We keep our baby in a box.
A chicken tenderloin box, to be precise, commandeered during a Costco visit. I tell you this first, because it explains a lot about my approach to parenting – and therefore a lot about my approach to life. Ironically, this approach can best be summed up as searching for ways to get out of the box.
What ‘box’ am I talking about? You know the one. It’s defined on four sides by rigid responsibility, woven from a fabric of middle-class American expectations, and pressed tightly with a clear finish of what other people are doing. In other words, it’s the 9 to 5, 2 weeks of vacation, 2.4 kids, mortgage, cars, toys, retire-at-65 sort of routine.
I prefer different boundaries. That’s why our kid sleeps in a cardboard box instead of a crib.