Teaching children in Korea can be a harrowing experience, especially when they’re a bunch of hyperstimulated kindergarteners who are jacked-up on the early childhood equivalent of caffeine. Today as my wife and I were teaching our bunch of youngsters, one girl bludgeoned another in the forehead with the corner of an empty Kleenex box. A baby girl punched her sister in the face. A normally subdued child began irrepressibly turning cartwheels. That was fifteen minutes after she’d started crying because she didn’t want to have to read, listen to, or sing the children’s story The Music Man anymore (I can’t say as I blame her). Before that we led them in a rendition of a song called “Hello, How Are You?” complete with hand signals, an exhausting workout for an out-of-shape, middle-aged schlub like me. Later, my wife and I had dinner at a restaurant with a friend who breastfed her baby at the table while his older brother made a point of touching all the serving bowls for side dishes in front of him. I thanked God, whom I don’t exactly believe in, that I don’t have any children myself. He said you’re welcome in His own mysterious way, namely by continuing to torture me with the silent treatment. I guess He ran out of things to talk about a long time ago.