Outer Life

P.S.

My father worked in sales. One year he did so well they offered him a corner office. He turned it down, not wanting to suffer the humiliation of losing the office to next year's sales star. We believe he was the first and only person to ever turn down such an honor at his company. I remembered this after I posted "Mine Enemy."

"Regrets Only" ended with foreboding as I contemplated being the butt of every joke at Carl's Superbowl party. Judging by the recent traffic on his internet RSVP page, however, his TV writer friends have grown tired of my situation and have moved on to other topics for humor, none of which make any sense to me, all of them derived from deep within their hermetically-sealed bubble world. I'm now confident this year's party will be just like all the others, my attempts to penetrate their clubby huddle deftly parried by their inside jokes, shibboleths setting them apart from us workaday proles. And I'm reminded once again that to be a TV writer is to achieve the amazing physical feat of being the center of the universe while simultaneously being above it all. How anyone writes anything from that position is beyond me. And yes, in case you're wondering, I remain an envious, resentful and bitter man.

I'm beginning to wonder whether my filtered life is warping my kids. Our kids do watch TV, but we sharply limit their intake to a few hours of pre-recorded programming each week. So last week we were at a boisterous kid-filled dinner party and, as the escalating youthful exuberance threatened to swamp us adults, the hosts suggested pacifying the kids with some televised viewing pleasure. Our kids naturally jumped at the chance to sample the forbidden fruit (a side effect of their restricted diet) and we, reluctant to resist the pressure of our peers, allowed our kids to watch. Well, after ten minutes we heard a familiar howl coming from the TV room. We ran in to find our four year old bawling inconsolably. Unable to derive an explanation from his blubbering, we asked his sister what happened. "When the commercial came on, he thought the show was over," she explained. Then it hit us: he'd never seen a TV commercial before. He thought it was a new show.

Mine Enemy

I now have an enemy. 

Last year two offices opened up on our power wall. Every office has a power wall -- that hallowed hall of offices where the elite meet to seat themselves. Power walls offer the best views, close proximity to power and, most importantly, a highly visible manifestation of one's elevated status within an organization. Offices on power walls are, therefore, coveted by all but the least ambitious.

I don't currently reside on the power wall and I'm not sure I want to sit on the power wall, what with all those powerful people minding my business, poking their heads in my office, wondering where I was yesterday afternoon, giving my office friends the bent eye as they visit me to dish the dirt on my power wall neighbors. I'm also not an obvious candidate for the power wall, currently occupying a densely-populated mid-level rung on the ladder, unsure whether I'm on a rocket ship to the stars or rising with the tide or hitting my ceiling or just grateful to be employed.

After assessing the likely competition, I figured it was unlikely I would actually get one of the open offices on the power wall. But I also figured that asking for an office would demonstrate a white-hot burning ambition (a good thing to demonstrate to your superiors so long as it's not aimed at them) and maybe cause my superiors to throw me a bone when they turned me down. I'd also feel like an idiot if, after sitting on the sideline, someone at or below my level snagged one of the open offices.

So, after observing a respectful waiting period for the dearly departed (a transfer and a retirement), I put my name in for a power wall office. Office assignments are administered by a low-level functionary adept at implementing the decisions of the high and mighty while keeping them insulated from the fray. The functionary, upon hearing my request, scoffed and offered her opinion that I'd never get one. I nevertheless insisted that my name be added to the roll, counting on that consolation bone when they turned me down.

Four months later, the low-level functionary called to give me my moving date. Interpreting my stunned silence for the stunned silence it was, she filled me in on the details, perhaps moved by her newfound respect for the newest resident of the power wall. Apparently two heavy hitters had requested the open offices soon after I did, scaring off all other potential competitors. The decision was made to defer all office moves until this year, so there things stood until late December, when one of the heavy hitters was promoted out of our facility, leaving one open office, one remaining applicant (me), a looming moving date and an office ruling class unwilling to sanction a second competition that could easily descend into internecine warfare amongst those of us on the middle rung. The office therefore fell, by default, into my lap.

The next day my enemy revealed himself. The functionary, now treating me as a trusted confidant, called to let me know that my enemy came by her office, demanding to know how I got the office and stating his supposedly superior claim. At this point, I was inclined to cede the office to him, for he did have a superior claim, I had no interest in alienating him and, as discussed above, I didn't really want the office in the first place. But then, the functionary continued in a lowered voice, my enemy cruelly detailed all the reasons why I didn't deserve the office, dwelling maliciously on my unsuitability for sitting amongst the office gods. At this point, he became my enemy. Ceding the office to him now would just validate his superiority and confirm my inferiority. I resolved they'd have to pry the office keys from my cold dead hands before he'd get them.

My enemy is persistent, for he continues to press his claim despite some overwhelming obstaces. My claim is easy to administer -- I was first. His claim is difficult to administer, requiring the functionary and her masters to engage in a qualititative evaluation of our relative merits and demerits. His claim is also controversial, for once it gets out that the "best" person will get the office, everyone who cares about his status and isn't already on the power wall will join the fight, potentially triggering the civil war they're trying to avoid. Also, by seeking to overturn the functionary's decision, my enemy has turned the functionary into my ally.

My enemy labors under the misapprehension that I outmaneuvered him, and he resents me for it. Like all devious people, he assumes I am devious too, and he hates me for it. My enemy is an insecure man, obsessed with, but never sure of, his status within the organization, and my perch on the power wall will just prey on his deepest fears.

So far, my enemy believes I know nothing of his claim. He swore the functionary to secrecy, not realizing that the functionary is now my closest confidant and ally. Through her I've obtained most of the details of his struggle. Meanwhile, I've run into him in the hallways, I've sat in meetings with him and once we even found ourselves together at the men's room sinks, and he's always been cordial, never saying a word about the office. I'm not sure how long he'll be able to maintain this facade but, for now, I'm playing along as if I don't know.

Yesterday I learned that my enemy's appeal to the higher ups had been denied without leave to amend, removing the last obstruction to my move. I may have won this battle, but I'm sure we're in for a long cold war of undeclared hostilities, border skirmishes and battles by proxy. I often think of him plotting and scheming my downfall, enlisting allies and spreading his hateful propaganda. He's a worthy opponent, one whose cunning and ruthlessness will keep my eyes on my back, ever watchful for his treachery.

It's all so exciting!

P.S. More here.

N.B.

But the fact is that writing is the only way in which I am able to cope with the memories which overwhelm me so frequently and so unexpectedly. If they remained locked away, they would become heavier and heavier as time went on, so that in the end I would succumb under their mounting weight. Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life. How often this has caused me to feel that my memories, and the labours expended in writing them down are all part of the same humiliating and, at bottom, contemptible business!

-- W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn.

Regrets Only

Every year my TV writer friend Carl and his wife Amy host a Superbowl party. This year they sent one of those internet "evites," the sort that creates an interactive online RSVP page and chat space. By the time I made it to Carl's invitation page his TV writer friends had filled the screen with wacky RSVPs, some of which had taken on a life of their own, inspiring even wackier responses in a crazy "can you top this?" atmosphere.

After surveying the mirth-filled page, I couldn't just give my customary "we look forward to seeing you" response. No, if I wanted any cred with this crowd, my RSVP would have to be wacky too. Nothing wacky came to mind, so I closed the evite window and tried to think wacky thoughts.

I suppose I should admit at this point that one of my little conceits is that I, too, could have been a big-time TV writer like Carl and his friends. If I could conjure up wacky at will. If I hadn't filtered TV out of my life. If I kept up with popular culture. If my humor had broader appeal. If I knew anybody. If I could deal with rejection. If I'd been on the Harvard Lampoon. If I worked well with others. If I understood the first thing about the schmooze. A lot of "ifs," to be sure, but after spending a few hours drinking in their wacky work stories and contrasting them with my deadly dull work life, my envious and insecure soul really needs to overlook those "ifs."

In other words, I'd stand a little taller at Carl's Superbowl party if my RSVP blew the other RSVPs out of the water.

Unfortunately, I set such a lofty goal that I couldn't attain it. After a week of suffering through RSVP-block, my wife got fed up and RSVP'd. "There were a lot of funny responses, so I added something funny too," she said.

I ran to the computer and read our RSVP: "Amy, I hope you'll provide the wardrobe malfunction this year!" The RSVP, like the invitation, showed up on the screen in my name.

Have I mentioned that Carl's wife Amy is the kind of woman who draws slack-jawed stares when she isn't making every head turn? Have I mentioned that this makes Carl uncomfortable? Have I mentioned that she's a bit of an exhibitionist? Have I mentioned that that also makes Carl uncomfortable? And have I mentioned those rumors about her past, rumors that, you guessed it, make Carl uncomfortable?

I pointed all this out to my wife. Instead of abjectly apologizing for her misdeed, or weeping and wailing and gnashing her teeth in despair, or at least furrowing her brow in concern for my grave plight, she laughed. "It's funny! They'll think you have the hots for Amy."

I explained that Carl may not see the humor in my using his evite page to leer at his wife in front of his friends, so after some cajoling and pleading my wife called Amy. Her peals of laughter, audible through the headset five feet away, suggested that Amy also failed to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

Meanwhile, Carl's RSVP page filled with gleefully lurid messages, suggestive innuendo and crude allusions to my alleged relationship with Amy and her various body parts. One even proposed a pool for when and how I'd "score." Exactly what you'd expect from a feral pack of wild sitcom writers circling wounded prey.

Then Carl called. He wasn't laughing. I explained the whole thing, he muttered something about being the laughingstock, and, when we hung up, I resolved that nothing would pass my lips at Carl's party unless someone else had tasted it first. I planned to stay within the crowd, using Carl's guests as unwitting human shields. And, if I survived the party, I vowed to check under our car for the telltale stream of brake fluid or unusual wires or a ticking timing device before driving away.

So as I look forward to living through yet another of my Larry David moments, I'm trying to focus on the bright side. I've managed to become the joke of a party without having a single drink. Yet. Carl's writer friends will no longer dismiss me as dull. Amy might engineer a wardrobe malfunction just to see what Carl does to me. And, if I manage to make it home with at least one working eye and a few functioning fingers, I'll get another blog post out of this developing fiasco.

P.S. More here.

Teach Thyself

"Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." What a stupid phrase. Many of those who can, can't teach, most of those who teach, can also do, and, if you think about it, to teach is to do, albeit doing of a different sort than what many of those who can do do.

I learned to respect teaching the hard way, by doing it.

I'd always wanted to give teaching a try so, when a professor asked me to be a teaching assistant for his large introductory lecture course, I jumped at the opportunity.

I figured I was a natural for teaching. I'd been a student for 18 years, and was ready to reverse roles and right the pedagogical wrongs others had inflicted on me. I was very interested in the subject of the class, and looked forward to hours of intense discussion with students eager to soak up my knowledge. I enjoy public speaking, and for a public speaker what could be more gratifying than a captive audience whose futures depend on your every word? I was seriously considering the academic life, and viewed this opportunity as a dress rehearsal. I was dirt poor, and counted on the stipend to keep me in saltines and peanut butter for another semester.

The TA job required me to reinforce the professor's teachings by summarizing each lecture at our weekly sessions, to explain the professor's teachings by answering questions at those sessions and during office hours, and to torture the students by designing weekly writing assignments.

At our first session, I spent 20 minutes going over the subject of the lecture, opened the floor to questions, and spent the next 40 minutes answering questions about the grading system, the syllabus, the first writing assignment, the exam. Not one question addressed the subject of the lecture.

The first writing assignment required the students to apply a simple concept covered in the first lecture to a mildly complicated situation. One paper was truly outstanding, some were okay and the rest were truly awful. Few of the students understood the concept, fewer still could apply it, and with one exception none could write their way out of a paper bag. Facing an entire semester of struggling through these weakly writing assignments, I was imbued with an urgent sense of mission to help them improve their writing and analysis skills. I spent hours filling the papers with comments and suggestions.

My students didn't take it well. Most lined up outside my cubicle-sized office, disputing my grades and dismissing my comments and suggestions, even threatening to go over my head to the professor. I spent almost as much discussing these papers as I did grading them.

And it was all to no avail. Week after week, most of the students continued to turn in indifferent writing and weak analysis. A few managed to improve, but most never seemed to get it, no matter how much time I spent with them or how hard they tried, although I suspect after a while many gave up trying.

Meanwhile, as the low grades piled up, the tension in our little seminar room tightened. My weekly discussions were received with frosty silence, malevolent glares and outright hostility. I had become the Grim Grader, meting out C's and D's to kids who'd always received A's and B's, the very personification of their deepest, darkest grade grubbing fears, a blot on their resumes, the obstacle to their future happiness and success.

Then one of my students killed herself.

She had been one of my most dogged opponents, a vocal leader of the insurrection, one of those who questioned every comment and suggestion, contested every grade. And now she was dead.

When someone kills herself, the first question you ask is "why?" We need to explain to the unexplainable. Like everyone, I wondered why, but unlike everyone, I didn't know. Everyone else knew why she killed herself. She did it because of me.

I heard it in whispers in the corridors, I saw it in people pointing at me, glancing away when I turned towards them. Friends kept me informed, sharing the painful details as the story worsened, my involvement growing deeper by the day. I heard I was an unfeeling monster, a grading demon, gleefully puncturing my students' self-esteem with barbed comments and pointed suggestions. And after a few days absorbing this kind of talk, I started to feel it. I lost my appetite and clumps of my hair, my stomach bled and I often trembled. A dark cloud followed me wherever I went, blotting the sun from my life.

During those dark days, I reviewed the semester over and over again in my mind, trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I could have done differently. I reread my comments to her papers, wondering which one set her off. I interviewed my few remaining students, grasping for any insight into my pedagogical flaws.

All this taught me a lot about my teaching, and much of it wasn't good. I did not instill an interest in the subject, assuming the students would find it as interesting as I did. I was blinded by their inability to work at my level, failing to acknowledge many of the little improvements in their work. I connected only with the best students, incapable of seeing my class through the eyes of my poorer students. I took it personally when my students failed, and they knew it. I ignored their concerns, assuming I knew what was best. In short, I expected them to be just like me, and they weren't and would never be.

After a few weeks the news trickled out that her husband had left her a few days before the suicide and that she'd married him against the wishes of her parents and that they'd disowned her and so on, a troubled tale of a troubled young life having nothing to do with her classroom experiences. The whispering stopped, my appetite and most of my hair eventually returned, my stomach healed and my tremors steadied.

And I listened to what I'd learned, I changed my methods, I started to really teach, I began to appreciate how difficult it is, I discovered I have no talent for it and, as I saw myself flailing and ultimately failing at something I once thought I'd been good at, I began to loathe my weekly teaching sessions almost as much as my students did. I vowed to find something else to do with my life, thankful that I figured this out before I'd inflicted further damage.

And that is why the phrase "those who can, do; those who can't, teach" is so stupid, for in denying that teaching is doing it leads idiots like myself to think anyone who can do can teach without giving any thought to the reality that teaching is doing of a different sort.

OMG, OGIC!

Can you imagine what it feels like to scribble away day after day in obscurity and furtive anonymity, selfishly taking precious time away from your family and job, all the while having no idea why you're doing this except that it's satisfying an urge that recently welled up out of nowhere, the whole thing so onanistic and shameful that you must conceal it from everyone you know, and then have someone from a blog that inspired you to jump into this medium, a respected representative from the world of letters, liken you to Charles Lamb?  Can you imagine such a thing?

"OMG, OGIC!" my inner Valley Girl repeats over and over.  I'm stunned by her generosity. I only hope I can live up to the Lambian ideal. And I'll be sure to keep a sharp eye on my sister.

By the way, if you're new to the neighborhood and looking for something better, may I suggest moseying on over to Stephenesque and Topic Drift?  Stephen Baldwin's natural talent is so obvious, his perspective is so unique, his facility for the memorable phase is so adept, that, well, before today's boost of self-esteem I've been  unable to send my readers over there for fear they'd never return.  And as for Esther Wilberforce-Packard's Topic Drift, I'm speechless, except for the speech I previously delivered here.

Slicing the Pie

We work all year and, if we work well, we earn money. We use this money to pay our expenses, to pay our salaries and, if we have any left over, we use the rest to pay bonuses to each other.

It's not easy to slice the bonus pie. Give too much to some, and too little to others, and you fritter away good money and good employees. Allow one person to slice the pie, and everyone will work all year to please that one person, subordinating the needs of other colleagues and, often, of the customers. Slice it based on quantitative performance data, and you slight all that important qualitative stuff. Slice it by seniority, and you slight important differences in value within each level and between each area. Slice it equally and you slight individual differences in effort and achievement. Slice it based on past performance, and you might slight your future.

And those policy issues pale in comparison with the personal issues. Each of us has an idea of what he is worth. Added together, these individual ideas of worth are probably two to three times what's available in the pool. So who should get what he thinks he's worth and who shouldn't? Should anyone get more than he thinks he's worth? Should anyone get more than he really is worth, just to keep him around? Joe and Jane are always paid the same, but this year one of them had a bad year. Should we continue that relationship? Bob is used to getting a big bonus but this year he's fallen short: should we cut his bonus or cut him some slack? Are the new people being buried by the oldsters, or are the oldsters not getting sufficient credit for seniority? Who's going to be angry, who's going to be gleeful, who's going to be sullen but not mutinous?

This is why the quantity of what I write on this site for the next fortnight can be expected to be light while we try to slice that pie just right.

Birthday at Buddy's

The invitation arrived on Tuesday for a birthday party on Sunday. At 10:00 am. Bowling at Buddy's Bowl-O-Rama. For a four year old. Bouncy and lunch to follow at the house.

Late invitation -- strike one. Bowling for four year olds -- strike two. 10:00 am on a Sunday morning -- strike three. So I threw the invitation out.

Big mistake. You see, the mom who sent the late invitation called the next day to harvest RSVPs. My wife answered the phone and, not having seen the invitation and unable to invent an excuse in time, she cracked under the pressure. We were stuck. Or, I should say, I was stuck for, according to the strict laws of my people, I must clean up my own messes.

So that's why last Sunday I herded the kids into the car at a godly hour, set the coordinates for Buddy's Bowl-O-Rama and stoutly resisted the urge to head the other way.

The banner over Buddy's door offered a clue: "Two For One Weekends / Mornings Before 10:00." The mom and dad, lawyers living in a multi-million dollar house, had dragged me out of bed to save $30.

It's not easy for four year olds to bowl. It's not easy for forty year olds either. Even with inflatable tubes to keep the hollow balls out of the gutters, many a ball bounced away or stopped mid-lane. Few of the kids understood what was going on, none seemed interested after a few rolls, but the mom and dad were determined to squeeze maximum value out of their two-for-one special, sending kid after kid trudging into the breach with ball in tow.

At one point dad, singling out my kids as the worst bowlers of the lot, which they were, sidled over to give them a lesson. I silenced him with a glare and a harsh whisper that my kids were just there to have fun, that any instruction would inhibit them and make them feel self-conscious, then I leaned back and watched my son run down the lane and jump on the pins.

Meanwhile, the birthday boy broke out in tears as his mom and dad, busy with the party, ignored him.

Buddy's Bowl-O-Rama offers a birthday party special of microwaved frozen pizzas served with pitchers of flat soda. Most people accept Buddy's offer, reasoning that bowling plus the food is still cheap and, together, take up the two and a half hour time limit specified in the birthday party compact. Mom and dad declined, perhaps out of fear of Buddy's pizza but, I fear, more likely for fear of spending any more coin on the party.  We were sent to the house.

Birthday parties at a house must include an inflatable bouncy powered by an air pump noisy enough to drown out all conversation. Why? That's just the way it is. The bouncy must, however, be age-appropriate. Mom and dad rented a gigantic bouncy with a tall slide powered by two air pumps (so that's where the money went, I thought). None of the kids could climb up to the slide, causing the birthday boy to cry once again.

There was nothing else to do; no strolling clowns or balloon people or caricaturists or outdoor toys.  They'd fenced off most of the yard and made it clear we were not welcome inside their house.  So I ended up in the bouncy, helping kids climb up to the slide, the pumps pounding my ear drums into submission while I swayed back and forth and up and down as the kids jumped around, trying to keep my breakfast in while keeping my shoes on despite repeated warnings from the kids that I was breaking the bouncy rules. "What are you, the bouncy police?" I sneered. One kid, losing his footing, fell back down after I'd helped him climb up. He would have landed on me but thankfully I stepped back just in time, avoiding injury.

Anyways, I was released from purgatory when the takeout pizza arrived. The hungry kids chanted "pizza, pizza, pizza,"  scaring the birthday boy into tears. I stacked a few slices on my plate and headed into the quiet house.

We were now four hours into the party but mom and dad sent the kids back to the bouncy, seemingly unaware that we'd already served more than the maximum allowed by the sentencing guidelines for five-and-under birthday parties. I asked when they were going to do the cake. Mom, adopting her best put-upon pose, answered with "when we're ready." Thanks, mom.

Somewhere in the distance, the birthday boy wailed loudly and resumed crying. Turns out one of the dads, sliding on the bouncy with the kids, slammed into the birthday boy at the bottom, crushing him against the bouncy's wall. No injuries, other than to his fragile psyche.

He cried again when they finally brought the cake out. Too much excitement, mom said.

As the last bite of cake started down my youngest's throat, I lifted him out of his chair and, grabbing my older one's arm, I thanked mom over my shoulder as I dragged my kids to the front door, breaking stride only to collect the goodie bags.

Driving home, five hours of party under my skin, it suddenly struck me that the subtitle of my forthcoming monograph on the folkways of children's birthday parties in Southern California suburbs at the dawn of the 21st century will be "Ritual Run Amok."

N.B.

For days and weeks on end one racks one's brains to no avail, and, if asked, one could not say whether one goes on writing purely out of habit, or a craving for admiration, or because one knows not how to do anything other, or out of sheer wonderment, despair or outrage, any more than one could say whether writing renders one more perceptive or more insane. Perhaps we all lose our sense of reality to the precise degree to which we are engrossed in our own work, and perhaps that is why we see in the increasing complexity of our mental constructs a means for greater understanding, even while intuitively we know that we shall never be able to fathom the imponderables that govern our course through life.

-- W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn.

My Little Lies

Honesty is the best policy, except when it's not. All but the most socially inept know better than to reply honestly when asked "how are you doing?" in the hallway at work. Every man who values the time he spends with women knows that the correct answer to "does this make me look fat?" is "no" whether or not that happens to be the honest answer.

In addition standard little lies like these, I rely on my own custom-crafted lies to ease my passage through life. Here are a few:

• "I'm colorblind." I use this one to explain and excuse my inability to dress myself in colors that don't clash. Just the other day, when I wore a maroon shirt with brown trousers and green socks to work, I trotted out this little lie twice to deflect more penetrating personal criticism from others. This is such a good lie that even I believe it most days.
• "I read it somewhere." Many people use this lie when others suspect they're just making stuff up. I don't use this lie for that purpose. I use it instead when others begin to suspect I'm smart. Although I learned early in life that public demonstrations of intelligence are social suicide, sometimes my enthusiasm for a topic gets the best of me, causing me to spill a few nuggets of information before I realize what I'm doing. Once I perceive their suspicious glares, I can usually defuse the situation with a vague "I read it somewhere" followed by a vacuous smile and a vacant stare. If I do it right, they'll think I was just making stuff up.
• "We'll travel when the kids get older." Homebody, provincial, dull, shut-in, recluse. These are the words society uses to describe a person whose ideal vacation is two weeks alone in his study. So how do I explain my hatred for travel, my lack of wanderlust, my need to hole up in comfort, my distaste for deprivation? I blame it on my kids. If it wasn't such a hassle to travel with them, I'd be a globe-hopping resort-dropping jet-setter, a well-adjusted citizen of the world, happiest when confronted with new and unexpected adventures, absorbing diverse cultures at the source while accumulating a treasure trove of travel yarns to draw upon in my dotage. Or at least that's what I'd like others to think. Unfortunately, this little lie has a limited shelf life, expiring when my kids grow up. If I can't think of anything better by then, I'll have to go with "I'm on one of those terrorist watch lists" or "I'm under house arrest."
• "I forgot the camera." They won't let you leave the hospital with your newborn until you demonstrate ownership of, and proficiency with, an infant's car seat and a video camera. As a parent, you can either participate in your child's life or film it. I choose the former. Most choose the latter, judging by the number of cameramen lining the walls at every assembly, play, recital and birthday party we attend, preserving the proceedings for posterity. Imagine the pressure to capture the first steps, the first words, the first eating of solid food, the first crapping of solid food. Do we expect our kids to spend their lives reliving their carefully-recorded infancies? Do we expect we'll spend our empty nest years attempting to recapture the glories of our parenting years through film? Is any of this healthy? If not, why are we doing this? I don't get it, but admitting that in front of other parents is tantamount to saying "I don't care for my children," so I rely on the "I forgot the camera" lie, happy with whatever my selective and sepia-toned memory chooses to preserve.