The one who orders the lettuce-leaf salad is the child; the one with the chocolate mousse is the parent.
The one driving the station wagon is the child; the one in the sports car is the parent.
The one buying the training pants is the child; the one buying the little velvet dress is the parent.
The one in the big house in the suburbs is the child; the one in the pied-a-terre in the city is the parent.
The one staying home with the kids is the child; the one with the title on the office door is the parent.
The one cooking the turkey is the child; the one picking the mince pies up at the patisserie is the parent.
The one lying down on the sofa is the child; the one playing horsey on the living-room floor is the parent.
The one going to meet the plane from Nepal is the child; the one getting off it is the parent.
The one who’s too tired to go dancing is the child; the one who just ran the marathon is the parent.
The one who gets up at dawn is the child; the one who sleeps in until noon is the parent.
The one with the furrowed brow and all the responsibility is the child; the one who’s footloose, free, and
grinning from ear to ear is the parent.
