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Before I say what I’m about to say, a declaration: I love my children. The crystalline beauty of their minds – unexpected insights at every turn – and guileless love of me, and humanity, often make me feel that
this is what it means to be alive.
But: I can hardly stand to be at the dinner table with them. It’s not the vision I had of myself, before I became a parent.
Credit:Illustration: Dionne Gain
So, most nights – for, oh, a year or possibly two – I haven’t been. The second after I plonk their dinner plates in front of them at the kitchen table, I casually say, I’ll be back soon, and nonchalantly saunter to the stairs like a dinner party guest who’s heading to your bathroom to snoop around your cabinet. Once I’m out of sight, I