When I gave birth to my first son in 1994, I was utterly astonished that I was allowed to take him home with absolutely no training or education. Adopting a dog from the Kentucky Humane Society five years earlier had been more daunting. During pregnancy, I had been guided by What to Expect When You’re Expecting, then in its first edition. Unfortunately, What to Expect the First Year proved useless. My child was nowhere in those pages. He did not sleep. He did not eat from small jars of pureed food labeled sweet potatoes.  During his second year he lived on Nutra Grain cereal bars. Leaving an apple cinnamon bar on the corner of the kitchen table, he would periodically run in from the living room (where he sat in front of a cooking show on PBS) and grab a bite. Sometimes he watched Bob Ross. He would read absolutely anything with me, including bizarre but beautiful picture books found stacked on remainder tables. He fell asleep each night listening to a cassette tape of Winnie the Pooh stories by A. A. Milne. At the age of three he would entertain me with his scientific lecturer act, gesticulating wildly and writing on an imaginary chalkboard. In college he majored in computer science and math. He analyzes data at work and reads Karl Marx in his spare time. For Easter this year, he baked the most exquisite cookies in the shape of Peter Rabbit, Peter’s classic little jacket a remarkably smooth sky blue.