In which a veteran of cultural studies seminars in the 1990s moves into academic administration and finds himself a married suburban father of two. Foucault, plus lawn care.
I think the kids picked up the 'obsessed with language' gene. Two vignettes from last night's dinner:
The Wife: TG, tell Daddy what you said at school today.
The Girl (earnestly): Daddy, 'tushie' is more appwopwiate than "heinie."
So now we know.
The Boy: During recess, Dylan got hit in the you-know-whats.
TB: You know, the nuts.
Got it, thanks.
There's something humbling, and a little frightening, about seeing your own quirks reflected back to you in your kids. They're already impressively precise in their language, and attuned to how they're heard. This means I get away with nothing. It also means I know they're in for a bumpy ride in adolescence. But I'll admit to some parental pride in hearing my four-year-old tell me what's appwopwiate.
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