Family

Although I disagree with Donald Trump’s and Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s suggestion that mothers who took Tylenol during pregnancy may have caused the huge rise of children born with autism in the US, I also can’t agree with the spate of articles and interviews that have followed – several by high-functioning autistic adults, others by parents of autistic children – basically saying it is great to be autistic. I understand that they are fearful that Trump’s idea of a “cure” could result in anyone with special needs being regarded as subnormal and a second-class citizen, but it’s not helpful, either, to pretend that autism is without its many frightful drawbacks. My son, 42, was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome on his 13th birthday in 1996.

One of my favorite lines in the modern cinematic classic Incredibles 2 comes courtesy of fashion designer and maker of exclusive superhero costumes, Edna Mode, “Done properly, parenting is a heroic act. Done properly. I am fortunate it has never afflicted me.” I’ve been thinking about this line because for the past couple of days, we’ve watched entirely too much television as I struggled to juggle work, a sick child and a sick husband. I don’t feel like a hero. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing any of this parenting stuff properly. It feels like all hell has broken loose and my toddler is just our roommate now. A small, snotty, adorable, popsicle-addicted roommate. My house has been struck with what I’ve been referring to as “the preschool plague.

After a two-year battle with cancer, we had to put our beloved boxer, Hope, down. These are the first days in nine and a half years that I’ve woken up and haven’t had a dog. The world feels completely different. Flat. Dull. I’m deep in grief, but writing is how I process and I wanted to memorialize her in print. Print is corporeal; you can touch it and smell it. Physical presence is what death takes from us and the loss of a pet’s physical presence is all-consuming. Their sounds are the background soundtrack you take for granted — until they are gone. The silence is the first thing that strikes me when I walk in the door. It’s suffocating. It’s an emptiness so vast I want to scream into the void she left. My stomach is in knots and I want to crawl out of my skin.

The cunning of the Democrats’ lawfare Wow! A tour de force of snark! But wonderful for it. My late father-in-law would have said that instead of brushing his teeth in the morning, the author gets a file and sharpens his tongue. As depressing as this article is, it is likely an accurate assessment of what’s going on. Particularly the image of Trump and Biden essentially playing the roles of Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon in the Grumpy Old Men movies. Carry on, America. Down Under, we have our own problems, as well as being affected by yours, same as every other country. — David Gerber Tellingly prescient. The 800-pound gorilla the next generation will be forced to address will be unsustainable entitlement transfer payments.

Human risk assessment is not a dispassionate numbers-crunching game. Those who fear flying have to know we’re four times more likely to die in a car crash than in a fiery plunge from the skies, even if we’re boarding a Boeing. The fear of flying may be common, but only a select few will rule out the jet engine entirely. When it comes to emotional risk evaluation, there is one area where phobia prevails over reason: our increasingly sterile view of what constitutes a good bet when it comes to marriage and family life. Since the second half of the twentieth century, American society has been on a mission to eliminate risk. Seatbelt and helmet laws reduced deaths in automobile and bike accidents at the expense of comfort and self-respect.

When my parents split up I was twelve years old. They were officially divorced and in new relationships a year later. My husband was ten when his parents split up. We both talk about how those moments were pivotal in our lives, the moment that we went from shy, straight-A students to troublemaking partiers. My mom moved us to Minnesota with our shiny new (insane) stepfather, apparently with my father’s blessing. He’d taken a huge financial hit and couldn’t afford to fly all us kids home, so we spent that first lovely Christmas eating McDonald’s on the beds of the Mall of America hotel. Logistically it would be a nightmare forever.

During the Q&A portion of a Jordan Peterson lecture I recently attended, host Konstantin Kisin presented a question from the audience: “My son was just born. How do I know how to be a father if I didn’t have a father? What makes a great father?” I’ve been thinking about that question ever since. As someone who spends entirely too much time online viewing the virtual culture wars play out on X/Twitter, I’ve noticed no one has more to say about relationships and raising children than the unmarried, childless peanut gallery that occupies the “manosphere.” Like every online genre, the loose collection of blogs, podcasts, forums and websites that constitute the manosphere exist on a spectrum.