This morning Kathe said Danny is lucky he was born a man. Danny said everything balances out. I said it didn’t really balance out for slaves. Then we moved into irony. Danny said, it’s a lot harder than you think to be a white male. We made a list of the hardships: getting blamed for everything; having to take responsibility; too many jobs and too much money; always being asked for support and advice.

We dance around the uncomfortable, unspoken truth. Through no fault of your own, you are born a woman, or a person with no legs, or a person of color. In that moment, the odds are set. You get most entitlements for no reason, except the accident of your birth.

This morning I was thinking as I rode out to Lexington that this stage of parenting is where the rubber meets the road: being a well-intentioned, helpful person isn’t enough. You have to be a good person, because they are watching everything, all the time, and practicing what you do. If you aren’t modeling it, they can’t do it.

I saw N. at the bank. She turned her back slightly as she filled out her deposit slips, and again when she walked out, so that our eyes wouldn’t meet and neither one of us would have to say hello. Her son is in a hospital with an inoperable brain tumor, just like that, after a bad headache during an otherwise normal day. I think I know why she turns away. Because pleasantries are painful, filling out the deposit slip is painful, the fact that you have to keep filling out forms, and getting gas, and starting your car, and putting dishes in the dishwasher, as if nothing has happened. Time tortures, with its insistent reminders to get moving, get organized, keep going, even when the place you were going has been erased. Your path weaves crazily up into the sky, roped around trees, diving underground. Still the clock ticks, keeps ticking, keep going, hurry up hurry up, don’t be late.