We have “wittingly” exposed our children to the lyrics and notes of the musical Hamilton.
They sit in their carseats, next to one another holding hands. The palest caucasion skin of anyone in the family, enfolding the brown hand of his Hispanic little brother. “Are they both yours?” The woman meeting us for the first time asks. “Yes,” I reply, but she wants more. “How did you get that black haired one?” “Same way I got the blond haired one.”
When we had our first babies, reading aloud was a way to pass the time, from Narnia to seminary homework.