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A Life's Work

 A strange thing about parenthood is that the quietest exchange can send you into a tailspin of burning rage. (Or is that just me? It's just me? OK.)


The other day, I sat with my infant and awaited the end of my toddler's school day. I had a new book of stories by John Grisham. They weren't demanding stories. They were the kind of stories with this brand of language:

Swinging her briefcase at the accountant, Jessica began to hiss. "You get me that money," she said, "or you'll never see Tootie again....."

My infant was sleeping in her carseat; I was zipping along in the story, keeping my mind's eye on Tootie.

A friendly fellow mom approached to make eyes at my baby. This was fine; it's nice to have human contact. But at the end of the chat, she said, "Reading a book! With two small children! I don't know how you do it!"

And God damn it. I said nothing. But here's what I would say, if I could revisit this moment: 

Having a kid does not mean turning over one's whole brain. You get to hold onto some portions, at least the portions that can digest a John Grisham novel.

And if that's not true? If that's not the consensus? Then something is wrong with our country.

Sometimes, I feel there are things I'd change -- if I were writing the description for this particular job, my job.
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