I learned something recently that shook me. To my 6-year-old girl and my 3-year-old boy, the work I do so that I can buy them sunblock sticks, safety helmets, gummy-bear vitamins and all those other enlightened items that they tell me they don't need and that I insist they do, even though I didn't have them as a child and have never once glanced back and wished I did, doesn't look like work at all.
''Dad?'' my darling girl inquired of me on the first Monday morning of our first annual six-week-custody-period summer vacation, ''don't you need to drop Charlie and me at day care and go somewhere to make money?'' I shook my head. ''I do my job here in the house, at the computer,'' I said.
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