In some ways this made it easy for me when my son came along, red-faced and furious and eager to devour the world. I grew up in a house of rowdy boys, boys with no-nonsense masculine names like Jack and Tom and Jim. More importantly, I can tick off the names of the Los Angeles Lakers, play a tough game of Junior Monopoly and have a high tolerance for jokes that revolve around the letter 'p.' What 7-year-old boy wouldn't adore me? After all, I have nice green eyes and Jennifer Aniston-type hair, though regrettably not her long-stemmed legs.
