Mum and dad at yum cha, circa 1978.
"Mother Mourns Loss of Nude Children in Bizarre New York Times Column" was the headline on a snide piece on the Gawker website on Tuesday about a mother coming to terms with the fact one of her sons was starting to cover up now he'd hit puberty.
Gawker's raison d'etre is to put a bitchy spin on the media - I get it - which is why I wanted to bitch slap writer Max Read aka Glen Runciter for being such a simp about what was a pretty damn cool column by Canadian blogger Aviva Rubin.
Her post begins succinctly: "I walk around my house naked. My partner often does, too. Not gratuitously, just often. We don't bother covering up when walking from bathroom to bedroom. We leave the door open when we get dressed.
"So far, my 8- and 12-year-old sons remain unfazed. If I'm standing nude in the door of the bathroom telling my oldest to clean up the basement, the only thing he finds audacious is the request," she writes.
Which I find pretty amusing and, what's more, perfectly healthy.
Not surprisingly, I grew up in a household similar to Rubin's. My parents let it all hang out; I think I saw more of my stepdad's dick than I did my times tables - which again, was healthy, not creepy nor bizarre, and you have to do me and my parents the courtesy of not labelling it such.
Nudity can be a profoundly private thing - so it strikes me as arrogant and pointless to judge anybody else's attitude to exposing their body, or seeing their families' bodies - even if that person chooses to write about it in the public sphere.
In his post, Runciter does this but denies he's doing it.
"Now, look, I'm not here to judge. There are naked people, and there are clothed people. To naked people, a whole semi-adult family watching TV naked on the couch, sweaty poop and sex parts swinging in the breeze? No big deal. Family tradition. Just a regular Tuesday night. And that's cool. It's, for some inexplicable reason, legal."
OK, mate - we get the university revue schtick. Exaggerate the subject, then mock the exaggeration.
I understand there are people who are uncomfortable with nudity - especially their parents' nudity - and concede it may be confronting for them to read about families who indulge in it, especially from a woman who can so candidly write: "There’s something affirming about how much my children have always loved and needed my body, from breast-feeding, to shared baths. That ease with one another's nudity is part of the depth of my connection to them - something closed doors don't offer."
That's beautiful - it's part of the essence of the intimacy of parenthood - however, for someone to designate it "bizarre" or possibly illegal, well, it feels like an indictment of some of my most fundamental and cherished beliefs.
And even though it's a little-read piece by an obscure writer, I can't help reacting because it's another of modern life's needlessly corrosive sentiments.
Runciter's reaction reminds me of some of the critical responses in 1994 to a perfectly gorgeous scene in the Academy Award winning Russian film Burnt by the Sun.
In the rowboat scene, the main character, played by Nikita Mikhalkov, talks to his daughter (also his real-life daughter) as they drift on a lake. It is sensual, with both father and daughter talking of their love for each other, sharing kisses as they speak.
I recall some American reviewers being "creeped out" by this, the intimation being there was something slimey or perverted about showing affection to your child in this way.
So what the hell has this got to do with getting nude in front of your kids?
It's the vibe, your honour: it's other people judging and trivialising the purest and most fraught of relationships - that between parent and child - and, in doing so, adding another pebble to the peaks of ignorance and intolerance that form so much of public discourse.
So when you next Google your name Glen Runciter, I ask you just to pause and consider your prejudices, and also the fact I wrote this entire blog post naked.
And my chair is leather.