It was one of those days that you start out running before you hit the ground. I bring my son to day care by 9 AM, because they get very angry if he is later than that. (Somehow, I had never considered that a three-year old would have deadlines and time clocks.) At 9:05 the phone rings. It is the school calling to tell me that my son has pink eye (which he didn’t have any sign of 5 minutes earlier) and I go to pick him up giving the daycare provider my best dyke glare.

My wubby (wubby defined: part wife/part husband) and I compare our schedules to see who can squeeze a three-year old into our already busy day. We split the day, she has him in the morning and I have him in the afternoon.

I have a 4 o’clock appointment to get my nails done (DONT EVEN START WITH ME). Generally I wouldn’t dream of taking a kid with me to get my nails done, but the nail salon is in the building with the auto store — with vintage cars and video games so it is actually a treat for him.

We go into the salon, and my usual nail person is not there. In her place is Lance wearing pounds of gold jewelry and nearly attached to a cell phone that rings every 5 minutes with someone discussing their plans to meet at the mall later and soon as he’s done — as he says — "doing" me. My son confuses Lance by continually asked me questions about Mommy ("Is Mommy home?" "Are we having dinner with Mommy?" "Do you think Mommy will like this color nail polish."). When Lance asks me if he is my nephew, I say, "No, he’s my son" and leave him wondering.

And then the inevitable happens. My son’s arm accidentally hits the box that is filled to brimming with acrylic nails — like 800 fake nails — all over the floor. I must say I was a bit impressed with Lance, who looked at the nails, looked at my son (not, at me) and asked him to pick them all up. And to my amazement my son did, pick up every single one and then announces that he has to pee.

Now the bathroom is about 50 miles away, across the showroom, down the elevator, and I apologize to Lance, and off we go. I hear Lance dialing up his cell phone to tell his friends that he will now be late since this "girl" (I’m at least twice his age) is taking a long time.

We head back upstairs, when I realize that I left my wallet in the car. I wave to Lance –"Be there in a minute" — and down the elevator we go ("Can I push the button?"), at toddler speed to the car ("Why aren’t we leaving now?), and back upstairs ("Can I stop and see the cars?") and back into the nail salon ("How much longer is this going to take?)

We are almost done with my nails when my son starts that unmistakable behavior that signals POOP TIME. He stands in the corner, and starts to whine. I (bad bad mom) say: "Can you wait?" He of course tells me he doesn’t have to go anymore. While Lance gives me the evil eye, I jump up with my very wet nails, and pick up wallet, keys, kid’s toys and jacket and head down to the bathroom (like 50 miles away remember)…trying to blow on my very wet nails. My three-year old walks very slow, squeezing his tush. Then he suddenly starts yelling "Mama, mama…it fell." There in the middle of the hall is a big POOP. Did I forget to tell you he didn’t have any underwear on? Which by the way neither parent has an explanation for. A crowd starts to form, and my son is yelling, "Mama, mama" and one woman asks, bending over, "What is that?" Of course there is not a paper towel or piece of newspaper in sight, and the bathroom door — which is almost in sight now — is LOCKED, I wave to manager, "Please buzz the door open", hoping that waving my hands back and forth will help dry my nails.

After cleaning up Junior, who by the way, HATES being "dirty" — including his legs, and the pants and the floor, including the hallway — with my still very wet nails, that I just spent $20 dollars for– I discover exactly how small poop can solidify INTO nail polish.

Oh, did I tell you that he doesn’t have pink eye, and will be back in day care tomorrow?

PS: My email is set to not accept any disparaging femme humor.

They do studies about lesbian families because they worry about how our children will cope with being raised in queer homes. They want to know how they will feel about being the children of lesbian moms, and how they will process being deprived of a “normal” home and not having a dad (as if most American kids today live in two-parent, opposite sex families). They worry about what we will expose them to. These are the kinds of queer things I expose my child to.

We were reading a book the other night called, The Duke Who Outlawed Jelly Beans a series of wonderful fairy tales, published by Alyson Press’s children’s book department (Alys in Wonderland, of course). The tales are typical fairy tales of dragons and elves, except that some of the children have two moms, and some have two dads. Although never mentioned in the stories themselves, the pictures depict many multi-racial family members.

This is how my child is coping: I’m reading the section that says something like, "…and finding a job wasn’t easy for a lesbian sorcerer…" and my son says, "We have lesbians in our family too" in the most gleefulvoice.

I say, "Yes, we do. Your moms are lesbians."

He says, hitting his knee for emphasis, in a loud, throw back your head laughing voice, "Isn’t that great!"

“Yes," I say laughing, "it is pretty great!"

The next day he says to my partner, "Did you know momma is a lesbian?"

She smiles and says, "Yes, and so am I. Do you know what a lesbian is?"

"Yes," he says seriously. "A lesbian is someone who works really really hard to buy their children all the toys they need."

We watched part of the last March on Washington on television. My son looked from his Lego’s at one point quizzically watching Dana Rivers’ passionate speech. Very seriously he asked me, "Momma, are we gay rights."

"Yes," I answered, as seriously, "we are."

When the social worker came to the house for our home visit for our second adoption, I worried a bit about what he might say to her. I asked him what he would say if she wanted to know something about our family. He looked at me with gentleness and kindness in his voice and said, "Momma, I would tell her that we are a lesbian family," as if there were no better thing in the world to be. Perhaps there isn’t.

We decided to paint the bathrooms, and found ourselves meandering through Sears on Saturday afternoon, looking for a shower curtain. We are passing by the jewelry section, my partner our son and myself. I said, "Hey, honey lets go look at engagement rings!" "In Sears?" she said — with a kind of pinched look on hir face. "Yes!" I said, emphatically, "We are just looking, okay?"

I know that some people get married before they have children (though this has never been as popular as cultural mythology would suggest). I, however, was very clear that I would not marry anyone until we had our children first. Not being a fool, I wanted to be sure that we could really "do" this together. My partner and I actually became lovers after my son was adopted, and we have been planning on having another child, if only the fertility gods would comply. Whether by adoption or pregnancy, we are planning to have at least one more child, so the prospect of "marriage" is becoming ever more real.

When we first fell in love (like 3 weeks after we fell in bed) she asked me to marry hir. (Can you imagine?) She wanted to buy me an engagement ring, but I protested — wasn’t that just too het? She bought me a beautiful engagement bracelet that I’ve worn with love and pride. Over the past few months though it has struck me that no one knows what the bracelet is and suddenly it has been haunting me that I really do want an engagement ring!

So, this is how we found ourselves waylaid in the jewelry department on our way to buy the shower curtain in Sears. First of course we had to placate the baby (OK, so at 3 1/2 he’s not really a baby anymore!). We did it in the best parenting spirit — we bribed him. We promised him we’d go to the play in the appliance section of Sears. Before you think us evil parents, you need to know this is more to his liking than candy, or movies or any toy in the world. Large grown-up size stoves are for him what Disney World may be to another kid. (Actually his favorite part of Disney World was Minnie Mouse’s House, with the large sized appliances in the very pink kitchen–he fought through the hordes of other children who had the illusion that is was their turn.) He often begs us to not go to the park, but cries to play in the Sears appliance section, where the store workers recognize him and politely ask him, "What’s for lunch today?"

Excited about playing with the stoves, he sat quietly (unknown to us he was actually germinating Chicken Pox, his silence part of the Pox meditation). We began to look at the rings when a sales woman came over. "Can I help you girls?" she said, politely. For the record this is not the best way to address either this feminist femme or my partner the butch. Making direct eye contact, I said, "Yes, we are looking for engagements rings." Without blinking an eye she said, "OK hun, and what styles are you thinking of?"

We spent about twenty minutes looking — and learning about engagement ring styles (somehow I must’ve missed this class during my young adult days in hippie communes, women’s studies classes and anti-war rallies). Twenty minutes is of course the outer limit for a 3 1/2-year-old, and — if I’m being honest — kind of pushes my attention span a bit too. But my love is just getting interested – -comparing details and making me try on like 800 rings — so I am clutching the checkbook (which has just enough money in it for a shower curtain) for dear life.

Just as I’m getting ready to move the family along to the shower curtain department, the sales woman says, "Are you both wanting rings?" We smile at each other, and my partner says, "We’ll both get wedding bands, but she’ll wear the engagement ring." (On cue, I flutter my eyelashes to the sales woman.) And, again without missing a beat the saleswoman says, "Oh, some couples do it that way, and some like to both wear them."
My only response is in the raising of my eyebrow, and more very direct eye contact. She smiles. "Oh," she says, "We have lots of gay couples come in looking for rings. I sold five this month alone."

Well, what do you know? Femme/Butch white lesbian couple with handsome Black son in tow — just your normal American family shopping at Sears for engagement rings and shower curtains on a Saturday afternoon. The things I never could’ve imagined growing up in Brooklyn.

The sales woman was respectful and engaging (excuse the pun). This was initially a lark -not the marriage, the trip to Sears. I’d never really considered buying an engagement ring at Sears; we’d planned a big trip down to NYC to the diamond district, a serious outing, if you will. Yet the attention and respect of the saleswoman came close to convincing me, that yes we could buy our engagement ring at Sears. Why not? We have a credit card in both our names!

Although lesbian parenting was not a mainstream topic 20 years ago, in my small enclave when I was living in the San Francisco Bay Area and working in a feminist (and lesbian) run Women’s Health Collective, lesbians were planning, conceiving and birthing children in large numbers. It never occurred to me that reproducing might be more complex than finding a male friend to be a donor, or using the resources of a sperm bank.

When I moved back east over a decade ago, I was somewhat surprised that so few lesbians had children. When I began to try to get pregnant there was as much confusion and resistance within my lesbian social network as there was among heterosexual family and the medical community.

It has been a lonely process. I have watched many friends who had never considered having children, become interested, start trying, conceive, and start families, while I was still unable to get pregnant. In the beginning, I tried at home with a donor friend and a support team. Now, at forty, I find myself at early morning clinics, sitting in waiting rooms with other depressed women, waiting for doctors to probe my body and recommend hormones and surgeries to facilitate pregnancy. I, who entered this process working with herbs and tarot cards, have been reduced to hospital gowns and procedures I would never have imagined volunteering for.

Infertility is frankly depressing. No one really wants to hear about it. As I have learned, most people don’t really understand what it is you are dealing with. One friend who has been trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant for the past few months, recently said to me, "I just didn’t get it what it meant when you would tell me you got your period." Indeed, most people just don’t get it. They don’t understand the pain and loss and disappointment that happens every month. They don’t get the lack of sympathy from the cold medical professionals. They don’t get how hard it is to hear of others successes. They don’t get the feeling of desperation and powerless one feels towards their body that has let them down. They simply cannot imagine the stress on one’s finances, and emotional health. I have known relationships that have ended due to the disappointment and pain. I long to be able to talk about my infertility in the lesbian community and not have my pain minimized or trivialized. I have had people say to me, "I guess it wasn’t meant to be", "Maybe some part of you really doesn’t want to get pregnant", and "Why are you so obsessed about this?" I would like to speak about my experiences without receiving spiritual pronouncements or medical advice.

I am very lucky. In the fall of 1995, I adopted a wonderful week old baby. My partner and I now have a family, and I love being a mom. This, however, does not end the pain of infertility. For the first few years I was too busy being a mom to think about getting pregnant. The reality is, though, that I still grieve not being able to conceive, and have still not given up trying. Yes, I would adopt again; adoption is a lovely way to build a family. Adoption, however, is not a solution for infertility, and this body still longs to carry a child.

I have decided to write this as another way of "coming out." I want us all, especially those of us who are already parents, to develop sensitivity to those who are still trying, and especially those of us who may never succeed. It is a desire only those who long to conceive and carry a child can know, and a pain only those who "fail" can experience. As supportive friends you can offer an ear to listen, or a hand to hold. Most of all, before you share other’s good fortune, successful and easy conceptions , please remember this may trigger feelings of jealousy, anger, or sadness for lesbians struggling with infertility. Be gentle with us, because the doctors are not gentle with our bodies, and we are often not gentle enough with our own spirits.

I’m on an email list for queer parents. The other day a gay man wrote, “I feel ready to have children, but does it really change your life that much?” It was one of those moments for me, a moment of pure wisdom — knowing that there are things in this world that I knew that he could not yet know.

When my son was a few weeks old, I hired a babysitter so that I could go to a conference. I was committed at the time to not having my life change too much as a single parent, so I was still trying to attend professional events. I met a woman there, an ex-student, who had heard about my wonderful surprise adoption, and she said to me, “This will change your whole life.”

I remember saying to her, “Well, you know, I’ve lived a whole bunch of different lives already. This will just be one more change.” Oh the arrogance that was me.

Having children changes your life in ways you can’t imagine. This is different from any other life I’ve ever lived. It changes the meaning of life itself. I wish I remembered that student’s name because I owe her a huge apology.

It was as if my whole life as I knew it, the entire screen of all my existence, had a huge whole cut out of the middle that was then filled with my son’s needs and the edges of that circle were left to me. Mostly I sleep on those edges today.

There is sitting on the side of a hospital bed, while your infant is in an oxygen tent. There is wondering, but being too fearful to ask out loud, about HIV. There is being so tired that you fall asleep while bottle-feeding, and waking up to find the nipple leaking into his ear. There is paying as much for the best schools, as you do for the mortgage. There is laughing and laughing while he pretends the ketchup bottle is a phone, repeating, “Go ahead momma, say who’s there… It’s me Shaiyah Ketchup.”

There is, of course, no way to prepare yourself for it. There is nothing to do to “get ready.” There is hardly any way to bolster yourself while it is happening. Mostly it is a heady wind that blows through your life, changing the face of the territory you call home, and then you hardly remember what the view from your window was before the storm.

Toilet training is not really about our kids; it’s really about grownup needs. I mean my son wasn’t tired of using his diaper; I was tired of changing his diapers. He didn’t really mind the mess or the smell; I was the one who was ready to move on.

My son did not potty train easily, although in the very beginning he seemed to take to it without a problem. When we first bought the potty and took it out of the box, he was very excited. He sat down on it, and we read the Joshua book ("… he sat and he sat and he sat and he sat…") and lo and behold, this little guy just peed on his own. Not once, but twice. I have all of this on video, by the way. He was so excited and proud. Unfortunately, it was almost another year before he peed in the potty on a regular basis.

Pooping was a whole other issue. He simply did not want to poop in the potty. He expressed this very clearly. He said, "I am not yet ready to use the potty. The potty is for big kids, and though I am a big kid, I am not big enough." At one point, my son who was no longer wearing a diaper, would pull one out of the pack and attempt to put it on, as a way to let us know he had to use the bathroom.

We tried a number of things. We tried bribery (candy, cookies) and threats as much as I hate to admit it ("We won’t go to the park unless you sit.") We tried not caring, but since he didn’t care that didn’t really help. We tried begging ("Please, please go poopy honey, for mama"); this was useless also.

This is what finally worked: We went out and bought about 20 small Matchbox cars, his favorite toys in the world. We hung the cars on the bathroom wall and encourage him to sit, and told him that if he pooped he could have a car. He hungered for those cars.

He sat and sat and sat and sat while we talked about those cars. For a while he held in his poop for days, and of course it was painful to actually let go. We would sit with him and hold him and talk about cars and reassure him. We began to explain that it hurt so badly because he was holding it, and over time he began to experience the wisdom in this. He would announce and discuss this information with people in very public places, who happened to ask him where he got the car. "I" he would say with pride, "I, went poop on the potty. If you don’t hold it, it doesn’t hurt as much. If you hold it in it dries out and hurts, but mommy will hold  you if you need her too."

I would like to take credit for this suggestion, especially when someone told me just yesterday that they thought I should win a Nobel Peace Prize for it. (Right, as if anything that a mom does parenting would be worthy of social recognition). However, the idea came from Kelly McCormick, who started MOMAZONS, a organization in Columbus, Ohio for lesbian moms..

I think Kelly intended us to buy only a few cars, but it actually took about 50 cars and a few months, but it really worked. He would pick out the car he wanted "next" and then when he had to go he would race to the bathroom to take care of business. Now there are cars everywhere under foot in my house.

He was broken hearted to learn that he wouldn’t get a car every time he pooped for the rest of his life. I said, "Do you think I get a car every time I poop?" He looked at me incredulously and said, "You don’t?"

Although I enjoy sharing this with you, I suspect my "sharing" days are nearly over. I was talking with another mom the other day, whose kid is not yet potty-trained, and I was telling her about our successes. Suddenly my little guy turned around, really angry, and said, "This is my private stuff you are talking about. You shouldn’t do that. I don’t talk about your private stuff. Don’t do it again."

Sigh. I suspect that the reason my son is finally toilet trained has less to do with cars then the fact that he was finally ready. I am trying to remember why it was so important to push him to this stage. I am missing my little baby a bit more, as this big boy asserts his presence into my world.

Well, my baby just turned five years old this month. Can you imagine? Everyone says that having children makes you realize how quickly time flies–which is hard to believe since you are so sleep deprived each day feels as if it lasts a few weeks–but it really does seem as if it was just a few weeks ago that he was cutting his first tooth.

It is hard to say when babies become children, but it seems to happen overnight that a dependent, cranky bundle that needs to be carried around, becomes an articulate independent person, with their own agenda’s, social calendars and preferences. I remember when I first realized that my son had become a voting member of our family. We were in the car, and I asked my partner whether she was in the mood for Chinese or Indian food for dinner. From the back of the car quipped a voice, “I would like Chinese.” We both turned around — WHO WAS THAT SPEAKING? Indeed, we have never been able to simply make restaurant choices since that day without counting in his very strong opinions.

For instance, we were in Florida a few weeks ago, visiting my family, and decided to go out for a nice dinner. It is difficult enjoying a “nice dinner” while the baby (I mean our second child–the actual baby) is flinging baby food on the customers sitting next to us, and trying to eat the menu. I read the list of choices on the children’s menu to my son and then placed my own order. The waitress says to me, “Would you like soup or a chilled green salad with your meal?” My son says to the waitress, “Does my meal come with a chilled green salad too?”

Now you need to know, although my son is a very “good” eater as far as kid’s eating habits go, he has NEVER eaten a “chilled green salad” in his life. He was quite disturbed that grown-ups had choices not available on the kid’s menu (having, of course, been raised to be on the look out for discrimination). The waitress kindly offers him a chilled green salad that he graciously ate, including the shredded red cabbage (”ummm”) and croutons.

It has become a joke now at every meal. “Would you like a chilled green salad for dinner tonight?” I ask him. Strangely enough he politely declines each time, saying he prefers to eat chilled green salads in fancy restaurants.

I remember when I first realized that my older son was actually a voting member of the family. My partner and I were in the car discussing where we were going out to eat for dinner (it was my night to cook), and I was suggesting Italian, and she was (as usual) suggesting Japanese, and the disagreement was suddenly interrupted by a new vote. "Chinese." We looked at each other unsure from where the words emanated. "Chinese," repeated a still, small, voice from the rear of the car. Every since then, he’s been a voting member of family decisions.

My oldest though seems to understand the basics of voting, i.e., everyone gets ONE vote, throwing food does not increase your chances of getting what you want, and most of all, that some things really just don’t matter. My younger son as I’ve suggested previously, is a thug. He is extremely verbal, very opinionated, and believes that throwing food, heavy toys, and biting are all fair game for increasing votes. He is also believes in stacking the votes on his side, by repetitions of his own, finely thought out opinions. "Pizza, Pizza, Pizza, PIZZA" is a common chant. As is "MORE," "NOW," "BOTTLE," and "Not my BEDTIME." He also insists on voting on almost everything, including what color paint to paint the sun room, where the screwdriver should be kept, and which side of the sink is the best placement for a used and soapy toothbrush. It is true that democratic governance is rapidly losing favor in my house.

My older son however has reached a higher level of conversation in the past few weeks. On our way home from school, he says, "Do you wanna talk?" I was actually enjoying listening the evening news, but, er, sure, "What’s going on?" I ask. "Well," he says, and launches in a complex discussion about the interpersonal politics of the first graders, the influence of the second and third graders in his multi-age classroom, and the sadness of war.

Last week he was invited to a birthday party. The girl’s name was "Alex" and when I asked him what she might like for a present he said, "She likes footballs and action figures, that’s all she likes." "Really?" I said, surprised because we’ve certainly bought enough of those Barbie-type toys for other girls in his class. "Those are not typical things that most of the girls in your class play with," I say. He looked surprised, "Most of the girls play football, "he said. (He hates football, by the way.) "Anyway," he said, "You know there really aren’t ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ toys. Kids can do anything they want." "Yeah," my partner added, "Why were you thinking that Momma? Sheesh!" I sigh. "When I was young, " I say, "most girls weren’t allowed to play with those kind of toys, and they were teased if they did." He looks shocked and surprised by my small-town conventionalism, "THAT," he assures me was a long long time ago.

And then I overheard this conversation in the kitchen. "Mom, Jacob knows more than I do about everything in the world." (Jacob is really quite a knowledgeable 7-year-old.) "Well," my partner says, "I’m sure he doesn’t know EVERYTHING more than you. I’m sure you know more about being Jewish." (My son is the only Jew in his class.) "Yes, but he knows more about being Christian." "Okay," my partner continues, "I’m sure you know more about gay and lesbian things." "Maybe," my sons says, "Because I don’t think Jacob’s parents are gay. He has a mom and a dad." My partner concedes that they are probably not gay, but my son continues, "Well, what are they? I mean, who do they love?" "Well," she says, "They love each other." My son walks away pondering this….men and women who love each other, what a novel idea! I’m sure he will bring this up to discuss in his classroom next week. Heterosexual coupling: it could work.

By the time you read this, perhaps we will know who the new president is. However, according to a television show I saw before the election, many Americans have no idea who is running or what they stand for. A scary thought, and one that is combated in my home while we watch the coverage with my five year old.

Visiting my mother, a staunch Republican (don’t ask), she says to him, "Do you know who is running for president?" I am sure she meant this as a trick question and was quite surprised when he answered, "Sure, Al Gore and George Bush." Startled, my mother said, "And who are you voting for?" I could tell my son knew that something was up. He scanned the crowd, looked at my mother carefully and said, "I am voting for Al Gore." When she asked him why he said, "Because all George Bush cares about is money, and Al Gore cares about the animals." Except for the twitch in her eyebrow, my mother did not respond–quite an accomplishment for a five-year old don’tcha think?

It is not just family members that he manages though, but also he own very active social life. My handsome Black son has always had a "thing" for very blond Irish looking girls. In daycare, he had an entourage of them, surrounding him and begging for his attention. I am sure his taste in women will be forever blamed on his being raised by white parents, though I can assure you my taste in women was not something I learned at home.

He has had one special friend for the past three years, who I will call Emily. Recently, he has begun a new friendship with a girl he goes to school with, who I will call Rachel. It is very clear how much he really likes Rachel. After spending the afternoon with Rachel the other day I said, "It seems like you really like playing with Rachel." "Yes," he said, "but can I tell you something?" Slowly and thoughtfully he said, "Don’t tell Emily how much I like playing with Rachel. I think it may hurt her feelings."

Sigh. The sons of lesbians managing the intricacies of intimate relationships with gentleness and precision.

I am the first one to admit that I’m not really the domestic type. Sometimes people are fooled by my femme appearance, thinking that I enjoy playing Suzie Homemaker, but mostly I just enjoy looking like her. I’ve been accused of being a bit of a drag queen, some kind of butch in femme drag, since anyone close enough to have been in my home knows that almost anything takes preference over cooking and (eeks!) cleaning.

Before I had children, I used to jest that I anticipated the hardest thing about parenting to be feeding the children, and indeed this has proven true. I just don’t get this three meal a day thing, plus those damn brown bag lunches. I have been blessed, however, with a partner who besides being a good cook, looks great in chef’s apron, and a son who has been, since infancy, sniffing everything he eats before putting it in his mouth to determine its contents. At three years old he could walk into a restaurant take a long sniff, and say, "The bread has mint in it."

When my partner goes out of town for a few days, she gently asks, "You will remember to feed them?" It is hard to forget to feed the baby, because, well, he screams when he’s not fed. My older boy on the other hand is more complex, but he has learned to take really good care of himself. "Momma, can you come in the kitchen so I can make some eggs? Would you like some?" he asks. At nearly six, he is developing some very interesting social idioms ("like duh, mom") and near teenage-age inflections. Hard to describe in print, without the facial expressions, but as he walks past my messy deadline-filled desk, he says, with eye-brows raised, head wisely nodding up and down "Some parents, feed their kids, er, LUNCH." Right, right, feed the kids.

However, my honey packs lunches most days for school, so I have been assuming that that my kids are eating well without putting much thought into it. When lunch came back uneaten the other day, I was concerned. I haven’t yet mentioned that both of my sons are, as my Jewish mother would say, "good eaters." I mean really good eaters. For the record, we are all good eaters here in this house, and my lack of cooking should not be construed into thinking I am not well fed. I just like my food cooked by others, preferably others from different countries, to satisfy my diverse, albeit lazy, palate. When it is my night to "cook," my partner asks, "Which country are we eating in this evening, dear?"

In this family, almost no one voluntarily misses a meal. My older boy can eat as much as many small adults, and the younger one has learned the word, "more" and uses it rather liberally. I apparently ate "like a bird" as a child, but my children eat like more like whales. An entire uneaten sandwich is very unusual.

"Honey, did you not like your lunch?" I ask. No answer, a very bad sign. "You always like tuna fish at home," I say. No answer. I pause, calculating. "Honey, did someone say something about your tuna fish sandwich?" Finally: an answer. "Tyler made fun of it." "Made fun of a tuna fish sandwich?" I ask, thinking what could be more "normal" than a tuna fish sandwich. "No one eats tuna fish," he says with disgust. This is the same child who did not bat an eye, being the only child in his class who ate matzah sandwiches during Passover, which has convinced the rest of his kindergarten class that being Jewish is kind of Black thing. "Really, " I say, trying to be sensitive to how important it is to fit in. "What kinds of foods do your friends bring to school? What would you rather us send you to eat?"

Now I know that not every pearl of wisdom that falls from my son’s lips is the Truth. I also know that times have surely changed and that my little guy has far more sophisticated taste in food at 5 than surely I did since he has watched the cooking channel religiously since he was 18 months old. He can recognize the taste of cardamom and detect the subtle distinction between pad Thai cooked at two different restaurants. However, I never thought I’d live to hear the answer that fell from my son’s lips, rendering me speechless. He doesn’t hesitate at all in answering what he’d rather have for lunch. "Sushi," he says. "Everyone eats sushi for lunch in kindergarten."