117: You Gonna Eat That?

Ira Glass

Every night, when I was a kid, my family would sit down to dinner together. And every night, as best as I can remember, when the meal was done, my mom would take the ice from her glass, tip it back into her mouth, and chew on it loudly. And every night, all of us would ask her, "Please don't crunch the ice. Please never, ever, ever do that again." And every night, she would ignore this request.

And in retrospect, I have to say, I got to hand it to my mom. She is not somebody to be pushed around. This is just who she is. She is willful. She gets her way. It's something to be admired.

And of course, this story happened at the dinner table. The dinner table is the stage for so many family dramas. Today on our program, we bring you three stories about families at mealtime. From WBEZ Chicago and Public Radio International, it's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass.

Today's program, You Gonna Eat That? Three families, three stories, in three acts. Act one, Breakfast, a story of eating and not eating, and what you learn when you view the world through the prism of a single meal. Act two, Lunch, we hear a father's lament about sippy cups, chewing with your mouth closed, and why it is not good to apply tape to the cat. Act three, Dinner. We have a story from Dave Eggers about what family dinner's like when the parents are suddenly gone, and the kids are left to run things themselves. Stay with us.

Ira Glass

Act One, Breakfast. In every family, there are the family legends that everyone in the family repeats over and over. And then there are the stories that are suppressed, disappeared with a kind of Stalinist thoroughness. This next story falls more into that second camp than the first. It lay dormant for a long time before Annie Cheney decided to tell it here. It was produced by Jay Allison.

Annie Cheney

A reporter where I used to work taught me to ask people what they had for breakfast at the beginning of an interview. He said it was a good way to set your recording levels.

That's me on the radio in Seattle. I was a reporter for a public station. They didn't pay me or anything. I was just a volunteer. But I was still a reporter. I had a microphone and a tape recorder, and I went to press conferences.

I wasn't very good at it. I couldn't stand being told what to say, and I was too cowardly to figure out the truth for myself.

A lot of times, the most revealing response I got from people was what they had for breakfast. And it was the most interesting to me.

So I decided to follow my instincts and tell a story about breakfast. I got on a plane to New York, and I looked up my old friend, Vivian.

Annie Cheney

Vivian is a friend from my past. I met her when I was 15. She was 36. And sometimes, I think she saved my life.

Annie Cheney

When she agreed to meet me, I didn't know what to expect. I hadn't seen her in 10 years. And I didn't know if I'd hug her and just feel bones, or if she'd be strong, the way I remember her. It turns out she's had a hard time. She didn't get better. And she almost died.

Annie Cheney

I met Vivian when I was anorectic. We shared a room in a hospital where there were other anorectics. I'd lost my period then, and my breasts. My bones stuck out, and I wanted to die. Vivian pulled me out of that. She convinced me by example to get better. And so I did. But sitting here, looking at her now, I realized that she never planned on getting better.

Annie Cheney

Vivian's wrist bones could easily fit in a child's fist. She wears a little T-shirt, and you can see the way her stomach sticks out, hard as bone, as if someone had inflated her like a balloon. I still think she's beautiful because I hold on to the way she was when I first met her. But listening to her talk scares me. It makes me worry that change is impossible, and that we're stuck with who we are.

Anorectics are good at PR. They can make you believe anything. I should know. My whole family's good at Public Relations. My father was even a PR man. They still issue press releases for my illness. My father says, "You made us a better family." My mother says, "It showed how sensitive and artistic you are." My brother says, "It was a testament to your strength that you got better." But I don't know how it turned out, or if it's over, or if any of the things they are true.

Annie Cheney

That's my mother. Her recording levels are too hot. She's distorting.

Annie Cheney

As a reporter, I was taught to get the hard facts first. So I start with a written record.

Annie Cheney

There's no written record after all, just a red star and a calendar full of details. It's as though that day never happened.

Annie Cheney

Even though it's not on the calendar, it turns out she remembers everything from that day.

Annie Cheney

My mother's story fits my memory of that whole period, me in the middle of my two parents, slipping in my leopard skin high heel shoes. My mother doesn't mention what got us there, though. In fact, no matter how hard I try to remind her, she won't remember.

Annie Cheney

Now, just like then, sometimes the most obvious things go unrecognized.

Annie Cheney

Starvation gets people's attention when nothing else will. Anorectics know that. I knew that.

I learned it when I was 14. I, at one time, could play all of the movements, which were four movements, I think. And the reason why I played the piece in the first place was that I used to listen to the version that Horowitz played. When I was sick, I would play it over and over and over again in the living room on my father phonograph.

And I remember sitting in this big chair by the window. And I would drink this tea that I always drank when I was sick, because I was freezing all the time. And I would eat a carrot because carrots are the vegetables that are the lowest in calories. And then I would eat the carrot like a corncob because carrots have many layers. So you nibble around the outside level, and then you come to another carrot inside.

At 5:00 in the morning, when it was still dark, the night nurse would come by to check on us. I can remember the sound of her keys clanging. She had a face like an owl and short dark hair that was always a little bit greasy. At night, she gave out medications and extra Tylenol for anyone who couldn't sleep. We would line up like fluttering, bony birds, hunched over in hospital gowns, waiting patiently for a dose of peace.

Then it was snack time, a can or two of chocolate Sustacal for the skinniest and least compliant of us. 10:30, to bed. There's nothing worse when you're sick than to have to lie down with a full stomach. I can remember shaking my legs under the covers, flexing my feet, tightening every muscle to burn up my snack.

When I first moved in, I shared a room with a tall, blonde flight attendant. She was also a nurse. Before she moved into the anorectic ward, she took turns at both jobs, a 12-hour shift at the hospital, and then off on a plane somewhere. She worked 24 hours a day, she said, just to wear herself out. She was the one who taught me how to do aerobics in the closet. We would get up at 5:00 together, turn on our radio just barely enough to hear it, and then we'd jump up and down in our socks.

At 7:00, the day nurse arrived and herded us into the bathroom, where we were supposed to get rid of as much as possible before we got weighed. I remember Vivian standing at the sink, drinking cup after cup of water to throw off the scales and convince the doctor she was eating. But this was in the beginning, when I still wanted to starve and expected everyone else to want to, too.

Weigh-in was sometime after the bathroom visit. We'd go down to the room that had a scale and line up outside, one person at a time only. I'd stand with my back to the scale because I didn't want to watch the numbers. Afterwards, I'd ask how much.

There was always some commotion at weigh-in. Someone would start wailing or shaking or screaming. They didn't want to get on the scale. They didn't want to eat. Go to hell.

There we all were, in a frenzy about our bodies and about facing the truth of the scale. Women with children and husbands, young girls and 20-somethings who looked, at times, 80, and at times, like infants. And then, it was time for breakfast.

Annie Cheney

That's my father in a lounge chair in his favorite spot.

Annie Cheney

The thing you have to understand about my father is that he grew up poor, and then he got rich. There are times he remembers when he didn't have enough to eat. Sometimes, he even stole food for his dinner. Now, he's known for his brilliant gourmet cooking.

Annie Cheney

Anorexia is embarrassing. It embarrassed my father, humiliated him.

Annie Cheney

What I wanted by whittling myself down to the core was to get my father to see me more clearly, to realize that I was separate from him, and that he should love me anyway, maybe even because we were different. That's what I wanted then, although I never told him.

Annie Cheney

When I got sick, my older brother was away at college. Even though he wasn't around that much, he knew something was wrong with me, even before I started to lose weight. And it bothered him because of what it meant about me and what it could mean for him, and because it wasn't supposed to happen.

Annie Cheney

One way our family was perfect, I mean really perfect, was at the breakfast table.

Annie Cheney

We ate in the day room, which was always full of stale smoke from the night before. Someone from the kitchen would come up with a contraption on wheels full of trays, each one with a name on it. We'd take our places. Everyone had a special table. One woman had her own, where no one else could sit. No one could touch her tray, either, or talk to her during meals.

Our trays came laden with various pre-measured parcels, Melba toast in packets of four, plastic containers of raisins and peanut butter, all things that we had gone over with the nutritionist the day before. I remember sitting in her office in the afternoon. She'd take out a calculator and the next day's menu and say, "What do you want to eat tomorrow?" "I don't know. I don't want to eat tomorrow."

Every day, there was a schedule, mostly meals interspersed with activities like dance therapy and art therapy, with some snacks in between. At night, after dinner, we'd sit around in a circle next to the television, holding hands and listening to music. A few of us would cry. Some people would smoke cigarettes. And then we'd go to bed.

It went on like that for a while, until one morning, the doctor said he'd put me on the tube if I didn't start eating. I remember leaving his office and turning down the hall and seeing some girls there, who were taking turns walking up and down, judging each other's thighs. Each one said hers were bigger, but none of them were. And it dawned on me then that if I kept going, I might never come back.

And so at lunch that day, I asked the girl next to me if she'd dare me to finish what was on my plate. She did. And from that day on, I ate. And they finally let me out on April Fool's Day, 1988.

Annie Cheney

When I came home, I ate my breakfast somewhere else until eventually, it got easier, and I started to sit at the table across from my brother again. There were still a lot of plates. And we didn't talk about what had happened. In fact, we haven't really talked about it until now, 10 years later.

Annie Cheney

To tell you the truth, I'm pretty hard on my parents and the part they played in my illness. But looking back on those times, I also think about my mother and how she kept trying, no matter how often I retreated into my body and refused her help. She sat with me and waited until I was ready to face up to my feelings, I mean, any feelings.

[MUSIC PLAYING - ANNIE CHENEY PLAYING A SCHUMANN PIANO PIECE]

I still don't know if I'm completely better. There are times even now when I prefer hard bones over softness and sorrow, when I don't want to know the truth. For instance, I never asked my brother if I could interview him for this story. I thought he might embarrass me or tell me something I didn't want to hear. It was my mother who told me later that he felt left out and that I should talk to him.

Annie Cheney

I have to admit, I did want my brother to come to me.

Annie Cheney

In some ways, anorexia was about having other people come to me.

Annie Cheney

I wanted relationships on my terms. My father's like that, too. When I was still in the hospital, and I was starting to get better, I called him up and asked him if he'd take me to the movies. He said he'd take me if I gained half a pound. And so we didn't go.

Annie Cheney

After I finished interviewing my parents, I went back to talk to Vivian again. And I asked her how she felt, and if she thought she'd ever get better. She said she realized, finally, what she'd done, and how her body would never be the same again.

Annie Cheney

Ten seconds later, she told me this.

Annie Cheney

I could tell you she's going to find a way out, and I could tell you she's never going to change, and both things would be true. And she'd tell you the same thing.

As for me, I've started going out with my microphone looking for stories that I want to tell. I talked to one woman named Louise who started making hats out of carpet scraps when she was diagnosed with skin cancer.

Annie Cheney

She told me she's really excited about the rest of her life because she finally feels like she can be herself.

Annie Cheney

She played the piano for me, a song she learned when she was 12 and still remembers.

Annie Cheney

I went out and got the sheet music for the Schumann piece.

[MUSIC PLAYING - ANNIE CHENEY PLAYING A SCHUMANN PIANO PIECE]

I've even played it and gotten past that chord.

[MUSIC PLAYING - ANNIE CHENEY PLAYING A SCHUMANN PIANO PIECE]

Ira Glass

Annie Cheney's story was produced by Jay Allison as part of his Life Stories series, with help from Tina Egloff and funding from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. Coming up, Lord of the Flies enacted with tacos, baby carrots, and a gallon of 1% milk. That's in a minute from Public Radio International when our program continues.

Ira Glass

It's This American Life. I'm Ira Glass. Each week on our program, of course, we choose a theme, bring you a variety of stories on that theme. Today's program, You Gonna Eat That? Three stories of three families at three meals. Act One was about breakfast. We have arrived at Act Two, Lunch. In this act, we hear things strictly from the parent's point of view. We have this story from Ian Frazier, "Laws Concerning Food and Drink; Household Principles; Lamentations of the Father."

Peter Sagal

Of the beasts of the field and of the fishes of the sea and of all foods that are acceptable in my sight, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the hoofed animals, broiled and ground into burgers, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the cloven-hoofed animal, plain or with cheese, you may eat, but not in the living room.

Of the cereal grains, of the corn and of the wheat and of the oats, and of all the cereals that are of bright color and unknown provenance, you may eat, but not in the living room. Of the quiescently frozen dessert, and of all frozen after-meal treats, you make eat, but absolutely not in the living room. Of the juices and other beverages, yes, even of those in sippy cups, you may drink, but not in the living room. Neither may you carry such therein.

Indeed, when you reach the place where the living room carpet begins, of any food or beverage, there you may not eat. Neither may you drink. But if you are sick and are lying down and watching something, then you may eat in the living room.

And if you are seated in your high chair, or in a chair such as a greater person might use, keep your legs and feet below you, as they were. Neither raise up your knees, nor place your feet upon the table, for that is an abomination to me. Yes, even when you have an interesting bandage to show, your feet upon the table are an abomination, and worthy of rebuke.

Drink your milk as it is given to you. Neither use on it any utensils, nor fork, nor knife, nor spoon, for that is not what they are for. If you will dip your blocks in the milk and lick it off, you will be sent away. When you have drunk, let the empty cup then remain upon the table and do not by bite it upon its edge and by your teeth, hold it to your face in order to make noises in it, sounding like a duck, for you will be sent away.

When you chew your food, keep your mouth closed until you have swallowed and do not open it to show your brother or your sister what is within. I say to you, do not so, even if your brother or your sister has done the same to you.

Eat your food only. Do not eat that which is not food. Neither seize the table between your jaws, nor use the raiment or the table to wipe your lips. I say again to you, do not touch it, but leave it as it is.

And though your stick of carrot does indeed resemble a marker, draw not with it upon the table, even in pretend, for we do not do that, that is why. And though the pieces of broccoli are very like small trees, do not stand them upright to make a forest, because we do not do that, that is why. Sit just as I have told you and do not lean to one side or the other, nor slide down until you are nearly slid away. Heed me, for if you sit like that, your hair will go into the syrup. And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.

For we judge between the plate that is unclean and the plate that is clean, saying first, if the plate is clean, than you shall have dessert. But of the unclean plate, the laws are these. If you have eaten most of your meat and two bites of your peas, with each bite consisting of not less than three peas each, or in total, six peas, eaten where I can see, and you have also eaten enough of your potatoes to fill two forks, both forkfuls eaten where I can see, then you shall have dessert.

But if you eat a lesser number of peas and yet you eat the potatoes, still, you shall not have dessert. And if you eat the peas, yet leave the potatoes uneaten, you shall not have dessert, no, not even a small portion thereof. And if you try to deceive by moving the potatoes or peas around with a fork, that it may appear you have eaten what you have not, you will fall into iniquity. And I will know. And you shall have no dessert.

Do not scream, for it is as if you scream all the time. If you are given a plate on which two foods you do not wish to touch each other are touching each other, your voice rises up even to the ceiling, while you point to the offense with the finger of your right hand. But I say to you, scream not. Only remonstrate gently with the server that the server may correct the fault.

Likewise, if you receive a portion of fish from which every piece of herbal seasoning has not been scraped off, and the herbal seasoning is loathsome to you and steeped in vileness, again I say, refrain from screaming. Though the vileness overwhelm you and cause you a faint unto death, make not that sound from within your throat. Neither cover your face nor press your fingers to your nose, for even now, I have made the fish as it should be. Behold, I eat of it myself, yet do not die.

Cast your countenance upward to the light and lift your eyes to the hills, that I may more easily wash you off. For the stains are upon you, even to the very back of your head there is rice thereon. And in your breast pocket of your garment, and upon the tie of your shoe, rice and other fragments are distributed in a manner wonderful to see. Only hold yourself still, hold still, I say.

Give each finger in its turn for my examination thereof, and also each thumb. Lo, how iniquitous they appear. What I do is as it must be, and you shall not go hence until I have done.

Bite not, lest you be cast into quiet time. Neither drink of your own bath water, nor of bath water of any kind, nor rub your feet on bread, even if it be in the package, nor rub yourself against cars, nor against any building, nor eat sand. Leave the cat alone, for what has the cat done that you should so afflict it with tape? And hum not that humming in your nose as I read, nor stand between the light and the book. Indeed, you will drive me to madness. Nor forget what I said about the tape.

O my children, you are disobedient. For when I tell you what you must do, you argue and dispute hotly, even to the littlest detail. And when I do not accede, you cry out and hit and kick. Yes, and even sometimes do you spit and shout "stupid-head" and other blasphemies, and hit and kick the wall in the molding thereof when you are sent to the corner.

And though the law teaches that no one shall be sent to the corner for more minutes than he has years of age, yet I would leave you there all day, so mighty am I in anger. But upon being sent to the corner, you ask straight away, "Can I come out?" And I reply, "No, you may not come out." And again you ask, and again I give the same reply. But when you ask again a third time, then you may come out.

Hear me, O my children, for the bills, they kill me. I pay and pay again, even to the 12th time in a year, and yet again, they mount higher than before. For our health, that we may be covered, I give 620 talents 12 times in a year, but even this covers not the 1,500 deductible for each member of the family within a calendar year. And yet for ordinary visits, we still are not covered, nor for many medicines, nor for the teeth within our mouths. Guess not at what rage is in my mind, for surely, you cannot know.

For I will come to you at the first of the month and at the 15th of the month with the bills and a great whining, and moan. And when the month of taxes comes, I will decry the wrongs and unfairness of it and mourn with wine and ashtrays and rend my receipts. And you shall remember that I am that I am, before, after, and until you are 21. Hear me, then, and avoid me in my wrath, O children of me.

Ira Glass

Ian Frazier is a humor writer, essayist, and nonfiction writer. His collection of humor pieces is called Coyote v. Acme, from Farrar, Strauss, & Giroux. This story was read for us by Peter Sagal, a new father himself, and host of NPR's news quiz program, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.

[MUSIC PLAYING - "MEAT MAN" BY JERRY LEE LEWIS]

Ira Glass

Act Three, Dinner. Well, all this hour, we've been hearing stories of parents and children. Now, a story of when the children have to become the parents, and what happens. When Dave Eggers's parents died, he was 21. His sister, Beth, was 23. And his brother, Toph, was 8. Dave took custody of Toph, and the two of them moved from Illinois to Berkeley. His sister lived nearby. This story takes place about a year into his sudden and unexpected turn at parenthood, parenting his brother.

Dave Eggers

Dinner is really the only meal we treat in any remotely formal way. Our days work like this-- first, Toph wakes up at 4:00, 4:30 in the morning, so as to allow 10 minutes to shower, 10 minutes to dress, half an hour to make and eat breakfast, finish his homework, and pack his launch, and at least three and a half hours for cartoons.

At 8:45, he wakes me up. At 8:50, he wakes me up again. At 8:55, he wakes me up one more time. And, while yelling at him because he's late, I drive him to school.

I park our little red car next to the school on the east side, where I've been told in four separate flyers and one personal note, is not to used for the loading or unloading of children. Then I grab a piece of paper from his backpack and compose a note. "Dear Mrs. Richardson, I am sorry Toph is late this morning. I could make up something about an appointment or a sickness, but the fact is that we woke up late. Sincerely, Dave Eggers." He reads the note. "We woke up late?" I give him the look. "Fine," he says.

Then, depending on whether or not we like each other that day, I try to do the across the bucket seats hug. I reach over, pull him near, and say, "Your hat smells like urine," because it does. "No, it doesn't," he says. It does.

"Smell it," I say. "I'm not going to smell it," he says. "You should wash it," I say. "It doesn't smell," he says. "Whatever," I say. "Whatever," he mimics. "That's good," I say. "I like that." Then I go to work.

After school, my sister, Beth, picks him up, and she stays at our house until I get home, at which point, Beth and I try to fight about something extremely important and lasting. "Can you not make such a mess when you come over here?" "Mess? Look at this place? Mess?" And once we have done this, she leaves. Then Toph and I cook.

The menu from which we choose consists of seven items and seven items only, which we rotate with mathematical precision. Here are the highlights. One, stir-fried beef. Sirloin strips, sliced and sauteed in Kikkoman brand soy sauce, cooked until black, served with tortillas, and eaten by hand. On the side, we have potatoes, served in the French manner, and sliced oranges and apples, in a bowl.

Two, tacos en fuego. Ground beef sauteed in Prego spaghetti sauce, traditional style, served with tortillas and without additional embellishment. Pillsbury crescent rolls and iceberg salad served on the side. Three, pizza pronto, served with pepperoni, courtesy of Pizza Hut. Served with a small salad.

Four, grilled cheese quesadilla dinner. Grilled cheese served with one slice of Kraft American cheese set in the middle of two pieces of seeded Jewish rye, toasted in pan and cut diagonally. Quesadillas prepared in skillet with tortillas and American cheese.

Note-- no spices are available. There is no salt, no pepper, no parsley, sage, rosemary, or thyme. No vegetables are available, except baby carrots, pre-cut celery, cucumbers, green beans, and iceberg lettuce, all served raw and only raw. Pasta is not available because it smells funny and is too slithery.

All meals are served with a tall glass of 1% milk with the gallon jug resting on the floor next to the table for convenient refills. Alternative beverages are not available. Anything not on the menu is not available. Any complaints will be handled quickly and with severity.

We cook about four times a week. "Hey, I need your help," I say when I need his help cooking. "OK," he says, and then he helps out with the cooking.

Sometimes we sing while we're cooking. We sing regular words, words about pouring the milk or getting the spaghetti sauce or microwaving the tortillas, but we sing them in opera style. We can sing lots of different ways, but the opera style is pretty impressive. People have said so. Sometimes while cooking, we have sword fights with wooden spoons, or with the dowels that used to hold up the drapes.

It's an unsaid mission of mine, the source of which is sometimes clear and sometimes not, to keep things moving, to entertain the boy, to keep him on his toes. For a while, we would chase each other around the house, from bathroom to kitchen to bathroom, mouths full of water, threatening to spit. Of course, neither of us would have ever thought of actually spitting a mouthful of water at the other inside the house. Until one night, when I had him cornered in the kitchen, I just went ahead and did it. Things have been devolving ever since. I've stuck a half cantaloupe into his face. I've rubbed a handful of banana into his chest, poured a glassful of apple juice on his head. It's all part of an effort, I'm guessing, to let him know, if it weren't already pretty obvious, that we're not in Kansas anymore, or Illinois.

There's a voice inside me, a very excited, chirpy voice, that urges me to keep things merry, madcap even, the mood buoyant. Because Beth is always pulling out old photo albums, crying, and asking Toph how he feels, I feel like I have to overcompensate, keep us occupied. I'm making our lives a music video, a game show on Nickelodeon, with quick cuts, crazy camera angles, lots of fun, fun, fun. It's a campaign of distraction and disinformation, leaflets dropped behind enemy lines, flares and fireworks, funny dances, shell games, magic tricks. What's that? Lookie there. Where'd it go?

In the kitchen, when the inspiration strikes, I take out the family's 17-inch turkey knife, plant my legs square to him, squat a little, and hold the knife over my head samurai style. "Hiiiii!" I yell. "Don't," Toph says, backing away. "Huaa!" I yell, stepping toward him, because threatening children with 17-inch knives is funny. "Not funny," he says, halfway up the stairs. I put the knife away.

"Dad used to do that all the time," I say. "Out of the blue, he'd get this look on his face, this bug-eyed sort of look, and act like you he was going to split our heads open with the knife." "Sounds funny," says Toph. "Yeah," I say. "It was real funny."

Sometimes while we cook, he tells me about things that happened at school. "What happened today?" I ask. He gives me the full rundown, who's a dork and who's OK, what everyone wrote their papers on, the whole thing. One time, he said this. "Today, Carl told me that he hopes you and Beth are in a plane, and that the plane crashes, and that you both die, just like Mom and Dad." "They didn't die in a plane crash," I say. "I told him that," he says.

Sometimes I call the parents of Toph's classmates. "Yeah, that's what he said," I say. "It's hard enough, you know," I say, pouring it on. "No, he's OK. He's fine. I just don't know why Carl would say that. I mean, why do you suppose your son wants me and Beth to die in a plane crash? I just couldn't help wondering," I say. "No, no, he's fine. Don't worry about us. You should worry about young Carl there. I just wanted to let you know," I say. They'll let anyone be parents.

During dinner, when there's basketball on, we watch the Bulls on cable. Otherwise, between bites, we play gin or crazy eights. If the dining room table is in ping pong mode, we eat on the coffee table. If the coffee table is in homework mode, we eat on the family room floor. If the family room floor is covered with plates from the night before, we eat in Toph's room on the carpet, watching his portable TV, which sits next to his bed. I know, I know.

The kitchen table, which is usually clean and has chairs around, and has room for plates and glasses and silverware, is out of the question. I mean, where's the fun in that? And where's the challenge?

After dinner, we play games for our own amusement and the edification of the neighbors. One game involves the cracking of the leather belt to simulate some well-deserved corporal punishment. Most involve Toph pretending that he's a kid, while I pretend I'm a parent.

"Dad, can I drive the car?" he asks as I sit reading the paper. "No, son, you can't," I say, without looking up. "But why?" "Because I said so." "But Dad." "I said no." "I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," he shrieks. Then he runs to his room and slams the door.

After a second, he opens the door. "Was that good?" He asks. "Yeah," I say. "That was pretty good."

Ira Glass

Dave Eggers edits the journal Timothy McSweeney's Quarterly Concern and is finishing a book about raising Toph, from which this story was taken. Toph is now in high school, doing just fine.

Ira Glass

Well, our program was produced today by Nancy Updike and myself with Alix Spiegel and Julie Snyder, contributing editors Paul Tough, Jack Hitt, Margy Rochlin, and Consigliere Sarah Vowell. Production help from [? Emmie Takehara, ?] Todd Bachmann, and Sylvia Lemus. Music help today from John Connors.

[ACKNOWLEDGMENTS]

If you'd like to buy a cassette of this program or any of our programs, they make perfect Christmas presents. Call us here at WBEZ in Chicago, 312-832-3380. 312-832-3380. Our email address, radio@well.com Or you can listen to most of our programs for free on the internet at our website, www.thislife.org. Thanks to Elizabeth Meister, who runs the site. This American Life is distributed by Public Radio International.

[FUNDING CREDITS]

WBEZ management oversight by Torey Malatia, who warns you, if you do not pledge to your public radio station--

Peter Sagal

You will fall into iniquity, and I will know. And you shall have no dessert.

Ira Glass

I'm Ira Glass, back next week with more stories of This American Life.

Peter Sagal

And now behold, even as I have said, it has come to pass.

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