Up on a Soapbox

Okay, here I go again. I haven't talked about politics in a long time but I thought it was important that I throw out another blog post concerning the upcoming Presidential elections. I received an email earlier today from someone (I won't mention who) revealing some things about Barack Obama. I read the email and watched the attached video which was basically a character attack against the man I feel is best suited to lead the country.

Politics is a tricky little beast. It forces you to look at an individual and make basic assumptions on how their actions are going to affect your life. I also asks you to judge their character and decide whether or not they are "good enough" to represent you. Like I said, it is a tricky little beast.

Barack Obama has received his share of character attacks. This particular email detailed some "surprising details" about Obama. Here are a few:

• Obama refuses to wear a flag pin on his lapel and doesn't place his hand over his heart when the national anthem is played
• Obama's former pastor is racist and has strong ideals concerning black empowerment
• Obama went to a Muslim school (for 2 years) and has a Muslim father
• Obama has called his grandmother a "typical white woman" and based on this remark is racist in his own way
• Obama has three Muslim names: Barack Hussein Obama
• Michelle Obama, the senator's wife, has made the statement that when her husband took the lead in the democratic primary that this was "the first time in a long while she had been proud of her country"

Now let me be the first to say that I am proud to be American and wouldn't have it any other way. I think we have a great country, and I think it has given me opportunities that would be impossible if I had been born anywhere else. That said, looking at these "attacks" I am appalled that anyone could make them prominent issues in the upcoming elections.

First off, concerning Obama's heritage. No one has control of their heritage. No one has control of the name that is given them, onless they wish to legally change it, which is another issue entirely. Rarely do children have control of what religion they practice, or what schools they go to. Parents make those decisions, not children. Where is the credit Obama should receive for not practicing the Muslim religion as an adult? Why should we be holding the Muslim faith against him? Sure, if he was a professed terrorist, or a member of a terrorist cult then I can see a point, but he is not. It certainly isn't a point I would base my selection fo president on.

Concerning his patriotism, let's get real here. Symbology or lack of displaying this symbology should not preclude an individual from serving the office of President of the United States. That seems to be a pretty petty way of disqualifying someone. Obama has proven that he is commited to serving the nation. So ask yourself this: Would I rather have someone who will offer healthcare to all people, including the poorest in our country or have someone who wears an American flag pin? By choosing John McCain that is what you are saying if you make the whole pin thing the reason Obama loses your vote. McCain wants to take healthcare insurance away as a responsibility of employers and basically make it like car insurance: the responsibility of the individual to acquire. He feels that this will cause healthcare insurance companies as well as healthcare providers too become competitive and lower their prices. Basic economic principle tells us that demand causes prices to go up. Competition may drive the price down, but it also has a tendency to drive down quality. Just look at the garbage products coming out of China (think about all the recent recalls if you need any inspiration) and you can see this principle in action.

As far as Michelle Obama's comments, I need only look at my sentiments and understand her frustration. Like I mentioned before, I am very patriotic and love this country. That doesn't mean that I haven't been disappointed in the direction it has been heading. It also doesn't mean that I'm constantly proud of what our government does and what policies it has implemented. There have been times when I have been embarrassed for our country, embarrassed of it's leadership and embarrassed at the direction we have allowed it to take.

Why have all the jobs moved to China, or India, or Mexico? Because of policies implemented by our government including the Clinton supported NAFTA (North America Free Trade Agreement) which basically allowed thousands of good paying automotive jobs to migrate to Mexico. That is and should be an embarrassment to our country and the people of tis country.

Now, concerning racism. I am a racist if you consider the fact that I recognize a fundamental difference between causasians and people of color. Now, the problem with racism is if you pass judgement on an individual based on their color alone. I have no problem voicing my hatred towards those to commit serious crimes, deal or take illegal drugs or show an attitude that I believe is either harmful or disrespectful towards other people. Let me be clear here: if you are white and do any of the previously mentioned things I will despise you just as much as a black man who does the same. I have had the unfortunate experience of dealing with African Americans who are bad people. This has sullied my opinion of many blacks. On the other hand those blacks like Barack Obama or Morgan Freeman or Forest Whitaker who overcome these stereotypes and become respectable members of American Society have my enduring appreciation and do more to heal the image of their race than most others. That said, there are many others that sully their race, and it is these people that I hold in disdain. Am I a racist: if they are black and happen to disrespect others, commit crimes, do drugs, beat their girlfriends, swear in public because they don't care about who hears what they are saying, or any other generally unexceptable behavior, then you're damned right I am. Black in that case however is what they are, my feelings towards them are based on what they do.

That said, I do not think that Barack Obama is racist. I think his pastor is, but you cannot make someone guilty of an act simply through association. If I rob a bank, you are inherently not a bank robber simply because you know me. People are looking for ways to soil Obama's name, and they will grasp at any branch they possibly can to do so.

For those who don't know it, Obama had a black father and a white mother. That said, doesn't that give him as much right to speak about the white race as it does to speak of the balck race? As far as I know he is as much a white man as he is a black man. There has always been this unspoken rule that black people can use the "N-word" but white people cannot. If this is the case, then why doesn't a white man (which Obama is half white) have the right to identify his own blood, his grandmother as being typical for the race? This sure is a slippery slope.

Okay, I want to get this whole thing wrapped up, so I'm moving on past the petty accusations and diatribe of a bitterman who feels his Republican buddies are up against a wall in the upcoming elections. The US economic makeup is basically a bell curve. There are far more middleclass people than there are rich or poor. If that is true (which it is) then why do we continue to put men in office that represent the wealthy under the ideals of Reagan's trickle down economic principles? (Trickle down economics is a policy that Ronald Reagan adopted under the assumption that if you give more money to the rich then they will reinvest it into America and those of the middle and lower classes will benefit. Unfortunately this principle only works if the money stays in America. Instead, business owners have moved their complanies overseas where they can spend less and keep more of the money given them by the US government.)

Obama wants to represent the middle class. You will hear McCain talk about how the Democrats want to raise taxes. What he fails to point out is that these tax increases are to be levied against the most wealthy Americans, ones that received significant tax breaks simply based on their economic standing all the while the middleclass if left to shoulder the major burden. Let me give you a great example. I pay $1500 a year in property taxes on my house. Our great governor, Mitch Daniels, just passed landmark property tax reforms that will set a cap for property taxes at $1500 a year. Now this seems like a pretty good deal, right? I will never have to pay more than $1500 in property taxes. However, a person who is currently paying $3500 in property taxes a year (and evidently makes more than I do) now gets an immediate $2000 savings each and every year. The other half of the bill raised the state sales tax by 1%. So, while I don't have any more property taxes this year, everything I buy now costs an additional 1%. You know that guy that rents the dumpy little trailer down the street and works at the gas station because he can't find a good paying job? He gets to pay more for the things he pruchases too. 1% more, just like me. Where is his tax break? He doesn't get one, he gets to help shoulder the burden of making up that $2000 that the rich guy got for living in that mansion on the hill.

That's how politics work people. I'm not telling you how to vote in the upcoming election, but will I will tell you is to look at every issue. Look at every possibility and weigh all the issues. Not wearing an American pin on your lapel doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot if you compare it to the loss of lives that will occur if we spend "another 100 years" in Iraq like McCain contends he will ensure. Even labor unions, which I am in total opposition of, are something that Obama supports but I am happy to overlook if we can establsih a comprehensive policy regarding energy reform. Americans need to make smart choices. We need to look beyond the rhetoric and make decisions which best represent the principles shared by the ruling majority of American people.

There, I've said my peace. I'm getting off of my soapbox. Comments/arguments are welcome.

Profile: Sheri Bleam

This is the second in a series of posts I am making about the family and friends who have influenced my life. As I mentioned previously, a life is not wholly shaped by the individuals living it, but instead by the people who surround them. While family is incredibly imprtant, so are those people you call friends...

I started college at Adrian in the autumn of 1986. I was immediately smitten by the campus, by the people and as I learned on my very first day, the professors. I went to Adrian with the intention of becoming a lawyer. I had talked to the political science department chair and decided immediately that Poli Sci was going to be my major.

As part of the core requirements at just about any school, you have to take at least one semester of speech. I had been a speechy in high school and had no problem signing up for COM102. I could have chosen a variety of professors, but the day I made my selection is in retrospect one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Dr. Bleam was very young as far as professors go, the first time I met her. I would have to guess (please forgive me if I mangle your age Sheri) she was in her early thirties. That said, she was, and continues to be, an individual that when she teaches, commands respect. Now don't get me wrong, she doesn't come across as tyranical. Far from it. Even in lecture she is warm and endearing, funny and approachable. She is terrifyingly intelligent and it shows, yet she makes you feel comfortable and I immediately found a home.

It didn't take me long to fall in love with communication. The next semester, much to the chagrin of my department head, I changed majors. I also began working for Sheri in the forensic union. This entailed putting things together for Dr. Bleam, sorting, stapling, or just sitting around prepping for a debate.

For one semester at Adrian (maybe it was two) I was one the speech team. I came in with a huge chip on my shoulder because I had been so successful in high school speech. I learned a lesson in short order. Dr. Bleam is basically a professor of debate and was able to point out my flaws immediately. Wow, was I humbled. Dr. Bleam not only taught me how to debate correctly, but she taught me new ways of thinking about debate from a purely theoretical perspective. She also taught me a debate style different from the standard NDT (National Debate Topic). the style was called CEDA, or value debate. From this I learned that you could take a stance on a topic from a moralistic position and defend yourself based on pure argumentation rather than relying on hard copy evidence cards to support your position. It wass about taking argumentation to it's purest from and using the beauty of persuasion to make you point. What a valuable tool she gave me!

Sheri and I had a student/mentor relationship from the word go. As part of the forensic union we had social gatherings that allowed us to become friends with others in the department. Through Sheri I met my friends Sue Hobe, Connie Abdala, and Sherry Phillips who as upper classmen helped me enjoy college away from class, particularly on Friday nights when we would gather in one of our rooms and watch movies and partake in refreshments otherwise off limits to college freshmen.

My sophomore year I was given the enviable opportunity of debating Sheri and Dr. George Aichele in front of a significantly large crowd. This was my most intense speaking opportunity I have ever been given. To even be on the same podium with two PhDs is a huge honor. I was a bit intimidated but gave it the old college try. I wish my parents could have been there to hear me speak. I was so proud that out of all the students on campus, many who had passed through both Sheri's and Dr. Aichele's class, that I had been chosen for this honor. It remains today a highlight of my college career.

Dr. Bleam was more than just a professor. She was, and continues to be my friend and mentor. I now coach a high school debate team here in Fort Wayne and constantly reflect back on what I was taught. I also write to Sheri on occasion to vent my frustrations or ask for advice. She has been intrigal in my successes as a coach, including sending a team to the National Tournament in Houston, Texas in my first year coaching.

Sheri is a cool person outside of the classroom. When I ran into some personal issues she was the ear that would listen and not judge as well as the shoulder to cry on. I remember one time I had pulled a groin muscle playing football and went to class one morning. As I sat there the muscle tightened and completely incapacitated me. I was in the basement of Mahan Hall and couldn't make it up the stairs. Sheri came out of her office and allowing me to lean on her, helped me hop up the stairs. She then went to the health center and got me crutches so I could get around. I really appreciated that gesture. It meant a lot to me.

Sheri never buckled to the perceived norm of her profession. She was a geek like the rest of us, loving Star Trek, Dungeons and Dragons and fantasy literature. She still loves hose things today and in a touching note of compassion, went to see the Lord of the Rings movies twice, once for her, and once for our fallen friend Mike Pyorala, whom she found a kinship.

I had a great opportunity to introduce Megan to Dr. Bleam one time. I took Megan to Adrian to tour the campus and Dr. Bleam joined us for lunch. I wished Megan would have chose to go to Adrian, just so she could share the company with my friend, who without asking would keep a close eye on my daughter without betraying a friendship amongst the two women which I had hoped would grow. Megan made a different choice, but I was happy she got to meet my friend.

Dr. Bleam is still at Adrian. I still call her, or email her. More than anything however, I still remember something she told me about 20 years ago. She had said that the world was full of smart, intelligent, innovative people. There was however a difference between being smart and being a scholar. Scholars are a rare breed who look at information and thrive on learning itself. They find a passion in their chosen field and make it a priority in their life. She then told me that I was a scholar. That is the biggest compliment I have ever received or ever will. While my schooling as stalled, and I may never make it back, I have never given up my passion for learning, and studying and becoming better, more knowledgable. I give complete credit to Dr. Bleam who fostered in me a passion that I only knew I had because I chose to emulate her. She is my mentor and my friend and I can hope to ever convince everyone of the impact she's had on my life.

Corpse: Submission 6

Here is the next installment of my story Corpse. I would love to hear your comments thus far, otherwise I'm basically just stumbling around in the dark here. Thanks.

With her eyes closed her other senses became more acute and she was sure she heard something. It sounded like the door had been pushed open and slammed against the wall. Sticking her head out of the shower she called out, “Michael is that you?” There was no response. “Honey, mommy is in the shower, what do you need?” There was still no answer.

Michael was known to get up out of bed and come in to her room at night. She really wished he wouldn’t do that. He was a terrible bed hog and she never got a good night sleep with him snuggling up to her.

“Michael, you need to go back to bed honey. I’m going to be up for awhile and the light will keep you awake,” she lied, “you need your rest for school tomorrow.”

She wasn’t terribly surprised that he didn’t answer her. He was stubborn and knowing him, was probably back to sleep already. Oh well, she would just pick him up and take him back to his room once she was done with her shower.

Ten minutes later, with her head wrapped up in a towel; Stephanie emerged from her bathroom, expecting to see Michael curled up on her bed. She was a bit surprised to find that her room was empty. “Huh, I wonder where he is?” she thought to herself. Walking along the darkened hallway she poked her head into Cameron’s room. In the darkness she saw the silhouette of her three year old daughter as she slept in her little toddler bed.

Closing the door she moved to the end of the hall where her son’s room was. Peeking her head in, she looked in on Michael. There he was, buried under his Spiderman comforter just like he was when she had put him to bed an hour ago.

“I wonder what that sound was,” she thought, returning to her room. “I’m sure I heard something. I must have been imagining things.” Just for her own sanity she walked through the house, checking each door and assuring herself that the house was sealed up nice and tight. Finding nothing she returned to her room. Once there, she pulled down the blankets, shed her bathrobe (adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor) and climbed into bed. The bed felt so good. Reaching over, she turned off the lamp on the bedside table and in no time, was fast asleep.

The key to cooperation was to get close to the children. A mother will do anything to protect their kids. He chose the boy’s room because he was older and therefore more likely to react in a way that could cause him trouble if the boy discovered him. Anymore the schools were teaching kids about strangers and 911 early on, so he knew that the boy was his biggest threat. By hiding in the boy’s room he could make sure that he would not be surprised if the boy was to wake up and discover him, there was no way he could have made it back to the basement without being heard.

The woman would be no problem; she would do as he asked simply because he had the leverage. If worse came to worse, he could snatch up one of the children and threaten their life, as he knew how women thought. They would gladly sacrifice themselves for their children and he was more than happy to use that against them.

He had been stupid to try to go into her room while she was in the shower. He had thought he could get closer to her and that was his mistake. In the other three he had simply stayed put until the house was quiet and everyone was asleep. This was always the worst time for him because all he could do was stay still and think. It was this downtime that frustrated him, angered him to the point that he began to blame the woman for making him do this. He hated the wait. It was always dark and he always ventured back in thought to the day when his wife had left him, taking his kids with him. She didn’t love him anymore; she didn’t want to see him anymore. Most of all it angered him because she was taking the kids and if she had her way, he would never see them again.

It was these thoughts that caused him to leave the basement to creep up to her room when he heard the shower turn on. He knew that it was stupid, but he couldn’t stand it any longer, he needed to get out of there, do something. She wasn’t going to dictate what he was going to do, not like that bitch he had married. He was in charge, and if he wanted to come out of the basement, then that was what he was going to do.

Then he had opened the door and without thinking, let it bang against the wall. That had caused her to call out, and instant sent a shiver up his back. In a moment he began to panic, and then remembered his plan: get between her and the child. She’ll do anything to protect the child.

Family Profile: Brian

Okay, I've been trying to think of some new features to add to my blog. I got to thinking, these are supposed to be the stories of my life. What characters are the most important co-stars in my life? Well, that would be my family and friends. In fact, I can't think of anyone I would rather write about than those who have shaped my life. So, without further ado, here is my first family and friends profile.

Brian is my older brother, but beyond that he is one of the greatest shapers I've had in my life. I look back and while we didn't have the easiest situation growing up, Brian and I definitely made the best out of it. When we were young we did basically everything together. Oh, do I have stories. I will share a few of them with you.

When Brian and I were about 12 or 13 we had an obsession with baseball cards. For two years, 1980 and 1981 our appetite for them were insatiable. I remember on Sunday nights when Mom and Vern were away we would sneak in to their room where they had a big coffee can of change. It didn't seem like a lot, but we would snatch a couple of dollars (each pack was 35 cents) and one of us would make the party store run. We would hop on our bike and through a small hole in a fence venture out on to I94, riding down the steep hill of the exit to get to the party store. We would get our packs of baseball cards then pedaling against the traffic of 94, make our way back home. If by chance we decided to walk instead of taking the bikes, we would run across the expressway's 4 lanes, climbing over the wall in the median so we could get across and get our cards. We should have been killed, multiple times.

Brian has always been my best friend. I was so honored to be his best man at his wedding and to have him as mine at my wedding. I wish I could have been more cognizant when he tied the knot. I was going through a very miserable time in my life and hated myself and my life. He was however a beacon of light and helped me get through that period, not only with his friendship, but just his companionship. He allowed me to join his circle of friends and include me in his activities and that meant a lot.

We've always done things together. I remember in Texas we had an obsession with weapons and fighting. We used whatever materials we could to make things that we could use to kill each other. I had a favorite axe handle that I drove nails through that I liked to fight with. He made shurikens cut from aluminum that he would use to practice with. This continued as we made bigger and badder items. One day we geared up and went hunting snakes in the woods around where we lived. We weren't just hunting mundane non-poisonous species, but deadly copper heads. At somewhere around 80 pounds had I been bitten I probably would have died. I still remember the joy of walking into the neighborhood with one of our vanquished foes draped over the end of a long stick that served as one of our man made weapons. We should have been killed with that little escapade.

Brian has taught me a lot. He has challenged me with arguments. I remember constantly arguing politics and issues of the day with him while in high school. He made me think. I was always so envious of him because he got great grades in school with little effort while I struggled. He gave me something to shoot for though. He also introduced me to college. I got to visit him at U of M and loved the environment. Granted, he didn't go the whole four years, but the fact that he was the first from my immediate extended family to go made me want to be successful all the more. I remember going to Ann Arbor to visit him and just the passion he felt for the atmosphere. It was contagious and made me excited about college. I remember I raised my senior year GPA up from somewhere around 2.2 all the way to 3.46. I really believe Brian should be given much of that credit.

I've always been really proud of my brother. Like I said earlier, he is incredibly smart, much smarter than me. He has also done some things that has made me proud. His short stint in the military is still a story I like to tell. I brag about how well he did on his crypto test over in Detroit. I am inspired by how he took a job working in a lumberyard to where he is now. He learned all of that stuff through force of will and is now recognize for his brilliance in the building industry. That is incredible and makes me proud to be his brother.

I remember when we were kids playing games together. These games continue to influence my life. We would make up our own games, and wile away hours of our time sitting at an old rusty table outside on the covered patio of our trailer playing. Later in life we would have the pop up camper covered in books, dice and papers as our summers were spent playing role-playing games in the heat of the day and late into the night. Those were some good times.

Brian was fun to hang out with as a kid, even if he got tired of me following him around. I really don't think he minded it though. I have fond memories of laying on the bottom bunk of our bed, him on the top bunk, listening to the radio on a Sunday night, talking about the songs as they played. Occasionally mom would yell in to be quiet and go to sleep and we would continue whispering late into the night.

Now I live in Indiana, far away from my family and my brother. We don't talk much, and I miss that. When I do make it up to Michigan I don't see much of my brother, maybe a few hours here and there. If there is one thing I can regret, it's that. I would love to be more involved with him, and the rest of my family, but I can't leave this place. I just want everyone to know that my love for my brother extends beyond the familial bond and goes deep into my appreciation of our friendship. I know that this is reciprocated simply because after nearly 40 years, I know my brother.

Thank you for introducing me to many of my life long joys. I love the books you've introduced me to. I love the games we've played and shared together. I've learned from the lessons you've taught me and the point of view you've taken on issues. Our paths may have diverged, but my memories are still born from the time we spent growing up and for that I will always have a life long appreciation.

Corpse: Submission 5

My story submission continues. This time, submission number 5:

CHAPTER 2:

Finally. It had been such a long day and the kids had been crazy tonight. It was like they had been caged all day. Stephanie wasn’t the type of mother who yelled at her kids, but tonight she couldn’t help it. She hated herself for being so harsh. She knew that the kids measured her reactions against that of their father and while she had custody of them, she always worried that Scott would make a move to take the kids away.

At this point in her life she couldn’t handle anything more than working and raising the kids. It was so difficult being single again. Since the day she had signed the divorce papers she had felt regret for doing so. Scott was a good father, a hard worker and a good provider. “Why the hell did you have to cheat on me,” she thought for the thousandth time since she had discovered his infidelity.

Stephanie knew that she had done the right thing divorcing Scott even though she wrestled with it everyday. She imagined what life be like right now had she forgiven him and taken him back. Sure, he slept with a skank from the gym, but when he left he took so much with him. The kids were always asking her why daddy had to leave. The bills continued to pile up and the worst was that the house was so quiet at night. When Scott was around the television would be on, or he could be heard out in the garage, working on some unfinished project, singing to the music on the local classic rock station.

Now the house was silent, the kids having had gone to bed an hour earlier and Stephanie was heartbroken. She went into her bedroom and sat down on the bed and cried. It was so hard being alone. She needed someone, someone to help with the bills, someone to help fix dinner, someone to give the kids a bath at night. It just wasn’t fair; she had been a good wife, and a good mother. She listened, just like Dr. Phil said you needed to in a successful relationship. She was always there for Scott and always provided (or so she assumed) for every one of Scott’s needs. Yet he had looked for another woman to provide the one thing Stephanie had made sure she was attentive to and that was the thing that bothered her the most. She truly felt that she had failed as her most basic “wifely duty” and for that she had lost her husband of eight years.

Stephanie cried for about ten minutes, throwing herself down onto the bed, her head buried in her pillow. She allowed herself to complete what she called her “sob cycle” before she started to feel better. It always helped to let it out. Now she felt exhausted and was ready to sleep.

There was no way she was going to crawl between the sheets before taking a shower. Working in that factory all day had covered her with the stink of oil and coolant and while her body begged for her to rest, she wasn’t going to before cleaning up and brushing her teeth.

Stephanie stood up and started undressing, throwing her dirty jeans, blouse and underclothes in a pile beside her bed. She would wear the jeans again tomorrow and sort through the rest of the dirty clothes in the morning. She didn’t have the energy right now.

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she waited for the water to warm up she looked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t help but think how old she looked now. At only twenty-nine years old these last few months had really worn on her. Quitting her part time job at the Dr. Warren’s dentist office and getting a full time factory job hadn’t helped, but at fourteen dollars an hour and a guaranteed forty hours a week made it a no brainer.

Her brown hair was matted and oily, and a small grease smudge started at her right ear and ran down her jaw line to the edge of her chin. She wondered if anybody would ever find her attractive again.

She climbed into the shower and let the hot water cascade over her body. It felt so good on her and allowed her to relax. Closing her eyes she simply breathed deep and forced her mind to clear of all her worries.

13, 9, and 6 years ago today

Today is a good day. I would argue that today is the best day of the year. Let me explain.

Thirteen years ago today a mother Bassett Hound in the little town of Bluffton gave birth to a litter of 12 puppies including my wonderful dog Hughie. I've went into details about how much I loved that dog, so I won't go into anymore. Let's just say I was blessed with the best dog in the world and he came into this world 13 years ago today.

Nine years ago today Angie and I went to the courthouse in Fort Wayne and in a short but uneventful hearing received and signed the papers making me Megan's legal father. My name was placed on her birth certificate and she took the last name Bristol. I officially became a full-fledged father nine years ago. I can't begin to explain what it meant to have a daughter. It was an amazing experience. Megan is almost twenty years old now and it still means a lot to hear her call me "Dad". Megan is a good girl. We've had our moments but she continues to amaze me even today. She is a smart young woman who has maintain a strong sense of right. She makes mostly good decisions and I'm glad I've been a part of it for so long. Looking back I can say that May 15, 1999 was a good day. I remember taking Megan out to lunch then going to play miniature golf together. Our family was full, and as we thought then, complete.

Six years ago I got home from work to find Angie a mess. She was a nervous wreck as the doctor she had seen earlier that day had told her that he would be inducing labor that following Friday. I remember it was a Tuesday when I came home. I was really worried about Angie because there was nothing I could do to get her to calm down. I called the hospital and they told me to bring her in immediately. We really didn't think anything was going to happen, but we packed a bag anyway and headed to the hospital. We got there at 6:30 and they checked Angie out. She was overproducing some kind of hormone or something that they feared could be dangerous. They decided to induce labor that night.

Labor was difficult for Angie. She couldn't stop shaking she was so nervous. I tried to calm her down, but couldn't. Eventually they gave her an epidural and that was just what she needed. Angie slept through the night as I sat with her, watching television (Sportscenter on ESPN, over and over again). I also visited Mom and Bill who waited out in the lobby.

At about 4:45am it was time to deliver. Angie was ready, the doctor was ready and I was there. I'm not sure if I was ready but looking at the gathered participants, I wasn't really a factor in the readiness. At exactly 4:59am out little girl was born. She appeared very healthly. The doctor surprised us with the news that she was born with six fingers on each hand, which took us by surprise. Those fingers are now gone, but I'm happy that my girl was unique. This particular defect occurs pretty commonly in my family and I think it created an immediate bond between my mom (who was also born with this condition and my daughter). The little baby I met that morning, May 15th, 2002 was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life. I was so proud to be the father of our daughter, Elise.

Yeah, I said Elise. That was Gracie's name for a very short period of time. When she was born we really didn't know what to name her. A short while longer we decided on Elise but hadn't signed the birth certificate yet. It wasn't until Megan came up to visit and voiced her displeasure in the name Elise did we decide to change it. We told Megan that she could choose the name, which she did, naming her sister Grace Elenore.

Gracie has truly been a blessing from God. She is the most beautiful little girl in the world. She had grown so much in the six years she has been with us. She is now much more independent and can be a little monster, but I'll tell you, I love that little monster more than anything in this world. I would walk through fire for her without questioning it. I hate to see her get older but as she does I can't help but marvel in how special she is to me. I was placed on this earth to be her daddy, I really think that. Take away all the things I have in my life: my house, my car, my toys, my health even and I would be content as long as I could still have my little girl.

Gracie is my princess. I love her more than life itself and while she isn't quite aware of this, I will do anything I can to make her happy.

May 15th gives me reason each year to celebrate. It is a day that will always remain special to me. I love my kids and I have days like May 15 to remind me of that every year.

Birthday Bash Report

Gracie wanted a birthday party this year. Not just a birthday party with all her family, like she is accustomed, but one where she invites school friends over. We decided that this wouldn't be a problem and proceeded to make the plans. Grace invited five other girls leaving us with a very manageable six six year olds to deal with. Let me tell you, 6 girls, 6 years old for a 6th birthday party has got to be the sign of the devil: 666.

While Gracie has grown up I truly thought that something was wrong with my child. I thought, "Is she supposed to be this loud? Should she be able to shatter glass with her scream? Does she ever run out of energy?" I began to think that my daughter was a nuclear powered hell machine, placed in my house to torture me with her terrorist designed sonic weaponry. You know what I learned on Friday? I learned that either the entire kindergarten class at Croninger elementary had been infiltrated by these torture devices or that Gracie is completely normal, just like every other six year old little girl.

Anyway, I digress. The party started with the systematic destruction of Grace's bedroom. Gracie has a lot of toys, I mean A LOT of toys and these six were intent on playing with all of them...all at once. The room went from clean to destroyed in less than 30 seconds. It was truly amazing. A level 5 tornado could learn a lot from my child and her friends. Not only did they get out all the toys, but all the blankets were off the bed, clothes were strewn everywhere, and I got the feeling that the structural integrity of my house would be compromised if we didn't do something to redirect these children.

Now I like to think I a pretty smart guy. I'm wrong. Really wrong. My idea of giving them something to do was to allow them to make their own mini pizzas for dinner. Have you ever seen six miniature people attempt to occupy the same space at one time? It is pretty amazing actually but it has the side effect of making every one of them try to talk at once. Did I mention they don't talk in normal voices? Indoor voices to these six was similar to staging a tractor pull inside a dumpster. It's pretty loud. Individual pizzas is a good idea for individuals. This was a micro-mob. All I needed to do is give them pitch forks and torches and we could have recreated the Frankenstein movies of the 1930's. These kids wanted to make pizza and they wanted to do it immediately and concurrently with the rest of the mob. I understand now why women at a later age go to the bathroom in groups. It's that whole mob mentality that is fostered at these small gatherings in their youth. I'm sure the only difference is the size of the creature and the new found ability to suppress the eardrum rupturing shriek that these littler versions have failed to master.

We made the pizzas up and got them all in the oven. Evidently this wasn't fast enough for one of the little heathens who picked up the bowl of cheese that remained and proceeded to stuff handfuls into her mouth. Shredded cheese began tumbling everywhere. Oh well, it's only once a year, right?

Well, the kids got their pizzas. Cheese girl sucked hers down like she was grateful the Bristol Shelter for the Homeless and Chronically Starving had finally opened their larder up. The rest managed to eat half of theirs before giving up. I guess eating was too quiet of a sport. They needed more.

Gracie wanted to have a party where they not only played: she wanted to "do something". We decided some time ago that we would play off of Gracie's love for crafts. We bought and spray painted white, six little jewelry boxes and gave one to each girl to decorate. Using stickers, and sticky backed gemstones the girls proceeded to decorate their boxes. I was pretty sure blood was going to be spilt when one girl wouldn't pass the butterfly gems fast enough for the other girls' liking (did I mention these miniature monsters will turn on and eat their own species if they do not get butterfly gems quickly enough?). We had to step in and negotiate a peace treaty there.

When we were finished with the jewelry boxes we broke out the beads. With these, we were going to make necklaces to go in our jewelry boxes. We learned after the whole sticker fiasco and decided that rather than pass the beads we would divide up all the beads into three separate bowls and then give each pair of girls a bowl to work out of. This worked out pretty well, until one of them couldn't find the right shape of and right color of bead they were looking for. This caused "the wandering" where one of the girls wandered over to the other side of the table and the bowl of one of the other pairs. Territory is very important to little girls. Stay on your side and we're all good. Come over to my side and you better bring help because there is going to be hell to pay. Angie and I stepped in and managed to avert the recreation of the Boston Massacre, only a three foot tall version.

We got through the necklace making process and moved on to the gift opening process. I set each girl down and gave them each the gift which they brought as a sacrificial offering to my daughter. I call them sacrificial offerings because most toys she gets go into that bedroom of hers never to be seen or heard from again; unless you consider that mass of plastic and cloth pile in the corner of her that I am sure will take on a life of it's own prior to our next garage sale.

This game was simple and immediately grasped by the girls. We would go around the table and each girl would bring her gift to Grace for the ceremonial opening process. This would be followed by the oooohhh and ahhhhh phase. After that, each eligible girl would share her story about how she had obtained the exact same toy sometime in their short lives (hey, I didn't make the rules of the gifting, I just observed from a purely sociological perspective). This was followed by the obligatory hug from Gracie. If a particular gift caught my daughter's attention she would throw out the cursory, "Daddy, could you open this for me?" My response was always the same, "No yet sweetie, you still have more presents to open."

Now this statement is nothing more than a feeble attempt to stave off the inevitable. I should have gotten a knife out and started hacking at the packaging because the difference between opening then and waiting to open them was the fact that later I was going to have the undivided attention of all six of the nuclear powered noise makers, all sixty of their little fingers thrust forward in an attempt to get Barbie detached from the sadomasochistic bonds that held the toy to her unbudging cardboard.

After the gifting we made the biggest mistake of our time spent with all these little darlings. Looking back I don't really feel we felt the full impact of the terror these cute little packages of hellfire could deliver, though it started to kick in towards the end.

What did we do that could possibly cause any problems? I'll tell you what we did. Most nuclear reactors run on plutonium. Not these portable weapons of mass destruction. Nope, these run on sugar. The more of it, the better. So, we followed through with birthday custom and loaded all six of the girls up with cupcakes and ice cream washed down with sickeningly sweet Hawaiian Punch. Oh yeah! It took about three minutes to see the real potential of these kids. Woohooo! I won't go in to details but I will say that I learned that there is a new level of sound that little girls can access when loaded up with sugary goodness. It is a place that involves bleeding ears and tortured neighborhood dogs.

Most of the girls woofed down all their ice cream cup and two cupcakes (they're small, right?). Cheese girl grabbed a third cupcake before I could stop her. I was forced to put myself in harm's way and take it away from her. I got a look that could curdle water, but that was about the worst of it.

After that I was given the task of removing the packaging from all the gifts. We've already talked a bit about that. In the end I just wasn't fast enough and the six of them grabbed what gifts they could, retreated to the den and fell on the presents like a pack of rabid hyenas who had just taken down a kill. See the picture to the left if you don't believe me. That is my den after the feeding.

As the party began to wind down the girls gathered for a picture on the couch. I can joke about the party being rough and the girls being unruly but in truth the girls were very good. Gracie was a very gracious host, as we had hoped and every girl had a good time. I love having Grace's friends over and feel grateful that she has little girls that enjoy her company. I actually had a very good time and look forward to coming up with a bigger and better party in the future. I also have written down on my calendar a reminder for next year: bring your ear plugs home from work. :)

Comments are welcome.