I don't mean to belittle the hardships of prison or exaggerate the irritations of family life. But as a parent, your job is to care for, feed, and protect people who find themselves in a situation where they don't make the rules and from which they can't escape. They're often not too happy about it. (The other day, my two-year-old pressed up against the glass next to the front door and growled, "I want to get out—jail!") Being a parent sometimes means enforcing lights out, serving unpalatable meals, confiscating contraband, and punishing infractions by rescinding privileges or using the kiddie equivalent of solitary: the quiet corner/chair/room. You have to manage ever-shifting alliances and rivalries between siblings, with their turf battles, insider lingo, idiosyncratic concepts of fairness, and the fashioning of weapons from household objects. You're often overworked, outnumbered, and outwitted. Yet if all goes well, your kids do their time and enter the outside world with the values and skills they need to survive. (Hopefully, they never "break parole" and come home again.)
And hey, I'll take good advice wherever it hails from.
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