Do you know where your children are?
Way back when, there was a public service announcement (on Buffalo TV, because that’s where our foreign feed originated), asking a curious question: “It’s ten p.m. Do you know where your children are?” I tended to be seated within an arm’s reach of one or the other parent, so I didn’t understand why this might be an issue.
Fast forward a generation. It’s suppertime (roughly) and I don’t always know. The youngest is around here, somewhere, fighting monsters. I haven’t offered my assistance, because children need to fight monsters by themselves. I come from the school of parenting that abhors interventionism.
The next oldest is at work, doing his part to continue the boss-worker model of the economy. Again, ’tis important for the youth of today to have a valuable role, but it is suppertime. Leftovers are source of dietary protein (no vegan meals here), but once in a while it would be nice to share something other than warmed over experience.
The oldest almost came to eat. Only after the parent taxi was parked in the yard did he realize that his house keys were elsewhere, which meant that he couldn’t leave. I’m still puzzling that one out.
We gifted last evening, and I received an overwhelming hint that it’s time to take to the highway. Four (count ’em) passport applications! Why doesn’t anyone want to accept that my forty kilometers a day on public transit counts as travel time? I mean, in a year, I rack up enough “distance” to qualify for free luggage, or at least a fancy mug with the city bus logo on the side.
