Why We Parent

Daddy is desperately trying to work. He's got a concert review due at noon, and he's not in the groove, not thinking in clear sentences. The deadline is elastic -- there's a good 45 minutes' leeway before the piece is uncomfortably late -- but he's starting to feel a little anxious.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 sense this like a dog smells fear. It's time to join Daddy in the kitchen.

The gate in the doorway has been useless since they were two and half. Thing 2 climbs over it, while Thing 1 prefers to jump on the pedal that releases the latch. They pull chairs up to the butcher block and reach for the keyboard and mouse; they plant their faces in front of the computer and blow raspberries to see their little flecks of spit illuminated on the screen; they try to get Daddy's goat by sticking their fingers as close to the screen as possible when he tells them not to touch. "Is touching here okay, Daddy?" If Daddy gets up, one or the other scrambles onto his seat and announces, "I'm Daddy!"

Thing 1 then decides to take the bakeware out of the cupboard, breaking a ceramic pie dish on the floor. Thing 2 gets on her hands and knees, declares "I'm Pärt!" and starts to eat the cat food. Not to be outdone, Thing 1 decides to pee on the floor, though she knows perfectly well how to use the potty. Thing 2, having been forcibly separated from her snack, attempts to cross from one dining room chair to another; she slips and does a face plant into the cane seat, bloodying her lip and crying piteously. Daddy's blood pressure is now so high it needs to be reckoned in scientific notation.

And that's when Thing 1 hauls her naked, muscular little body onto Daddy's lap, puts her arms around him and says, for the very first time, "I love you."