(See photos at original link. They're really quite
precious.)
What Ruth Bader Ginsburg Taught Me About Being a
Stay-at-Home Dad
A young lawyer puts his
former boss’s ideals into practice.
JANUARY 8, 2015
This past summer, on the last day of
my clerkship with Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, she rose from her cavernous desk
and, following a hearty goodbye hug, asked me what was next. I told her that
the next morning marked the start of my new job as a stay-at-home dad. She
smiled warmly and wished me luck.
My wife had just begun her pediatrics residency at Georgetown, a
job that leaves scarce time for domestic duties. And throughout my year of long
hours and late nights at the Court, my daughter had grown from a delicate,
impassive infant to a robust toddler with personality and character. In recent
months, when I was able to make it home in time to see Caitlyn before bedtime,
she’d rush headlong toward the door with shrieks of “Daddy Daddy!” I’d bundle
her up in my arms, squeeze, and resolve to take some time, soon, to be with her
completely. I had missed out on a lot and was determined to make up for it.
The Boss (as clerks tend to refer to their justices at the Court)
was legendary in her ability to navigate these obstacles with deftness and
grace. At Harvard Law School in the 1950s, she was one of a handful of women in
her class. Then-Dean Erwin Griswold, who later served as solicitor general
under Presidents Johnson and Nixon, famously challenged the Boss, at a (small)
dinner he held for the women students, to justify her presence at the school
when the spot could have gone to a man. (Fifty-one years later, when I attended
my own welcome dinner for incoming Harvard Law students, my dean was future
Justice Elena Kagan, the first woman to hold that position at the law school.
She chatted with us about the Red Sox pennant race and a tricky issue of
federal civil procedure.)
Along with the Boss’s demographic isolation, she faced challenges
at home that would have made most law students crumble. Her daughter, barely a
year old when law school began, occupied much of her free time. That free time
became even scarcer after her husband Marty, also a Harvard Law student at the
time, was diagnosed with cancer. Not only did the Boss care for and support
Marty, she helped keep him up to speed in his coursework, taking his class
notes and typing his papers—all the while rising to the very top of her class.
It was during this time that the Boss developed her lifelong habit of working
into the early morning hours, a schedule that has recalibrated the circadian
rhythms of generations of her clerks.
It’s easy to assume that celebrated figures like the Boss possess
superhuman levels of discipline. But an insight one gains working at a place
like the Supreme Court is that we all face similar constraints on our time,
energy, and intellectual bandwidth. During my year at the Court, I sought to
understand how the Boss managed to successfully balance her family and career.
She shared many tactical pointers, offering her views on the virtues of au
pairs over other forms of childcare, the advantages of having an extended
period between children (an extra pair of hands and eyes with number two!), and
the art of recognizing and cultivating a child’s interests and talents. But the
most important and enduring advice she gave was the most seemingly banal: “be a
good partner” and “take breaks.” Her husband Marty, as she’ll tell anyone,
supported her career wholeheartedly and firmly implanted himself in the
kitchen. As she told Katie Couric in a recent interview:
You can’t have it all
all at once. Over my lifespan, I think I have had it all, but in given periods
in time, things were rough. And if you have a caring life partner, you help the
other person when that person needs it.
It was in this spirit that I decided to take a short break from my
career and experience life as a stay-at-home dad. My wife, without really even
considering doing otherwise, had already taken almost a year off from medical
school after Caitlyn was born, partly to support me during a challenging
clerkship, and partly because she believed it would be good for Caitlyn’s
development. But mostly it was for my wife herself. She valued motherhood and
wanted to experience it fully, for as long as she could without jeopardizing
her professional goals.
I felt exactly the same way. My deepest fear is that, decades from
now, I will look back at the heart of my life and realize I made the wrong
choices in favor of work. A Jewish friend of mine, as we gazed over the Western
Wall of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, once described why Shabbat was so
special to him growing up. “Shabbat was the only time I saw my father,” he
explained, voice quavering. It was a touching moment, one that underscored how
a ritual of rest can help build and sustain a family. But is it wrong to want
more?
It goes without saying that work can be greatly fulfilling. It has
been for me. But, as a general matter, mothers and fathers both report that
time spent with their children is a far greater source of meaning and happiness
than time spent at work. In a 2013 Pew study, 60 percent of men described their
childcare hours as “very meaningful”; only 33 percent of men said the same
about their paid work. And men appear to be just as dissatisfied with the
stickiness of gender-based norms as women: Nearly half of fathers report
dissatisfaction with the amount of time that they are able to spend with their
children—twice the rate of mothers who say the same. The gender-equality debate
too often ignores this half of the equation. When home is mentioned at all, the
emphasis is usually on equalizing burdens—not equalizing the opportunity for
men, as well as women, to be there.
As a man, when I speak of my struggle to manage my competing
commitments to family and career, I’m often met with good-natured skepticism.
There’s an underlying assumption that women and men have different visions of
what matters in life—or, to be blunt about it, that men don’t find
child-rearing all that rewarding, whereas women regard it as integral to the
human experience. I do not think this assumption is true, generally speaking. I
am certain it is not true for me.
At the close of my 20s, it struck me that any success I had
managed to achieve would not have been possible without a certain single-minded
devotion to my studies and work—to the exclusion, at times, of healthy habits
and relationships. A few weeks shy of my 30th birthday, when I met Caitlyn for
the first time, single-mindedness dissolved as a viable life plan for my 30s.
Amid the sleep-deprived excitement, frustrations, and frenetic activity of
those first months as a father, my new reality sank in: For the foreseeable
future, balancing my family with my career would be the defining challenge of
my life.
Between the beginning of adolescence and the night Caitlyn was
born, I can recall crying twice. I am no longer so stoic. After my wife ended
her extended leave from medical school, I took on the task of getting Caitlyn
ready for the day and dropping her off at daycare. When I tried to put her
down, she would clutch at me fiercely, sobbing in desperation. As I left, she
would run after me, banging on the glass door as it closed behind me. More
often than not, I rushed out of the building a tearful, embarrassed,
guilt-ridden mess.
Once I began staying home, my tears were more often set off by
joy: a quirky new move during daily dance time, the clutch of Caitlyn’s hands
as I carried her to the park, the excited applause she gave herself each time she
touched and named a part of my face, an affectionate kiss on the cheek as I
leaned down to clean her runny nose. Did I miss the thrill and challenge of
debating knotty legal questions with a Supreme Court justice? Well, let’s just
say that most of the books I was reading now came with pictures of panda bears
and barn animals. But every night, even after the most pedestrian of days, I
sat and reflected on the beauty of the moments that had passed.
I was as happy as I’d ever been.
Staying at home with Caitlyn reminded me, oddly enough, of the time I’d spent
living in a foreign country. There was
the same perpetual novelty, that intense awareness that elevates even the most
ordinary moments. There was the same sense of triumph at completing simple
tasks: ordering a cup of coffee, enjoying a brisk walk, just getting through
the day. And there was the same sense of helplessness: No matter how
self-assured I was at the beginning of the day, I was bound, at times, to feel
like a complete failure.
I was discovering that this was real work. I’d already known this
as an abstract matter. My wife’s weary face when I came home from the Court
wasn’t all that different from the look she now has after finishing an
overnight shift at the hospital. But to experience it directly is another thing
altogether. I had prided myself on being an involved, helpful partner when I
was working. But my prior contributions now felt like glorified babysitting.
Before, “covering” dinner had consisted of microwaving my wife’s
prepared meals and encouraging Caitlyn to eat them. As the full-time parent, I
now had to jog to the market and stock up on groceries while protecting Caitlyn
from being run over by errant shopping carts. Then I’d do my best to whip up a
nutritious meal while Caitlyn tried to pull down the boiling pot of water onto
her head. When I’d finally present her with my efforts, I could only hope they
would be tasty enough to end up in her stomach rather than on the carpet. The
part that used to seem like work—sitting and eating with her—became my time to
rest.
Not since I bussed tables and delivered pizzas as a teenager had I
experienced work that didn’t involve a computer screen and an Aeron chair. It
took some effort to readjust my waking hours, after my stint with the nocturnal
Ginsburg, but soon I was waking up with my wife and kissing her goodbye as she
rushed out the door at 5:30 a.m. (All those books I’d intended to get through
during my “time off”? They stayed on the shelves.) The D.C. market rate for
this kind of work middles out at $15 an hour. During moments of doubt and
fatigue, it gave me some comfort to know that my replacement cost would easily
come out to more than my salary at the Supreme Court.
But this challenge, the transition from assistant to lead, was
what I had craved. Many lawyers have exciting, impactful careers without ever
stepping foot in a courtroom, but others want to be at the podium. Involved and
loving parents often have to limit their roles to managing segments of their
children’s days, but I wanted to experience life at the helm of my daughter’s
day-to-day life. Successful professional women—the Boss included—often deflect
questions on the barriers they’ve faced by remarking on their great fortune to
live in an age in which it was possible for women to succeed in the workplace.
I feel similarly blessed to have been born at a time when I could, without
apology, fully immerse myself in the joys and exertions of life as a
stay-at-home dad.
But do men and women really face equivalent tradeoffs between work
and family? After all, as the aphorism goes, having children is supposed to
help men’s careers and harm women’s. Indeed, Michelle Budig of the University
of Massachusetts, Amherst, has found that men’s earnings increase by 6 percent when they become parents, whereas
women’s earnings decrease by 4 percent. “Fatherhood may serve as a
signal to potential employers for greater maturity, commitment, or stability,”
Budig reports, whereas employers may “view family responsibilities among female
employees as a source of instability.” Nationwide,
childless, unmarried women earn 96 cents for every dollar earned by a man, while
married mothers earn a mere 76 cents.
Diving deeper into Budig’s data, however, one finds that women at the
very high end of the income distribution—the top 5 percent of earners—actually
receive a motherhood bonus of 5.6 percent, nearly matching that of the average
man. (Others have found a motherhood bonus of up to 10 percent for
well-educated women.) But are these high-earners making sacrifices at home?
Probably. As Budig speculates, and common experience confirms, most of these
mothers likely pay others to manage a greater portion of their domestic
affairs, including childcare.
The fatherhood bonus also dissipates when men become more involved
at home. Drawing from data tracking the lives and careers of more than 12,000
people over 28 years, Scott Coltrane of the University of Oregon
found that both men and women pay persistent and severe financial penalties
when they step back from their careers. In fact, men seem to fare slightly
worse. Men who take time away from work for family reasons experience a 26.4
percent reduction in future earnings, whereas women experience a 23.2 percent
reduction. And men who decrease their work hours for family reasons suffer a
15.5 percent decline, while women’s salaries decline by just 9.8 percent. In
other words, having a family helps men in the
workplace only if they submit to their traditional gender role.
What the data show, I think, is that “having it all”—even at
different times, as the Boss suggested she was able to do—may well be
impossible for most people. For every Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, who famously
suffered no ill career effects from taking a five-year break from her career to
raise her children, there are many more women and men who’ve found their
professional trajectories forever circumscribed by similar life choices. But
it’s just as true that every person who learns of his child’s first word the
way I did—via text message during a late night at the office—has sacrificed
immensely at the altar of professional success and financial necessity.
The idea that a woman’s place is in the home and a man’s is at
work once permeated American law. During the 1970s, as general counsel of the
American Civil Liberties Union and co-founder of its Women’s Rights Project,
the Boss played a major role in challenging this. On a Sunday afternoon this
past May, she reunited with one of her former clients from that era. Stephen Wiesenfeld,
now 71, was getting remarried after 42 years of bachelorhood, and the Boss, who
had represented him in a 1975 Supreme Court case, now presided over his wedding
in the Court’s ornate East Conference Room.
Wiesenfeld became a widower in 1972 after his first wife, a high
school teacher, died during the birth of the couple’s only child, Jason.
Wiesenfeld, who had been earning significantly less than his wife, dedicated
himself to raising his newborn son and vowed not to work full time until Jason
was in school. In seeking to uphold this vow, Wiesenfeld ran headlong into
Section 402(g) of the Social Security Act, entitled the “mother’s insurance
benefit.” Section 402(g) provided financial support to widows—but not
widowers—who found themselves unexpectedly raising their children alone.
This provision, as Justice William Brennan explained in the
Court’s opinion, had been “intended to permit women to elect not to work and to
devote themselves to the care of children.” It could only be justified by the
assumption that women would stay at home and men would work for pay when the
conflicting pressures of single parenthood were suddenly thrust upon them.
The Supreme Court was unanimous in its decision to strike down
section 402(g)’s gender distinction, but its members couldn’t quite agree on
why. A majority of justices believed the law discriminated against women wage
earners, who paid into Social Security at the same rates as men, but whose
families did not receive commensurate protection under the program. (With this
ruling, the majority also rejected the idea—advanced on behalf of the
government by then-Solicitor General Robert Bork—that section 402(g) was lawful
because it gave mothers who chose not to work a special advantage.)
Chief Justice Warren Burger and Justice Lewis Powell wrote a
separate opinion emphasizing the law’s discriminatory effect on men, noting
that “[a] surviving father may have the same need for benefits as a surviving
mother.” Even while making this point, these two justices seemed skeptical that
many widowers would take advantage of the Court’s decision: “In light of the
long experience to the contrary, one may doubt that fathers generally will
forgo work and remain at home to care for children to the same extent that
mothers may make this choice.”
Finally, Justice William Rehnquist, the Boss’s future Chief, wrote
separately to note that the law’s gender distinction harmed children because it
“irrational[ly] distinguish[ed] between mothers and fathers when the sole
question is whether a child of a deceased contributing worker should have the
opportunity to receive the fulltime attention of the only parent remaining to
it.”
Taken together, these opinions showed—as the Boss likes to
say—“how gender lines in the law are bad for everyone: bad for women, bad for
men, and bad for children.” Or, as she told the justices in 1979 during oral
argument in another case, “discrimination against males operates against
females as well.” Indeed, part of what made Ginsburg’s legal strategy so
effective was that she exposed the irrationality of sex discrimination by
challenging laws that—at least on their faces—conferred special advantages on
women. (All six cases she argued before the Supreme Court included male
plaintiffs; in four, her only client was a man.)
The Boss’s greatest stamp on gender equality law as a Supreme
Court justice came in 1996, when she authored the opinion striking down
“separate and unequal” military institutes for women and men. The case was set
in motion when a woman who wished to attend the Virginia Military Institute
complained about VMI’s policy of excluding women. After a court ruled the
exclusion unlawful, Virginia established a separate facility for women that was
inferior to VMI in many ways and offered less-rigorous military training.
Citing two of the cases she’d won as an advocate, including Stephen
Wiesenfeld’s, Ginsburg wrote that Virginia had failed to prove it wasn’t
relying “on overbroad generalizations about the different talents, capacities,
or preferences of males and females.”
In the decision’s aftermath, many women told her lightheartedly
that they couldn’t understand why a woman would want to attend a military
institute. This exposes a serious point, one the Boss frequently notes when
discussing the case: Even if most women would not want to attend VMI, it is
urgently important that the law protect those who do. Or, as she put it in her
opinion, “estimates of what is appropriate for most women . .
. no longer justify denying opportunity to women whose talent and capacity
place them outside the average description.”
It may well be that, whether for reasons of social conditioning or
inborn inclination, men and women frequently choose to strike different
balances between their families and careers. The goal shouldn’t be absolute
parity between the genders in all things. But as the Wiesenfeld and VMI cases
demonstrate, no one should be constrained by the assumption that men and women
necessarily have different priorities and values.
That lesson resonates just as strongly today. One of my best
friends from childhood, T., is a surgical resident at a Level I trauma center
in Minneapolis. After his wife became pregnant with their first child, T.
cleverly arranged his schedule to scrape together five weeks of paternity
leave—the longest in the history of his program. A big factor in T.’s decision
was that his wife was giving birth in her native Sweden. If he’d taken any less
time, he would have risked not being around when the big day arrived. Things
went smoothly, and T. returned to work shortly after his son was born.
Every year at the residents’ graduation dinner, the chief
residents in T.’s program bestow a “Razzy” award, intended as a good-natured
public shaming for the year’s most striking miscue. One year’s recipient had
managed, during a routine appendectomy, to remove large swaths of the patient’s
neighboring organs. Another year, the winner had worn a t-shirt and gym shorts
during a presentation to a roomful of his superiors attired in white coats and
slacks. That year, the chiefs decided to crowd-source the award, asking
residents to submit their nominations for the most boneheaded act of the year.
T., for his record-breaking five-week paternity leave, came in second.
Meanwhile, T.’s wife, also a doctor, did what is standard in
Sweden: She took an entire year off to raise her son, earning 80 percent of her
pay. If T. had been living in Sweden, he could have done the same. Forty years
ago, when the Boss was fighting for gender equality in the Supreme Court,
Sweden became the first country to institute gender-neutral parental leave
policies. Today, under Swedish law, T. and his wife would have been allotted an
astounding 480 total days of paid parental leave. A couple can apportion the
leave in any way they want (and use it any time until the child is 8 years
old). But a minimum of 60 days is reserved for each individual, man or woman.
Women still take more than 75 percent of total leave time in Sweden, but that may
change, as proposals are currently being pushed to encourage more so-called
“daddy months.”
Sweden’s cultural expectations mirror its laws. T.’s wife knows a
Swedish cardiologist who returned to work after his requisite 60 days at home.
Despite his joy at becoming a father, the drudgery of life with a newborn
didn’t sit well with him. His wife, a doctor at the same institution, agreed to
stay home for the rest of the couple’s allotted time. But on his return to
work, the hospital’s leaders pulled him aside and delivered a stern lecture on
the poor example he was setting. He was soon back to changing diapers and
warming bottles, and the couple redistributed their leave more evenly.
Not surprisingly, a wide
body of research shows that children who have
engaged, supportive fathers are better socialized, have stronger cognitive and
language skills, and are more emotionally balanced. A 2007 study by the Swedish National Institute of
Public Health also found that taking parental leave was good for men themselves
over the long run: Those who did it lived longer than those who didn’t, perhaps
because it caused them to moderate traditionally masculine, self-destructive
behaviors. And it has been shown that mothers’ incomes rise
about 7 percent for each month that a father spends at home with the children.
On the other hand, when men don’t have the opportunity to take
parental leave, women’s incomes suffer. As economists Francine Blau and
Lawrence Kahn have found, the cost and disruption associated
with generous maternity leave “may lead employers to engage in statistical
discrimination against women for jobs leading to higher-level positions.” In
other words, why invest in a woman’s career if you fear, reasonably, that she
might leave for a year at 80 percent pay when a similarly qualified man doesn’t
have that option? There is also some indication that unequal leave harms the
family unit as a whole. Divorce and separation rates, which were rising in most
parts of the world, fell in Sweden after the initial
institution of a “daddy month” in 1995 (it was extended to the two months in
2002).
As for T., he decided to take a year off his residency when his
second child came along. He is doing serious medical research funded by a
grant, so it’s a professionally respectable choice. But most days his schedule
allows him to be home with the kids while his wife is at work in the hospital.
Though T. is eager to get on with his surgical training, he has no regrets.
“I’ve seen too many 30- or 40-something fathers rushed into the O.R. after a
car crash or a cardiac arrest and never get the chance to say goodbye to their
young children,” he told me. “Life is fragile and you have to focus on what is
important while you can.”
During my
time as a stay-at-home dad, I was often dismayed by the novelty of my choice.
Throughout my cycle of visits to the local toddler attractions—libraries and
bookstores, playgrounds and parks, fountains and pools—I could go weeks without
seeing another man between the ages of 5 and 70 during the weekday working
hours. All the other caretakers were women, and they formed two distinct
cliques: steely-eyed blonde mothers in yoga pants and smiling Latina nannies in
faded jeans.
At first
I assumed I’d have something in common with the lululemon ladies. After all,
many of them had made the same considered choice to trade glass towers and
business casual for playgrounds and gym clothes. My outreach wasn’t rebuffed,
but it wasn’t exactly welcomed. In virtually every extended conversation with a
member of the yoga-pants tribe, I encountered the assumption that I didn’t want
to be doing this—that my presence at the playground was the product of a
professional setback. (“I’m taking some time between jobs to be at home with my
daughter.” “Good for you! My husband would go crazy. Don’t worry, something
will come up.” “I had a one-year position with long hours, and I really wanted
to spend time with my daughter before I started work again.” “You should
consider yourself lucky! My husband is in finance; he could never do that.
There’s a silver lining to every cloud, you know?”)
These
assumptions are not without empirical support. A 2014 Pew Research Center survey reports
that the overall number of stay-at-home dads in the United States has risen
dramatically over the past two decades, nearly doubling from 1.1 million in
1989 to 2 million in 2012. But the majority of stay-at-home dads didn’t so much
as choose their path as have it chosen for them: 35 percent stay home because
of illness or disability, 23 percent because they simply couldn’t find a job.
Nearly half of all stay-at-home dads live in poverty, and only 3 percent have a
college degree. Most tellingly, a mere 21 percent actually made an affirmative
decision to raise their kids full time. In contrast, 73 percent of stay-at-home
moms (who number 10.4 million nationally) report that they stay at home for no
other reason than they want to.
It
bears mentioning that the career pauses my wife and I each chose don’t meet
Pew’s definition of being a “stay at home parent.” Even so, it was hard not to
feel a tinge of self-doubt as Caitlyn and I went about our days. Were the
scowls from the sea of suits a sign of disdain for my professional failure, or
irritation that my jogging stroller was hogging the sidewalk? Were the
concerned smiles from stay-at-home moms meant to convey kinship or support for
my job search? It evoked memories of feeling alone and insecure as a racial
minority during childhood, wondering whether the ball wasn’t being passed in my
direction because I blew that layup or because my teammates thought there was
no way that Asian kid could play. I found myself rushing out the door in the
early morning, or delaying excursions until the late afternoon, when other dads
might be around. After getting the “you must be a professional failure” shtick
one too many times, I sheepishly started pulling out the Harvard paraphernalia
buried at the back of the closet for the “mommy and me” sing-along.
Part of
my hypersensitivity was borne from insecurity. My wife has devoted her
professional life to children—she is a pediatrician and former elementary
school teacher—and she’s also the more energetic and inspired parent. I often
wondered if she would have dealt with a temper tantrum better, or found a more
enriching way to pass a rainy afternoon. My fears were often set off by a
well-meaning word of encouragement when something went awry—a friendly “It’s
not as easy as it looks, is it?” expression on a mother’s face when Caitlyn’s
pants got soaked at the sandbox and I’d forgotten to bring a spare pair. Or the
sympathy of the woman behind me at the checkout line who heard Caitlyn crying
to escape the confines of her stroller and asked, “Aww, do you miss your mommy?”
The
moments when I was able to rise above stereotypes, however, were ones of great
pride. We take Caitlyn for her regular medical checkups at the Georgetown
clinic, and try to time it so that my wife can stop in between seeing her own
patients. The first time we came, my wife was tied up with a patient. Her
co-residents sensed trouble. Fathers, in their experience, were rarely able to
answer any of the basic questions at the core of toddler checkups: how much
milk the child is drinking, how many words she can speak, what her bowel
movement schedule is like. When word spread that I had aced the test, my wife’s
co-residents expressed wonder at my level of sincerity and involvement. I can’t
say I had a more satisfying moment during my clerkship at the Supreme Court.
A few
weeks ago, I started a new job at a private law firm, bringing an end to my
stint as a stay-at-home dad. During my job search, I made it a point to mention
my daughter and my commitment to family in every interview; I also tried to
make it clear that no matter how hard the firm might work me, my wife would
have the more demanding and less flexible job.
This
may well have cost me an offer or two. Most of the senior partners I met with
responded stiffly, with raised eyebrows and a bemused remark on how times have
changed. (Sometimes, though not often, this was accompanied by a wistful aside
about the time they’d lost with their own, now-grown children.) Younger
partners of both genders, however, usually responded with warmth,
understanding, and even enthusiasm, based on their own experiences managing a
dual-career household.
I will
forever cherish my time at home with Caitlyn. I haven’t spent such a
concentrated amount of time with one person since I fell in love with her mom.
And I probably won’t again until, with any luck, her mom and I enjoy a lazy
retirement together one day. (Which is not to say I won’t be doing this all
over again when, we hope, Caitlyn has a little brother or sister. I will.)
In the
meantime, returning to work has renewed my determination to make every moment
count. After a day away from Caitlyn, I come home engaged and enthusiastic,
eager to pack a day’s worth of play, learning, and bonding into a few scarce
hours. At the office, the encouraging reactions of the younger partners make me
hopeful that a commitment to family won’t necessarily mean a future of
depreciated income and stunted professional advancement. But if it does, I can
live with that tradeoff. I’d far prefer it to a future of maximized career
potential and personal regret.
Ryan Park is
an associate at the law firm Boies, Schiller & Flexner LLP and a former law
clerk to U.S. Supreme Court Justices David H. Souter and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.
(See photos of the
author's family, and a video of Justice Ginsburg speaking about parenting at
the original link.)
