Adam Smith. In 'The Wealth of Nations' (1776), his seminal treatise on capitalism, Smith wrote: The necessaries of life occasion the great expense of the poor....The luxuries and vanities of life occasion the principal expense of the rich, and a magnificent house embellishes and sets off to the best advantage all the other luxuries and vanities which they possess....It is not very unreasonable that the rich should contribute to the public expense, not only in proportion to their revenue, but something more than in that proportion.'"

Dear brother, let's focus on the real issues at hand. The real issues that might actually IMPROVE the economy for EVERYONE (not just saving a few bucks for just a few of us to use to buy more iPods, G1's, or kitchen makeovers -- I say that as we both are doing so--the kitchen makeover--and I am dreaming of the new G1, just to point out that I am not immune to greed).

Instead, and again quoting from The New Yorker:

". . . . [S]uch as what sort of economic stimulus plan to enact, and in what stages; which policies might keep the most families in their houses at the least cost; how to restructure market regulation to bring credit-default swaps and other derivatives under government oversight; and how to coordinate global reform of financial and trade imbalances."

Anatomy of a Costume in an Economic Downturn

So given the 25-to-30 percent fall in the value of my 403b, we're focusing on retrenchment at the moment.

Translation: No "CONSUME FOR YOUR COUNTRY," patriotism in the form of a consumeristic economic plan here at the BioMom/Blogauthor household.

I even passed on my dream of having professional lights installed on our big pine tree outside.

So we've decided to help pass this value on to the kids in the form of "old-school" Halloween costumes.

What follows:
Diaper box: $0.00 (except for the emotional cost that I endured when Eight exclaimed that she was "saving that box for something" despite the fact that she did not know it existed 10 minutes prior to that moment).
Paints: $4.00 (with lots leftover for more easy-to-clean-up fun!)
Twine: $0.00 (found in the garage)
My time (opportunity cost): grading papers = -$500.00 (you did me a favor, Big, and saved my brain from going to mush!)
Being able to pretend you're a car, drive around and crash into things? Priceless.

Introducing Patek Palin!

Many of you inquired about the new dog popping up on the blog. He is FRM#1's new pet French Bulldog (here seen imitating Palin's Newsweek macro shot).

When she first sent pictures of him, I thought "WTF?" But when you meet him, well, let's say he had me at "SNORT!"

Nothing But Sincerity as Far as the Eye Can See

No Great Pumpkin there. We've got to move on to a new patch, in preparation for our annual neighborhood pumpkin-carving party. This year's theme: Carve For Obama! All blog readers are welcome, BYOP!

This patch clearly imported all of their stock.

"AAAARRRGGHH!"

The Showdown at 34 Months

Big is 34 months today. For those of you not good with math, let's just call it three, although I think Big'd be furious that he missed his birthday cake and presents, but that's a different story.

He is soft and lovable, funny and diligent, stubborn and wild. When you ask him about his day, he invariably says "We went to the Dells" referring to a trip we took in August for the grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. He enjoys wearing "tony pails" in his hair, and wants a pink bike for his birthday.


And we had a HUGE showdown the other night.


I have a feeling that he and I will have to bump antlers once in a while just to release some tension.


Anyway, I've shifted my cooking toward the vegetarian as he still refuses meat and I'm sick of him eating only cheese, cottage cheese, fruit, beans and yogurt.

After a couple of especially made vegetarian meals with him simply refusing to eat,we got the book about dinosaurs and what they eat, and have spent some time on the page that shows the dino trying little bites of everything.

And then I made some delicious potato soup.

Still no eating.

Because I felt insulted* I decided that potato-night was the night that he had to be like the Stegosaurus and taste a tiny bit of his food. The potato soup.

We don't force our kids to do much. In fact, I have a deep belief that you really can't force your kids to do anything (try forcing your eight year old to NEVER have an accident or to not put too much sour cream on her burrito when you're not looking or etc. etc. etc. ). In true Alfie Kohn style, we try to get the preferred behavior to come from within them, so to speak.

So I'm not exactly sure where this came from other than that I was just SURE he'd love the soup if he just put a bit in his mouth!

Who wouldn't? It was just creamy, cheesy potato-y goodness!

Oh and salt. Salty goodness too.

I'm getting hungry even as I write this.

But no. He dug in his heels.

And I dug in mine.**

I resorted to positive reinforcement, tantalizing him with exquisite rewards: a family bike ride in the gloaming after dinner?

No.

A back rub?

No.

A bubble bath?

FINE: A banana split with whip cream and a cherry on top? All for one stinking lousy bite!!!???!!!

He would not eat it on a boat, with a fox or in the rain. He would not try that 'tato soup, oh what a PAIN!

Nothing. No, not nothing. I take that back. A bite in, and immediately out, squirting all over his face, shirt, table and floor.***

I resorted to the threat: No bike ride. . . . . An early bed time.

Nothing.

Finally, FINALLY, as I'm carrying him up the stairs to bed**** he relents, rushes back to the table, takes a bite and it's over. Sweet relief, we all hug and its off to the bike as though nothing had transpired between us at all.

I'll let you know how the Eggplant Parmesan goes.




*Note to self: this is never a good place from which to start disciplining your child.

**Second note to self: heel-digging is not the precursor to a good parenting moment. At least not post-1953.

***Thanks to Jane Yolen for giving him the idea with that ridiculous dinosaur and his half-chewed broccoli!

****Last and final note to self, carrying a child against his will is DEFINITELY NOT in the Alfie Kohn repertoire.

Gender, Revisited and Reversed

In our house, we're all smitten with Amy Poehler (SNL comedian said to be the Carol Burnett of our time).

No, the kid's aren't watching SNL, they (and I) are huge fans of The Mighty B!

I bring this up because this is (almost literally) the only television that Big watches that has commercials. And we TiVo through most of them.

He'll be turning three in December and with limited commercial exposure, he's already got a grasp of gender.

While watching Bessy Higgenbottom as The Mighty B, he'll see commercials for what he immediately identifies as boy's toys and girl's toys. "WE NEED THAT!" He'll yell at the energetic commercials for the "shake up" cars and "THAT'S FOR GIRLS!" at commercials for those little pet-shop toys while I gently remind him that he could play with those too if he wants.

Interestingly, he'll choose a pink bike whenever available, and gladly walk around in Eight's old dress-up shoes with little heels, so apparently we've confined the roles to the television.

For him, that is.

This past weekend we went to our church's family camp (don't ask).

BioMom was telling us all about it on the way, how we'd be staying in a cabin with a few other families (!), one of whom had an eight year old girl and a four year old boy (the age of the girl turned out to be a bit of an exaggeration, she was six).

After contemplating in silence in the back seat for a while, Eight says:

I hope she likes me.

This kind of gender expression drives me nuts and I said so. I've always wondered if girls and boys tend to be different along these lines, with boys/men moving through the world wondering what interests them and letting their own preferences guide them. Girls, on the other hand, moving through the world wondering how the world is responding to them, and how to change/adapt/morph to that response.

I suspect I turn into an adult on the Peanuts shows for Eight when I launch into my feminist/parent-of-a-girl mantra.

Mwha wah, mwaa waah wah wa.

Pre-Monthly Newsletter and Catchup on the Daily Tidbits

Big will be turning 34 months next week.

I thought I'd get a headstart on the post as I've neglected not only the monthly newsletters, but also the daily tidbits for quite a while. Big has changed so much, and so has my life, that it's hard to get my head around it at times.

Just the other night, some friends from ECFE came over who met Big when he was just 13 months (as an aside, they're moving back to DC to their delight and our loss). Anyway, one of the mom's noted that Big wasn't as 'wild' as he had been the last few times we'd gotten together.

Since this summer and his attainment of the ability to get out of bed at will, we've been struggling with some sleeping issues with him. He wouldn't go to bed, he'd get up in the middle of the night, etc. The other night I heard him get out of bed and wander down the stairs saying, in a low voice "hi." at regular intervals.

BioMom had this great idea to get him a real "big" bed in his room, rather than the toddler bed we borrowed from Cousin.

It worked. The first night he sacked out, spread comfortably, from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m.

ahhh.

Of course, both he and I have had a transition back to work.

For the most part, as I previously discussed, this has been good for both of us. But in the middle of it, my department had a bit of drama over whether or not to vote to make permanent my part-time schedule. I thought this was going to be a no-brainer, but it turned out to be far from it. Eventually, I hope to write an anonymous article to the Chronicle of Higher Education about it all, but suffice it to say that many people, not least of which myself, are paying dearly for the vote that did, in fact, make it permanent (a 4 to 2 vote). I'll say more later, and maybe post my anonymous letter here for all of you academics out there interested in such mundane politics. Let's just say that I don't expect to ever be promoted again. Alas.

So that's what's held up the posts as of late.

I'm hoping to get more time and creativity in my life now.

Another Barack in La Crosse Pix

I'm the one right behind the teleprompter.

A Metaphor for My Life

After waiting for four hours and then carefully choosing what I thought was a great place to stand, only about 100 feet from the podium. . . They put up his teleprompter.

Alas.

Still though, his voice was completely inspiring.

A Weekend in Washington

I spent last weekend in Washington continually bumping into ghosts of my decade-younger self.

Donate $50 to Obama and get Katha Pollitt's Book!

Katha Pollitt's Obama Fundraising Page

Obarbieama: You Can't Make This Stuff Up

So, the other night Eight and BioMom were gone and I was priming Big for bedtime; bath, snack, teeth, reading, the whole thing.

I was stepping in and out of the bathroom, doing laundry, picking up, etc., when I overheard him saying something to the effect of "I love you, Obama. . . . I love you, Hillary."

And went in, to see this:

Relativity

Economists often attempt to measure the value of a homemaker's services.

The exercise is not unlike measuring the value of any non-market activity such as volunteer hours or leisure time.

Another comparison is any non-market commodity like the environment. Often policy discussions involve attempting to place value on programs in order to perform cost-benefit analysis to project the value of a policy. Or often such exercises are used in court to place present and future value on people's efforts. For example, in a divorce case, the homemaker may need to attempt to value her efforts in order to justify a particular outcome.

"This market oriented predilection for using prices to measure value not only drives the methods currently used, it is the source of the problems in measuring, and perhaps the source of the courts often reluctance to rely on 'economic' measures of worth. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, economists often know the price of everything, but the value of nothing" (Dr. Allen, http://www.economica.ca/ew09_1p2.htm).

Economists have used two different methods to measure the value of a housewife:
1. the opportunity cost method (what does the household sacrifice by having one individual stay home to work?" and
2. the replacement cost method "how much would it cost to replace the services of the homemaker?".

Both methods have their problems.

I've got a better method.

Spend two years doing 90 percent of the household labor between you and your partner. Take on a leadership position at your kid's parent-teacher association and keep working, but arrange childcare for only the time that you are AT work (for me, less than 16 hours per week), while expecting yourself to do the rest of your work (class prep, grading and researching) while your youngest is napping (1-3 hours per day). Juggle this with lawn-mowing, shoveling, laundry, grocery shopping and the other usual homemaker activities. Have in the back of your mind some research expectations knowing that when you do go back to work, you'll be a bit behind and have nothing in the "pipleline" (i.e. a research project started, initial work done, draft papers and presentations ready, a paper out at a journal for review).

Add to that an extremely active toddler moving into young boyhood. Someone that needs nearly constant supervision and at least two hours outdoors every day in order to both stimulate and wear him out.

After having done this for some respectable amount of time--enough so that you have nearly forgotten what life was like before this schedule--decide to go back to your old schedule.

Last Friday, the end of my first full week back at my "real" job where I have 120 students, 100 percent faculty research requirements, and service duties which started a few days before school did, as well as what turned out to be eight hours of commuting in order to juggle a surprise trip that BioMom had to make for work mid-week, Big and I went to pick up Eight after school.

I ran into a parent-of-four who also happens to be a neighbor of ours.

She looked EXHAUSTED.

It was palpable.

And even she wondered aloud about her condition given that three of the four were now attending school.

In comparison, I felt like a hot-air balloon. Floating. Weightlessly.

Like my duties have been halved.

Like there were now 32 hours in a day instead of 24.

Now THAT is the measure of a housewife.

A Great Welcome Home

I saw this billboard on the way home last night on 494!

A New Era and My 800th Post

Tomorrow starts a new era for our family.

Well, really, it is back to an old era, but only part-time.

Two years ago (two years and three months to be exact) I stopped working at the university 2 hours away and took a leave to be with our then five month old baby boy.

BioMom had started back to work part-time at my spring break that year; I had him on Mondays and Fridays while she had him Tuesdays through Thursdays. After school let out, I took an entire semester off to be home with him, and then worked part-time at a local college. I was given the opportunity to replace a faculty member on sabbatical the following year and worked full-time there last year but it felt like part-time because I didn't have the commute, the service expectation or nearly as many students as I normally have.

I feel like we were able to cobble together a pretty amazing gift for him. Very little childcare (relatively speaking for two people with 'big girl' jobs, and what care we did provide for him was exceptional: Mother-of-Four's undivided attention.

So it feels a bit weird to be going back now, although it is for only one semester (as an aside, I found out that the vote to make that schedule permanent is not the 'done deal' that I thought it would be and occurs on the 12th. While I would very much enjoy doing this forever (i.e. a one-semester per year tenure track position) I am trying to make peace with the fact that it might not work out and that I might have to figure something else out. Alas.). I'm excited to be getting back to my colleagues and have that tune "It's the MOST wonderful time of the year" (via Cousin!) from those Christmas commercials going through my head.

But it's also a little sad.

I don't think Big knows what's up yet. It's a double-blow for him as Eight will be back at school tomorrow too. He and I left MRM#1 and MRM#2's house after dinner last night without BioMom and Eight (they and MRM#1 went to see the American Idol tour believe it or not) and Big was completely distraught to be without her, craning his neck out the back window with the hopes that their car would be following ours.

WHERE IS SHE!!!

He will be turning 33 months this September 9th and I feel like we're turning a corner behavior-wise.

Maybe that is just hopeful thinking.

BioMom is convinced that he's just not getting enough sleep and that that is contributing to it all.

This seems to be true so far.

One last tidbit as to what he's up to lately.

He reminds me of that character of Kristen Wiig's on SNL who always has to one (or many)-up everyone around her ("I own a bigger pool table. . . I INVENTED pool! etc.). Big picks up words from conversations around him and turns them into these huge stories, usually beginning with "when I was a baby. . . ." Everything is bigger and better than whatever anyone around him is saying. And it is hilarious.

Shuffleboard Meets Hopscotch

If Happy Little Bluebirds Fly Beyond the Rainbow . . . .

"Why oh why can't I?"

We've been running like crazy, but now that my syllabi are made, and I'm nearly done with the research for a presentation in a couple of weeks, you'll see a flurry of posts attempting to summarize the last couple months of summer vacation.

It's funny though, even as I write that time line--the last two months--and blame my lack of posting on work, because Big has ramped up his two-year-old-ness in a major way. And that has definitely contributed to the lessening of my degrees of freedom.

Between him and Eight, I am reminded of that Office Depot back-to-school commercial where the kids are moping around the store and the mom is skipping about grabbing school supplies.

Ahhhhh back to school.

Big has taken a reverse in his ability-to-exist-independently, not because he has no interest in being without me, and not because he is physically unable, but because he is so incredibly destructive. Destructive to stuff, himself and other people. My ears are now keenly perked toward any quiet in the house, and my eyes to any little gleam in his own eyes announcing some diabolical idea to throw, hit, climb, jump off of, open, close, swing from, pour out of, rip, or tear.

I never understood before (or cared really) about the degree to which each alcoholic drink lessens one's reaction time. But now I need to be at the top of my game just to keep up with him. If he's tired or hungry, that just compounds the issue.

So I guess that is why the following two incidents, which occurred at an upstate Minnesota Resort that we attended with the Family-of-Six recently, incidents that were really OUR own fault, not the growing and over-tired Big, and his increasing interest in speed, aggression and all-round adventure.

On one lovely evening, while the adults gathered in our semi-circle of chairs overlooking the lake for the requisite evening cocktail, the kids were running around, letting off steam, and getting ready for dinner themselves.



We had brought Big's Skuut, which goes everywhere with us now. It feels, to me, like a necessary appendage to an already overburdened Sherpa. But it makes him happy once we're where we need to go, and, as is always on our checklist of goals for any given day, it works to wear him out.

He's gotten better about being aware of the ends of sidewalks, driveways, and roads, etc., but often forgets to protect his main mode of breaking (his feet) with shoes.




Often he'll hop on, already gathering speed before I realize that he won't be able to stop himself without bloodying his toes, and head off after him, Crocs in hand.

On this particular occasion, I was pre-drink, but overestimated Big's ability to negotiate the terrain. He had headed off, and reached the top of a little downhill when he turned to see me coming, Crocs in hand.

With a shit-eating grin on his little face (and I know this is an over-used term, but it just fits his naughty, nothing-but-potential-grin so well), he turned away, toward the lake with ever more resolve.

I expected him to reach the sidewalk and the flowerbed below, and to hear screams from the stubbed toe he'd get from stopping himself.

Instead, I caught up with him in time to watch his front wheel bump up and over the end of the flower bed and his body flip up over the four foot wall to the beach.





Luckily, he escaped with only a bump on his noggin.

This was nearly not the case for some unsuspecting swimmers after Big's next "incident".

It is entirely possible that the owners will uninvite us to the resort next year.

It was our last day and BioMom and I had been imbibing in a couple of last-minute vacation beers, on which I blame my slow reaction.

Big was beginning to wind up, not having had a nap, and probably feeling all of our sad, end-of-vacation energy.

He ran over to the shuffleboard game and stole one of those big, clay shuffleboard pucks.

Before I could stop him, he flung it over a deck rail toward the pool deck a floor below. All I could do is run to the edge and warn people below.

Fortunately no one was hurt, but that's the sort of thing that wakes you up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. Those what if's that you know would have sent your life splaying in a different dimension.

This is all to say that school starts for me next week. I'm back to my commute, but for only one semester. After two years of not commuting I'm of mixed minds on this. I'd rather not be away from home, but am looking forward to a night's break, listening to books on tape, and getting re-involved with a group to which I belong.

Copycat Grocery List: Check. Pint Sized Handcuffs: Check

So Lesbian Dad posted about an adventure-filled visit to the grocer the other day on her blog.

I piped in (a bit too soon, and certainly too insouciantly, as you'll see) about how it gets easier. Not so much that kids don't bolt when they're Eight, its just that you don't worry (care) about it as much. To reiterate my comment over there, you come to realize that there's a window that kidnappers don't want them (when they're not cute babies or cute teenagers I suppose) and they KNOW you have no ransom, so why suffer through the tantrums of a two-year-old or the whines of an eight for a few lousy bucks? With Eight who regularly pushes the limits with how far she'll fall behind on an outing, I suspect to exercise a bit of freedom and personal choice, I usually resort to the "natural consequence" discipline and perk my ears for the potential comment on the loudspeaker blaring my name and my lost child's waiting for me at checkout.

It's actually win-win when you think about it. . .

Anyway. The other night (while the three additional kids and two adults) were visiting we realized at quite a late hour that there was in fact going to be a National Night Out celebration on our block. Big had not napped and was quickly loosing gas, yet I needed to go to the grocery store. I didn't dare leave the one kid nearly voted off the island over the past few days to even my worst enemy and BioMom was not yet home from gathering the bacon.

So off we headed.

The whole way there I attempted to tee up a "quick shop" with him in the big grocery cart, and how we'd go fast like the wind.

When we got there, however, he immediately saw one unused kiddie cart with his name all over it and promptly demanded that he push that instead.

Lesbian Dad's commitment to not use her size/power/strength over the little ones is always in the form of a little devil or angel over my shoulder in such situations, giving advice where needed. Here, I had the time, and possibly the energy to let him push his own cart but, in retrospect, I clearly didn't have the judgment to direct his attention elsewhere and quickly grab him up and into the big cart's kidseat.

Oh, Retrospect, what a frustrating beauty are you?

It all started out okay. He was only distracted for a few minutes with the corner of breakable kid's toys early on in the store, before the veggies and fruit, and I faced an army of friendly shoppers admiring my patience and willingness to shop at a child's pace, and his tedious but determined attempts to move the cart from point A to point B without running over tender Achilles' heels.

He picked out one of those huge bins of organic strawberries on sale now, some onions and asparagus, a lemon and some apples to replenish the refrigerator.

All was going well.

We ran into a parent at Eight's school whom I haven't seen this summer and we got to chatting a bit about the Star Wars Exhibit going on at the Science Museum and Big headed toward the Jelly Belly display, bringing back various options for my review to take home "for the other kids"!

How generous was he to bring a FIVE POUND bag!

I quickly switched it out for a small bag and that marked the beginning of our descent to hell.

He doubled over and screamed that piercing scream that makes you wish you had needles to poke into your eyes and ears to make the pain go away, or at least to inflict more pain in order to make that sound seem relatively less onerous. A veritable symphony in comparison.

The mustard isle distracted him, but now he was on to the Indian pre-made dried meals and got stuck on where to return the box that I refused to purchase.

He gets a little O.C.D.

Two isles later I realized that I had forgotten the pickles. Eff it. There's no going backward now!

We're picking up speed now and I'm leaning down and guiding his little stroller while pulling mine behind me with my less-coordinated lefty, so that it won't hit innocent heels, or dump shelves of canned goods, all to his increasingly loud insistence that HE DO IT!!! Combined with him pulling his little cart away and attempting to fly in the opposite direction: FAST!!! FAST!!! He says.

At this point, the clientèle's are not as impressed and isles frantically clear as we turn corners into them.

I find myself allowing Hershey's strawberry flavor into his cart, something I've never noticed before, let alone purchased, in an attempt to appease his energy and try to tell myself that it is really a feminist purchase as it is pink and I am expanding his options of gender expression through his drink choices.

The syrup bottle had not landed in the basket when Big took the ginormous bin of strawberries and in slow motion, turned it over spilling the entire contents. I felt like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible dropping to within one inch of the floor with my entire body spanning open and reaching for loose strawberries as they rolled aimlessly.

One woman gave me a sympathetic look and I thought: THIS is my life???

By this time, with my attentions occupied, Big was entirely revved up and began, literally, running up and down the isles giggling and screaming with delight. I would see him at one endcap, grabbing product willy-nilly only to immediately toss aside, head that way, and by the time I got there, he'd be at the opposite one.

His glee growing with geometric proportions to my frustration.

At that point One and Two-Of-Four showed up as though planted there in front of me by GOD himself, a chorus of angels and a beam of light shining down on them.

I'll buy you each anything in the store if you help me now!

For a bottle of liquid yogurt and a box of Mike and Ike's I got my pickles and Big through the checkout and into the carseat.

Ahhhhhh.

Nearly priceless.

At the Local Kiddie Zoo

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'!

Priceless.