Last night, my wife took our children to the YMCA while I spent some time writing.  Yes, that includes writing for this blog, which means that I was writing about raising our children while my wife was actually raising them.  However, some of that time I spent assembling and setting up bookcases in our library, and around the time she was about to leave 1) I was not yet done and 2) my sinuses were in Full Revolt against the dust raised by my books. I did not feel like working out.  After three hours at the Y she came home and made the quickest dinner she could, which meant chicken all around (a slab of breast for   me — no complaints here — and chicken nuggets for the kids), freshly unfrozen peas and carrots, slices of oranges, and potato chips.

I helped with drinks.  I think I deserve a medal.


As we began to eat, I became conscious of the order in which I was eating my food. Can you guess? First the chips. Then the oranges. Then — no, not the chicken, because it had Solidified after about two days in the refrigerator — then the peas and carrots, and then I sliced up the chicken breast and made a sandwich out of it. My wife, a sort-of vegetarian, had to my envy a grilled cheese sandwich. But as I was noticing my eating habits I looked around the table to observe my children’s eating habits. First the chips. Then the oranges. Then the chicken nuggets. Then the vegetables.

After noticing that my wife had eaten a little bit of everything in various orders, I realized that only one adult was seated at the table that night. . .

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