Baby Trash: Blog

What Trash Fest taught me and other lessons learned in Finland

Baby Trash — Thu, 15 May 2008 17:25:43 +0000

-I had no idea how many times I could run up and down the stairs.

-I didn't know how many times I could trip over my own two feet on the stairs.

-Nobody told me how demanding and rude people can become when threatened with being banned from the backstage area.

-Blue paper wristbands are like gold.

-I can eat McDonalds a couple times a day for a meal.

-McDonalds has the best coffee in Finland.

-There are no Starbucks in Finland.

-Smurfs are taller than I expected.

-Jaani didn't hate me.

-Jyrki actually knows who I am.

-Jussi bites hard.

-Uno isn't a bad card game if you're playing with Acey.

-People think they can change their appearance when being thrown out the back door and sneaking in the front.

-Men in bands can disappear into thin air at any moment.

-If bands disappear you can usually find them outside.

-Herding goats is easier than getting a band of five together for a meet and greet or an interview.

-If Joanne is missing I automatically think Jyrki has made her cry.

-Walking in a straight line to someplace does not guarantee a safe return without running the risk of being lost.

-Sometimes even if you throw the party, you're still banned from it.

-All elevator doors do not automatically slide open.

-Elevator doors that do slide automatically do so quickly in Finland.

-I don't ever want to be the merch girl.

-No matter where I sit down at Gloria, Alex will find me and fill the chair beside me.

-Alligator foot keychains are creepy to say the least.

-Never give Jaani an alligator foot keychain.

-You can't wear canvas shoes and no socks for two nights of heavy work and expect them to come out smelling good.

-You can wash your feet in a sink, given proper balancing techniques.

-If a Finn hands you a piece of candy, but opens an ice cream bar for himself, don't eat the candy, cuz it's gonna be nasty.

-Licorice flavor makes me want to cry.

-There is such a thing as fun drunk people.

-Thinking makes me blush.

-Heavy goose down jackets make you sweat if you wear them indoors.

-If you're tired enough you can sleep anywhere.

-15-20 hours sleep is not enough over a five day period.

-I'll never be able to watch Sweeney Todd again without laughing.

-I love Finland and I can't wait to go back to visit and not work.

Seems it's Mothers Day again....

Baby Trash — Sun, 11 May 2008 13:48:42 +0000

And once again I've done something to make my husband angry with me, I choose the most inopportune times to do stupid shit *insert sarcasm here*.

Mothers Day has never been a particularly special day for me, my ex didn't think he should have to give me anything for giving birth to his sons, my sons never learned that showing mom you appreciate her on Mothers Day would be a nice thing to do (except when they watch me pamper my own mother) and now it has become such a sore spot in my year that it colors my mothers Mother's Day a little bit blue.

Here is what I would like for Mother's Day...a card. Just to show me that someone took the time to think of me ahead of time, but that along with my birthday and anniversary are just other days on the calendar.

I realize as I type this that I have become a cynical, negative and extrememly unpleasant person to be around and I believe I know why now. Next Mother's Day I hope I will have remedied the problem and purchased myself a card for being the Mother that I always knew I could be and gave my children the home they deserved, free of reproach, condesention and bullying, however it is I have to achieve that.

Cluelessness--Has this become a male epidemic?

Baby Trash — Fri, 09 May 2008 10:09:19 +0000

I'll write this beef here because I don't think my husband goes to Trig. Why, when and how did the male of the species become so self-centered? How is it that you can live in the same house with somebody and not know that you piss them off so bad that they don't even want to crawl in bed with you at night? When did "That doesn't sound like any fun for ME" become a mantra?
If marriage is a two way street which side should I drive on? If WE want to take a vacation and HE doesn't want to go to Italy, London, Finland, Spain, The Mediterranean, The Carribean, Hawaii, on a cruise, to a lakefront cottage, Las Vegas, New York City, California, New Orleans, but ONLY to Colorado to hike in the mountains, am I really supposed to be the one to give in?
When you come home from a lousy day of work and you're tired, but dinner is almost ready and your wife is greeting you in the kitchen, does that not negate your lousy day in any way? Does it occur to you that she had a crummy day at work too, but now she's home and does not want to remember her lousy workday, nor hear about yours as soon as you hit the tiles?
I have to go to work right now to have another lousy day, and my husband is on his way to my desk to bitch about some more stuff I don't want to hear, so I'm leaving early. I had to write this down to leave it someplace it wouldn't effect my work.

Trash Fest 2008

Baby Trash — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 16:54:39 +0000

The boy who tries me constantly...

Baby Trash — Fri, 28 Dec 2007 15:39:55 +0000

...came within inches of dying two nights ago. So many times I've said, "I'm gonna kill that kid!" and then he calls me to tell me he was in a car accident, my heart drops into my gut and my palms start to sweat even though he's assuring me he is okay.
He was riding in a mini-van with his girlfriend and her best friend (the driver), they were on their way to dinner and weren't quite sure where they were supposed to turn off of the 55-mph highway they were on. The driver saw the left turn at the last moment, and attempted a left turn from the right lane in front of a gasoline tanker truck traveling beside them. The driver of the tanker laid the truck down and rolled it into a ditch, he is in critical condition, but it looks like he will survive. The driver of the van has a severe laceration on her head and a concussion, they feared her neck might be broken, but she was lucky. My sons girlfriend has a mild concussion from hitting her head on the window and my son is a bit sore from the seatbelt saving his life.
I've talked to him over and over about his seat belt, I thank the Gods that he has listened to that one thing I've said, because he doesn't listen to much else.
He's promised me a dozen times that he is okay, but I won't be satisfied until he gets home and I can give him the once over myself.
I had to stop to recall; did I tell him I loved him before he got on the plane to fly to his girlfriends home? I tell him every time he gets into somebody else's car, when I drop him off at a friends, when he goes to work, leaves for class, but sometimes I can't remember if I said it or not.
Is he the bane of my existence? Sometimes. Is he one of only two reasons I've lived this long? Yes. Will he be the death of me? I hope not. Will I still say "I'm gonna kill that kid"? Probably, because even though I know after 43 years that nothing is forever and bad things happen to good people, he still believes that he is indestructible.
I'll tell him when he gets home that he scared the living shit out of me and I would have died if anything had happened to him, then the next day we will be yelling at each other again and all will be right in my home again.
Indestrucible in his eyes. Adult in his eyes. Smarter, faster, stronger in his eyes.
Child in my eyes, yesterday, today and forever.

The 69 Eyes make Christmas even more fun!!

Baby Trash — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 11:06:02 +0000

Sometimes driving the bus reminds me that little kids aren't all bad. The very little ones still believe in magic and Santa and the tooth fairy, since teeth drop like flies from Kindergarten til second grade. Today the little bastards made me laugh the whole way home with their theories on Santa, reindeer flight, Christmas and why we celebrate it (I don't think one of them knows why we celebrate it) The fun part is you can tell them any story you want, because they have nothing to judge it against, this is how I entertain myself while I drive....

I was driving the little ones home today and they asked me where Santa lived and I told them he's from Finland (because his pic is on the side of Finnair planes). They wanted to know where Finland was and I told them it was far away and reindeer lived there and walked around just like deer do here. They said Santa couldn't live in Finland cause he lives in the North Pole and I told them that part of Finland is near the North Pole and I knew people from Finland and they told me that Santa is from there and they knew him personally. I went on to tell them if they weren't good for me I would call my friends in Finland and tell them to tell Santa my kids in Rochester were naughty. The kids wanted to know what the people's names in Finland were so I told them, Jyrki and Jussi. Then I showed them a picture of Jyrki (wallet sized photo, black leather jacket, black gloves, black ray bans, black hair, chin in hand staring ominously for the camera). I put his pic up where all the kids can see it now and said he is watching them and they better behave or he would tell Santa not to even stop in Rochester! They all sat quietly and stared at his little picture the whole way home. I have a camera on the bus and they are pretty sure that Santa's helper, Jyrki, is watching them from that.

Dear "Suicide" thoughts for Joe....

Baby Trash — Sun, 05 Aug 2007 02:39:40 +0000

Dear Suicide:

Where do I begin? Five days ago as I ran back and forth for work, complained that it was just too Goddamned hot to do anything, as I wondered if I would be seeing my son after he got out of work, while I discussed nothing important with my girlfriends on the phone and life went on as normal, you shut yourself in your car and swallowed a bottle of pills.

While everyone went on, you didn’t. When we were laying our heads down to sleep, you were sleeping forever. As I told my son to be careful and that I loved him before he left the house, you didn’t think anyone could ever do that for you again. While I was assuring myself that my child was able to get together with his friends, you thought you had none.

While your family searched frantically for you after your call and your girlfriend began to blame herself for this you were gone.

I wanted to be angry with you. It was easy to say you were weak. Simple was calling you a coward. All week, for four long days I thought about how selfish you were.

Yesterday I went to your wake, I told your mother how strong she was. She said she knew you were at peace, that you had finally escaped the torture and pain of your depression; she just couldn’t believe it was by your own hand. Your father was stoic and he comforted everyone else. Your daughters distracted themselves with bustling about with their nearest, dearest friends by their sides. Your son is still too young to understand that his Daddy is gone.

Today I went to your funeral. I watched, experienced and shared everyone’s grief. I see now that the funeral was for you, but it wasn’t really. Today your children’s innocence was buried. Your family’s belief in comfort, trust in healing and their understanding of life; that’s what went into your grave.

For all the sadness, the sorrow and pain you had in your life; your escape has been made. Your family is left behind, not understanding, not able to see that the blame lies not with them, but with you. As they are left wondering, ‘What if I?’; ‘How could we?’; ‘If we had only…’ the Deacon promises that you lie in God’s comfort. Do you really? In this case God’s comfort should be set aside for those left behind, He should gather your family into his arms and show them a way to forgive themselves as they believe they have already forgiven you.

I hope that you knew what you were doing. I pray that you meant to do what you did. An act of such finality is an act committed too quickly in every circumstance, you were never far from help, love, hope or comfort if only you chose to accept it. Recovery is a difficult road, health and success never come easily, but anything is possible if you choose to try. If as much thought, strength and commitment went into saving yourself as went into this horrible decision you would still be here to see your children graduate and walk your daughters down the aisle, to hold your Grandchildren and one day fall asleep a happy, contented man and never rise again.

Suicide is the easy way out. Life is so much harder.

AT&T/Cingular Sucks!!!!

Baby Trash — Tue, 17 Jul 2007 01:28:18 +0000

How bad does Cingular/AT&T suck?

I’ll tell you how bad….since AT&T launched their new iPhone for those technological phenoms who can actually afford them; my relatively cheap, but still soaking me for sixty bucks a month phone no longer supports my needs.

What are my needs you ask? My needs are pretty damn simple:

*Work when I pick it up to make a call

*Give me a signal in my home

*Do not drop my call mid-sentence

*Provide me security should I become stranded and/or in danger

*Actually connect when I dial another phone

*Do not make me hold it up in the air to send a text message

*Allow me to wander from room-to-room as I speak, should I so choose without disconnecting my call

*Do not make me exit my home to place a call, or make me sit out there to complete my transaction, it will be winter again before I know it

I do not believe I am asking too much to pay for and receive impeccable quality when I would be happy with mediocre service, but I receive neither.

Everyone should be entitled to the best that can be provided, we are paying for a service that is not dependable, and thanking them by handing over our hard earned dollars only to be given less than stellar performance.

It's Mother's Day...Big Deal

Baby Trash — Sun, 13 May 2007 14:28:49 +0000

I hate Mother's Day. My first memory of Mother's Day (from my own perspective) was my husband (at the time) telling me he got me nothing on my first Mother's Day because I wasn't HIS mother, never taking into consideration that the four month old son we shared couldn't drive yet. I knew on that day that divorce was unavoidable.

Today I will celebrate Mother's Day for MY mother, because she is 83 and she survived me with most of her mind intact and me alive (I'm sure she wanted to kill me more than a million times). She still shakes her head at me, tells me I'm nuts and that I should stop hanging out with musicians, make friends with people who live close and grow old where she can keep an eye on me.

I will give her a gift, have a nice cookout, drink a few beers with her in the sun and tell her that I will be going to a few different cities to see the Eyes, one of my dearest friends STILL lives in Delaware and pretty soon HIM will be touring and I will be running around like a chicken with my head cut off to see them.

Mom will shake her head and tell me I'm crazy, to be careful and make sure to take lots of pictures so she can see these kooks I choose to surround myself with.

My gift to myself will be to continue to do what I do, because even though I don't receive gifts for being a Mom, my gifts are all around me.

The Joys of Motherhood are Non-Existent

Baby Trash — Mon, 07 May 2007 01:25:32 +0000

Blogging about my trials and tribulations as a parent seem stupid to some, but I find it strangely therapeutic.

Yesterday (5/5) my older sons’ employer called to find out why Bret was not at work. ‘Not at work? But he told me he had to work earlier today than this,’ I say.

So I must now recall what Bret told me as he left the house the day before:

-Going to work and I’m closing tonight

-Sleeping at my friend Dave’s home

-Have to work on Saturday morning too

-I’ll see you Saturday night

No, work says that he did not work Friday night at all, was supposed to work on Saturday afternoon, not Saturday morning. ‘Oh,’ I say.

I can’t get Dave to answer his cell phone, so I drive to his house and pound on his door until I wake him (at 4:30 p.m.). He says he hasn’t seen Bret since he left his home earlier in the morning, telling him he was going to work. I leave Dave’s feeling the kid isn’t telling me everything.

I make phone calls to all of Bret’s friends, nobody has seen him since Friday. My husband so distrusts Dave that he goes back to his house and wakes him yet again. He informs Dave that he believes he is lying, Dave comes clean (sort of), the last time he saw Bret he was with Anthony, that was yesterday. Bret never spent the night at Dave’s home Friday night, he asked Dave to cover for him if I phoned, and Dave doesn’t know where he is now.

We go to Anthony’s home, yes Anthony admits he saw Bret on Friday, but it was early, he went out with other friends when he and Bret split from one another. He seems as concerned as us, he promises to make some calls to see if anyone knows where Bret is.

Within half an hour Anthony calls us to tell us that another friend said ‘Remember Bret mentioning going to Illinois to see a girl?’

Then comes the light, ‘Jen?’ I ask. Anthony recognizes the name immediately.

The very fortunate part for me is that Bret is not the brightest crayon in the box when it comes to matters of espionage and he has overlooked the fact that he phoned “Jen” from my cell phone and left the number behind. I dial her, she picks up on the first ring, “Hey!” she says, thinking I am Bret. (Apparently just a smart as Bret, she knows this is my cell)

“Hi!” I reply.

“Oh.” She says.

“Jen? Where is my son?”

*very tiny voice* “On his way here.”

“How?” I ask.

“On a bus.”

Yes, my 18 year old, one month from the end of his Senior year in High School son has saved his cash and bought a ONE WAY Greyhound ticket to Champaign, Illinois to see a girl he has never met before.

This discovery has taken me three hours of detective work and the girls’ attitude over the phone does not do anything to improve my mood. I tell her to keep her phone on because I will be calling back.

I call the Greyhound terminal and with all the luck my Irish heritage can muster I actually get the wonderful young lady who sold Bret the ticket. She remembers him, he was a nice young man. Yes he is, just not so smart. He left Friday night at 9:45 p.m., he should already be in Champaign, but he isn’t. She deduces that he has probably missed his connection in Chicago. I thank her profusely and call Chicago, where I speak to a not-so-very helpful employee who is lazy and uncooperative, playing the blame game with me as I try to find out if anyone has seen a befuddled 18 year old who would be scared and lost. I finally hang up, because Ebonics is not my second language.

I call Jen again, she doesn’t know where Bret is. He was supposed to be there already, she says she will go to the terminal and see if he is there. The time drags interminably as I wait for her to get there and call me to say he isn’t there. I call the nice young lady at Greyhound again and she assures me he has most likely missed his connection and should arrive in Champaign at 8 p.m. I thank her again and call Jen who FINALLY admits that Bret called her at 11 a.m. to tell her there was a problem with the bus and he would be in later than expected.

I ask Jen the obvious then, “Jen, would you ever do something like this? Get on a bus and go 700 miles to see a boy?”

*dripping with much sarcasm* “I considered it.”

“And how would your mother have felt, Jennifer?”

*still dragging out the words, like any teen would speak* “I would have TOLD my mother!” she scoffs.

“Yes well Bret did not tell me and I am sick with worry for him, I don’t even know if he is alright!”

She said she understood, but all teens will tell you anything to get you to shut up.

Finally after the longest wait of my life (besides the nine months I spent waiting for him in the first place) he calls me. He is exhausted, broke and hungry, but determined to stay. I tell him to have Jen’s mother call me when she arrives home, he agrees and that gives him too many hours alone with this girl in my opinion.

When Jen’s mother arrives home at 1 a.m. (my time) she is presented with a telephone and is told to call me. She knows right away why, “Bret your mother doesn’t know you’re here does she?”

He tells her no.

What a wonderful feeling to speak to another mother who loves her children as much as you love your own. She assured me that Bret was fine, would be taken care of and that she had no idea he was running away to meet Jen. She asks me what I want her to do, I tell her I am purchasing him a ticket and could she please take him back to the bus in the morning. She assures me that she will watch him get on the bus herself, she gives him a place to sleep, feeds him and takes away his photo I.D. so he cannot escape her, then stays awake for the entire night to be sure the two smart 18 year olds try nothing stupider than what they’ve already done and run off together.

This morning this wonderful mother gave my son twenty bucks and snacks so he would have food on his way home and put him on the bus, witnessing him actually boarding the bus to be sure he didn’t do anything else dumb. She asked that I call to let her know he is alright when I get him at the terminal tomorrow, which I must take an entire day off from work to do.

First I will hug him, I’ll probably cry some more and then I will most likely attempt to kill him with my bare hands. He has lost his job now, he will be getting a haircut and direct deposit from his next job, because a kid who is going to be grounded for the entire summer doesn’t need money in his pocket.

If it were not for the distractible friends, the observant ticket seller at Greyhound and this wonderful mother in Illinois my son would not be coming home to me this easily. If it were not for my “sister” Rosemary, who came over at midnight to sit up with me until I knew my son was all right and then stayed until I was too exhausted to stay awake anymore I would have jumped out a window in frustration.

Eighteen years ago I thought that the worst was going on already, with colic, diapers, lack of sleep and first-time-mothering. I know now that these were all the least of my worries, teaching him to walk, talk and hold a spoon are nothing compared to teaching him to stand on his own two feet.

Must be that time of the month

Baby Trash — Sat, 31 Mar 2007 04:29:40 +0000

Must be that time of the month....

There are times in your life when you must cry, times when you must rejoice, times when you will laugh and times when you will scream. Everyone gets depressed, feels sad, lonely and wants nothing more than to crawl in a hole and pull it in after them. This was my today. I do dumb things when I am sad, usually to make myself feel better. Shopping was a big one, go out and purchase something completely frivilous and unnecessary, like a pair of huge black sunglasses that make me look so completely cool, but someone ends up putting them on their too big head and stretching them out on me. Depression brings about change, and to aleve my sadness I will take it out on my hair which has become depressed about all the abuse it must bear at my behest and my command of the brush, hairdryer, hairspray and my very expensive sunglass hairband. Today to soothe myself I called my hairdresser and ordered her to make my hair happy again with a proper dye job and a serious haircut, I watched in shock as four to five inch bits of my hair fell to the floor around me, my head became lighter and my peripheral vision returned. I haven't seen anything 90 degrees to my right or left for about a year.

My hair is "scene" the kids told me, I like it, but I look like Jared Leto. My mother likes it, that's never a good sign. My husband says it's okay, kind of like the way he says I look fine in whatever I wear rather than describe what he might dislike and risk life and limb. My hairdresser loves it, and her opinion counts to me, she's my best friend of sixteen years.

My mood, unfortunately, didn't improve much today. I feel like I spent about half the day crying, so it must be about 25 days since my last crying jag...yeah that time. I think I will go find something salty, start a chocolate milk I.V. and put in some movie with a skinny bitch heroine who makes me angry enough to spit because she is showing off the body she stole from me many years ago. Monday I will start that "Lose 8 pounds this week!" diet I saw on a magazine cover, by Tuesday I will be unconscious face-down in a McDonalds bag and Wednesday I'll vow to try it again the following Monday. As if Monday isn't a miserable enough day on it's own, I have to give it the added pressure of being my "I'm starting that diet today" day.

In case anybody cares, I'll post pictures of my Emo hair tomorrow when both of us (my hair and I) are feeling better.

Ahhh the joys of motherhood

Baby Trash — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 07:45:01 +0000

I just woke up a few hours ago to the sounds of wretching from the bathroom.

'Oh no! One of my baby boys is sick!' I think to myself as I enter the upstairs only to be met by the wonderful odor of alcohol permeating the hallway.

My darling boy, my first, all of eighteen and ready to 'take a year off after high school just to see what I wanna do' is barfing up all of the vodka he snuck from our liquor cabinet. I confronted him straight out of the bathroom (first trip) and he quickly admitted to drinking.

I spent the next two hours watching him run into the walls in his haste to get back into the bathroom, cry because he is so sick, apologize about a hundred times for 'being so fucking stupid', ask how and why people would do this to themselves and swear to me about a hundred more times that he is 'never, ever going to drink again'. He finally passed out after much complaining about bed-spins and I think his stomach is pretty empty now.

He felt terrible, but I felt just as bad, because....I wasn't watching him while I was sleeping? I didn't tell him enough that drinking is bad, mmkay? I didn't SHOW him enough that drinking is bad, mmkay? I can't find it in my brain to be angry with him...YET.

Tomorrow is another day, I think I will wake him early with the smells of frying bacon and runny eggs. Perhaps it's time to break out the 'Star Spangled Banner' sized cymbals and blast some music he hates. He said he is the 'worst son ever' and that is far from the truth, but tomorrow I am going to be the worst mom ever and hopefully he won't remember that I sat on the floor of his bedroom, wrapped in a blanket, watching him until he finally gave in to sleep.

My sons 18th birthday

Baby Trash — Sat, 06 Jan 2007 04:45:30 +0000

Tomorrow is my oldest sons’ 18th birthday, now I know I am officially old. I remember the first time I held him, I hadn't ever held a baby before and they just gave me this one without asking me for my credentials or anything. I sat uncomfortably, staring at him as he trustingly slept, completely counting on me to be everything he ever needed for the rest of his life and all I could think was 'Who the hell is going to change his diaper? How will I learn to take care of him? What if I ruin him somehow? What if I break him, drop him, hurt him? If I die who will take my place? If anything happens to him what will I ever do because he is my whole world now?' That was probably the first time I ever had a conscious thought about someone beside myself. The first time I didn’t think ‘What about me?’ What a completely different feeling for me, the only child in my family. My next thoughts were of how old I would be when he turned eighteen, I would be forty-two and that sounded so, so old to me, until I got here. The last eighteen years have been the greatest, the worst, the easiest and the hardest. He has been every joy and every sorrow and tomorrow he thinks he ceases to be my charge. Little does he know that I will worry every day, forever...that when he is due home at ten I am awake until ten, if he is a minute late I am instantly worried and if I don’t know where he is I make it my job to find out. He has made me laugh and he has made me cry. His wit and humor, along with his outgoing personality are a few of his greatest assets, his stubbornness he got from his mother, and his temper seems to be his fathers'. He is smart, I’m not sure where he got that from, but sometime, a long time from now, perhaps, he might even use this strength to his advantage. He is quick to laugh, fast with a joke and does not take anything too seriously, least of all himself. I am proud to say he treats his girlfriend like a Princess and I hope that I have shown him just a small bit of how to treat someone you love. I remember promising myself that I would always let him know he was loved, with my actions as well as with my words, since it was not how I was raised and I believe to this day I have never said ‘I love you’ as many times in my whole life as I have in the past eighteen years to him and to his brother. I know that he is the man he is becoming because he was always told he was loved, encouraged as much as possible and allowed to find his own way, with me close behind, ducking and hiding behind trees to be sure he thought he was doing it all by himself. Comments made by his teachers have always made me smile: “Bret definitely marches to a different drummer.” “Bret certainly is a unique boy.” “The whole Army is out of step, but Bret.” “That was an interesting choice of clothing today Bret.” “Bret is not allowed to wear that to school again.” “Bret is always such a pleasure to have in class.” “Bret is so....um....creative!” Now Bret’s friends ask to come to our home because they know they are welcome and that I will not judge them. Friends of his I have never met approach me and say, “Are you Bret’s mom? We could tell by your hair and your 69 Eyes jacket, Bret tells us all about you, he said you were cool and we just wanted to say hi.” I guess I’ve done something right. I’ve raised a young man who still kisses me goodbye and walks next to me in the Mall, he still blushes if I say I miss him because he is out so much and never comes home at night and heads to bed without saying goodnight. I hope the next eighteen years are as big an adventure as the first have been. I look forward to the day he calls me to tell me he isn’t sure what to do with his teenaged son, because he is sure that something is radically wrong with him. Seeing him bring up his own children, hopefully remembering some of what has learned will be my proudest moment and my sweetest revenge.