My Weekend

 We went to the Museum of the American Indian, in Bowling Green. It's not great. There is far too much text; also, the announcement that my child's small stuffed dinosaur required an anti-terrorism X-ray scan struck me as just slightly silly. But the museum is free.

My son was mostly intrigued by the bathrooms; he is deeply interested in the "men/women" distinction.

By contrast, I did what I always do at museums; I pretended I owned all of the square acreage. "Welcome to my drawing room," I murmured, as I wandered through the rotunda. Perhaps I had not fully learned the lessons of Disney's "Pocahontas." ("You think you own whatever land you land on...The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim!")

I see so many parents struggling to make this sort of experience "kid-friendly." How often I hear someone say, "You're going to notice something in this room! Put down that phone and notice something!" ...This always seems like a defeatist move. It sends a certain message: "Museums are for scenes of joyless struggle....Remember that, son...."

In any case, Josh and I quickly threw in the towel. We sat on a bench and played "I Spy." This is a pleasure for me because it takes creative work to name certain things. ("I spy....the green shell-like item on top of the urn....The urn? It's a big pot...for hot drinks....")

We went back and forth--Josh and I--and we held hands. A minor win. A small sigh of relief. And, finally: Time for chicken fingers.