I hate it when my parents switch roles. Mom slides on a pair of dad’s jeans and a half buttoned flannel, while Dad squirms into Mom’s red taffeta dress. They dance around the hard wood floors to The Velvet Underground, Mom leading, one hand on the waist of her pants, the other on Dad’s ass. Dad giggles lightly at Mom’s indecency. At dinner Dad sits on Mom’s lap feeding her his attempt at dinner, Mom strokes his hair and squeezes one breast with a growl of contentment. And we just sit back, forcing the tuna casserole down our throats, wondering how we’ll ever turn out.