A confession:
When I am hefting large piles of books around all day, I often think, "Crap. I'm killing the baby."
Then I have to force myself to think of all the centuries worth of women working in fields and such and how they had babies anyway.
"Women in the fields," I think to myself. "Women in the fields."
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Now we are going to dinner and a movie. We don't even particularly want to do this (OK, I want dinner. Badly. And I don't want to cook. And the green beans were rotten anyway. So.). But the child has been sitting in the house most of the week and wants to do something fun.
WES: That's the problem with children. They make you DO stuff.
ME: Next time I am going to train it better.
WES: Yeah, good luck with that.
ME: No, really. I'm going to do it. Past the age of five it will be totally self-sufficient and self-entertaining.
WES: In fact, you won't have to interact with it at all.
ME: Right.
WES: Excellent.
ME: There's always boarding school.
WES: If I had a penguin, I would never send it to boarding school.
