As I set up the stroller in the parking lot, a man called out to me (why is it that simply having a child gives everyone permission to talk to me?).

"Remember how easy it used to be to just go to the mall?" He flicked his chin toward Grace, squirming against the stroller's straps. The man was walking with a girl of about 11 or 12. She was wearing a shirt that read "GAP" in huge letters, and texting vehemently on a cell phone.

I could see her indoctrination was going well.

What's he talking about? I thought. All I have to do is spend sixty seconds moving Grace from her car seat to the stroller. Pfft, this guy's a pessimist.

It's AMAZING how the glee of new parenthood can impair one's perception.

I've always been the tallest person in my family. I outgrew my mother by the time I was in college, and my father before that. He'll be thrilled to read that I've written this for the world to see, but he's kind of short. Sorry, Dad.

However, a toddler who is barely three feet tall simply sees all adults as "big." So there we were at the lake, pretending that it's fun to eat outdoors, with the blazing sun, flies regurgitating on our food, and sandy sandwiches crunching against our teeth, when Grace asked,

"Why is grandpa huge?"

Suddenly I realized I knew her. Kay Hanley!

I nearly fell over.

When I was a college boy in Boston, one of my buddies joined a local band: Letters to Cleo. "Letters," as the cool kids called them, had some success in the local rock clubs and on college radio. Eventually, they toured with Sarah McLachlan's Lilith Fair, appeared on movie soundtracks, and became one of the top alternative bands of the nineties.

Their lead singer?  Kay Hanley.

This was the same woman who downed beer and shouted her rapid-fire lyrics at us in smoky Boston dives.

Now she's got a Disney gig. I felt glad for the "local girl who made good."

However, not everyone shared my enthusiasm.

Recently, I was preparing lunch for the good doctor as she concentrated on her work. She held an Angelina Ballerina doll in one hand, her friend Alice in the other. She voiced each doll in turn — a gentle shake identified the speaker. Angelina spoke first.

"I'm going to come in this castle!" she announced. Her tone was as certain and defiant as a plush mouse in a tutu could hope for.

"You can't come in here," answered Alice, bouncing up and down, "because I'm mean!"

"I'm mean, too!" Angelina shot back.

"Then you can come in!" Alice answered.

Dr. Grace then placed the two dolls on top of the castle. She observed the results of her experiment, her hands on her hips. "Yeah!" she said to no one in particular. Her nose was crinkled like a tiny accordion; her hard, pink elbows thrust aggressively behind her. She seemed satisfied.

Or hugely pissed. It was hard to tell, actually.