This is parenting, in a lot of ways. Sometimes, K and I just look at each other and ask questions, as one of us has somehow divined parenting knowledge while the other was in the shower.

The differences in our parenting styles are interesting, because the entire game is being played by ear. Reid's interest now is in owning things. He will grip an object and treat it like the Holy Grail for an hour, never releasing it. His other primary interest is walking, only he can't do it yet. We're far beyond scooting, or cruising, or whatever it was called for the week he worked his way around by walking along holding onto the couch or whatever other furniture there was. Now he starts there, say holding onto the couch, and turns boldly toward a parent, hopefully, or nothing, and takes a leap of faith, striding out onto the carpet, teetering a moment, and then beginning the crash.

There is no difference in our parenting styles, K and I, at this moment. Neither of us wants him to hit the ground, although it is padded, and such a spill wouldn't hurt him, but might convince him that attempted walking without the raw "walking" skill is an ill-advised course of action. So instead we both (K more than I, because my normally beneficial height advantage prevents me from enjoying this) walk him around the house, him wearing a wide-smile, possibly holding a ball, or a discarded cell phone.

But the boundaries, it appears, do separate us. I rarely allow Reid to entertain himself with just any old thing. I get a toy, designed, in my mind at least, by a team of engineers committed to my son's safety and enjoyment. If such an optimal item isn't available, my plan usually falls apart, and he yells at me.

K, however, will indulge Reid to play with regular household things. He loves her sunglasses. He is eternally entranced with keys. Even our amusing game of spent cell phone talk has led to an unfortunate obsession with the similar wireless phones we use in the house. One of his favorite play surfaces are the weird Indian-imported side tables with pointy edges and certainly toxic hand-distressing. He has made a time-consuming and inscrutable game of chewing and sucking on coasters we received as a gift from a trip our best friend's took to Swaziland. Swaziland grass coasters!

None of these are absolutely determined to be harmful to the child, I know. There isn't anything wrong with keys, fundamentally. Sure, the little keyless entry fobs probably aren't designed to absorb that much drool, and they've certainly seen their share of mechanics, strangers and accidental drops into the gutter/car floor. But they aren't really problematic, right?

Wrong, I argue, though I am overrulled. There is a team of experts, I say, ensuring that this ball is the perfect size to amuse our child but pose no choking hazard. He won't choke on sunglasses, she replies. But now he thinks all glasses are toys, I counter. He was like that before he ever played with my sunglasses, she correctly asserts. And on and on.

Stylistically, then, we are different parents. Of course, I can only assume that for now, Reid doesn't know the difference. I'm the one with the smaller breasts, or possibly who smells like he sweats all the time. K's the one with the higher voice and the sunglasses who smells like home. But eventually, he will chart these differences, plotting his strategies carefully to take advantage of each of our weaknesses and idiosyncrasies. We're practically doomed.