Gimme a Hand for My Invention

A granddaughter gave me a hand today. Oh, I don’t mean applause, which I wasn’t looking for anyway.
But I also wasn’t looking for a Christmas present that would shoot me back to Mrs. Findley’s kindergarten back in the 20th century.
Technically, Amelia didn’t give me the hand, although she can make some mean paddy cakes at the age of 5 months. Rather, the granddaughter's mom, my daughter Annie, gave me Amelia's hand. Not her hand, really, but the impression of the tyke’s paw.
BAM! It time-traveled me immediately to Mrs. Findley’s classroom in the bowels of a public school on the northeast edge of Nebraska in the mid-’50s. It was before the nuke scares set in, so there were no desks to hide under when the inevitable attack came from the Commies.
Actually, we didn’t have desks, anyway. After all, it was kindergarten; as memory serves, we had tables, and, of course, nap mats.
Come Mother’s Day, Mrs. Findley set us about one of the time-honored traditions: making our hand imprints in clay. Of course, I couldn’t make one for my mom, because she had died when I was 2 (that always made Mother’s Day presents awkward), so I made one for my grandmother, with whom we lived.
So you can imagine how Amelia’s hand stirred my memory banks.
But more importantly, it ka-POWED me with an idea for an invention. I don’t know why nobody has thought of it before, but I stand to make a bazillion dollars.
I’m going to form a company to make kits so grandparents can make plaster casts of their hands for posterity. After all, the point of the kindergarten hands is so we can remember the kids after they are grown, until the time we forget whoinHELL they are as they change our diapers.
And the point of grandparent hand casts will be so the grandkids can remember us when we’re gone. Dead. Caput. Pushing up daisies. Turning to dust so future generations will have something to make clay out of so they can make handcasts.
It’s a marvel to see how teensy-tiny Amelia’s hand is, about as wide from thumb tip to pinkie tip as my pointer finger. Some day, we’ll sit around telling her how small her hands were, and what a miracle it is that she’s grown.
“See how SMALL your hands were,” we’ll say.
Considering the day we’re celebrating, that prompts me to acknowledge Somebody who started out soooooooooooooo small that his hands was as tiny as Amelia’s are now. And before it was all over, the child reached the point where He holds the whole world in his hands. Amazing, eh?
As for those of us who haven’t been around since the beginning of time, some day, when I reach the end of my time, and I’m gone, the grandkids will sit around and look at my handprint and say with amazement: “JEEZ, Papa Mike’s hands were SMALL.”
Because they are, my hands, small. Girlie, in fact (no offense to girls).
I suspect that my hand size is one reason I never became a basketball star everybody might have called just Mike. I coulda been been a contenda so good I’d have needed just the one name, like Michael. But I prefer the shortened version because the nuns insisted I use Michael; kind of a rebellion once I slipped the surly bonds of Catholic school.
Alas, basketball stardom was not to be, although there was one time, the game when I was the hero who won the contest with brilliant play and two last-second free throws that won the game by 1 point. But I don’t want to brag, so I won’t go into the time I beat the Indians (no offense to Native Americans, either, as the team really was made up of Indians back in my native Nebraska) and my teammates carried me off the floor on their shoulders.
I figure I can sell the kits on TV, between the “Clap Hands for lights commercials” and the “I’ve fallen down and I can’t get up” come-ons.
Genius, eh? The closest thing to my invention would be the cement boots mobsters use when they send people to swim with the fishes. Even if they have patented that process, I’m sure patent’s still open for grandparent hands, which I think I’ll call GrandHands.
Like I said, I’ll make a bazillion bucks, because everybody would want to buy one — if not grandparents, then their own children, to preserve their heritage for their kids.
Well, everybody would buy one except me. I have this thing, you see, that I don’t like to get my hands dirty unless absolutely necessary. Oh, I’ve done my share of planting in the dirt and even concrete mixing, but I don’t like it (don’t even like to go barefoot on the beach because I don’t like sand in my shoes).
I've got enough Monk in me not to want to encrust my hands in plaster. I'd have to use more wipes than a theater full of wimmin watching "Beaches" would use sheets of cleenex (or ONE guy watching "Brian's Song").
Nope, I wouldn’t do it for anybody or anything. Not nobody, nohow. Not even for history. But maybe, just maybe, for grandkids.
We’ll see. Keep an eye out for GrandHands, on a late-night TV commercial near you. (Maybe I’ll call ’em GrandHands-WOW, and affiliate with Sham-WOW.)
Have a great Christmas weekend and peaceful and joyful New Year.
And enjoy my Christmas collage.



Two babies from two families, Allison and Amelia.
















Brendan and Erica and the Bun in the Oven. (In first photo, Erica's on the left, and Brendan's on the right, clowning around. Or is it vice versa?)





The Four Horsemen (gotta LOVE that shot with the wifebeater shirts, no?)



Anthony, the stud muffin football star.







Annie in her first life, clowning around backstage as drama queen in high school.














Allison and Gammon

Mr. Monk Used My Noodle on THIS Investigation

My favorite TV series, “Monk,” may have ended with one of the best series finales EVER the other night, but the spirit of Monk will live on whenever and wherever a mystery arises. (Or a picture frame is crooked, or a napkin is out of place.)
Or when there’s potential for a fraud case to crack, such as Campbell’s claim that every single can of its chicken noodle soup has 32 feet of noodles. Not just every 10th can, or every 100th, but every single one.
I couldn’t believe it when I saw the commercial touting such a patently outrageous figure, and neither could anybody else I told. After all, we all know how small the can is: The fact that 32 feet of anything could be in such a tiny cylinder is preposterous! Patently ridiculous. Defiant of the imagination.
Indeed, such a claim demands to be challenged. To be discovered for the flat-out lie it is and exposed to the American public. No, not just the American public, but the entire world, and perhaps, the universe.
So I asked myself WWMD: What Would Monk Do? Why, of course, he’d investigate. So, armed with a case of wipes and with assistants at my elbows, I embarked on an experiment to expose the Campbell’s Kids as the lying little rugrats they are.
Here’s what happened:
The cast:
* I was Monk, of course, as I’ve got a few OCD tendencies of my own.

* 8-year-old Vincent played Lt. Randy Disher (Vincent doesn’t have enough of a cookie duster to be Capt. Leland Stottlemeyer).
* Kate portrayed the dutiful assistant, initially cast as Sharona on “Monk,” later replaced with Natalie. She handed me wipes when my fingers got too chicken-juicy and chronicled the event for the camera, from the placement of the first noodle to the last.
I had to spurn her advice, as Monk was wont to do with Sharona and Natalie, because, well, because she either just doesn’t have enough OCD tendencies herself or she’s scientifically challenged or she’s just a lousy damn investigator.
How could I be so harsh? Well, get aload of THIS: After I mentioned that each noodle appeared to be 2 inches long, and I had laboriously placed about 2 feet of noodles in the street gutter that served as my petri dish, she piped up: “Uh, Mr. Monk, I mean, MIKE, just count the noodles in the 2 feet and count the noodles in the can and multiply … ”
“No,” I replied, not kindly. “I can’t take a shortcut when I’m challenging a conglomerate like Campbell’s. This isn’t rocket science, but it demands a scientific approach, and I won’t allow Campbell’s to write me off as another Chicken Little global warmer.”
(By the way, speaking of global warming, how about that snow in Texas this past weekend? An inconvenient snowfall, Mr. Gore?)

Not that I wasn’t tempted, mind you: After I had aligned 12 feet of noodles, my back ached from bending over and my knees nearly bled because I had spurned Sharona’s, uh, Natalie’s, uh, Kate’s advice to put jeans on instead of shorts as I knelt on the asphalt.
(After all, unlike Monk, I’d worn these shorts for two weeks without washing them, and I wasn’t about to shed my uniform for comfort.)
At 24 feet, with my back screaming and knees barking, I nearly relented, but I rejected the temptation, saying, “MM-mmm, good(ness NO).”
At 28 feet of noodling, another thing besides my aching, aging bones started to waver: my faith. It appeared that this was going to be a close contest, that Campbell’s might, indeed, be telling the truth instead of dishing out a bunch of bull, uh, I mean, bouillon.
At 30 feet, I realized I might have to eat some crow, if not noodles.
I dodged a bullet, though, when the final measurement came in: The noodles stretched a mere 31 feet 10 inches!
I was vindicated, and Campbell’s had been exposed as the lying conglomerate it is: and to kids yet, WITH kids. Kids lying to kids for the almighty buck.
I felt a surge of excitement about the opportunity to drag the money-grubbing, international conglomerate into court and, before it was over, I would have owned Campbell’s. I started running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
However, before I had a chance to gloat, and certainly before I had the opportunity to call my attorney (it was Sunday, after all), Monk’s Trudy appeared before me, as if in a vision, and played the role of conscience.
And none other than Monk himself whispered in my ear: “She’s RIGHT, Sherlock. There’s more to the story, as there are in so many cases.”
I needn’t ask WWMD in this case. I knew what I had to do.

Here’s what happened THEN: I looked at my noodle trail, as it stretched nearly to the horizon, fading in the distance like a railroad track’s steel bars joining each other before disappearing on the prairie.
My noodle tracks occasionally veered off center and frequently curled instead of remaining straight. That obviously would affect the measurement. I concluded that, if I had been able to straighten them all out, the final measurement easily would have passed the 32 feet.
So I bend a bloody knee to Campbell’s and acknowledge the truth of its commercial.
Lest you ask why I didn’t count another can, I’ll point out that I had intended to and had even bought two cans. Well, Monk and I are OCD, but we’re not total FOOLS: I was tired of people driving by and wondering what I was doing.
Noodle mystery: solved.
I can’t help but wonder, though, how many chickens died for that can of soup. Or, for that matter, how many tomatoes are in a can of tomato soup. And how many mushrooms get creamed for a can of sauce to cover my pork chops. (Care to compute, Campbell’s?)

P.S.: Obviously, I can’t claim that no noodles were injured in this experiment, but I can state categorically that none was wasted. We enlisted two cockapoos to clean up the mess: Dewey slurped up 28 feet of the noodles (I don’t expect him to deposit a 28-footer, if you know what I mean, but you never know), and his sister, Jazzy, ate the nearly 4 feet remaining. And, of course, I ate the chicken chunks and drank the fowl bouillon.

Vincent Hears Voices Saying: 'Feet, keep WALKIN'

It seems like only yesterday that Vincent couldn't even walk, and now the 8-year-old's on the run. Well, not now, but he was on the lam for awhile the other day in an incident that panicked everybody.
Except him, of course — after all, he was the only one who knew he wasn't lost, or worse.
One of his parents usually picks him up at school, parking out on the street and walking up to the school. (That’s a far sight better than the other option of queuing up in a snaking line of cars longer than the phalanxes of girls who elbowed their way into theaters during the recent opening weekend of "The Twilight Saga; New Moon." I've picked him up a couple of times, so I can attest to the fact that the procession offers a grueling experience, sometimes leaving you feeling as if you're camping overnight to get concert tickets for a Gene Pitney concert.)
Some days, though, Vincent walks out toward the street to wait near the traffic light/crossing guard for Mom or Dad. But one day, his feet didn't stop at the light but veered right, and he kept right on walking — off the school grounds, and down the sidewalk heading home.
When Melissa trekked up to the school, the teacher said he had started walking, so they assumed he would be out by the light.
Bedlam ensued. School officials were concerned, and Melissa was frantic. Those who might wonder why Vincent would have abandoned kindergartener brother Jack at the school door must be only children: There comes a time when a cool, self-respecting second-grader just has to break out on his own, and leave younger siblings in his wake.
Melissa retrieved Jack and handed him off to a mom friend who kept him in her van while Melissa leaped into her own van with 3-year-old Luke and 1-year-old Patrick, who were asleep. Then she drove around frantically searching for her first-borne, urging herself to be calm while her Mama Bear instincts surged at the thought that something might have happened to him.
"I told myself," she confided to me, "that first I was gonna HUG him, and then I was gonna KILL him."
Of course, she forgot to kill him, but she nearly hugged him to death. She explained that she wasn’t angry at him (rather, she confessed a little pride at his showing an independent streak he inherited from her).
But she made it clear that NEXT time, he would, indeed, be in trouble.
He assured her that there wouldn’t be a next time.
She allowed as how his escapade had surprised everybody because it was so out of character for him. He normally is a rule keeper’s rule keeper.
Indeed, he said, "You know who it surprised the MOST, Mommy? ME! I was walking to meet you and when I didn’t see you, something in my head kept saying, 'Feet, keep WALKIN'. Keep WALKIN.'"
The day after the incident, Melissa told me it was 45 minutes until she had him in the van. Chances are, it was more like 20 minutes, maybe even just 10, and she’s just being dramatic. But I suppose it seemed like almost an hour, to a frantic mom (but what do I know?).
I’d wager that, as years go by, some day, when Melissa’s my age and Vincent, hers — and I’m a distant memory and a faded picture on the wall whose grandfather tales have long since been relegated to some dusty archives in cyberspace — they’ll be sitting around a holiday table regaling each other with stories about adventures long past.
By then, the story will have grown legs and Jack will pipe up, “Remember the time Vincent abandoned me at school and was lost for HOURS, and nobody could find him, and the school went into lockdown, and the sheriff’s department sent up helicopters and marshaled the canine patrol, and the state police have blasted forth an Amber Alert, and the national guard called a battalion back from Afghanistan, and President Obama called on ACORN to quit organizing communities (and votes) and organize a search instead, and the United Nations declared an international emergency, and we STILL couldn’t find him?”
Melissa will rock back in her chair, bouncing a couple of grandkids on her knees and nod knowingly, saying, “Yes, you little dears, we almost lost your daddy that day. Land sakes, what a DAY. I searched for that boy for DAYS!”
But for now, she thought he needed at least to apologize to the assistant principal. She doesn’t believe in idle exercises, so she had the lad convey his remorse, and contrition, in writing.

Although I can make light of the incident now because it had a happy ending, the sad side is that we have to be so frightened today about our kids’ welfare. Back when granddad was a lad, our parents admonished us not to take candy from strangers, but I never ran across a stranger even offering an all-day sucker (believe me, I was on the lookout for one, because I was a poor drycleaner’s son who got only a few pennies every other Friday [if it was a good week] to buy some penny candy). And none of my friends saw that stranger, either.
What’s more, we could roam our little towns at will, disappearing in the morning and not darkening the doorstep ’til dark. Nobody worried.
These days, you can’t let a child out of your sight.
Vincent has vowed that there won’t be a next time, but I can imagine that if there happened to be, he wouldn’t be listening to his feet.
Rather, he’ll be pleading with them, resurrecting that saying that even predates granddad: “FEET, don't FAIL me now!”

Meanwhile, here’s the reunited family, with Vincent on the right, with the others, from his right, being Mom (age classified secret, although I think she looks pretty dadgummed good for somebody who's damnnear 40!), with 1-year-old Patrick Michael on her lap and 6-year-old Jack behind her, and Dad holding 3-year-old Luke.



Melissa obviously can keep her mind on the task at hand, while the others’ eyes seem to be straying. Whatever on EARTH could be attracting their attention? Well, perhaps they are staring, in awe, at the 9-pound, maybe 10-pound, bass I caught Thanksgiving Day (don't fret, though, I pardoned him and released him, unlike turkeys throughout the land). And that's no fish tail tale — as this photo proves. Also, lest you imagine that's a huge paunch you see me (left) carrying, BESIDES the bass, before even partaking of a Thanksgiving repast, my abs obviously are bulging to hold the behemoth from the deep.)


HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO YA.

Now We'll NEVER Get the Kid Out of His (or Her) Womb

Well, they — whoevertheHECK they are — say parents-to-be should talk to their budding offspring in the womb.
Actually, parents-to-be is the wrong term, because when a bun is in the oven, they technically are parents already. And, even though Brendan is firm in not wanting to know the gender, and Erica is honoring his wishes (as far as I know, anyway, although there’s the distinct possibility that she knows and already has bought a bunch of blue, or pink, clothes), they are parents.
They — and, as I said, whoevertheHECK they are — say you should play calming music to calm the budding infant; perhaps elevator music of Barry Manilow’s greatest hit, I suppose. (I use the singular form of “hit” at the risk of offending Manilow fans because, well, the world is made up of two kinds of people: Manilow fans and those who make fun of him, for some reason. Seems kind of mean, because he’s obviously a huge talent. I’m not sure how I ended up on the wrong side of his soundtracks, but here I am.)
I suppose it would be better to play Manilow’s “I Can’t Smile Without You” to calm the child rather than scare the hell out of him/her by exposing it to the “Hellboy II” flick that featured the song. (If we only KNEW whether it’s a boy or a girl, and if it were a boy, I could say the song would scare the HELL outta the boy.)



I suppose there’s some truth to the singing-to-calm-the-baby-in-the-womb theory, which basically seems to be it eases the baby’s angst about all the other noises out here in the netherworld. But who can prove it, because none of us remembers what we heard in the womb? After all, we were preoccupied with kicking Mom so she and Dad could watch the poke from her belly.
Anecdotally, though, I have these observations:

Either Vincent wasn’t prepared properly inside the womb, or he was just too sensitive once he got outside, or, MOST likely, Melissa and Skip were just too dadgum protective. All of us visitors literally had to tiptoe around the house because the lad jumped at the slightest noise and squinted if you even tried to open a shade. So they lived in nearly total silence and darkness for his first several months.

Mom and Dad let their guard down a tad with Jack, and you could even carry on a conversation above a whisper when he was a baby. He just wasn’t as jumpy as the firstborn.

The decibel level rose a bit more when Luke was in the womb, because it’s hard to keep a couple of toddlers quiet, and Vincent and Jack were anything but quiet.

By the time an egg and a sperm got together to generate what one day would emerge as Patrick, the noise level around their household was nothing short of the junction of all the runways at a major airport.
In short, by that time, Vincent, Jack and Luke had become accustomed to raising such a ruckus that Patrick has been able to sleep through any noise from the get-go. He had become accustomed to the thunder in the womb.
Which brings us back to Brendan and Erica. Erica slipped me a photo of my son singing to his son — or daughter, who knows? — at a recent wedding they attended.
Well, they’ll be lucky if child services doesn’t come knocking on their door, because I’ve heard Brendan sing, and I think it could be classified as child abuse. (I know, because I think he inherited his pipes from me, and the list of my greatest hits isn’t anywhere near as long as Manilow’s.)
But Erica’s note made it sound like such a sweet gesture, singing “Sweet Child of Mine” to a baby in its mother’s womb. Erica noted that the DJ was playing that song at the wedding reception they were attending (pay no attention to what appears to be a beer cup in Brendan’s hand; I’m sure he’s the type who would forgo imbibing out of sympathy for mommy’s having to do the same).
My assumption of sweetness arose from the fact that I never had heard of the song, but it seems so lullabyish, not unlike a Barry Manilow song. So I checked YouTube, and found THIS:



Well, I guess the Guns ’N Roses melody (if you can call it that) isn’t about a baby after all — at least, not the infant type, although it’s obviously a girl.
But if he/she survives the eardrum-breaking cacophony of Brendan’s doing a Guns ’N Roses karaoke gig at a wedding reception, the child should be able to survive anything.
It’s better than facing post-partum depression if he/she were dragged out of the womb, kicking and screaming out of fear that Barry Manilow wrote all the songs that made the whole world sing — Barry Manilow songs. Speaking of, let's at least give Manilow his due — he's a good sport, after all — with a sing-along:

Good GOLLY, Kids, You're in for a LONG Haul!

I never have given voice to the old saying, "I can sleep when I'm dead," because I appreciate a strategically placed nap.
By that I mean: a nap I place strategically during the day, in a strategically comfortable place. Or, if I can’t do THAT, I’ll just nod off anywhere, as long as I’m not on a ledge of the umpire state building. (No, that’s not a typo, but rather a genuflection to the fact that the umpiring in the various stages of the Fall Classic this season makes the boys in blue likely candidates to be, well, pushed off the Empire State Building.)
Still, lots of party animals and workaholics live by the phrase, allowing them to party hardy or work their fingers to the bone. Thus, they end up with bloodshot eyes and boney fingers.
And THAT reminds me of the old Hoyt Axton song, “Boney Fingers.” Come on, set a spell and sing along:

Kinda makes a guy need a nap, eh?
It'll be up to the boys and Amelia and the mystery grandchild to decide whether to be nappers or surrender to boney fingers. And even though they resist naps today (well, the extra-wombals [kind of like extraterrestirals] do, anyway), they'd better wise up, and soon, because they could be awake years, or even DECADES, longer than today's partyers and workers.
ForGET about the impact on Social Security, because that will be long gone by the time today’s babies reach 100, as more than HALF of the babies born today in rich countries will do, if present life-expectancy trends continue, according to a study in a recent issue of The Lancet medical journal.
The kids will rue the day they spurned Papa Mike’s exhortations to take a nap when they’re 97 or 98 and just dawg tired.
In the 20th century, most developed countries saw an increase of around 30 years in life expectancy, according to an AFP story on the report. In 1950, only 15 percent to 16 percent of 80-year-old women, and just 12 percent of octogenarian men, made it to the age of 90 in advanced economies.
In 2002, this had risen to 37 percent and 25 percent, respectively. In Japan , the survival rate from 80 to 90 is now more than 50 percent for women.
"If the pace of increase in life expectancy in developed countries over the past two centuries continues through the 21st century, most babies born since 2000 in France, Germany, Italy, the UK, the USA, Canada, Japan and other countries with long life expectancies will celebrate their 100th birthdays," AFP quoted the Lancet study as saying.
So, if I get to retire by, say, 85, I wonder when my grandkids will be able to (especially if I’m sleeping in their back bedrooms, assuming they don’t just slap me in a nursing home).
The researchers thought of that angle, too, saying that, instead of working for a long, intense spell and then retiring, "individuals could combine work, education, leisure, and child-rearing in varying amounts at different ages."
"The 20th century was a century of redistribution of income. The 21st century could be a century of redistribution of work," the study authors wrote.
In other words, kids, PACE yourselves, or your boney fingers won’t last as long as the rest of your bodies.
As for your faces, you might consider some exercises to banish the wrinkles:


But eventually you still could end up as wrinkled as an elephant’s trunk, singing Raymond Crooke’s Twilight Blues. I don’t know whoinhell Ray Crooke is, but I think his song’s got a nice beat and the message is morbidly humorous:


And I’ll close with this thought, kiddos: Have a good (and looonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng) life! But don’t eat too much of your Halloween candy at one setting. Speaking of, I don't have pictures of ALL the grandkids in their outfits, but that's OK, because I don't want to be like those totally obnoxious grandparents shoving pix down people's throats.
However, I do happen to have one of Amelia, the little bugger:



Not to be outdone, here's Patrick, a cute little Yoda is he, eh? Chowing down on a cookie at a Halloween party is he.

Sorry, Kids, We've Acted Like a Bull in a China Closet With Our Borrowing

I owe my grandkids an apology, and an explanation:
* The apology is for breaking into their piggy banks (before a couple of them even have piggy banks) — to the tune of damnnear 40 grand apiece.
* The explanation is to clue them in as to why they might see a TV commercial that features U.S. kids pledging allegiance to China, of all places on Earth.
Before I offer up either, five lads and a lassie, I’ll note that, as Sonny and Cher used to sing, “You’d better sit down, kids … ” because this is staggering news.
Now, the apology: I’m sorry that our government’s financial fog obscured the borrowing quagmire it would plunge into in a vain attempt to remain afloat. That’s why, at this writing, when you are 3 months, 1 year, 3 years, 5 years, 8 years, and 16 years old, each of you owes the tidy sum of $38,519.22 (and rising) in taxes to cover our national deficit of at least $9 trillion. (Some estimates suggest it's closing in on $12 trillion.)
Don’t even think about trying to tap your parents for a loan to bail you out of your taxation for our government’s bailout. They also are on the hook for $38,519.22 apiece, as am I.
At your young ages, you justifiably might want to wail, “We’re victims of taxation without representation,” and our Founding Fathers would come back from the dead to argue your case.
The Obama administration is taking the brunt of criticism because its unbridled spending plans have escalated the borrowing, but I must confess that we all — Democrats, Republicans, Independents, No-Parties, Reds, Blues, and Purples — share the blame.
We also share the shame for the commercial in which children are pledging allegiance to China. Oh, we didn’t create the commercial, which I regard as a rather novel illustration of the ramifications of our government’s escalating borrowing.
The schoolchildren, you see, are pledging allegiance not only to acknowledge our towering debt to China but also to lament the volcanic ramifications to their own financial futures:
"I pledge allegiance to America's debt . . . and to the Chinese government that lends us money . . . And to the interest . . . for which we pay . . . Compoundable . . . with higher taxes . . . and lower pay . . . until the day we die."

Check out the commercial:



Credit (as in accolades, not a credit card, although it IS a priceless piece of work) for the commercial goes to the Employment Policies Institute, which recently launched a multimillion-dollar ad blitz to decry the peril of unsustainable borrowing and spending. The nonprofit research institution's campaign aims to marshal sentiment to reverse the government's multitrillion-dollar deficit spending.
Ironically, China was a joke when granddad was a lad, because it seemed as if everything cheap was labeled “Made in China.” Although Chinese products continue to wreak havoc because of health hazards to us in recent years, the Asian country is getting the last laugh — because it’s cheap no longer.
Indeed, it’s so wealthy that we’re groveling to borrow money "Made in China," and it has become one of our major creditors. Less ironically, the Employment Policies Institute’s ad effort kicked off even as the Office of Management and Budget issued its own estimate of more than $9 trillion in deficit spending.
"This campaign is all about getting people to understand the frightening reality of the massive federal deficit," says Richard Berman, the institute’s executive director. "People do not realize just how much $9 trillion is and what it will take for our country to get out from under that level of debt.”
The ad campaign aims to provide perspective on how mammoth the mountain of debt is, according to the institute.
“Americans also don't realize how much money we now owe to foreign governments and just how unsustainable our current level of spending is,” Berman says. “We have to do something to defeat the debt NOW, or we will live to regret it."
Uh-OH, grandkids, I hate to admit it, but our shameless pickpocketing from the future obviously has reached a shameful point. We have done something that not only we will live to regret, but you will, too.
What an embarrassing legacy to leave you.
As Liza and Joel sang in “Cabaret,” money makes the world go round.



These days, the world's economy is on a slow boat to China.

When Life Gives You a Lemonade Stand, Make MONEY

Alan Jackson might turn to Jimmy Buffett for advice on what to do around 5 o’clock, but grandson Jack appears to lean more toward another Buffett for counsel. Indeed, I suspect that Jack might have uncovered a secret that The Oracle of Omaha himself has kept close to the vest as he has accumulated billions over the decades.
Make no mistake about it, 5-year-old Jack loves to have fun, and I fully expect him to take a trip to Margaritaville some day. And even though I might be long gone by then, I can envision his impish grin and mischievous shrug as he intones: “Well, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere.”



Sooo, even though I’m positive that all work and no play could make Jack a dull boy, he took a serious entrepreneurial turn the other day when he decided to set up a lemonade stand. He took to the task resolutely, ignoring the intimidating element (Warren) Buffett’s Coca-Cola holdings might have offered to a one-stand man.
In that respect, Jack’s venture reminded me of one of (Warren) Buffett’s guiding principles: “Be fearful when others are greedy, and be greedy when others are fearful.”



Jack's version of the slogan: Be greedy when others fear that they might go thirsty.
Even though Jack’s was a solo venture, he had a firm business plan: 8-year-old brother Vincent made the sign, and Jack assigned him, as the taller of the two, to hold it aloft as a business magnet. Meanwhile, Jack the real business magnate, perched himself on a little stool, all the better to reach the money box he had decorated with lemons and dollar signs.
Although Jack allowed Mom to brew a mess of lemonade, he banished her to the sidelines thereafter. “If they see my mom,” he explained to her, “they’d think I’m a kid, and I want them to think I’m an adult.”
Ahhhhhh, deceptive advertising, banking on the fact that passersby wouldn’t guess that a lad a tad over 3 feet was a full-fledged adult, with arrested development, perhaps.
Times being what they are, and Mom being who she is, she didn’t want to leave her charges standing in the driveway with the potential of perfect strangers casing the juice joint. So she busied herself in the background, pretending to do yard work and such so she could keep an eye on them at the same time.
So there you have it: What would Warren Buffett do? The secret to success, the basic rule of Business 101, the capitalist mainstay: Don’t let your mom stand next to you if you want people to take you seriously as an adult and let you make scads of money.
And I bet — I just BET — that little Warren Buffett might have told his mommy, lo these many years ago, to go inside their humble Nebraska house so people would think he was an adult. Oh, I know, you’ve never heard that before, but you don’t expect him to reveal the real secret to his success do you?
Well, let me ask you this, then: Have you ever seen Warren Buffett’s mom lurking in the background around Berkshire Hathaway ventures?
I rest my case: The Sage of Omaha quite possibly dreamed up his slogan about greed and fear to hide the REAL secret behind his success: untying himself from mom’s apron strings.
Of course, Melissa rarely, if ever, wears an apron, but the gist is the same.
By the way, Jack and his assistant collected $6.95 in the lemon- and dollar-decorated money box.
Look out Warren Buffett; and move over, Jimmy Buffett. Jack, the Sage of Suburban Palm Beach County just might edge out W on the Forbes list and just might buy Margaritaville right out from under J.

Patrick's a Little Man of Few Words

As somebody who is absolutely LOUSY at metaphors and similes, I wish I could come up with one or the other for Patrick.
An original one, I mean. Not something like being the calm in a storm (or even BEFORE the storm), or the yin to the yang or, perhaps, a square peg for a round hole.
I suspect that the meaning of that paragraph is as muddy as my most mixed metaphors, so I'll start over.
If the boys' last name were Marx, Patrick Michael would be Harpo, known as the silent one.
And THAT's what keeps giving me a double take when I'm around Patrick.
At a tad over a year, the lad can speak but a few mumbled muffles that may not be words at all but rather, family members' imaginations. Oh, he laughs and giggles and makes guttural sounds, and he probably is saying mum-mum-mum and dada, after a fashion.
But usually, he just watches things and activities — for some reason, he watches me with the studied .007 golden eye of a secret agent assessing a suspect — although he's starting to join the boys' dogpiles on Dad.
The reason I need a metaphor for him, why he seems like he’s following a different drummer, is that he's growing up in a cacophony of chaos, a din of drummers. He’s the sounds of silence among the various renditions of songs entitled “SHOUT.”
I suppose the Isley Brothers kicked it off the shouts in 1959, when grandad was a wee lad:


I’ve been favoring Tears for Fears rendition of late (call me “groovy,” but I think some songs of the ’80s easily rivaled music’s breakout period of the ’60s):



And, lest we forget, The Beatles added a TWIST to the shout:



And that’s what Patrick’s brothers — Vincent at 8, Jack at damnear 6, and Luke at 3 — do much of the time twist and shout, and, to invoke Tears for fears, “let it all out.”
I swear, those lads are so noisy when they get to playin’ that I can’t hear myself think — and they can’t hear ME pleading with them to turn down their volume. Indeed, trying to talk to Melissa on the phone when they’re playing in the background is as impossible as scoring a hole-in-one on a 600-yard par 5 on a windy, rainy day.
At this point, Patrick is mostly a relatively quiet observer as the world goes by. Some days, it throws me off that he’s so quiet because the others can be so dadgum loud. I keep expecting noise to issue forth, but it’s mostly toned-down utterances wafting forth on the winds of baby’s breath.
Happily for all concerned (perhaps), Patrick won't be as tongue-tied as Harpo Marx. (And, truth be told, Harpo could speak; he just usually didn't for a couple of reasons, including the fact that it was a great schtick to get attention, according to the family biography at http://www.marx-brothers.org/biography/marxes.htm.)
OR, for all I know, he’s just a proverbial genius, as per Proverbs 10:19: He who holds his tongue is wise. (I wonder whether a politically correct Bible might say, “He or SHE who hold his or HER tongue is wise.” Probably just “People who hold their tongues are wise.)
On the other hand, things could get so noisy once Patrick quits holding his tongue that we'd wish we could put the toothpaste back in that tube, that the train hadn't left the station, that we could turn back time, etc.
Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.
Soooooooo, my keyboard will fall silent now, as I show a few pix of the lad and his fans:
With his godparents, my son, Brendan, and his wife, Erica, on his christening day:



In a more casual setting, with Brendan and Erica, at his brudders' soccer fields:


With mom, Melissa, on christening day:

Sometimes, everybody's got to get their mugs in a pic, such as the four boys' dad, Skip, Brendan, Erica (you can't even tell she's preggers, can you?), and Melissa, holding Patrick, whose eyes are wide shut, with the strangely silent crew in front, Vincent, Luke and Jack:
The boys just HAVE to clown around when their parents aren't in the pic:
Don't you just hate it when grandparents overdo the photos? Oh, well, one more:

Oh, WAIT, that’s not Patrick. That’s just me, hangin’ with Ernest Borgnine at the Emmys, when my daughter Annie was nominated for editing "Top Chef." How’d THAT get in this column? Can't figure out how to delete it.

In closing, as long as I’ve brought up the varied resurrections of songs with “Shout,” I present one of my favorites and no, I don’t mean its performance on “American Idol” in April 2008. To my mind, nobody does it better than Darlene Zschech:

Amelia Makes an, Uh, Shall We Say, Interesting First Impression

Some days, as the saying goes, you’re the windshield, and other days, you’re the bug.
Some days, you’re Miss Muffet, sitting on your tuffet; other days, you’re the tuffet, sat upon.
Some days, you feel put upon, and others, you get shat upon.
And NOW, the back story:
If Thomas the Tank Engine is around when my youngest grandchild, Amelia, is of the age to appreciate the series, I’m sure she’ll see the ninth episode of the fifth season of the wildly popular series. (It will be interesting to see whether she likes the series as much as her ultra-macho cousins do.)
The episode’s title is “Put Upon Percy,” and it recounts the misery of the little engine one day when he felt put upon.
All the other little engines teased him, taunting, “Percy's been put upon, put upon, put upon, put upon, Percy's been put upon. Poor old Percy — tee hee hee hee hee!"




They just can’t let up, as they continue the torment with this phrase: "Percy has been put upon. I am, I am, I am!"
Of course, the repetition of “I am” brings to mind Dr. Seuss’ “Green Eggs and Ham.” Well, it does for me, anyway, and this is my blog, it am.
And that, of course, brings me to the day Amelia used me like Miss Muffet’s tuffet, and sat upon me. Of course, I was thrilled, because it was my first visit with my first granddaughter. Until she decided to give me a REAL welcome, and shat upon me as well (looked a little like yellow curds and whey, by the way).
Of course, that reminds me of Dr. Seuss again, his famed “Cat in the Hat.” If you can’t keep track of my train of thought, that’s your tough luck. You must feel as put upon as poor Percy.
But that’s better than being shat upon. I know she doesn’t know anybody, and that’s what babies do, after all. But it was a brand-new T-shirt, and it looked as if I’d sprayed myself with mustard.
There was a cat in the house, but she could not have done her deed where the cat shat; indeed, she couldn’t have left her deposit in a hat.
At this point, I’ll just apologize to the spirit of Dr. Seuss, and offer this reflection:

The diaper did not hold,
It was too weak for the load.
So it squirted out
When the breast milk hit the road.

I stood there with Amelia.
We stood there, we two.
And I said to my daughter:
Annie, she just went doo-doo.

Too surprised to react
And reluctant to change a mess.
So I stood their stupidly,
’Til Annie grabbed the little lass.

Since all she had done was
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!
Annie changed her diaper,
And she didn’t like it one bit.

I could go on. And on. And on,
But you wouldn’t like that.
Besides, I can’t beat the rhyme
And pentameter of the Cat in the Hat.

I would just cause you to groan
So this Grinch will go on the lam.
So you don’t wretch something
That looks like green eggs and ham.

Others have been creative with the concept, as well:



Other than being put upon that once, I had a great visit with Amelia and her parents. She charmed the sox off of this silver fox, although I should note that she can screech like a banshee on occasion.
We went to the zoo while I was there, but I’m grateful that we didn’t go to the beach. I HATE to get sand twixt my toes and in various other crevasses we’ll leave unmentioned.

It appears she shares my sentiments:


But she's a starlet in my skies with those shades on her eyes.


In closing, I’ll prevail upon Dr. Seuss just one more time with some final quotes from one of his 44 children’s books to welcome Amelia into the world:

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away! . . .

OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights. . . .

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.

Stay Outta MY Back Yard, U.N. Nimrods

One of the biggest United Nations controversies back when granddad was a lad was whether "Trick or Treat for UNICEF" uses kids to raise money to kill kids, i.e., to fund abortions.
The long-running debate has been polarizing, to the point that some people terrorized kids who simply were out on Halloween trying to do a good deed, filling charity coffers with coin instead of their bellies with candy.
The annual collection, which has raised about a bazillion dollars — well, about $120 million for sure — since a few Philadelphia children started it in 1950, probably will continue to spur debate long after granddad is flower fertilizer.

But I recently ran across another U.N. trick that's no trick, in my book. It’s such a head-shaker that it should spark plenty of debate.
If you haven’t heard about it already, you’d better sit down, kids, because it defies commons sense and, some might argue, decency as well.
It seems that the U.N.’s Economic, Social and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) doubts the effectiveness of sex ed centered around traditional family values, so it issued a report suggesting its own timeline and topics such education should cover.
Starting with masturbation. For 5-year-olds. Nope, that’s not a typo that should be 15 instead. A U.N. agency believes that 5-year-olds ought to learn to masturbate. No WONDER the full organization has trouble persuading countries to play nice with each other, when it’s so lame-brained as wanting kids to play nasty.
OK, perhaps that’s too hyperbolic, as if I’m hell-bent on being inflammatory, just to get your attention. Well, to be fair, then, I’ll nuance it: The report doesn’t out-and-out tell kindergartners about a fun new activity for recess.
Rather, the International Guidelines on Sexuality Education stipulate “age-appropriate” information. UNESCO cobbled together the guidelines with the U.N. Population Fund, an organization that CNSNews.com reported works for universal access to “reproductive health care.”
The report’s rationale for creating the guidelines is that it is “essential to recognize the need and entitlement of all young people to sexuality education.” An appendix backs that claim by pointing to a 2008 report from the International Planned Parenthood Federation that argued governments “are obligated to guarantee sexual rights,” and that “sexuality education is an integral component to human rights.”
The so-called “age-appropriate” guidelines break down the suggested curriculum into four age groups: 5- to 8-year-olds, 9- to 12-year-olds, 12- to 15-year-olds and 15- to 18-year-olds.
The curriculum for the 5- to 8-year-olds, a group I’m interested in because I’ve got two grandsons in that range, includes the following teaching moments, CNSNews reported:
* “Touching and rubbing one’s genitals is called masturbation.”
* “Girls and boys have private body parts that can feel pleasurable when touched by oneself.”
* “People receive messages about sex, gender, and sexuality from their cultures and religions.”
* “All people regardless of their health status, religion, origin, race or sexual status can raise a child and give it the love it deserves.”
* “Gender inequality,” “examples of gender stereotypes,” and “gender-based violence.”
* Description of fertilization, conception, pregnancy, and delivery.
I suppose one could argue the merits of the last four topics, although I would take the side arguing against the very idea that a 5-year-old needs to know about such things at this point in his life.
But my mind was too boggled about the first two topics to formulate the argument. I’m all for good-touch, bad-touch tutorials to warn kids not to fall victim to lechers, but this step is a little TMI at this point in their lives.
I judge age-appropriateness by what the grandkids are interested in.
All indications are that, at this juncture in their young lives, they are interested in playing with their Legos, which leads me to conclude that should be their focus, rather than what they can do with what’s between their legs. They are fixated, as they should be, on SpongeBob SquarePants rather than what’s in their own pants.
Problem is — and I’m amazed that the clowns who wrote the report don’t KNOW this — is that, if you tell kids about something, they want to experiment. In this case, one thing would lead to another and all of a sudden, a 5-year-old is involved in something that used to ensnare only pre-pubescents.
No thank you. Sooooooooo, when 5-year-old Jack, and often, 3-year-old Luke, ask me to help them put together Legos figures, that’s what we’ll do: Play with Legos (and make sure they pick them all up so I don’t step on them in my bare feet.
Call me Priscilla, but I think that’s the age-appropriate venture instead of, say, getting a naked Ken doll and showing them Ken’s pleasure palace.
Of course, it’s not my responsibility to give them “The Talk” anyway, so I’ll let their parents decide when to tell them what. I suspect that, knowing Melissa and Skip, it will be awhile before they go down that road.
There are plenty of age-appropriate “pleasures,” such as arts and crafts, fishing, camping, T-ball, soccer, etc., now without getting into sex ed.
Meanwhile, we’ll just be putting together Lego cities and cars and contraptions.
Maybe someday, we'll be goofy goobers and make videos like some people do.

DON'T DO THAT, or you'll go BLIND!!!

Jack knocked me for a loop down memory lane the other day with THIS question: "Papa Mike, how come we can touch YOUR TV screen but we can't at home?"
The loop was because it was a revelation to me that he thought touching MY television screen is not only an acceptable habit but also nigh onto a laudable endeavor.
I mean, I don't mind it, because it's an old model with the hard glass tube. But the fact that he assumed he could, and presumed to act on that assumption, touch the screen explained the mischievous fingerprints I had been attributing to leprechauns or, perhaps cockroaches wearing fake fingerprint gloves.
So I explained to the lad of 5 that modern-day TV screens are delicate and must not be handled, even with kid gloves. Back in the day, they were strong enough to fend off even a bouncing tennis ball, as I recall. The common ground: TV screens then and now could not tolerate, say, a bowling ball.
But the time warp to the first TV conjured up the memories I have related previously about watching the headdressed Indian test pattern, in black and white, for WEEKS on my granddad's TV. It was the first one in South Sioux City, Neb., but it and its rabbit ears were primed for the signal when the first Sioux City, Iowa, TV station went live.

It's hard to explain to kids these days that the only way to have an "entertainment center" back then was to put a record player on top of a console TV, and a radio on top of the record player, and make sure the wall socket could tolerate all the plugs. Each appliance had its own speakers, and none woofed or tweeted so much as scratched. Oh, if you wanted a phone, too, the best you could do was have a party-line, rotary-dialed one.
Even showing the grandkids the little battery-operated TV I bought for hurricanes doesn't convey the true barbarity of those days of yore. (Even that TV is obsolete, with the switch to digital, I think, if that's done, and I'm not sure.)
So they'll never see how far devices can morph, from big tubes and boxes, black and white, to consoles, to portables, etc., to screens so small you can hold 'em with two fingers.
Black and white, consoles, portables, etc.
Back to the screens It appears that one of the main admonitions from when granddad was a lad was the warning not to sit too close to the TV. These days, the boys sometimes stand just a few feet from the set.
Back then, parents forever were yelling, "Don't sit so close to the TV or you'll go BLIND."
Of course, blindness was a common consequence preached when guilting us didn't quite work. In the old days, it usually was an admonition not to touch THIS, THAT, or the OTHER thing.
Often, touching had those dire physical consequences of blindness:
* Don't play with that bow and arrow or you'll shoot somebody's eye out.
* Or, put that cork gun away before you blind somebody.
* Or, don't . . . or you'll go blind. (If you catch my drift. Surprising more of my generation isn’t blind.)
Actually, I don't mind the boys' leaving fingerprints around the house because I figure it reminds me that their spirits are lingering there even when they aren't visiting.
So there aren't many things I don't tell 'em not to touch. Well, except for the plant that Jack feels the need to whack every time he walks past it.
“Why, Papa Mike?” he’ll say every time. “It’s fake, isn’t it?”
“NO,” I remind him about my favorite orchid plant, every time. “It’s REAL, and it’s DELICATE.”
To conclude, I’ll add that ... Uh. ... OMG! I can’t see the screen!!!! Ye GADS! I think I’m going BLIND! But I didn’t ... I SWEAR!!!

Good Old Days Weren't Necessarily Smart Old Ways, Compared with THESE Daze

Here 'tis almost time for school to start again, and I haven't even mentioned Vincent's blue-ribbon performance in his school's science fair right before the summer break.
Actually, I mention it not so much to brag, AGAIN, as to point out the contrast between the "good old days" and now. I don't think our school even HAD a science fair when granddad was a lad. But if it had taken a pause from the hectic pace of the '50s for a scientific competition, I'm sure it would have been only for the upper grades.
When I was in first grade, the closest I came to anything blue was learning that it was one of the colors in my eight-color Crayon box.
All we were learning was colors and one-syllable words, such as red, blue, sun, etc. Some of us had trouble even nailing down the colors. One of my classmates had been held back the year before because he had covered everything brown his first time through.
As for learning the words, that was after we had spent hour after hour meticulously drawing the alphabet on those tablets with big spaces and dotted lines to divide small letters from caps. We didn't even start reading until well into the second grade, after our "phonics" books arrived. (I was sooooooooo disappointed when S'ter handed me mine. For MONTHS, she had been promising that great things would happen when those tomes came in. Unfortunately, I thought she was saying "comics," and I couldn't wait. Boy, THAT was a rude awakening.)
Of course, when we did start reading, it was basic Dick and Jane and Spot stuff.
"See Spot run."
"Run Spot, run."
"Dick, see Spot run."
"Spot, run to Jane."
"Jane, what is the vertical co-efficient of the cosign of the hypotenuse …"
Oh, for a minute there, I lapsed into my eighth-grade reading mode.
In short, when I was in first grade, there's no way I could have presented a science exhibit like Vincent did. Hell, all I had was a round scissors and the eight crayons because we couldn't afford the box of 24, which was the top of the line in those days, let alone the 16 pack.
Granted, his parents helped a tad, but he did MOST of the work himself. MUCH of Melissa's work was having her son write the narrative on his display cards, from scratch, when he made a mistake. None of the typewritten ones so many others featured. And none of the Run Spot Run stuff to explain the dynamics of the contents of a Lucky Charms box.
He calculated the number of each design of the charms, and chronicled them. And I daresay that his display rivaled anything I did even in the eighth grade.
The REAL clincher? He didn’t even have to do it. It was an optional assignment. The kid’s setting the bar high.
We’re lucky to have that charmer around, I’d say.

General Mills has added some snap, crackle and pop (to use a rival’s slogan) since this FIRST Lucky Charms commercial in black and white, eh?



I’ll close with my favorite song involving luck, Frank Sinatra’s “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” I couldn’t find one with Old Blue Eyes himself singing it, so we’ll have to settle for the water fountain show at the Bellagio.

Amelia Was a Blot, But Now She's Not, and New Blot Won't Show What It's Got

It seems like only yesterday that Amelia was just splotches of black and white on an ultrasound, and here she is now, a month old and rushing headlong toward her first Christmas.
I've gotten used to recognizing her little face in its various moods and body in its varied positions in the photos my daughter and her mom, Annie, e-mails to me.
I have to say that none of the ultrasounds even hinted at what she'd really be like, her personality changes, her switching positions, indeed, even what appears to be a screen test for a movie that could be titled "When Ladybugs Attack."
Sometimes, she appears thoughtful; others, dead to the world. Sometimes, seriously sulky; other times, mischievously mirthful. Sometimes, tuned in to watching a mobile spin; other times, zoned out after bellying up to the trough. And, of course sometimes sassy, others gassy.
But she's come a long way, that baby, since she looked more like an inkblot test in the sonogram.
However, I dare say her first picture looked a wee bit better than the most recent sonogram I've been perusing. Oh, lest you think Annie and Kevin decided to morph into a quick-turnaround baby franchise, this isn't theirs.
Rather, it will be the firstborn blot of my son, Brendan, and his bride, Erica. Sorry, but I do have to call it a blot because Brendan doesn't want to know the gender 'til the infant pops into the glaring white and freezing temp of a delivery room or, perhaps, into the more gentrified scene of a modern delivery suite with more warmth and character.
Erica kinda-sorta-maybe-for-SURE would like to know the gender, but she is heeding his wishes, as far as I know. (Wimmin can be a wiley sort, you know, finding out such info and then trying like HELL to avoid the inevitable slip of the tongue that will hoist them on their own petards.)
So, the array of photos accompanying this column are to let you figure out which ones are Amelia and which one is Blot.
When Erica sent me Blot's photo, I replied that, no offense, but it looked much like a giant picture of a hookworm I recently ran across. I even included a pic of the parasite to prove my point. (Say THAT one 10 times as fast as you can.)
She took umbrage, even though I had TOLD her not to take offense. The graphic photo of the hookworm's maw was disconcerting, she said, adding that I had ruined her appetite. It didn't seem to discombobulate her for long, though, as she was Dairy Queening the next day.
I'm not including the photo of the hookworm here because, well, because you might be eating breakfast. Or lunch. Or supper. Or a snack.
Meanwhile, the sonogram set me to thinking about Christmas. Well, I mean The Christmas Carol and Ebeneezer Scrooge's protestations that the apparition was no more than, well, a ghost: "You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"
I guess that's a gentler description of Blot than a hookworm: perhaps a bit of undone potato. Oh, I know that Scrooge is suggesting that he's seeing things because of indigestion. And I think Blot looks a bit like an undone potato at this point.
I'm sure he or she will become more appealing as time goes on.
Of course, it took Brendan and Erica awhile to announce their bundle of Blot on Facebook, so I kept mum about it myself. But then I wasn't able to read the announcement because I refuse to join Facebook.
That refusal makes me the constant target of barbs from my kids.
Annie whines that I could see lots more photos of Amelia she posts daily instead of just the ones she e-mails to me. Allison whines that I would have known she was stranded in Europe without luggage and only the VERY casual clothes she was wearing because all the stores were closed for a holiday — IF I were on Facebook. (So what good would that have done, besides worry me? Or did she expect me to overnight her a bra and a thong?)
And Erica not only whines but also taunts me with missives such as this the day after she announced Blot: "I think you should join Facebook . . . you're just AFRAID you would like it too much and get addicted! If you woulda joined you coulda seen all the comments people made in response to my big announcement yesterday. Here are just a couple:

"What!?" — Brendan (My son is SUCH a joker.)
"Here's your chance to show your real Cubbie blue. Clark for a boy and Addison for a girl" — Aunt Dawn
"Congrats! Looks like it's time to get that Coach Diaper Bag" — Heidi (I don't know Heidi, but I would guess she's a shopper, with tastes leaning toward designer duds.)
"Oh great, the polluted gene pool moves on another generation . . . " — My Dad (That would be Larry, Erica's dad, and I haven't figured out which end of the gene pool he's in: shallow or deep. Even if I knew, I wouldn't malign a man of the cloth [or a woman of the cloth].)
Anyhooooooooooooooooooo, that's Erica's pitch: Join Facebook and have full access to such comments.
Sorry, but no thanks. I'd rather be waterboarded — maybe even with boiling oil — than be on Facebook.

Death Is a Relative Thing

Death is a relative thing.
Indeed, when relatives die, you mourn some, and others, well, let's just say good things come to pass, too. In other words, you lose some and you win some, and sometimes, when you lose one, you WIN.
But I'm not talking about dysfunctional families, or even the death of a relative. Rather, the topic is how kids cope with death, when they don't even understand it (indeed, lots of adults don't understand it, or cope with it). And how to help them channel the surge of conflicting emotions.
This particular case involved only the possibility of death, when the disappearance of Jack's hermit crab, appropriately named "Mr. Krabs," sent him into inconsolable, uncontrollable and unrequited sobs of grief.
The 5-year-old had had Mr. Krabs, whose name also commemorated the boys' fondness for all things SpongeBob, for only a day, so it's not like they were longtime pals. They might as well have been, though, the way Jack carried on when Mr. Krabs went AWOL.

One minute, the little fella (Mr. Krabs, not Jack) was playing in the sandbox, and the next, he was gone. Jack wasn't nimble enough, nor were various family members quick enough, to put Mr. Krabs back in the box again.
For some reason, Jack fixated on the possibility that a bird might sweep down and pluck Mr. Krabs up for a tasty bite, perhaps with a bit of drawn butter.
He cried day and night, from bedtime to reveille, sobbing to sleep and awakening teary-eyed.
Of course, Melissa tried to ease his mind, suggesting that Mr. Krabs probably was off on a lark. However, if he had met an untimely end, she said, she could understand Jack's anguish — and even feel his pain — because she had felt sad when her Grandma Honey died several years ago.
Jack had never met Honey, but he has seen videos, and she seemed like a good vehicle for Melissa to connect with Jack's grief. She told him how she missed Honey and how blue she had been when her grandmother died.
Imagine Melissa's surprise, then, when her second-born replied belligerently, "YEAH, but were you little?"
She had to admit that, well, no, she hadn't been.
That's where we get back to death's being a relative thing. (And here you thought that the beginning of this recollection was just for shock value and I'd never get to the topic.)
Relatively speaking, the escape, and possible death, of a hermit crab is infinitesimally insignificant in the wider scope of eternity. Unless, of course, you're a 5-year-old.
Jack's got a new hermit crab now, one that'll never get to stroll in the sandbox, thanks to Mr. Krabs' elusive ways. But I've got to believe that, in Jack's quiet moments (perhaps while he's sitting on the throne), in his deepest thoughts, in the very depths of his soul, he's wondering whereinHELL Mr. Krabs is.
Chances are, he'll never know.

My School on Wheels Would Leave Meals on Wheels in Dust

I recently saw that commercial about the fella who taught his kid to read at 8 months and thinks you should, too.
Obviously, he just wants you to buy his reading program, but I did feel a tinge of guilt that I was such a slouch of a parent that I let the schools teach my brood how to read. That hearkened back to my own upbringing, when I started with one-syllable words on colored leaves in first grade.
Now, of course, even kindergartners can read some words.
The commercial also lit a fire under me, though, to pitch in on helping the grandkids learn to read. Of course, it’s too late for the older ones, because Anthony’s on the downside of high school, and Vincent, Jack and even 3-year-old Luke can read to varying degrees.
But I’ve got a clean slate with Patrick, who doesn’t even talk much beyond “ma-MAH,” “da-DAH” and BALL, which comes out BAH!
I haven’t mentioned Patrick all that much because, well, I confess that my interest in kids kicks in when they’re around 1 year old. (You won't catch em in a gaggle of wimmin ga-gahhing when a kid moves or breaths or toots.)
But he's cute and bright and, well, his middle name is Michael, so I’m quite fond of the little nipple biter. But I’m even behind the 8-ball on him, because he’s damnnear a year old already.
And I realized the other day that I’ve got textbooks at my fingertips. So I think I’ll rip off the Meals-on-Wheels idea and start a School-on-Wheels franchise. It’s quite simple, and the textbooks are free: bumper stickers.
I got the other day when I saw this one on the back of a pickup that an independent-looking woman was driving: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”
Even though that runs contrary to Patrick’s T-shirt that proclaims, “Lady Killer,” but the gal is entitled to her opinion.
Besides, there’s the bumper sticker that answers her: “Never judge a girl by her bumper sticker.”
Of course, many bumper stickers take a political position. They’re already selling THIS number on the Internet: “Sarah Palin wins 2009 Alaska Iquitarod.”
HOWEVER, since this column is politically neutral, I’ll cite this one, too: “So how’s that Hope and Change thing goin’ for ya?”
And some are downright belligerent, such as this gem: “If punching you in the face is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.”
Some others:
* When surveyed, 4 out of 5 older Americans answered, “What?”
* Life can be lived only forward and understood only backward.”
* Legally, it’s questionable. Morally, disgusting. Personally, I like it.
* Land of the FREE because of the BRAVE.
* Who would Jesus Torture?
*What would Reagan do?
* Some days, it’s not worth gnawing through the straps.
* Hang up and DRIVE!
* Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to teenage boys.
* TV is gooder then books.
* The best things in life are not things.
* In case of fire, do not use elevators. Use water.
* Don’t settle with words what you can settle with a flamethrower.
* Never let your mother brush your hair when she’s mad at your father.
I could go on and on, but why reinvent the wheel? You can see LOTS more textbooks at http://www.cafepress.com/ibs_store. The selection provides a wide curriculum for Schools on Wheels, including affirmations, admonitions, aspirations, declarations, exhortations, modern thought, etc., etc.,
I figure that, if I get the technique down, I can start teaching Amelia when I go see her for the first time in a couple of months. Even at less than a month old, she's already taken the pose of "The Thinker." (Obviously, I need to go to computer school to find out how to make her picture look upright; her mom's the film editor — I don't know beans.)
And, if I get her started on the right foot, Annie and Kevin can sport a sticker that’s a take-off on the old “My D student can beat up your A student.
I’ll close with one of my favorites, which I saw a couple of years back: “Praise the lowered.” At FIRST, I thought the poor bloke couldn’t spell Lord, but then I noticed that his pickup was lowered.
I LOVE to see people who let words out of the dictionary to play with each other.