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As you all should know by now, "M's" 5^th birthday was celebrated to great fanfare, noise and expense last Sunday. In looking back and as unlikely as I ever imagined it would be that I would say this, that was the easy part. The difficult part came earlier that morning when I came to the sudden realization that I was about to lose a great deal of whatever power I held. But let me back up just a bit...

You cannot imagine how much "M" had been looking forward to her birthday and the accompanying party. It has dominated her thoughts for over a month. In fact, Mommy went over the calendar with her, had her outline her birthday and then did a countdown to it. At the time the count was 44 days, so it has been the topic of conversation here for quite some time.

But 44 days is a world away from "Sunday" in the mind of a child awaiting a party at Wall E's, and the intensity of talk about "MY PARTY!" has increased accordingly in the closing days. It was obviously not only important to her, but it was starting to become real, too. And it was in that truth that I found a great deal of power:

Her complaints of, "But I WANT another cupcake!" or "I didn't play with that, why do I have to pick it up?" or "The cat SAID she wanted me to shave her!" were all met with a single, unified response. One that had to be deployed again the very morning of her party when she ran into a corner and said, "NO!" when I told her it was time to leave Sunday School.

I calmly explained to her that we had told her we had to leave after just one class to go home and get ready for her party. She knew this was coming and she shouldn't be acting like this. "NO!" she replied, forcing Daddy to pull out the BIG WEAPON: I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and said, "Then I'm going to call Wall E's and cancel your party." She suddenly became very receptive to my instruction and I could see it in her face: he's carrying the phone. He could be on the phone with them before I'm able to leave this room!

But I had the bigger surprise; this was the last time for a very long time that I would be able to deploy that particular armament. I had lost a very powerful tool in the War Against Childhood Uprisings. Back to the more common hand-to-hand techniques, then...

And then it hit me - an idea so brilliant that I should have my brain bronzed. I discussed this with The Wif and she seemed to be in agreement. So as of 8:00 AM Monday morning, Santa is watching her with a great deal of interest...

THE POWER OF MYTHS...

I should start by saying that I LOVED the 1980's. Great President, Good music and the chick hair was better than we deserved. (Come to think of it, we've got similar levels of greatness in our President now, there is fantastic music to be found if one looks for it long enough, so all we're really missing is the hair. Hop to it, Ladies!!) Of course, I 'came of age' in the 80's - which is a ridiculous expression because I also came of age in the 90's and continue to do so in the oughts, as should any person who continues to grow - and if given the chance to return to those times I would consider it for approximately 1.478 seconds.

Before pummeling to death the person making the offer. Great times, yes. But they're always better when the view is coming from over one's shoulder...

Anywho, it was the 1980's that saw an exponential growth in a particular field that I'd like to address now: Myths about Halloween. It seems there was this one bozo - can't recall his name and am too tired to Google it - who led the charge against Halloween. He claimed to be a lapsed Satan worshiper and told anyone who would listen grand tales about the history and doin's of the church of Satan; ritualistic sex, (not an unknown phenomena to anyone familiar with The Bible), casting of spells, animal mutilation and even virginal sacrifice. (AH... so THAT'S why there were none to be found...). I believe this guy had a book or two out at the time, explaining it all (imagine that).

Soon after this little tempest caught hold, it was adopted by everyone who thought they might be able to benefit from it's popularity. Humane societies quickly insisted that they get more requests for black cats at this time of year than any other and they were certain they were sacrificed in these ceremonies. Sad to say, even the Fundamentalist and Evangelical movements caught hold of this in an effort to raise awareness of their counter-efforts as regards the holiday.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for getting out there and promoting your cause and if I claimed something to the contrary I'd have to close this site down immediately. Of course, seize the opportunity when it comes along. But I would advise you not to take hold of a lie - because eventually the stench of it all will linger on you, too.

As for Halloween? I don't care what the historical origins are. They're completely moot today. Nobody out there is telling their children, 'remember - if you get enough Snickers® bars you'll be granted the power to control dogs and goats!' Well, OK. I did tell "M" that but I really, really love Snickers®. No one else out there is saying it. I don't imagine there are large numbers of families out there who throw a tenth of their childrens' haul on a bonfire in the name of ba'al.

So put those little pumpkins of yours in cute little costumes and let 'em go door to door begging for freebies. It won't turn them into pagans and it won't turn them into welfare recipients, (unless they're still doing it on November 14^th.)

Besides, they might score a bunch of Sinckers®...

You can consider this, "Part I" if you wish - which I would advise - because I'm not only going to tell a little tale in this segment, I'm going to use it as a springboard for an upcoming post this week. It will also give me a very easy title for that post, not that I spend a great deal of time on that aspect of this stuff anyway...

Quick background: As part of the court order which established their visits, the bio-parents are required to bring with them "tokens," or 'trinkets.' That is, they are supposed to bring small gifts like cards or simple paper puzzles or stickers - NOT food or diapers or anything that would show evidence of acquiring the life skills required to handle these three little Tazmanian Devils. It is what it is and after all, I wasn't the judge.

On one of the visits that they showed up for, the bio-mother brought a "neckl@ce" kit that consisted of orange thread and tiny beads that spelled out, "BE$T FR!END$" "M" has worn it consistently ever since. It also gets a fair deal of mention by the hens that she sometimes runs into as part of her life as our Daughter. You know the thing; "such a pretty necklace! Did you make it?" or, "What does your necklace say? Did you make it?" (That 'what does it say' question is a pretty important one, since her lifestyle usually means that half the letters are at her back and they have all certainly re-arranged themselves into an unreadable jumble of alphabet soup.)

Now, early on "M's" answer to whatever variant of the "where did you get it" question was, "MY mommy made it." (The difference clearly being in the addition of the "MY" part: it's a spin that The Wif has seemingly not yet picked up on, being as she's just happy enough being called "Mommy." Who am I to wet the charcoals at her picnic?) But recently, I've cringed 3 different times as she's been sent through the "necklace gauntlet" by different hens at different times. WHY would they torment the child with such questions? As if it weren't obvious...

The interesting thing has been her responses to the questions. The first time was, "uhhh, I made it." The next time - just a couple of days later - was, "I made it." Then, a mere ten minutes later, when asked again, she simply said, "Mommy made it." Interesting, no?

Well I thought it was. Her responses went from a Salt In The Wound feeling for me to what I suspected might actually have been a Window Into Her Soul kind of thing. Maybe. If she were being open and honest, that was. But who could answer that question?

Well, I'm going to give HER the chance to answer that: because this weekend her "neckl@ce" broke, sending tiny beads across the floor of her room, somehow. All beads were eventually recovered and no threads were harmed in the acting out of this scene.

Oh wait. NO, the orange thread finally gave up in the face of time and wear and friction and bathing. So forget that last part...

Giving Mommy and Daddy the chance to talk about its future:

M: We're probably going to disagree on this, but her neckl@ce broke this morning.

D: I saw the pieces. Where are you wrong? What do you want to do about it?

M: I want to get something other than thread and help her put it together - and add some flower beads and some decorative charms..."

D: Well...

M: I don't want to force her to forget them.

D: We can't force her to forget them...

M: You should have seen her; she was hysterical when she discovered it had broken. She was holding the parts in her hand and brought them to me. She was a wreck - when we went through the parts we saw that she was missing a "B"

D: (THINKING ONLY): "a" "B"? In that phrase where there's only ONE "B." So shouldn't that be "THE 'B'" rather than giving the impression that there were an abundance of the second letter of the alphabet?

M: ...but we found it under the changing table.

D: Rather than pushing things one way or the other, why don't we set it aside, out of her eyesight and see what comes of it in the coming days? If she continues to mention it for a couple of days, then you can rebuild it with her, (further blurring the memory, I think), but if she forgets it, we can put it in the "2020" envelope and share it with her should she ask later.

M: Maybe. But she was crying...

D: And maybe she was crying because they haven't made a visit in nearly two months (Mommy nods reluctantly)). Maybe she was crying because it's obvious they've abandoned her and she just can't face that thought (another reluctant nod). I mean, she might have pulled the thing apart herself and then instantly regretted destroying that tie to them (raised eyebrow). We can't know for sure at the moment. Let's set it aside and judge her state of mind by what she has to say in the next week. That's how she'll really let us know what's going on with her.

Mommy then picked up the remains and moved them to the top of the fridge. Where they go next is a question for the future...

PARTY TIME...!

Well, "M" had her 5^th birthday party at Wall E. Weasel's on Sunday. And it should probably go without saying that loud, raucous, screechy fun was had by all...

All those under 10 years old, that is. I cannot tell you how many times I heard, "we've lost Alex" or "we've lost Lynne." Which - while true at the time - proved false in the very short run. Of course, these phrases always followed, "where's Alex?" or "where's Lynne?" which meant that I was quickly able to detect a pattern to the whole thing.

Fun, toys, games, gifts, Gramma-Cake and Binky Boy chomping on either crackers or party guests. What more could one want?

My BED! See you tomorrow...

Oh, right. Like anyone's going to step forward and willingly admit to being old enough to understand that title. You know - you're running the real risk of isolating your audience at this rate. I mean, first you scare the life out of everyone then you assume they're all old. That's quite a week!

Well, it was quite a day, too. I awoke with a head full of concrete and expecting a couple inches of snow outside. Instead, I was greeted by this:

Well. Good thing this was a die at work from home day for me, huh? Even though I felt like I was in Death's zip code, I wouldn't have to navigate The Death Star out in all that Partly Cloudy. That's a pretty decent start, right? So I retire to what passes for my temporary home office and get started. In theory, anyway...

It is beyond me as to how snowfall - in whatever quantity - would interfere with a wireless network short of pulling down the cable lines. Which, upon further visual inspection, are NOT down. Happily suspended they remain, but I still have trouble negotiating a sturdy connection. And then, once I'm able to maintain a stable pipe into the treasured land behind Uncle Sam's firewall, (our borders should be so secure), I connect to my desktop only to discover that it requires 4.7 reboots (Complete aside: OH, now this is funny enough to derail me for the rest of the night should I choose to go there: I just wrote about the porous nature of our border and then a mere dozen words later I discover that my fancy-dancy, low-profile spellcheck program doesn't recognize 'reboots' and instead suggests rebozos. Hilarious, huh? But it gets better; in writing this distraction I discover the spellchecker doesn't even recognize "spellchecker." Who wrote this program? How was it accomplished? It brings to mind the "lethal joke" skit the Pythons did, where each translator worked on a single word, lest someone see two words together and spend a month in hospital. Because this sort of geekery is exactly what's needed to round out this week - but wait; we're about to introduce large quantities of melancholy. All I need to do now is admit to murdering small puppies and torturing cute kittens (or Iraqi prisoners). How pathetic. If even two of you are still talking to me in a month's time it'll be a testament to your patience. Now, where was I? Oh yeah - rebozoing my work computer...)

Well, it took a certain number of bozos before the thing was functional, and the process goes something like this: wait. Logon. Recognize the software isn't repsonding. Troubleshoot which software is to blame for the delay. Figure out what its particular beef might be. Re-boot/bozo. Wait. Logon. Continue and repeat ad nauseum. But what to do during all those periods of waiting?

So as I sit in my living room, looking out at a seemingly infinite number of snowflakes falling I'm struck by an odd sense of... what should I call it - nostalgia? That doesn't quite cover it but the reasons why probably amount to little more than a technicality, so we'll go with that for now.

So as the snow falls and I realize that this is the time of year I really, really enjoy and nothing signifies its arrival more so than a ginormous dumping of snow I'm feeling a bit nostalgic for the loss of summer. Not just for the general Great, Temporary Death of Winter but with specific feelings of loss for this specific summer just passed. But do you all realize how very stupid that is? Not just stupid but utterly and completely idiotic on just about every level I can imagine...

I am NOT a summer person; I dislike the heat and I'm not all that wild about all that extended daylight. Cool - cold even - and overcast. That's what really brings a smile to my face. And you'll never hear me wax poetic on the merits of an evening at the ball park because I think baseball is as large a waste of time as you're likely to find on this earth. I'm neither fisherman nor surfer so I do not reap a personal reward from increased temps. It's true that I golf but unfortunately I get out almost as often in November as I do in June, so that's a push.

But most obvious is the fact that the kids are now here, and they only moved in at the end of summer, so why would I lament the loss of this specific season when so many bright ones lie before us? I mean, I have the family I've always wanted and never could have imagined and things are all looking up from here; "M" will grow into a beautiful young woman, D-Man will be a talented comic/surgeon, (Motto on business card: "I'll have you in stitches one way or the other!"), and Binky Boy will forge a path that no mortal can even imagine at this point. Bright futures and broad horizons, one and all. In short, my future summers promise all that the previous one lacked: Soccer games, dance recitals, music lessons, mathletics appearances, family foursomes on the local golf course and so on.

So. What the Hell is my problem, exactly? Well, in circumstances like this where logic fails me I can only turn to human nature. And swear loudly at it...

I guess my problem is that summer is a symbol. It would then follow that all the seasons are, too, I suppose, but there seems to be something almost melancholy in me about this summer. Perhaps it's simply that I did so little with it. Lost potential is worth mourning a little, I suppose and Heaven knows that I'm about to do much, much more with the ones that are to come. But I think the larger problem is that I - being human - naturally want it all. Everything, please, and I want it NOW!

I want to see the kids grow up and I want to preserve them in Lucite® so they won't. I want "M" to use the language properly but it's so darn cute the way she stumbles through some of it. I want Binky Boy to be OK if I have to set him down to do the dishes, but I want to go through all of the rest of my life with his tiny little head resting - trustingly and lovingly - on my left shoulder, (he also pats me on the back when I'm trying to burp him; bring on the Lucite!).

There. That's all I'm asking. Is that so much? Yeah, probably, so what to do? In the words of a little man wise beyond his years:

"Shek Yur Bootee."

He also knows the Hokey Pokey - KINDA. And either of them might be what it's all about...

J.O.T.W...

To tell the truth, THIS should be the joke, (WARNING: Safe for work). Indeed, it IS A joke, but not OUR joke. I mean, it has all the hallmarks of those "parent marches" that go off in support of public school bond issues but without the drooling sycophant misspellings, but complete with the PERFECT misspelling.

Symmetry. It's hard to resist...

So instead, I offer you this thin sheet of email-spread boilerplate: (HT: Unc)

Judy, a professional genealogical researcher, discovered that Hillary Clinton's great-great uncle, Remus Rodham, a fellow lacking in character, was hanged for horse stealing and train robbery in Montana in 1889. The only known photograph of Remus shows him standing on the gallows. On the back of the picture is this inscription: "Remus Rodham; horse thief, sent to Montana Territorial Prison 1885, escaped 1887, robbed the Montana Flyer six times. Caught by Pinkerton detectives, convicted and hanged in 1889."

Judy emailed Hillary Clinton for comments. Hillary's staff of professional image adjustors cropped Remus's picture, scanned it, enlarged the image, and edited it with image processing software so that all that's seen is a head shot. The accompanying biographical sketch is as follows:

"Remus Rodham was a famous cowboy in the Montana Territory. His business empire grew to include acquisition of valuable equestrian assets and intimate dealings with the Montana railroad. Beginning in 1883, he devoted several years of his life to service at a government facility, finally taking leave to resume his dealings with the railroad. In1887, he was a key player in a vital investigation run by the renowned Pinkerton Detective Agency. In 1889, Remus passed away during an important civic function held in his honor when the platform upon which he was standing collapsed."

Now THAT'S spin!

Well, that was interesting. I guess we'll now see how much a blog can withstand by way of popularity after either ticking off or creating panic - or both - in each and every one of its readers. What a fun little experiment and a good larf was had by all, no?

Alright; no. Not so much anyway. I can tell you that the reactions were many and varied and somewhat interesting to observe. It seemed that those you who know us best were the most likely to "fall" for the gag, which struck as strange on a couple of levels, until I had the chance to toss it around in my brain for awhile, (I analyze EVERYthing, ALL the time. It's a wonder I'm not COMPLETELY crazy instead of just 80% of the way there). Then things started to make sense in a way I'm not going to bore you with. Mainly because it's not only dull but might well accidentally insult some and I'm not about to try that after yesterday.

Were you here yesterday? Do you recall what happened then? And how much do you charge if you don't rehearse? (This may be the only website in existence which still references Marx Brothers bits that isn't exclusively dedicated to those Hilarious Hebes. Let's crank it up to 86%.)

So, I've decided that I owe you. If I can scrape an extra 10 minutes out of the evening, (it'll be tough - I have to write my newspaper column tonight), I'll size, crop, write and upload some new kid pics. And I'll even try to find one where D-Man is smiling. (It's remarkable how happy and animated the child is but we have a hard time finding a picture to prove it.) But, I'll also reward your patience and indulgence by having a whole post dedicated to home/family/kid stuff. It's not my favorite stuff to do - because I'd much rather write about my opinions than my life, (it seems SO narcissistic) - but I know many of you, who, if the stereotype is true are unable to parallel park, are here for nothing else. So let's get going...

First off, "M" enjoyed her birthday, Spartan as it was, (most of you think you understand her nickname. You actually don't; she's nick'd after the King-High boss of the Ian Flemming Bond legend. Because she is almost certainly... well, you understand it now). What did we do? Well, she celebrated her special day with a visit to the wic office. A visit she didn't attend because she's now considered Over-The-Hill so far as that particular office is concerned and instead spent almost 2 hours with Daddy at his office.

Can you say: "fraggin' Whee?" Thankfully she doesn't come anywhere near her Daddy's cynicism and actually seemed to really enjoy herself in our otherwise life-stifling building. She took great joy in announcing, "I'm 5!" to anyone and everyone who would listen. And then she remembered to tell them that TODAY was her birthday. She even went to the store with Mommy and her Brothers. Where she gleefully announced to anyone who would listen that it was her birthday. At home that evening, she got a flaming cupcake and a Dora Halloween-themed book.

I don't mean to give away the ending, but Dora finally decides to dress up as a witch - which is exactly what "M" will be for Halloween. Complete with a green face to signify the fact that she's an evil witch. She had to clarify that to the Young Blonde at the office earlier: green face, bad. Pink face, good. Just so we're all clear on that.

Daddy also included a magnet with the Dora book. A magnet of the Wicked Witch of The West. And we all know what color HER face is! It's all about symmetry, people. Beautiful, rare, exquisite symmetry...

So in short, how did "M" celebrate her 5th birthday? Just like any other newly 5 year old American girl does; by making the very best of every moment of it. She's still young enough that all of those 86,400 seconds bear her name and her name alone. And we wouldn't change a single one of them.

For reasons I feel yet cannot explain, D-Man already seems to be the "glue" that unites not just the three kids but Mommy and Daddy as well. It's not as if we're leaning on him or casting unfair expectations upon his future. It's more like he's the Ambassador From The United Small People Convention in that as the middle child he's able to relate to his older Sister and younger Brother in a unique way and then translate all that to the Big People, (The "establishment"), in a way that transcends his inability to string a half-dozen words together. He is rebellious youth and understanding elder all in one. He also insists on throwing bits of food at every meal, but I suspect he's only trying to court the canine-American vote, ("I'm D-Man, and I approve this
blatant waste of fish sticks...").

He already shows signs of an, um..., unique sense of humor. One that will confound Mommy in a couple of years. He laughs at things he shouldn't understand, (SO much like The 'Phews in that way), and even searches his limited - but VERY CUTE - number of routines for stuff that he knows amuses. And due to an unfortunate linking from Daddy that surrounds his exit from the bathtub, he goes around saying, "ShakeYerBooty" in a way that would do Frank Zappa proud. (Yes, I hear you all saying, "Zappa? Shake Your Booty? The two are utterly unrelated! SYB was KC and the Sunshine Band - later redone by BM and the moonshine octet. What ARE you talking about? Well, that's some attitude you got there, Mister...)

Shek Yur Bootee

And what can I say about Binky Boy that cannot be imagined? He's adorable. He's an Ultra-Real-Life Tickle Me Elmo without the nuisance of having to pay the royalties. We've done some research and discovered that meth babies are usually Uber-concentrated on the texture of the things with which they come into contact, (I so stretched that sentence into near-incoherence in order to comply with the laws of language that I hope Indy stumbles his way upon it. He'll appreciate the irony), that they often freak out at the introduction of new surfaces. Well, The Binkster often fits this category, so we have cause for concern.

Except that we really don't, because I remember Sarge's reaction when he was introduced to the fraggin' lawn: Scared. Freaked. Wanting to be carried AWAY from this menace as soon as was possible. So when I saw the same reaction at Binky Boy's first introduction to a semi-tamed, favorably-viewed collection of green ground adornment?

Yeah, sure... (In fact, I now ask all of you to read C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce and tell me that certain ideas from the book didn't come to him from the same experience. Universal is Understood, and all...)

And finally, something I meant to mention earlier: D-Man has branched out and become something more than an online enticement to female readers of this page. He is somehow - in MY mind - now more than a subject of my attention everywhere and writing here. He is the subject of his cousins' "term" paper...

His eldest cousin - possibly picking up on that "magic" power I mentioned earlier - is making D-Man the central theme in his school-assigned paper on "changing the life of others" (actual theme may vary). and is going to mention him as a person whose life is in need of changing. And will further mention him (D-Man) as a person whose life has already been changed for the better, will continue in its need to be changed for the better and he (Cousin Sarge), will do everything in HIS power to see that his (D-Man's) life is improved through his stay with us.

It's a tall order, but I know he's (Cousin Sarge) up to it...

The whole thing is touching at a level that demands a thousand words to explain it.

But I haven't the time for a thousand words tonight. Besides, One Thousand words would barely scratch the surface...

Well. I have only to say that this website has always been an open and honest reflection of what's going on in my life and what's happening in my heart. To whatever extent good taste and public decorum will allow said discussion, anyway. And it is in that same spirit that I make the following interesting announcement:

The Stonestead is no longer playing host to three siblings under the age of 5.

 ... 

I know this may come as a shock and surprise to some of you, but we saw it coming from the very first day. It was always lying out there on the horizon and now we've managed to sail right into it, if only by waiting it out. So we can't very well claim that the whole thing is surprise, and I won't...

So I type this on Tuesday night - standing up in the kitchen and not caring that the 'top is about to run out of battery - knowing that as YOU read this on Wednesday...

...it's "M's" fifth birthday.

Gotcha? Use the link. Please. It would mean the world to me...

I know, I know. We're all sick to death of the political ads already. (As I've written before, if you know of an "undecided" voter in your circle, be sure to pop them in the mouth because these things exist solely for their benefit at this point.) Longtime readers will know that this is typically the time of the election cycle when I give my "candidate philosophy" in great detail, but not so this year...

(My philosophy - in 100 words or less: The people who advise the voter to "vote for the candidate and not the party" are very, very naive. In a majority-rule system like we have, the important thing is to fill the majority with people you agree with more. Not perfect candidates, for no such creature exists. Just vote for the party that gets you closest to your ideal and this sometimes means holding your nose in the name of practicality because you can't have perfection. You should always vote for a local scoundrel if it means getting an upstanding leader to chair the important committees. It's the unfortunate truth of an imperfect world.)

Instead, there are a couple of interesting things on the Colorado ballot that I'd like to cover quickly. Some of you are already guessing... good for you!

One of the issues this year is being sold as the "protect petitions" issue. And one is left to surmise that it made it to the ballot by way of... a petition. So where's the problem? Are we to believe that this was the very last opportunity given to petition the government for a change in the law? And they used it in order to guarantee our right to further change the law? How sweet of them...

There are a couple of issues related to school financing this time around, but the cynic/realist in me says that there's not much hope that things are going to change in our schools no matter how much we wish them to. Still, the teacher's union opposes 39 and actually had a hand in writing J, so I'm always more than happy to vote against them if given the chance. And they've just served up the chance.

In general, I'd advise simply to vote against any ballot issue in Colorado because the much-maligned Taxpayer's Bill of Rights mandates that any change to existing law requires a "Yes" vote, and things in this beautiful state of mine are going pretty well and look to for the future. With one exception that will surprise exactly NONE of you; the definition of Marriage.

A number of states have already taken the initiative in defending Marriage as it ALWAYS has been defined and it's time we did the same. Not merely to follow the crowd but in order to protect us from another crowd. It is especially chilling to consider that with the arbitrary stroke of their magic wand 3 judges - unelected judges - from a far-flung land might completely change law in my backyard. There seems no reason to allow such a breach in our circumstance to continue uncorrected.

There - that's the non-religious, non-emotional, rational explanation behind my decision. (And you're not even going to get the religious argument. Not today anyway. You're welcome.)

On the more emotional, gut-feelings level I have to say that I'm not in the least bit excited by the idea of introducing my nearly-five-year-old girl to the idea that when she grows up - if she wants to - she can "marry" another girl or attend the "wedding" of her brothers as they "marry" other boys. It's something that just doesn't belong in her mind. And this is above and beyond the fact that she's already experienced more than the average little girl should. NO child should be allowed to become so confused about the specifics of sex roles at such an early age.

And if it turns out that - for whatever reason - she grows up to be homosexual? Well, in the course of the home study that allowed these children to come live here, I summed up my parental philosophy as, "my children should know that they're not allowed to be a burden on anyone." Meaning that they aren't allowed to destroy the mood in a restaurant because they think they're the center of the universe, that they should know to behave in the classroom, that they're expected to work and carry their own weight through life and they shouldn't expect ALL of the FRAGGIN' world to bow to their whims. Like wanting to redefine a 5,000 year old institution so that they might feel better about themselves.

It should go without saying that the other side of the coin is that my children will be raised with morals and beliefs and know that it would be wrong to cast out or tease or ostracize those who are different. No matter what the difference. But it hardly feels worth mentioning...

But my biggest - no, BIGGEST - problem with the Ref 'i' folks is their blatant lying. It's one thing to spin a campaign ad to say that, "my opponent favors a radical agenda" if you honestly believe that eliminating the estate tax is radical. It's another thing completely to go out of your way to tell bald-faced lies to the public in the hopes of finding a gullible ignorant audience...

Hospital visitation? This is the oldest lie of their quest. So old in fact that it's slowly finding it's way out of their agit-prop. The truth is that thanks to the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA), ANY patient can request that ANY non-patient be allowed to visit them and even allow/tell caregivers to share health-related information. I think I mentioned this before, but when Dood was spending a leisurely holiday in hospital I was able to walk right into the facility, ride an elevator, (Ohh! So cosmopolitan! And I'd heard such grand things about them at the St. Louis World Fair!), directly to his floor and wandered the halls unmolested as I searched for his room. Nobody even asked me the nature of my visit or if we'd need a few minutes alone...

As for the rest of the 'i' supporters' talking points, they are equally dismissed; property inheritance? Burial rights? Anyone out there ever hear of a Will? They're all the rage in nursing homes and disgruntled families. In fact, every single issue that's brought up on this side of this issue HAS ALREADY BEEN ADDRESSED THROUGH EXISTING LEGAL DEVICES!!

This fact gives the lie to the idea that we're about to correct serious lapses or close certain loopholes because no such lapses or loopholes even exist.

Remember: a vote of "YES" CHANGES existing law 'Round this town...

As if I have to prove it. That is all...

SOMETHING'S GOTTA GIVE...

...And indeed - one hopes - something has. Stay tuned and we'll find out together. Details are to follow - unless they're not. Then I don't know what to tell you...

HOW THINGS WORK...

I continue to learn about this business of having little people in the house. Of course, many husbands and fathers have trod this path before me so what I report will be of little value to them, but did they post their experiences and research on their personal websites for all the world to see and learn from? No?!? Why on earth not?!?

Because Fatherhood is a joke. And I don't mean that in a bad way at all; fatherhood IS a joke, AND it's the opening gesture into a whole world of dark humor. Should one choose that path and of course we all do.

Now, I'm not saying that it isn't a noble calling or that being a father is a less than important job - Heaven knows more kids today could use a decent father and I know of three that I'm probably failing in some regard - it's just that we men approach the whole thing differently. Fatherhood is not like Motherhood in the least and even the slightest bit of effort into researching the subject will prove that all of our High School teachers and college professors were full of especially rancid excrement when they suggested otherwise. And by way of example...

Speaking of excrement, (not only is that a great segue but probably the only time you're ever - EVER - going to hear that phrase), did you know that virtually all of the chores of Motherhood are centered around poop? It's true! For whatever reason, changing the diapers after a notably messy round of "baking brownies" is not enough. And I know that it's not enough because men can handle the chore. Oh, we'd rather not and should nature and good fortune provide us even the thinnest of excuses that we might ride into NOT doing the job, (Sorry hun - there's an eclipse on the way and I've got to... ummm... make sure we're well stocked with candles!) we're all over it. But if it comes down to it, we're well able to remove a poop-filled diaper and replace it with a clean one.

But there's more to it than that. There's the whole aspect of diagnosis, which then leads to an entire field of speculation and preventative maintenance which borders on alchemy: "Well, D-Man's poops were soft and runny while Binky Boy's were tiny and the consistency of play-doh," Good to see you too, dear, "So D-Man's lunch will include applesauce ("SAUCE!" he screams from the other room) and half a banana and we'll feed Binky Boy 2.82 ounces of pears followed by 3 teaspoons of prunes and we'll have to be sure to get an extra 3 ounces of formula into him before his morning nap..."

Mind you, this is a woman who is utterly incapable of working her cell phone should she even remember to take it with her, but give her 14 feet of child intestine and a pile of evidence that has made the trip and she's got a full menu planned out to the microgram for the next 3 days.

Not that she could tell you what a microgram is.

And there is the difference that proves the lie to all the krep we heard growing up: Men and women are basically the same? Really? How much of your brain do you have to have removed before you fall for that one? You have only to look at parents and their children and the various ways they interact to dispel that myth...

Mommy: At the first scream. she comes running.
Daddy: First scream? Who hears the first scream? For that matter, who hears the second hour of screams?

Mommy: The kid's poop is too tight/rough/loose/firm/spread and his/her diet will have to be adjusted.
Daddy: Is that kid in diapers STILL? And didn't I just change one in May?

Mommy: He's got a play-date with B**** from church on Thursday and we'll be at the park on Wednesday and S*** is coming over tomorrow...
Daddy: Aren't there other Mommies around that could lend a hand?

See? We're not so far apart as we once imagined...

ALMOST AS IF I PLANNED IT...

I knew this day would come. I expected it. I even prepared for it in so much as I delegated all authority - even complete financial control - over to The Wif and Bonehead, (as dangerous as that sounds). But they failed me. They fell short of "our" goal of celebrating the Big Round number that passes today by way of my Folks this very day.

This weekend should have seen a big, Hell-King Blowout of a party in their honor. After all, 30 years together is not something that happens everyday and especially in today's environment. So it should have been celebrated. It was my intent to see that it was celebrated, in fact. I had even designed and empowered a committee that I put in charge of such things.

Which only demonstrates the extent of my power, I suppose. No surprise there...

So the question that faces me tonight is, would they rather have had the party I "planned?" Well, given the fact that they've already settled into a comfortable routine, (which is one of the things we would be celebrating), and given the added fact that they have already jumped whole-heartedly and without reservation into our newly-founded family to every extent that we ourselves have, and are indeed wholly involved to whatever extent we allow them...?

Would my folks rather celebrate their 30^th anniversary or plan for their Granddaughter's 5^th birthday party?

Are you kidding me?

Well, I can give the boys a bath. I can - in spite of all protestations to the contrary - prepare dinner. I can get myself up in time for work, (or at least we're assuming I can, because I haven't been able to manage it yet), but so far I've missed the major mission statement of our household to this point to date:

Which seems to be the unfortunate ability to START one's day in the absence of the other. It's a point I won't press, lest I be reminded of it later. So just keep your mouth shut, huh?

J.O.T.W...

On a transatlantic flight, a plane passes through a severe storm. The turbulence is awful, and things go from bad to worse when one wing is struck by lightning. One woman in particular loses it.

Screaming, she stands up in front of the plane. "I'm too young to die!" she wails. "Well, if I'm going to die, I want my last minutes on Earth to be memorable! I've had plenty of sex in my life, but no one has ever made me really feel like a woman! Well I've had it! Is there ANYONE on this plane who can make me feel like a WOMAN??"

For a moment, there is silence. Everyone has forgotten their own peril, and they all stare, riveted, at the desperate woman in the front of the plane.

Then, a man stands up in the rear of the plane. "I can make you feel like a woman," he says. He's gorgeous. Tall, built, with long, flowing black hair and jet black eyes, he starts to walk slowly up the aisle, unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time. No one moves.

The woman is breathing heavily in anticipation as the stranger approaches. He removes his shirt. Muscles ripple across his chest as he reaches her, and extends the arm holding his shirt to the trembling woman, and whispers:

"Iron this."

Yeah, it's a repeat. But it's a MEANINGFUL repeat. Follow after me...

So, I'm about to write my weekly Theology Thursday column and thought I take a glance back at last week to see whether I posted it here on Thursday or just included a link to the paper's online version of it on Friday when I discover something that ALL OF YOU KNEW ALL ALONG but nobody bothered to tell me: there was no Friday installment last week. For a "blogger," this is both interesting and terrifying. Interesting because you guys are apparently ready to forgive me the occasional slip-up and not bother me when there's an entire post missing, and terrifying because YOU DON'T CARE THAT I DIDN'T HAVE SOMETHING TO OFFER THAT DAY!

(PSST! You're exposed!

Oh, that. Well, it's not news to most of them anyway...)

So of course I feel as if I owe you an apology, but part of me thinks that maybe you owe me one as well. After all, you did bring this on yourself, didn't you? I mean, the ball was in your court and you were free to say something at any time, so let's just agree that we won't waste a lot of time in dwelling on who owes an apology to whom and we can get on withI'M SORRY! I won't do it again, I promise! It's just that I've been under a lot of pressure lately and even though I know better...

(If you think that bit was in bad taste, you're probably right. Please forgive. I find myself in the new "usual" position, which is mere hours from a bleating alarm and exhausted beyond all mental capacity to distinguish good taste from bad. Plus, there's a ton of good TV on right now...)

ANYWAY, the reason I wanted to check what I'd done last week is because I recently happened upon a fortunate mistake which meant I could submit my Theology posts directly to the paper - thereby not subjecting those of you who don't want to read them, to them here. I could simply include a link and those that were interested could go read it there, (that has the added benefit of increasing my numbers on the site which could mean they're more likely to publish me in the dead tree version, and that has several serious and long-term consequences further down the road). On the other hand, if I publish the posts here and then submit them to the paper, it would lighten my Wednesday night burden for this site. Sure I'd be duplicating the story in two different forums, but including it here would mean I could write less than I would without it.

(And now that THAT'S clear...) Each option has its drawbacks and its very distinct advantages and since my brain is currently composed of roughly 86% lumpy oatmeal, I was just dying to see which one I finally went with. Seriously: I had no idea how I had decided to handle it, so I thought I'd research it. That's the nature of this beast - you forget what you write almost as soon as it's done. Fortunately, there's almost always a record of it you can look back at. If you're brave enough...

At any rate, I finally realized that the lack of a Friday post was not enough to deter my research, as I saw that I had not included a TT post on Thursday. AH! So that was my decision; to increase my numbers at a rate slightly less than 1/8th by which it would increase my work burden. After all, I'm so busy I can't breathe already, so why not take on an extra column each week? (To tell the truth, I kinda expected that was the way I'd go. I'm notorious for rising to the challenge so why wouldn't I undertake one more?)

So... Tomorrow there WILL be a post. There WILL be a Joke Of The Week. There may even be some lovely photography of the fall countryside, (I said "MAY" dang it - don't get pushy!). And I will include a link to my newspaper column for those so inclined to read it.

Much like I should have done last week. I apologize for that picture, by the way...

THE POLITICS OF THE PERSONAL (INSULT)...

OK. Tis the season and all and I have to admit that, along with most of you, I HATE political ads. I despise how they frame the issues as, "if you vote for him/her, the earth will spin of its axis and go hurtling into the sun." I hate the simplistic nature of that kind of... well, I won't even call it 'reasoning.' I just mostly HATE how political ads play EVERYone as complete morons.

But it isn't without a reason. After all, if they didn't work the campaigns would have moved on to something new long ago. And it is for that reason that I know how these ads come into being. Namely, because they're playing to the "undecided" or "unaffiliated" or "waffling" voter, because these are the only people open to being swayed by political advertising. It's the perfect circular reasoning...

Let's face it: seriously committed voters of any stripe cannot be pulled out of their camps by a 30 second soundbite/attack ad. It just doesn't happen on either side. So ads are crafted with the intent of swaying an uninformed person over to their side. In that sense, the ads HAVE to pretend that the viewers are idiots, because that's their target demo; people who aren't paying attention to the candidates and the issues.

It is for this reason that a candidate in Minnesota can get away with saying (of the foley incident), that the Republicans are guilty of "child molestation." Not only does it play to her base, but the language - no matter how disingenuous - is likely to sway a voter who is ignorant as to the facts of the case. Such is the case in Colorado and other states as well: the left comes out with ads claiming that "Johnny Q. Goebbels" is in favor of "Bush's decision to BAN stem cell research." Research that, the ad goes on, will certainly cure AIDS, ADD, cancer, the inability to parallel park and poor radio reception within the year if only it weren't for that evil President. So don't vote for his cronies, either.

Of course the truth is that President Bush never BANNED stem cell research. His Executive Directive, (I know that's not the correct term, but don't you think it should be?), simply said that no FEDERAL MONEY (READ: your money) would be used to embroaden (again, shouldn't it be a word?) the research IF such research would destroy new lines of embryos.

And here I've lost you. But that's OK. If you're confused, there are a whole bunch of TV ads which promise to clear things up for you...

I wouldn't say I'm jaded, exactly, and would hope that I never will be, but when I come out of my daily hibernation and see two little bodies at the breakfast table, I've come to expect that its my boys dining on a feast of yogurt, fruit and a blended, pre-packaged mush calling itself something that we could create for half the cost. Usually - and Thank God for it - squealing with delight at the sight of me. I can't even imagine what I've done to deserve that, but like so much else in my life I'm realizing that it was a gift to me above and beyond my ability to earn it.

Which is cool beyond words...

You can only guess at my surprise when it turns out that the two little bodies at this morning's early serving of Breakfast Ala Mommy were Binky Boy and "M". That's right - in her earliest appearance ever, "M" was awake, alert and at the table before either I or D-Man was out of bed, (although, for the record, I beat D-Man). As it turns out, the only difference was that instead of generic squeals and indistinct cries of "Daah..", (Again - WAAAAYYY Cool - lest you think I'm complaining about the lack of diction), I was greeted by excited squeals and a very exacting scream of, "DADDEE!"

Again, very cool...

But I had to work so work I did. I went downstairs into my cave and prepared for the worst; namely a morning filled with call after call, for such is the way of gubermint today: there's no problem so bad that it can't be ignored or prolonged via a conference call. Fortunately, my team has all the calls and none of the problems - so holding a phone to one's ear becomes a burden with all the weight of holding aloft a hummingbird suffering from ADHD.

Lunch was spent with my family. (And how simple a phrase to describe something I could never even attempt to describe any other way.) Every one of them was exactly what every one of them have proven themselves to be. Utterly predictable in every way except in that "what may come" sense. And it's because I'm not naive enough to expect this to continue that I'm able to appreciate it in all its glory now: things WILL change, which is all the more reason to be grateful for the fact that they haven't yet. So I'll enjoy them at every opportunity as I can now.

As a predictable side effect, the first measurable snowfall of the season started this morning. After all, if things are to be shaken up, let's start shaking!

I asked "M" how she liked the snow, obviously - I thought - swirling outside our windows. She replied that, "it was OK, but it feels like rain." Which proved to me that she hadn't yet looked outside of her home. Which is both good and bad and expected and surprising and utterly strange and in need of correction.

In time. For now, my hope is that she feel safe and secure and familiar and grounded and most of all AT. HOME. Because that's the first brick in a sure-footed childhood...

I am glad and proud to announce that The Stonestead is teeming with cheerful, overly-happy children. I just wish I were as proud of the reason that is so. Namely, these three little darlings are particularly upbeat because Mommy and Daddy are currently suffering from a variety of sleep-deprived psychosis that makes it impossible for us to deny them even the most unreasonable request:

"You want to stay up until midnight? Of course!" "You want Choco-Frosted Sugar Bombs for lunch? I insist upon it!" "You want to go downtown and light homeless people on fire? Well, just remember to wear sensible shoes..."

Actually, Mommy appears to be in pretty good shape, overall. Master of the power-nap that she is, I know that she's snuck in a few here and there - namely as she's rocking Binky Boy to sleep, so she's in good company there. Daddy, however, while still able to manage verticality should it be forced upon him, would rather not have to prove it. In short, I'm exhausted...

(I know; if that was "in short" you'd hate to see me expand on a topic. So go ahead and check in on Ziggy now, because here we go!)

The source of my fatigue - like that of ALL of my problems - is self-initiated. But I'm not going to stand by the lame excuse that I'm still trying to fit in all of the nightly activities I did in the spring under these new kid-enhanced circumstances. Mainly because it makes for a really, really lame post.

My excuse story starts Friday afternoon. Binky Boy and I were headed into town to buy 10 gigantic loaves of bread, 12 pounds of butter and other provisions so The Wif might attempt to end hunger among the mountain Baptist community on Saturday. Not a long or stressful trip, other than it messed with the Boy's nap and therefore kept him up, hungry and angry much longer than he would have otherwise been.

Then, on Saturday, The Wif wanted me up early in order to wrangle kids, prepare food, do dishes and prepare lunch, among other things that I no doubt failed to do. It was all due to another event-driven panic-fest that saw the Phews and Gamma & Gampa (D-Man will point to a picture of Grandma and say, "Gampa!", but he's also been known to run to me shouting "MOMMY!" the words are still new to his brain and on his tonge...) coming up to join us for lunch and then a trip to the annual harvest party hosted by our church.

A long, tiring evening that's more fun than nearly anything I can imagine. On the drive there, MonkeyFace and Binky Boy rode with me and I put in "Big House" by Audio Adrenaline - one of MonkeyFace's favorite songs. His only response was to reach across the cab and put a hand on my shoulder. These guys can really say a lot without speaking a word.

We were driving slowly because Grandpa was driving like a Grandma and had to follow us to our destination. Given our speed, MonkeyFace wondered where his crazy Uncle had gone. I had to explain to him that Grandpa has never been here before - but he (MonkeyFace) had been. "Yeah," he said, "but you can forget alot in just a year." Turns out they can say vast amounts of things by speaking, too...

At the party, after nightfall, I gave our kids and our nephews light sticks that we'd brought along. It was very reassuring to be able to track them in the dark by glances of green and orange. The problem was that once the other children saw them, they were dying to know where they might acquire similar collections of glowing chemicals. And they asked the adult that was hanging out with the kids with the glowing sticks.

I didn't think I'd brought a spare along, but was glad to find it when a rather persistent child followed me all the way across the compound and back to see if I could scrounge up another. Of course, as I handed it to him, I heard from a group of nearby kids, "HEY! He's handing them out!" just before they all rushed in my direction. Explanations and apologies seemed to soothe the damaged expectations. Thank goodness this was a church group!

Then, on Sunday morning, I took the boys to church with me in the truck so we could leave those slow dressing womenfolk behind. All the way there they were slapping hands, laughing, squealing and giggling. Not only do they sound so much alike that I couldn't tell them apart, but when I was finally able to, I noticed that Binky Boy was gasping for breath. We are SO doomed.

And I couldn't be happier about it...

(For those of who completely in the dark about this title, click here.)

I have just one question: if a man is alone in the forest and says something, is he still wrong?

(Of course, Dood took it upon himself to answer the rhetorical question, but it was a great answer; "that depends on whether or not word gets back to his wife that he said something.")

I thought I had it all together. Well, no. I know better than that - but I did think that I was at least on the right track...

At a recent church-related event I was taking great pains to learn the actual names of the adults there who seemed to know my kids. This seems - to me - a sensible thing to do on a couple of levels, so I'm making the effort. And it is an effort because for whatever reason, I have a very, very hard time with names. That may be why I rely so on nicknames, I don't know for sure.

In the past (and during this difficult time of transition; please bear with us), I've relied on descriptions and an all-knowing Wif to get through. It works, but it's an imperfect system. Observe, (all names have been changed to protect the hide of your humble narrator should his spouse ever decide to read this):

ME: "That woman who I see in the nursery was asking about D-Man today."

WIF: "What woman?"

ME: "That woman - the one with the tall husband."

WIF: "Who?"

ME: "She's young, kinky hair, cute..."

WIF: "'Young and cute,' huh...?

You can see where this can cause me difficulty. On a daily basis. And with more and more exposure to small children and their cute, young Mothers in my future I can't imagine it's going to get any better. So I shall try to learn names. It only seems right. Or so I thought. Observe:

ME: "That woman who I see in the nursery was talking about her kid's expensive formula yesterday," (Yes. This is what my conversations have become).

WIF: "What woman?"

ME: "That woman - the one with the tall husband."

WIF: "Who?"

ME: " 'Alabama' " (As if there isn't only one state in the Union that women are named after; New Hampshire).

WIF: "Who?"

ME: "She's young, kinky hair, cute..."

WIF: "Oh. You mean Mark's Mom?"

And just when I thought I had the answer, of course I don't. And I can't even ask, "what do they drive?" I've already tried that...

A NEW FIRST...

As you might imagine, every scent or trace of our "old" life that we experience now is a new experience when viewed in the light of 'coming home to dinner' or 'getting back before bedtime.' And it's a strange sort of world when I can honestly say that I enjoy both competing emotions. It's good to take some time for oneself, but those kids are at home learning new things that I'd really like to see manifest themselves.

Longtime parents may now cast their slightly-bemused expressions my way. We'll wait...

I went golfing with Dood, his Father-In-Law and a former co-worker of his FIL that really, really reminded me, (I finally figured it out!), of the Italian husband of a friend; he's tall and lanky with a laugh like no other and a genial attitude. Nice guy. As much as the resemblance caused me to think I'd met him before, I genuinely hope to hang with him again.

But the real recharge came from my time with Dood, natch. There's nothing like spending hours with a friend from the time you were seventeen to make you feel seventeen again. If only for a couple of hours before the aches and pains and baby-spit-stains remind you that - as much as you want to relive your past - a bright, shining future still lies ahead with its own unique challenges and heartbreaks.

But it will have its own soundtrack, too. Sometimes Veggietales and sometimes, when The Wif leaves it on the Uber-Twangy country CRAP channel, "tequila makes her clothes fall off." Which only leads to more questions; "Daddy? Why does keela make her clothes fall off?" "Because it's a very corrosive acid that dissolves all buttons, snaps and zippers. So make sure you stay away from that music."

And there are no rules that I'm aware of that say your life's new circumstances can only include new people surrounding them. Instead - and as events dictate - you can indeed integrate the old and the new and even make grand advances in both areas. I even have proof it's possible, but only Dood will understand it:

"Hot wax, please."

Thanks for your indulgence...

In all of the stuff that's going on in and around the world these days, there are some things that I simply will not allow my spleen to be held captive to. This is a very, very brief list of some of those things...

The personal lives of celebrities. No surprise here for those of you who know me; I care not who is dating whom or what they're wearing or not wearing while doing it. Jennifer Aniston is seen in the back seat of a steamy-windowed limo with the second-cousin of a famous Dutch wooden shoe maker? Couldn't give a fig. Matt Damon is rumored to be seeing the great-grand-niece of Zbigniew Brzezinski? Doesn't even register on my radar - except for the chance to say, "Zbigniew." Paris Hilton is... Well, let's stop right there and nobody gets hurt.

Of course, I will still feel free obligated to call them on their stupidity should they start to go off on American foreign policy...

North Korean Nukes. This might be a surprise to some of you, but I cannot whip myself into a thick froth over the fact that North Korea might or might not have nuclear capability. I guess I'm composed of just enough parts cynic and realist that I'm likely to believe the most likely scenario rather than the MOST! DIRE! READ! on events in that region. I prefer to lean on solid truths such as; the Chinese are not only ruthless but they share a common strip of land with NKor and they have no interest in allowing a punk-arse little dicktator to control the rapid and violent release of atoms. The Japanese, although threatening a naval blockade, seem to be little concerned over the whole thing - and they have a lot more at stake here than we do. As for the Russians - who also share a (much smaller) section of border with NKor? Putin? Are you kidding me? You think he couldn't still round up a few of his buddies from KGB and "make it look like an accident?" Pleeze. He's Asia's Tony Soprano with a smaller waist, worse hair and a better accent.

Besides, how great could their technology be if that's the best they can get their president's hair to look?

The Foley "Scandal". I'm sorry. Maybe it's the age in which we live or the continual numbing we're subjected to from the homosexual lobby or a combination of both, but I just can't bring myself to concentrate on an old, gay pervert who made inappropriate advances to young people who are either of the age of consent or just months short of the age of consent depending on the jurisdiction in which the flirtation took place.

It is funny that the left's usual argument is that sexual "orientation" is set as early as birth, but in this case say that the "sexual predation" of the congressman put our "children" at risk - thereby claiming that such an advance would confuse a 16 year old. Which is it?!? (And yes, I know I'm not allowed to ask that.) But that's as far as I'm willing to expose my spleen to this particular issue.

Well, just one more: it serves our society a great, vast disservice to call this "pedophilia." Flirting with a 16 year old - of whichever sex - is nowhere nearly comparable to, oh, let's say just for the sake of it - raping a 4 year old.

And if you just flinched at reading that last line, you know it's true...

QUICK UPDATE...

Just to let you know: the friend I wrote about who was whisked away to Chicago has seen her husband successfully come out of surgery. They implanted the kidney and all went well. They replaced the pancreas and all went well. Now we have only the next few months to see how welcoming his body is. Keep a good thought...

AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION...

OK, I'm looking for your input here. In case you haven't already gathered that from the title. And I should mention up-front that this is mere speculation in the widest possible sense. Mental self-stimulation of the most vigorous variety, if you must...

Here's the story, (although many of you already know most of it): The kids were finally united and spent their first night together under one roof here at The Stonestead during their first overnight visit this summer. Until then, they had only known one another during the 2-hour scheduled by the county twice a week. Which were rarely completed. Indeed, Since we first met the kids in mid-July the bio-parents have only made 2 visits. Each once-a-month and both on a Thursday.

But things have changed. They used to call to cancel the visits; they'd leave a message with the visit coordinator to say they wouldn't be there, but they no longer bother to go that far - they just don't show up at all. And to further complicate things, they haven't seemingly made any effort since their last appearance on 9/7. In fact, we recently learned that the paternal donor has stopped attending - and therefore failed for the third time - his court-mandated anger management classes.

He stopped attending in early September...

Further - and I gave it no further thought at the time - as the meeting on the sevenh ended, the bi0-parents gave us a couple O' pics of themselves "forthe kids."

The general feeling is that it was a grand Good Bye, but I remain unconvinced. Maybe it's just my flawed belief in my fellow human, but I have a hard time accepting that they'd just walk away from these 3 beautiful, near-perfect miracles. Especially considering that "M's" birthday will be in roughly 2 weeks. I mean, even if you've given up on the prospect of getting them back, wouldn't you at least show up for her birthday?

Then again, if those two were Parents Of The Year, these beautiful children wouldn't be here.

Let me know what you think about all this. It's much appreciated...

I have news. And perhaps the fact that I have news to lead with here is in itself news, but that's not what I mean...

To those of you who gave/donated/snacked after reading my post from last Thursday, (as regards the wife trying to raise funds for her husband's transplant -- and speaking of which, why hasn't Dood contacted me asking after the identity of said wife?), I would like to let you know that the Columbus Day Holiday will from this date forward mean something different for these people: namely, it will mean the Day They Got The Call.

My old school 'chum's' phone rang at roughly 1:00PM on Monday and from there things got strange. They raced to the airport, the plane raced them to O'Hare and at about 3:30 the next morning, her husband was being prepped for surgery. He went in about an hour later...

But she was able to email us to tell us where she was and what was happening. And then, roughly six hours later she found her way to a computer to tell us their tale so far. And so far was so good.

And then about 5 hours later she wrote to say that the kidney transplant had been completed and was thus-far successful; in that the kidney was connected and in place and seemingly functioning normally.

STEP ONE completed...

Yeeow-zee! Even though you know the cold is inevitable, it always slaps you just a little when it arrives -- as if to say, "...and THAT'S for enjoying all that warm weather last May! Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it!"

Well, it's here now and it's definitely a One Dog Night around The Stonestead. (Oh! That must be what he means by that title!) It was 48° when we got home tonight and it's always interesting trying to keep sleeping children asleep when transferring them from their warm, dry, quiet and secure car seats into the cold, wide-open and snowing outside. I guess that's why the saying goes, "let sleeping dogs lie" rather than "let sleeping children lie."

And since this is rapidly turning into a rather canine-American-themed post, let's just quickly discuss their role in all of this, shall we? When The Wif carries D-Man into his bed, I carry "M" into the house, (with strict instructions to WALK upstairs, WALK into the bathroom, brush her teeth and WALK herself into bed), let the dogs out and get Binky Boy from the car, what should I expect of the hairy beasts, (the dogs, not Mommy and "M"), hmmm? If I'm being realistic I should expect them to jockey for position around me and growl and bark at one another in an attempt to challenge/prove dominance. Of course I can feel Binky Boy's entire muscle structure tighten with each growl and every bark brings a confused, barely-controlled spasm from my youngest boy. So what do I do? If I follow through on my first impulse - to shout that famous and all-too-hilarious line from the hearing scene in Animal House - I will shock the boy into an hour of all out crying and have no effect on the dogs.

So I guess that it'll have to get a whole lot colder tonight before I'd allow either of these idiotic dogs on my bed...

OF ROAD TRIPS...

And because I'm certain that you're all asking, "and WHY were you out so late as to come home with sleeping children in the first place?" I'll provide a (hopefully brief - PLEASE BE BRIEF!) explanation...

Last Friday (I think it's somewhat juvenile to link to yourself. At least I do this week), I let "slip" that the family - and you have no idea how good it feels to use that word - would be visiting my Israeli Brother's family for Sukkot. Having been to their wedding I had some idea of how they celebrate, and having celebrated Shabbot with a local Rabbi I had some idea of what Jewish worship looks like. So I had no idea of what we were in for...

In short, we sat outside in a "hut" of sorts, listened to prayers in Hebrew, drank small amounts of wine and ate. We started with seven different salads. There was challah and honey and more wine. Then came the chicken on couscous with pumpkin and vegetables. In all, I think there were 3 chickens, 2 acres of veggies and 8 metric tons of couscous.

And family and fellowship aplenty. A grand time was had by all and we left later than we were prepared to. The result was twitchy tired boys and an "M" that slept well beyond her normal waking time. This brought about the expected cry of "Next time will be different!" from The Wif.

And the Next Time was yesterday. We went back to the home of my Israeli Brother in order to allow for a Mommy's Day Out, which means that he and I would be watching all 731 of our children. Not a problem really, and the whole thing started out with lunch. He served up 2 cups of macaroni and cheese and several small heads of broccoli and cauliflower to each child. Then, he brought out the pizza and gave each kid a slice. Oh, and each child got roughly a half-gallon of milk or juice - their call.

Concerned that portions of food remained on their plates, he commented to me, "I don't think they like it," just before giving them each 2 dozen crinkle-cut french fries. And it didn't change for the Daddy's, either. He kept saying that we'd have chicken, mashers and peas, but they weren't on the table. I was confused, thought he might be talking about dinner and - not wanting to wait that long - helped myself to 2 pieces of pizza, (there was plenty left uneaten to choose from). Then, about 40 minutes after the kids had finished, he produced some barbecue chicken wings, (16 of them), 5 pounds of mashed potatoes and 3 cups of cooked peas. We invited the kids to join us if they wished and they all did. I was a whole new meal: Linner - right before your very eyes!

I tell you, if you leave a Jewish Home hungry, it's your own fault...

But the difference this time was that we brought additional changes of clothes for the kids, including pajamas we would put them into before we left. And we planned on feeding them a stout dinner before we put them in their pajamas, (see the previous paragraph). Further, The Wif interrupted the cousins' baths in order to give "M" a quick dunk. Then we (READ: me) had to load the portable baby jail, the clothing suitcase, the toy backpack, the beer cooler, the diaper bag and two of the three kids into the car...

At one point, "M" said something about leaving and I responded, "we may NEVER leave. We might just die here."

Her response was, "We're gonna die?" That's a bit more than I wanted to get into at the time. Besides, I wanted the car to be quiet so the boys could sleep on the way home.

Not that it would matter to the dogs...

So. It's Sunday morning and the family is on its way out the door and headed towards Church. That's the eventual goal, anyway. Between here and there lies much ground with many opportunities for things to go wrong. And wrong they went - at least in a certain sense that will all become clear later...

As I awoke, I did so with a certain sense of dread. Because the clock read 7:48 and I distinctly remember The Wif waking me up roughly 50 minutes earlier last week. (And although I rolled over and slept for another 20 minutes at the time,) I had the feeling I was in trouble for my late appearance this morning.

With a certain not-undue sense of trepidation, I left the bed and then the room, (I'd have to sooner or later, after all and if I wished to avoid more trouble, sooner was the answer). As I entered the hallway, I could see that - as expected - she had everything under control and was feeding the boys their breakfast. A spoonful to her left then a spoonful to her right... everyone was happy and getting on well.

Except for when Binky Boy spotted me and immediately threw a fit because he suddenly realized he wasn't in my arms. Nothing I could do about that one, because I had to take a shower and start my day...

19 minutes later I'm showered, dressed, perfumed, my petticoats are all in order and I'm ready to go. One-third of the children and one-half of the boys are dressed. (YOU do the math!) As I'm leaving the bathroom, "M" is coming out of her room after just waking up. She is of course looking for breakfast. I am of course looking at the clock.

I employ various (admittedly slight) methods in order to get the boys ready to go, and in the meantime I tell The wif to go get herself ready. I then round the corner into the kitchen and find The Wif there. NOT getting ready/dressed. She claims she has yet some role in getting "M" dressed and must tend to that. I sit back and watch the show:

"M" finally finishes her breakfast, (she's not good at concentrating on a meal if there are people nearby or if things are moving or if there's a light in the room or if there is nitrogen in the air -- it's a common ailment), and is told to go get on her "special tights" and her "school outfit." She disappears into her room.

I put on D-Man's shoes - double knots, because he seems to love first us and taking off his shoes as a close second - and ensure that Binky Boy is wearing an "outfit" rather than "pajamas" because I'll be danged if I can easily tell the difference. THE MEN ARE READY TO GO!

But there's trouble in the south end of the house; the girls are - to borrow a phrase - twitchy. The Wif is telling "M" to get dressed. "M" is protesting in some way I cannot discern over the chant the men are raising to our being ready far earlier than expected. Just then, The Wif disappears downstairs in what I assume was an effort to get some article of her clothing that was still being held hostage by the Laundering Beasts there.

At this point, things speed up...

"M" comes out of her room still in her pajamas. "You should be dressed by now" I say. Mommy's just coming upstairs with a basket of laundry and says, "there's a problem, eunuch," to me, (obviously). "What I wanted her to wear," she says, "wasn't where I thought it was." "OK" I say to "M," "I'm sorry. Go back to what you were doing."

Not even a full minute passes before I hear The Wif say to "M"; "here they are - right in your drawer. You didn't look good enough." Special tights located, apparently. What else lies ahead? And why am I so stupid as to ask that question?

"Hon. Get yourself ready." I say. "I'm about to" she answers. 8:40. We have to leave in 20 minutes and I already know what can -- and what CANNOT happen in 20 minutes...

I decide to take the boys down to the truck and drive them around our "neighborhood." We do so. I come back to our driveway, override the urge to take another trip 'round and back up towards the big, purple spider. I sit there for 2 minutes - knowing that if I honk the horn I will be paying for it until D-Man graduates. College - and eventually see "M's" bright orange shoes come down the stairs. The girls pile into The Death Star and we are on our way.

Not 2 minutes from The Stonestead The Wif says, "We need to stop these Sunday Morning fire drills."

Being a man of God, a man of science and a man of reason/logic, I retrace our steps in order to find and eliminate the problem. SCANNING...SCANNING...

"Well," I conclude, actually trying to help, "Maybe it would help if all the kids clothes were laid out and ready to go the night before. After all, "M" sent you on a wild goose chase when she couldn't find her tights, and you admitted that the outfit you wanted her to wear wasn't where you thought it was, and D-Man's pants were so big on him that they were falling off his butt -- so much so that if he showed up at church wearing them they'd put him in the High School class, (I actually said that!) -- so why not get the kid's' clothes together the night before?"

Complete. Silence. But at least we're all in the truck and on the way to church and very nearly on time. Small victories; we married men know what that's like.

"You know," she starts, "actually," (italics. ALWAYS a problem!), "if you could get up earlier and shower while I feed the boys breakfast..."

I smile, she notices it and even asks about it. But I'm too smart to fall for that...

COLUMBUS DAY...

For those brave enough to leave the shore...

The Mariners Prayer:

Across the stormy seas of life the mariners go -- their faith is their ship and service their cargo. Guided by the light that has walked among men trusting in the light to bring them all home again.

I think the contrast of the explorer versus that of the explored is clear enough for me to just shut about the whole thing at this point...

Well, as The Master recently said, if you can't finish a piece in 30 minutes, you shouldn't be in the biz. At least, that's the gist of what I remember him saying. I can't double check it right now for several reasons. But I think I agree with the idea. Let's find out together...

(Of course, I'm giving myself a few extra minutes because I actually turn the wrenches by writing code instead of using a WYSIWYPYG, (What You See Is What You Pray You Get), interface.) (I'm going to pronounce that Wizi-Why-Pig?, but your mileage may vary.)

HOW I LOVE TO BE RIGHT...

Well. Well, well, . It would seem that sometimes you're good and sometimes you're lucky. And although I'll admit to being plenty lucky, this time I was just good.

All the same, I'll willingly give away my secret here: it's Octember, and Octember seems to always mean a surprise in the political arena. And mark foley was this year's lame attempt at such a surprise...

Sure the emails are creepy. So is foley, so that explains that. Sure the IMs are obscene. But such was the plan, apparently. Which does not excuse the "adult" in the exchange from his juvenile attitude/lusts nor the "juvenile" from his adult-like plotting in all of this. I suppose the whole episode could be a cautionary tale in How Not To Expose One's Weakness To Anybody, but at this point, it's far too late.

So stay tuned, America. More is sure to come from this whole thing, but probably not the truth. After all, the Major News Networks, (who are, to paraphrase Voltaire, "are neither major, news, nor networks.") aren't the least bit interested in the truth. They're pushing an agenda and will prove it in the coming days by not acknowledging their malfeasance in the least.

Watch and see...

BUT I'D RATHER BE WRONG IN THIS CIRCUMSTANCE...

TEN LITTLE visits: I've been awaiting this day since I started counting Tuesdays and Thursdays -- if only to use this title: Ten Little Visits. That's all that remain for us, I should think. 5 Tuesdays, (NONE of which have been completed) and 5 Thursdays (completed at a 1 FOR 7 ratio since late July). I've been awaiting this moment; we've crossed a threshold and can now (probably) rest safely in the shadow of the combined experience of the county folk who've brought us this far.

May God Bless them...

Over a month since the last completed visit, just over a month until there are no more to contend with. Please forgive me a slight bit of jubilation.

(Closed Circuit to; Dood, Jules, J_Lowe, The Mister, Bottom Feeder, Scoman, Trish The Dish and any number of other locals: clear the 22nd. Big doin's at Wall E. Weasel's. Bring tokens. That is all.)

J.O.T.W...

(Hat Tip to my Israeli Brother: See you for Sukkoth and I can't wait!)

Two women die and meet in heaven.

1st woman: Hi! My name is Wanda.

2nd woman: Hi! I'm Sylvia. How'd you die?

1st woman: I froze to death.

2nd woman: How horrible!

1st woman: It wasn't so bad. After I quit shaking from the cold, I began to get warm & sleepy, and finally died a peaceful death. What about you?

2nd woman: I died of a massive heart attack. I suspected that my husband was cheating on me, so I came home early to catch him in the act. But instead, I found him all by himself in the den watching TV.

1st woman: So, what happened?

2nd woman: I was so sure there was another woman there somewhere that I started running all over the house looking. I ran up into the attic and searched, and down into the basement. Then I went through every closet and checked under all the beds. I kept this up until I had looked everywhere, and finally I became so exhausted that I just keeled over and died of a heart attack.

1st woman: Too bad you didn't look in the freezer -- we'd both still be alive.

(Is this a repeat, or just a variation on previous JOTWs? They all sound alike to me now...)

I've been meaning to tell you guys about this for a 'Little' while now, (small pun - it'll explain itself later), but you know how it is: I'm a slacker. But the time has come for me to step up...

So, go here, read this, then go there and give all you can. It's a very worthy cause and an interesting story that brings about my involvement, but as always, you'll be the judge of that.

I first met Mrs. Little - I think - in kindergarten, but if not then, for sure in first grade. We were part of the inaugural class at a brand new elementary school on the outskirts of civilization; a lovely concrete structure best known for its bright blue doors and the fact that at least 20 other identical schools were built around the same time, (why pay for new blueprints if you don't have to?).

The school still stands, as far as I know, but is now right smack-dab in the middle of a bustling center of town. I doubt the doors are still that same shade of blue and I think I remember hearing some years ago that the district went about the business of closing in all those "open space" concept schools that were just so at the time. If you had to, you could identify them by their blue doors.

But a great many things have changed since Richard Nixon was President. And one of those things is that a skinny little redheaded first grader with a crooked smile from the outskirts of town is now married to a man who is need of a kidney/pancreas transplant. Please. Do what you can...

SO, HOW'S BY YOU...?

Good, I hope. I honestly do. Here? Well, things are a bit busier, louder and 57% stickier than I remember them being. All very positive changes all the way 'round to be sure, but not without certain moments. Of course, if you keep in mind that many of these things are universal to any home with numerous small children, (27 in our case), it helps to smooth out the things that are unique to our particular situation. Such as...

I did some math this past weekend. (I find that if I'm able to snag a few minutes away from the short-term thinking that characterizes much of my day, I spend it in longer-term math contemplation. Never a dull moment in THIS cranium!) I already knew that there were just 12 visits with the bio-parents scheduled before the hearing date, but in looking back I realized that 12 scheduled visits had passed, as well. We were half-way through this first phase!

And I have mixed emotions about the fact that of these 12 that have passed, only 2 actually took place. I mean, it's tough at a certain level no matter what happens, but as time passes between visits that actually occur, you can see a genuine bond developing between us all. The kids - especially the boys - are all living as if they've never lived anywhere else and "M" is calling us "Mommy" and "Daddy." She uses our first names no more often than any other child who has just discovered that their parents have those secret, "grown-up" alter-egos.

Which makes me about 98% certain that the bio-parents are going to show up today. It seems to be a pattern...

So, what else is new here? Well, my brother's an idiot. I think I kinda tipped my hand on that one when I recently wished him a happy birthday. But that page is gone now! Evaporated into the internets and gone forever - because I'm a hopeless moron who over-writes his old work out of habit! That page? I HAVE NO PAGE! It's dead to me now! So should I bother to re-visit the topic?

At any rate, some of his idiocy can be easily forgiven - no matter how much of a rash it leaves on my ass - by the fact that he's simply bought into so many cultural myths. The idea of "good debt" leaps to mind. I may have mentioned it before, (but I can't check to be sure because some doorknob recently deleted the Septober page), but we here at The Stonestead were rapidly approaching disaster due to a TSP loan The Wif had taken out and didn't want to pay off early, (cuz it's "good debt!"). The problem is, she's decided to stay home with the kids as long as she possibly can and will therefore burn off all her leave and be in full leave without pay status long before the loan is scheduled to be paid off. Which would leave us in a relationship with the IRS that even Dante himself could not have contemplated. So if you hear someone mention the idiotic idea of there being "good" debt? Punch them in the mouth and tell them it's from me.

The part of my brother's idiocy that CAN'T be excused is part of what caused the rift between us in the first place all those years ago: he's above it all. What, exactly, I hear you ask, is he above? ALL, I said. (Look, I know admission was free and all but try to pay attention, huh?)

He's got - and has always had - this great, grand illusion that he was better than those he deigned to enlighten with his presence. This delusion has not been in any way helped by the fact that he's spent the last several months in the Great Halls of Power. In fact, it's been made worse because the Brokers That Be won't listen to him and his obviously superior ideas. It can't be that how he wants to do things isn't correct, it's because his brilliance isn't understood.

Meh. Old news. I saw all this over twenty years ago...

But the thing that ticked me off the most was when he was asking me about our other brother and his general state of mind. I explained that he seemed to be doing really well and it looked as if things might be turning in the right direction for him - did you read his last few blog entries on myspace?

"I don't read the internet." he said.

Oh, beneath you, is it? Too much of a bother to "read the internet" if it involves your own brother's life? So, since you don't exactly talk to him every day, how DO you get updates as to what's going on in his life/home/head? Osmosis? You read tea leaves? Or are your Vast Powers as grand as you seem to think they are?

Oh, sorry. I was supposed to be telling you what's new with us. This is all very old news...

(Now let's see if that little worm actually reads the internet or not!)

Try as I might - and I'm not really trying too very much - to isolate myself from the rest of the world, it does tend to seep in all the same. It's always the way, really and the great debate in the whole field of raising children; how much do I allow them to know about the scary things that go on outside these walls? Too much or too little, you'll have problems either way, so which side to err on?

But more about the kids later (see above). For now, some things have been pushing against my spleen recently and have created a good deal of chaffing in the affected area. Unfortunately for you, this is where I apply the salve...

About the past week of school-related violence, what can I say? What could anyone say that would make a difference? The problem isn't with the teachers or the buildings. It's not with the administration or the overly-inbred school boards. The problem, as best my brain is capable of understanding it, was best characterized by the early 20th century bank robber Willie Sutton. He is the one who is credited as saying - after being asked "why do you rob banks?" - that, "that's where the money is."

The only possible starting place in dealing with these psycho pedophiles - again, as best I understand it - is to recognize they are obviously drawn to schools because "that's where the children are." The problem then becomes one of, what do we do with that information? We need schools in some form or another - or at a bare minimum some sort of day care arrangement which is basically the same thing to these perverts: a hunting ground.

But once we realize that we cannot eliminate the need for these high-concentration children locations, what's the next step?

It seems to me that the problem is "the line." That is, the line that exists between That Which I Wish To Do and That Which Shall NOT Be Done. And, by the way, the problem is not the line itself but the fact that every now and then someone dares to prove that the ground on the other side is solid.

That is, they decide that the line was drawn far too close to themselves in the first instance, and it left WAY too much ground untreaded on the other side. Room enough to not only test the soil but to dance around for a while. And so he does, leading others to question "the line's" location.

But only to the undoing of the most innocent among us...

On what I'll call an unrelated note, I have little to say about the Congressman Foley scandal. Which I'll limit to 300 words...

Let's just say that there's FAR more to this than meets the eye. But you're not likely to anything other than "Republican" and "Page scandal" and "underage sex" from the LSM. Which begs me to ask why - OH WHY - did 2 different Florida newspapers SIT on the emails for 3 years? I mean, if they had them all this time, (which they did), and decided that there wasn't enough damning evidence against the Congressman to run with the story, why would all the dead tree press suddenly decide that these very same emails should've been enough for the Republican leadership to act against foley?

To be sure, there's more to this story than we know right now, but one thing is certain: the Republicans demand the removal of those who violate the public trust while the dems seem to find ways to excuse their behavior.

Well, I've learned to temper the pace of my comments, but only to a degree: and if I should suggest that National Guard forces be called upon to guard our Houses Of Education, would that be a "heated moment?" And what if there's another attack on another school this week? How much would be too much and how little would be Not Yet There?

Because we should always hope to be on the Not Yet side of the line, frankly. Until circumstances prove otherwise.

The real problem is that the first crazy is almost never the worst crazy. They feed on one another and when things turn bad it's real easy to tell which path they took. So Line A offenders bring out the Line A crazies. Line Q offenders brings out the Line Q crazies. And so on. And so on far beyond the 26 letters we have to represent such strains of craziness...

And may G-D save us should we ever get to the point of hearing, "he was confirmed to be infected with the pedo-psycho mutation ZZ24a strain, so he'll naturally get just..." because we will have been lost to something that only 1% of us understands.

Which would mean a net change of ZERO. For those of you keeping score at home...

ABOUT THE FAMILY...

You can't be serious. Don't get me started there...

Oh. Unless you're seriously interested in such things -- as one might imagine our overly-Hen-Weighted audience to be. Well, in that case...

As you've already noted from the pictures, "M" is going to grow to be a gorgeous young woman, (what she does from there will largely answer the Nature/Nurture question. Nothing I can do about that). D-Man? Well, if all goes well and I'm able to largely suppress Mommy's influence in softening him up, he's going to be much trouble for everyone from here forward. Except me, natch...

Which means he'll be a grounded, rounded young man; able to quote Shakespeare, operate a chainsaw from the time he's able to lift it, recognize Marx Brothers quotes and attribute them correctly, identify a "Twilight Zone" from a "Darkside" from the camera angles alone and complete the perfect drift maneuver in a full-size pickup.

As for Binky Boy, he'll have survived it all and will therefore surpass it all.

Did I mention that I'll be teaching each of them to pilot a plane? It will only matter if: first, the plane's pink. Second, the plane's fast. And last, that the plane in question is able to bend time and space in order to accomplish the mission in question.

But would I try it otherwise?

By now we've all heard of the terrible fate that befell the beautiful, young, Emily Keyes in the mountains of Colorado last week. So random and so completely senseless that one wonders how it will ever be understood. Of course the answer is that it will NEVER be understood, because as someone once famously said, "if you could understand them, we'd have to watch you." I mean, what makes a man piece of human slime capable of doing something like that? Why would he decide to make the "crowning glory" of his entire life the act of molesting and then murdering a young girl?

So many questions here - that's the painful part of our human experience, I guess. Things like this leave us with many, many more questions than answers and they're questions that will linger. Because they can't be answered.

Aside from the moral questions surrounding what it takes for a person to abandon their very humanity and completely yield to the evil impulses they feel; aside from theological questions about the Nature of God and what He might possibly be doing in all of this; aside from the BIG QUESTION of "why?", the other questions start to seep in. The worldly, practical questions...

Is there something better that we might be doing to secure our children while they're at school? Is there a better way to respond to these events? And if so, do we ever want to say we have enough experience at dealing with these things that we've crafted the "perfect" response? Is it possible to say that a small part of us is "grateful" that this decomposing piece of sludge walked into a High School rather than an Elementary School - or a Preschool? Or is that the sort of thing that we must carefully guard deep within our souls and never allow to see the light of day?

I understand the temptation to say nothing, because I'm feeling it deeply right now. How much easier to say, "such a tragedy," shake one's head and go back to the shopping list. Please understand that I'm not trying to undermine or dismiss what's happened. That would never be my intent at a time like this. I'm just saying that as the father of a young girl, if I were told tomorrow that something like this was going to happen to her I'd want as much time with her as possible. I'd also want her to be as old as possible before having to go through such torment. And then I would relish every hour.

It should go without saying that my first choice would be "Never." I wouldn't wish this on anyone, EVER. Barring that, my second choice would be, "take me instead," but to such a deranged pervert I'd be a less-than-attractive alternative. It's the (sick) nature of these things that they wish to most destroy the young, beautiful and innocent rather than the old and likely-to-kick-their-asses. Spineless cowards, one and all.

It reminds me of one of my favorite (original) sayings: "It's too bad that murder-suicides always get the order wrong."

So why didn't this worthless piece of filth just kill himself and get it over with? Why would he decide to take so many others "with him?" I know - more questions. But these allow guesses so I'll take one: because then he goes out without fanfare. He's just another loser dead at his own hand and nobody will ever remember his name because nobody would ever hear it. Suicides are as common as stupidity and only the most remarkable example of either makes the news. But this way, he's got a much better chance of being remembered - if only as a Trivial Pursuit question.

Wait a minute: allow me to correct that. If there's any justice in this world, he won't be remembered at all. But should he make it to the Trivial Pursuit Big Box O' Cards, he should be the question, because that's pretty much all he left us. The question should go something like, "this worthless piece of shit murdered what young, beautiful, innocent teenage girl in a school shooting in 2006?" And the answer?

Emily Keyes. Please, don't forget her...