The Shroud
Many years ago, a column appeared regularly in our local paper called The Mommy Zone. It was written by a local mother named Tekla Nee, who had three young children. Her column (and, later, blog) covered all the kinds of stories you’d expect regarding the changes that children bring, challenges with education, sibling rivalry, and so forth. She lives a few blocks from me.
Even though having children was still a few years off for me, I would read the columns with interest, hoping perhaps to learn a thing or two. After all, as the youngest kid of my own family (and acting every bit the part), I never had any experience at all with children.
One of her kids, a bright young man named Misha, was accepted into Stanford. That in itself is kind of proof positive that you’ve done everything right, because getting your son into Stanford (not just a child, but a local, white male from an upper-middle class household, which is four strikes against you) pretty much demonstrate you’ve done everything right as a parent. You have, as the saying goes, checked all the boxes.
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