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...