My friend Mike sent me this response to my entry about the 11th:

"All of my friends are radical pacifists who say that we didn't respond
appropriately afterward."

Not quite all. ;)

True enough, and he's one of the few folks who has a right--well, not a right, everyone has a right, but let's say a perspective--to comment on those events.

And at this moment one year ago, I was probably remarking "What a gorgeous day! Really should get D outside..."

Still thinking about it. I guess at some point every blogger has to do a commemorative post about September 11, so this is mine. I just don't feel honest enough to do it justice, though I suppose I'm more morally clean than all the television producers who are making a buck on 3,000 deaths.

All of my friends are radical pacifists who say that we didn't respond appropriately afterward. Well, they're entitled to their opinion. But I think that attitude is as stupid as saying "Well, we should continue negotiating with the Japanese" on December 8, 1941.

I can't stand George Bush and most of his policymakers, and I think the concept of a war with Iraq is fundamentally flawed. But I still, a year later, want our military to hunt down the organization that did the attack and kill them. If that makes me a warmonger, so be it. It's good enough for al-Quaeda.

I still believe the attacks weren't just an act of terror, but an act of war. I'm too tired to be articulate and, as I said, I didn't lose anyone in the attacks, nor was I near the Trade Center or the Pentagon, so I don't even have a right to an opinion in some sense. But every time I hear some radical leftist (and I used to be one myself!) say that WE'RE to blame for the attack, or get worked up over innocent deaths in Afganistan...

Why the fuck didn't you get worked up over the innocent deaths in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania? Is it only bad to kill innocents outside the U.S.? Or is it only bad for Westerners to kill innocent people--everyone else gets a pass? And maybe, just maybe, 9/11 wasn't the fault of shortsighted policy, but the fault of the 19 (or more) twisted people out to kill us for no other reason than our nationality?

Thanks.

GO TO BED. I will say that my mood seems to clearly depend on sleep. Yesterday (at least until the walk) I was a wreck, and this evening (until my snack of MAC N CHEESE!) I was in despair over a visit from the ***deleted-in-case-they-read-this***. So perhaps, it's more accurate to say my mood depends on food and exercise...

I'm gonna write about the Gonnas' performance on Friday. I just can't do it right now.

Tell me I'm a good man.

I haven't been getting to sleep early enough lately. So I apologize that I have little bloggage to provide today.

I will say, though, that I have recently enjoyed reading blogs from other stay-at-home parents:

Inane Comments
Froggie's This and That

And that's all the rolling I'm doing today, except for the joints of course. (Joke.)

I'm not making this up. Took a hike through Greenbelt Park t'day, with both kids and the dog. D was running along the trail with great abandon.

Squelch: It must be nice for him to hike, now that he can see.

K: Yeah, I can't imagine how it would be without his glasses.

Squelch: Yeah.

K: He'd be tripping over every tree trunk in sight.

(Cue D, who trips over a tree trunk as K says "sight.")

It's open mic night tonight at the New Deal Cafe, and three of the four Gonnas are gonna be there. How a rock-n-roll band will go over at a folky restaurant remains to be seen.

I wrote this in a text editor at 10 A.M. today, but my DSL connection has been nostalgic for the days of 300 baud modems, so I haven't posted it until now. (Even now it's creeping along at a few hundred bytes per second.)

Oh, my gosh, what happened to our beautiful little boy?

Right now, after throwing toys (that's one) and hitting our dog twice (that's two and three) he's in his room screaming at the top of his lungs.

He was the perfect kid (well, mostly) until he got a sister.

Please, is there anyone out there who's lived through this and can tell me that it will end?

Things got better after I wrote that... but not much.

There, that's much better.

Hm. I found a problem. The date header shows only one date--today's. Wonder how that happened?

Whew! Always keep a backup of your template, kids. While changing my Seal of Approval blogs, I somehow deleted my template entirely. (I still don't know HOW or WHY that happened.) I rebuilt it and it appears to work, but if there are any problems, do let me know.

Next week: in the style of Jerry Springer.

Golly, I've never been involved in a blog back-and-forth before. It's actually quite invigorating, if difficult to keep civil.

"Issue One!" says John McLaughlin, "The One About Affairs. Mor-ton, is Squelch A) judgemental, or B) completely misunderstood, when he takes Molly to task for her handling of her failed marriage?"

"Completely misunderstood, John. Squelch wasn't talking about her situation, but that of his best friend, where the spouse left after meeting an old flame she hadn't seen in twenty-five years, and when, by her own admission, she had been happy in the marriage until this 'gentleman' who she knew at fifteen called her out of the blue."

"Eleanor! Judgemental ass, or misunderstood poet?"

"Judgemental ass, John. Of course he has every right to leap to his friend's defense, but he has no idea what was going through the spouse's mind, and that, I think, is the point Molly is trying to make. The spouse may have said she was happy, but how can Squelch enter into her mind and know the truth--or even enter into their relationship and know the truth?"

"Answer," says McLaughlin, "Squelch is a misunderstood judgemental ass. He was talking about an individual case, but by unfairly comparing that case with Molly's story, he gave the impression that All Vows Are Created Equal, a ridiculous assertion for which he deserves to be censured. Issue Two! Has Squelch gone too long without being self-piteous? After our break."

----

In English, for those of you who aren't familiar with The McLaughlin Group. Molly said:

[Squelch's] argument will of course be that I made the vows, and I should have been prepared to live up to them. My excuse that I was young and stupid when I made the vows holds no water.

Ouch. Well, I guess I deserve that. But no, that wasn't my argument. After all, I don't know Molly from a hole in the wall (though she's a far better writer than your average hole in the wall). But I do know my friend, and I can't think of any justification for what he's been through. (They weren't young and stupid when they got married, after all.) But I apologize for the comparison; it was unfair, as John said. And I acknowledge that there's no way I can peek into anyone's relationship and know the Whole Truth.

K and I were young and stupid when we made our vows (though I think K would disagree). Fortunately for us, we both got smart at the same rate and in complementary ways. We still have our troubles, but we're doing the happily ever after thing. Nonetheless, I'm the first to recognize how lucky we are, and how that isn't the case for many folks. So, sorry, Molly; I didn't intend to judge you.

Astute readers will note that I've removed Fauxhemian from my Seal of Approval list and replaced it with The Umbrella Stand. I love people who aren't afraid to tell me when they think I'm full of it.

As fun as that was, there's an even better example of action-adventure parenting: Snapshots.

Run, Huggies, Run.

Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like as an action-adventure film.

The bag fell open in Squelch's hands. Fell open, and left only one diaper.

"That's the problem in a nutshell, S," she said. She licked her lips in a way that, at any other time, would have driven him wild, but now, she was all business. No longer his lover, this woman he only knew as "K"; now simply his boss.

"What about our regular distributor?" Squelch said, his brow a thick furrow of thought.

She shook her head, her brown locks teasing her forehead. "The Co-op Supermarket closes at nine."

He checked his watch. Latitude 76 degrees 55 minutes, longitude 39 degrees one minute. Inside at least ten cellular zones. No heat sources on the scanner but himself and K. He swore--stupid spy mode--and pressed a button. There it was. 9:39 PM. "Damn," he said softly.

He looked at her. "There's only one option."

She nodded. "Safeway."

"That's right. I'll need authorization."

"Screw authorization. Go. I'll watch our assets." She motioned to the assets, both asleep in their respective beds. He kissed her passionately--a final mixing of business with pleasure--and strode out the door, his heart pounding in his ears.

He pulled on his wraparound sunglasses and activated the night vision. A swamp of green--people, cars, untrimmed hedges. Only one thing mattered. To the Aston-Martin minivan. A screech of tires on pavement. A honk, an oath--"Hey, asshole, where's your damn headlights?" Heedless, Squelch gunned the engine and headed to the concrete jungle, the axis of evil, the suburban fiefdom--the mall.

The man who waved him down was dressed in black leather, and had black hair and dark sunglasses. "Squelch," he hissed.

"Just looking for a parking spot, Delaney," Squelch said. "You wouldn't have any handy?"

"Anything for you, Mr. S." He took a drag on his cigarette. "Why don't you park by the Sports Authority?"

Squelch shook his head, his eyes steel, his breathing steady. "I was hoping for something a little... closer."

Delaney nodded thoughtfully as he ground his cigarette into the pristine white exterior of the minivan. "I think," he said, "they're all taken."

Squelch saw the knife before he had a chance to remove his seatbelt, but it didn't matter. He pressed "play" on the CD player. "Toddler Favorites" wafted over the speakers, and with every beat of "The Wheels on the Bus," the AK-47s below the wheelbase fired ten shots. Delaney was on the ground, blood oozing from his knees, screaming. Squelch jumped from the car, his pistol at the ready. There were more goons coming out of the woodwork (literally--they all had those new PT Cruisers, and Squelch felt a pang of jealousy), but with a forward roll, a jump, and two cartwheels (while firing his gun, of course), they were all dead.

"Good thing I remembered change for the meter," he said as he flicked pennies onto Delaney's eyes.

Then it was inside the Safeway.

"Diapers," he said to the clerk, a woman who was ugly in every way except for her strong resemblance to Angelina Jolie in "Tomb Raider."

"Size?" she said, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

"Six."

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Big boy."

"More than you know," said Squelch. "And I'd like the special." He placed a card on the counter. She picked it up. The words glistened in the fluorescent light: Safeway Club.

She leaned forward and whispered in his left ear. "Sold out." Her breath was hot and moist. "Would you like a raincheck?"

He grabbed her hair and slammed her down on the counter. She gasped. "Dammit, I want size six Huggies and I want them now!" he yelled.

"You'll have to pay!" she screamed back. "You'll have to get Mega! Not Jumbo size, just Mega!"

Squelch let go. She staggered away. His voice was a block of ice as he said, "You know that Target sells Huggies at a better price. You know that."

She smiled in triumph. "Then you can go to Target--when they open tomorrow at eleven."

She had him. Disgusted, he said, "The things I do for England," and handed over a twenty dollar bill.

The clerk scanned the diapers and Squelch's retina for good measure. "Have a nice day, sir," she said, handing over the receipt and lingering over his eyes.

He walked to the parking lot. Her breath still stung in his ear. He pressed a button on his watch. A voice crackled. "S, report."

"The package is secure." K would want to know... but not all of it, not now. "Returning to base."

"S, we have another problem," K replied.

His breath cut short. "What?"

"Did you walk the dog yet?"

"Damn, but I forgot how much I love the theatre."

I wonder--will I ever agree with this statement again?

And now I really am going to bed.

What we say to the dog. Buddy! Go to bed!

I'm not eight years old anymore.

Here's another perspective on someone having an affair and ending their marriage. Though it sounds like somewhat of a different situation than my friend, it's very difficult to read something like this and not think about the other side of the story (the one who's being cuckolded).

Granted, the author is describing a completely different marriage, one that did not last thirteen years, and was entered when the parties were much younger. And I, of course, don't know the whole situation and have no right to judge her. But it's very hard, lately, to have ANY sympathy for folks who walk out on their spouses, knowing that my friend has been a nervous wreck, not to mention nearly suicidal at times. So, you'll excuse me, if I have no sympathy for his ex. I know where my loyalty lies, and I'm not going to shed any tears for the cheater. No matter how painful it was to leave, it's got to be more painful to be left.

K's and my anniversary is coming up. 8 years. My parents were married ten. Here's hoping we last past that mark. I'm just a little terrified. But I can always look to my mom and my stepfather, I suppose, who have been together over twenty years now.

E cries and I hear Harry Dean Stanton dying in Alien.

Today was a bad day. K and I are both at the end of our tether. I can't think of any specific incidents that made it bad... we're just tired and stir crazy and missing each other.

The one point of my day when I felt at peace, calm, and in control was when I fed E her first bottle of milk. She looked up at me with her big blue eyes (and then her big pink eyelids as she fell asleep) and I relaxed; probably about as close to the "let-down" reflex that breastfeeding mothers get as I'll ever come.

There is, of course, a prerequisite to my being able to feed her; K has to spend some time with the pump to get the milk. I'm not sure how comforting that is. Though, perhaps, it's worth it to know that she can now, in the middle of the night, say "To hell with this. YOU get a bottle and feed her. I'm sleeping." Not that she would say that.

Right? She wouldn't, would she?

Well, on the whole, life is good.

I don't know why I'm saying that. Not that I'm lying, understand; I just don't know what prompted me to write that.

Today is my mother's birthday. Happy B-Day, Mom.

Clutter. I have a lot of clutter.

Stories returning soon.

Biza.