This summer I found myself at a party filled with bright people in a beautiful home with delicious and eclectic foods and ample beverages. I rubbed elbows with attorneys, editors, writers and doctors. And do you know what every conversation I had revolved around?

Kids. My kids. Others' kids. Kids in general. Kids today. Kids. Kids. Kids. No matter how smart, how accomplished the person was, we ended up talking about kids.

My wife and I spent $40 on a babysitter to get away from our offspring and we spent the whole night talking about them. What they've flushed down the toilet. What they've eaten that's not edible. What they've drawn on the walls. How many times they've accidentally dialed 911. How many times we've hurriedly dialed Poison Control.

Maybe there's some divine plan to our life cycle and our conversations.

As teenagers, hormones whip us into frenzies. We're never at a loss for something to say, unless an adult is trying to talk to us. Put in a pack of our peers, we don't shut up. We write painfully bad poetry, debate every social injustice and analyze each communication with a potential romantic interest.

When we retire, we've got our hobbies, "Matlock" reruns and a running commentary on ailments to fill up conversational lulls.

But, in between, we spend all our time and energy providing physically and emotionally for our children. We're too tired — from fishing stuffed animals out of toilets (yeah, it's happened to us), Heimlich-ing quarters from kids' windpipes (happened) or finding out whether or not to induce vomiting after someone eats a whole bottle of kids' vitamins (happened, too) — to devote much energy to socializing, hobbies or even, some days, personal hygiene.

A parent in his or her prime of life is never off the clock. Around the house, you worry when you hear a bad noise from your kids' direction. You worry when it's too quiet. You worry they're becoming TV zombies, so you kick them out of the house. Then you worry they'll play neighborhood cop and throw a bucket at a passing car they think is speeding (happened this summer).

Then that magic day comes. You hire the babysitter and get a few minutes away from the hardest job in the world, retreating perhaps to a nearby restaurant. So what happens? You talk about kids. Their school. Their friends. Their hurts. Their hopes.

You start with an appetizer. Away from thrown food and spilled milk, you want to drag this meal out all night. But then you start talking about your kid who wears a jacket and long pants all summer, so he looks like Indiana Jones (yup, happened, too).

They bring the entrée while you flip through pictures of your kid in his underpants taken by his twin brother when he swiped your cell phone. Gone an hour, you actually start to miss those rascals.

You really know you're a goner as a parent when you turn down the wait staff's offer of turtle cheesecake for a 12-pack of Twinkies you pick up on the way home to share with your pajama-clad posterity around the breakfast table.

That happens, too, almost every time.

Dave Bundy is publisher of the Suburban Journals of Greater St. Louis.