..... Public cot sex under the whale. No, I’m joking. That was later. Our kids are growing up now in a very provincial Brooklyn, a place so navel gazing it’s become a punch line. The Natural History Museum is the antithesis of all that, and awesomely analog. I want them to feel part of a continuum, to spend more time feeling small in the scope of the world’s biodiversity. And it actually worked! After “check-in,” our kids were in the Hall of African Mammals totally alone, chanting made-up African songs and marveling at their echoes bouncing around in the dark. Then we ignored our instincts and gave in to Boy 2, who begged to visit what he called “the Ebola exhibit.” Like me, he’s a disease connoisseur and enthusiast, which is fine until he becomes convinced he has guinea worms and river blindness. Simultaneously.
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The authors gather breakfast for their family in Central Park, across the street from the museum.