“Who is your son’s teacher?” one of the moms at the bus stop asked me this morning.
While my wife has been busy being the PTA president, buying school supplies and clothes, and meeting the teachers, I have been working to pay for my kid’s food, clothing, shelter and future college tuition.
So I tell her, “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my wife.”
But I feel guilty about this. It reminds me of the infamous Woody Allen deposition. Woody couldn’t name his children’s teachers, favorite pajamas, shoe sizes or best friends. In giving custody to Mia Farrow, the judge found that Woody was an uninterested parent.
Next time someone asks me, I’m going to know the answer to questions like these.