James is too sick to go to school, he informs me while jumping on the couch and singing a song. It's a fight to get him into his uniform, into his shoes, into his jacket, so by the time we leave I'm still in my pajamas -- a combination of too-short gym shorts, too-small tank top, old nursing bra, and house slippers. I tell myself it’s a short walk. There are three small African-American boys walking to school ahead of us, a couple of first-graders and a preschooler who’s at least a foot shorter. It’s a reminder that what we call “free range parenting” or “child neglect” -- depending on your viewpoint -- in the rich, white county next door is what we call “Tuesday” in ours. (For better and worse. But that’s a topic for another day.) They’re halfway down the block when they abruptly turn around and head back our way. “If we’re gonna be late,” the oldest says to the others, “we might as well just go home.” Well that is every bit as ridiculous as James being “too sick”...