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I grew up in a family that, save for its stray neuroses, was entirely typical of its place and time--the suburbs of New York in the late nineteen-sixties. My father, a doctor, left for work at eight and came back at six, except on Tuesdays, when he had extra office hours. My mother stayed home. This was true not only in a figurative sense but also, I now realize, in a fairly literal one; every day until we got to middle school, my brother and I trooped back to the house for lunch, and had she not been there, waiting for us, we would immediately have called the police. All of my friends' mothers stayed home in this way, and I don't recall thinking there was anything ...