The other day, an overcast but hot Sunday, I blow-dried my hair, put on makeup for once, and took my kids uptown. My husband and I were taking our 12- and 14-year-old sons to the Paley Center for Media, in New York City, where there was an exhibition celebrating the 25th anniversary of the premiere of The West Wing. The ticket guy, pale with thick round glasses and a swipe of sandy hair, asked me if I was a fan. I told him yes, I most definitely was.

As we walked into the exhibition, the boys teased me about not being recognized. I told them to stop, that it was just his job, that last week there was a Barbie show and next week was Sponge Bob, so shush, he can’t know us all.