I married a man whose parents are Quaker pacifists. My dad’s a former Marine. Pretty sure God was messing with us when Divine Intervention (aka, my desire to spend a summer at the beach, baby!) put us together. Greg and I call ourselves War and Peace. I get to be War, soooo… good times all around.
Greg’s away overnight. He and the Marine took our little boys camping along with my cousin who was raised by my peacenik hippie aunt and uncle. They’re the ones who taught me about skinny dipping, Adam’s peanut butter and daisy chains, and they had the full color, illustrated version of The Joy Sex on their bottom bookshelf right where a 10-year-old might discover it. I owe those peacenik hippies a lot, is all I’m saying.
I liked being raised by loving people with very different ideals who all worked hard for a better, more peaceful world. The grown-ups in my life made me think hard, and I’m grateful I get to raise my kids in utter confusion, too. It really is more fun this way, but — boy howdy! — it’s a real challenge with so many people around to find opportunities to
indoctrinate my kids raise my kids up in the Way They Should Go. I have to optimize every chance I get, ya know? ‘Cause there’s usually some other grown-up in the wings with an equal(ish) and opposite position biding his time and looking for an opportunity to use counter-brainwashing measures.
Today, though, Greg is away. AWAY! And he left me all alone with this child.
And now she is mine. Mine. MINE!
P.S. Just kidding about the war mongering. I’m really a very peaceful person. Except if you get between me and my children. Or me and chocolate. Or me and beer. Then you’re on your own.