dinner table conversation.

As I've mentioned before, Angela and I are of a dying breed—the young, somewhat newly married, and still childless couple. Almost all the other couples our age are up to their elbows in babies and baby paraphernalia (toys, puke, rotting diapers, etc.). There seems to be a social partition between pre-parents (us) and parents (pretty much everyone else). We work, do homework, come and go as we please, speak in adult voices, sleep through the night and so forth. They, on the other hand, use the word “onesie” at least a dozen times daily. Instead of discussing crocodile wrestling or introducing the concept of hugs as currency, their blogs are meaningful, doubling as scrapbooks, serving to document Olivia’s first steps or Jack’s hilarious crayon tirade.

I’ve noticed that many of these other couples don’t really like to talk about the things Angela and I talk about. Music? Not really. Good design? Nope. Books? There’s hardly time for a good night’s sleep, much less pleasure reading. But one thing’s for sure—they love to talk about their kids. And when discussing their kids, it seems that any subject is deemed appropriate. For instance, the other night at a dinner we attended one mother explained to the rest of those present, “Oh, little Cannon is doing so good at going on the potty. Yesterday I walked by the bathroom and caught him staring into the bowl of his mini-toilet. I asked him “Did you poopy?” and he shook his head yes and held out his hand for a candy reward.” Everyone laughed. “Oh that Cannon…” The story is plenty cute and all. I just think it poses an awful double standard; at the dinner table a mother can discuss the disgusting details of her son’s bowel movement, but not a full five minutes later I ask one hypothetical question about whether or not you would go to the bathroom through your nose for the rest of your life for ten million dollars and everyone looks at me like I’m some sort of sicko.