I’m going to put an end to any fears you may have while reading this: what you are about to hear (assuming you talk to yourself as you read) is going to sound a lot worse than it actually is.

Last week, Kaylee contracted an illness called Fifth Disease.  Now, here the point where you’re probably panicking: “did he say disease?!  Oh no!  The sky is falling!”  No, it’s just a virus.  And a weak one, at that.  It was named around 1880, and was given that moniker because it was the fifth common childhood “disease” on the list.  And, clearly, it wasn’t severe enough to actually be called something unique, like most of the other ailments on the list.

Fifth is caused by the Parvovirus B19 strain.  For anyone familiar with Parvo, you’re probably immediately thinking “dog.”  The difference between the Parvo that infects dogs and the one that infects humans is in that “B19″ part of the name.  So, no, Kaylee did not catch the Guatamalan Canine Flu.  What she caught is more closely related to measles or rubella, only far less so.  And it’s related to Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease, but only very indirectly.  To put to rest any fears you may have, let me put it this way: Parvo is to the other illnesses listed her as spitball is to ballistic missile.

Symptoms of Fifth are:

• Mild fever
• Sniffles
• A bright red rash on the cheeks, generally only present in children
• A splotchy rash over the rest of the body, similar in appearance to the illnesses listed above
• Joint pain, primarily present only in adults
• Itching on the rash, generally only in people older than 10

At this point, you’re wondering how she could have been exposed to a virus that causes an illness you’ve probably never heard of unless you are a parent and your kid has had it.  Well, chances are you’ve been exposed to it — by adulthood, 60 percent of us have been exposed to it, caught it and become immune.  It’s not exactly a rare virus.

She started showing the rash Friday (10/10), the day after her physical and a vaccination she still needed to be caught up on.  So, I figured it was a minor reaction to the vaccine, and just kept a close watch on it.  Aside from some redness, she had no problems — not even an itch.  Red cheeks and a few splotches on her arms, and that’s it.  But by Saturday it had spread over the entirety of her arms and was creeping across her back.  I had Nurse Neighbor come take a look, and we then proceeded to research.  A quick google of “red splotches on a toddler’s arms and cheeks” immediately brought me to Fifth/Parvo.  When I saw the symptoms, I remember that Kaylee had a runny nose most of the week, and that her temp had gone up ever so slightly Wednesday night — so slightly that I didn’t even bother checking to get the actual number.

I also remembered another symptom I had seen in her: Thursday night, after the physical, she was complaining about knee pain.  I figured it was from the injection, which was in her thigh — sore muscles from a shot.

Sunday, the rash got even worse, but she still wasn’t itching.  Now, the good part of all this is that, once the rash appears, the illness is no longer contagious.  Double-Plus-Good for me (any George Orwell readers remember where that came from?).  Of course, I figured there was no way on God’s Green Earth that she’d be allowed in school looking like that, even if I told them no one would catch it.  And, of course, I still was only basing the diagnosis off of things I found on the Interwebs.  So, a quick trip to the doctor Monday morning confirmed my diagnosis, and she was back to school, none the worse for wear.  All is well with her world.

But not mine.

Remember that “60 percent of adults are immune” comment?  Well, it would seem that I’m in the minority.

At first I thought it was just heat.  After all, I’d been in the office/studio/gameroom writing and recording a song.  That’s the hottest room in the house, especially with a computer, a printer and recording equipment running.  But, eventually, I came to the realization (after a closer look the next day revealed red splotches on my arms that continued to grow as the day progressed) that I, too, was pleading the Fifth.  Or, more correctly, Scratching the Fifth.  I’ve got the itch and the need to scratch it.  Everywhere.  Constantly.  It actually woke me up at least five times last night.

So, give me another three or four days before you call me or text me or even talk face-to-face with me about anything that may be annoying.  Because, given how annoyed I am at the moment with this itching, I may just have to give you a serious beat-down.

Through a somewhat unfortunate set of circumstances, Kaylee lost two sitters in a three-week span.  It had nothing to do with any behavioral issue, and I don’t feel either of them did anything wrong.  Well, not the first one, Saint-or-Sitter, at least; she gave me two weeks’ notice and a valid reason, as opposed to 18 hours’ notice and an incredibly pety excuse, but maybe that’s a post for another time.  Regardless, all is forgiven.

The whole situation turned out to be a blessing, though: Her Cuteness has started preschool.

As her father, and the man who has essentially been her sole unpaid care-giver for the last 14 months, I’m saddened.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled — utterly ecstatic — that she’s growing up.  I get to see the transformation every day, and I’m amazed by how she’s changed just in the last two months.  Of course, someone apparently keeps giving her Defiance Hormone Injections in her sleep.  Either that, or The Terrible Twos really are as maddening as people have led me to believe.

But she’s…growing up.  It’s a double-edged sword, because I’m excited about watching her learn and grow, but I’m also seeing my baby girl slip away, going through a transformation that will eventually culminate in her reaching adolescence and, for me, what I predict will be a rapid succession of at least 47 peptic ulcers.

And let me interject this: there is not enough caffeine in the world — especially not for someone with a tolerance to the stuff that would make an elephant addicted to heroin seem minor in comparison — to make up for an average of four to five hours of sleep per night.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  I’ve probably accounted for at least 30 percent of the gross domestic product of Colombia for the last year, if you exclude the drug trade.  And, with a resting heart rate of an already meager 48 thanks to six months of running nine to 15 miles per week, I might go into a coma if I stop drinking the stuff.

But, I digress.

Kaylee was excited to go to “school.”  She was a little apprehensive when we first got there, but by the time I was ready to head off to work, I almost had to pry her away from her new-found friends and toys long enough to get a hug and a kiss from her.  And, if they would have let her stay, she would have happily spent the night there after her first day.

I’d like to point out how proud I am of the fact that I haven’t held her back from any culinary experiences, in spite of my own picky food tastes (strange to hear that come from an accomplished cook, I know).  This is a girl who loves broccoli and lima beans.  So I wasn’t surprised to hear that she ate all her peas yesterday.  I was, however, shocked to find out that it caught her teachers off-guard.  It would seem to me that these people wouldn’t be shocked by any food preferences.  But, considering this is the south where collared greens and fried okra are considered delicacy instead of “lawn clippings” and “something that should never be put on a plate,” maybe I shouldn’t be all that surprised.

So, day one of preschool came and went.  She was excited to go again today, so that’s a win for me.  It’s affordable, everyone there is fantastic, and — most importantly — Kaylee is finally going to have a chance to broaden her horizons and make new friends.  Her social development should become a lot more rapid at this point.  I don’t know if that excites me, or if it scares me in ways spiders and rattlesnakes could only dream of.

I think it’s the latter.

There's a certain sense of vulnerability late at night that you can't help but feel when you are the lone adult in the house.  Unless you are asleep, you are infinitely more aware of yourself and everything around you.  The silence augments the slightest bump in the darkness, and lightning can wake you — abruptly — from the deepest slumber.

About 25 minutes ago, a ridiculously severe thunderstorm passed directly over Raleigh, specifically targeting the eastern side of the suburbs outside the beltline.  In other words, the very heart of the storm passed directly over my house.  I was just about completely out cold when the first flash woke me.  The storm was probably still a good five miles northwest, and I thought little of it.  I closed my eyes…

Flash.                      Rumble.

Flash.                 Rumble.

Flash.        Ruuuuuuuuumble.

FLASH-BOOM.

A booming crack of thunder roared up so quickly after the flash that the two were impossible to separate.  While far from the worst thunder I've ever heard (that title is reserved for the mid-summer thunderstorms over the plains of Texas that literally can shake the concrete slab most of the houses there rest upon), it was enough to make me instinctively reach my hands to my ears.  There was no rumble, just a sharp crack, the very sound of which seemed to actually be visible for just that fleeting moment in the flash on which it was borne.

It's not the thunder itself that scared me.  I've grown up fascinated, nearly obsessed, with severe weather.  Tornadoes intrigue me like nothing else in the universe.   No, it wasn't the thunder, or the lightning, or the storm as a whole.  It was, in that instant, being suddenly and minutely aware of the world just outside my house: tall trees, wide-open skies, and the hill upon which my home resides, making it the tallest structure on the street.  Every possible threat of nature to me, my home and — above all else — my daughter was revealed to me in stark contrast as the thunder roared outside.

As adults, these are the monsters in our closets.  It's the fear of a home invasion, or a fire, or a flood, or any other disaster beyond our control that can strike without warning and do devastating damage.  It's our role as protectors that often leaves us feeling entirely and utterly defenseless in the knowledge that we can only control our own bodies, and nothing more.  All the promises we make to ourselves and our families — that we'll never let anything happen to them, that they are safe with us, that there's nothing to be afraid of — are entirely fantastical.  While saying those things may be comforting not just to those at whom we direct them, but also to ourselves, there's a moment each time you stare into the face of danger that you realize one of two things: either God is in control of your life, or no one is.  No matter how much we try to buy into the illusion of control, the complete lack of it becomes obvious to each of us in the presence of a mortal threat.

For me, God is in control.  No matter how reluctant I am most of the time to admit that fact, it is infinitely more satisfying to know that I don't have to cover my eyes with the fantasy that I have to be the grand protector of all.

What this is driving toward is simple: the same crack of thunder than made my heart skip one beat before pounding out a hundred more than it should have also woke Kaylee, scaring her to death.  As frightening as the known threats can be as an adult, it is undoubtedly the fear of the unknown threat as a child that is the worst thrill known to man.  In a span of time equal to the instant I became aware of the dangers outside my door, I forgot them, at least momentarily.  I was down the stairs and had her in my arms in a period of time that seemed so tightly compressed that it was almost as if I was transported instantly from beneath my own covers to her bedside. 

I am not my daughter's protector; God is.  But, to her, I am the physical manifestation of His loving hands.  I am the one she looks for at every moment of uneasiness, and it is my grasp that calms her again.  As the one she perceives as her protector, the urgency of "being there" brings what feels to me like an out-of-body experience.  When her fever spiked in November to over 105 degrees, I wrote here the next day that I stepped out of myself, out of "dad mode," and instantly separated myself from the emotion of the situation.  It was purely instinctive, knowing that I was going to be of best use to her if I was able to think as the rational protector rather than the emotional parent.  Again, tonight, I stepped outside myself momentarily and snatched her from the grasp of her own fears.

But then, as we sank into the couch, I became dad again.  I became a frightened, vulnerable man holding a frightened, vulnerable child.  In that moment, I felt for the first time in more than half my life the frightened longing for my own parents, who long ago calmed my fears just as I calmed those of my child.  And I came to the realization that my mother and father undoubtedly must have felt the same longings, the same fears, and the same incomprehensible feeling of being so infinitesimally small in a world filled with so many enormous dangers.  In that moment, I finally and truly felt like I had grown into an adult, but at the same time I became a child again.

Because, as I sat there comforting my daughter as she drifted back to sleep, my daughter laid there comforting me. 

When I went to bed Wednesday night, there were scattered thundershowers in the area.  It was humid as all get-out, too, and temperatures have been well above normal for the last week or so.  Added up, it came as no surprise when I woke up Thursday morning to what appeared to be a moderately dense fog hanging over the neighborhood.

I live on a golf course, which means a lot of wide-open grassy areas.  Plants transpire a lot at night, so it adds moisture to the air.  When there's a layer of warm air trapped close to that moisture by a blanket of cold air above, you get fog.  Conditions were absolutely perfect for it.

What did shock me was the smell when I walked outside: the unmistakable smell of burning wood.  My first reaction, of course, was to turn immediately and look to see if my house was on fire.  No?  Good.  There had been a fire in the neighborhood last fall, and conditions are even more conducive to flame-ups right now than they were then, so it then dawned on me that we may have another unfortunate family elsewhere in the 'hood.  Fortunately, no — as I looked around, I saw no columns of smoke rising into the sky.  But it had me puzzled.  What was burning?

I got my answer a little after I arrived in the office.  It turns out, there's a wild fire burning out on the coast to the southeast of Raleigh.  Wednesday night, as I watched the radar to see if we were going to get some rain, I noticed it was all moving in from the southeast.  Two plus two?  Holy crap, it equals four.

So, Raleigh spent Thursday and, to a lesser extent, Friday blanketed in a layer of smoke that cut visibility down under two miles in some places.  And it really ticks me off, because my subconscious mind is confused: it smelled like mid-winter, but it's a week away from the beginning of summer.  And it made its way into the office, too.  Shorts and the smell of a wood fire.  I'm quite conflicted.

In other news, an impromptu street show broke out Thursday as I returned to the office from Subway (in the aforementioned smoke screen).  Apparently, the movie Diary of a Mad Black Woman has a live, off-Broadway version, and it came to the corner of Fayetteville and Davie streets at 11:45 a.m.  At first, we thought she was yelling at someone in particular.  A quick glance behind us proved that she was, in fact, yelling at a lot of people.  None of whom, by the way, were visible to anyone else.  It's things like the smoke and an apparently schizophrenic woman that can really throw you off-kilter for the remainder of a day.

Other Ramblings

• I don't know much about Camille Paglia, but what little I've seen up to this point shows that she leans almost as far to the left as Hugo Chavez — which is the likely reason for her apparent belief that Barrack Obama is a very centered candidate (in reality, some of his ideas are so far out in left field that, if he was playing for the Chicago Cubs, he'd be playing his home games in Comiskey Park while the rest of the team was at Wrigley Field).  However, she had what may go down in history as the best Clinton-related quote ever:

  "Hillary for veep? Are you mad? What party nominee worth his salt would chain himself to a traveling circus like the Bill and Hillary Show? If the sulky bearded lady wasn't biting the new president’s leg, the oafish carnival barker would be sending in the clowns to lure all the young ladies into back-of-the-tent sword-swallowing. It would be a seamy orgy of scheming and screwing."

  I am infinitely proud of the fact that I've finally been able to use the phrase "seamy orgy" on this site without it reflecting on me.  That's been a life-long goal of mine.

• California is finally responsible for something good besides Happy Cows.  Administrators at a Cali high school had police inform students that some of their classmates had been killed in accidents involving alcohol over the weekend.  It was all a ruse, though; the goal of the exercise was to scare the kids away from driving while intoxicated.  It worked — some kids wound up in hysterics.  After finding out the truth, many students protested the apparent cruelty of the act.  I, for one, applaud that school.  Kids today believe they are invincible, and have an utter disregard for others.  Maybe this sort of thing needs to be widespread.  I say it should be expanded: make the kids watch autopsies of victims of drunk driving.  Make them realize how fragile life really is before it's too late.  Kudos, El Camino High School of Oceanside, Cal.
• And, finally…tomorrow is Father's Day. Being a dad is the thing in my life I am most proud of; the fact that I am managing to do it on my own is just gravy on the 'taters.  There is no job in life more draining, but none so rewarding, either.  And I'm not going to candy-coat this: it's nice to have the world revolve around me for a day, too.

  
  

Note: I think I'm going to go back to the one-big-post-per-week format for Mindless Ramblings.  My schedule is too hectic, but I also know there are, indeed, a faithful few who visit the site regularly and hope for updates.  There is also a major site update in the works.  More on that to follow.

Time for a little catching up.

Yeah, I've been largely absent lately.  It's more a result of just being too busy.  Unfortunately, this blog takes a back seat to my work at MVN.com, if only because that one actually has imposed minimums for posting.  So, what has InvertedMind been up to?

First of all, let me just say that driving long distances alone with a two-year-old does one thing well: it sucks.   It's not that she's bad; it's that she's two.  She's needy.  And her whining could strip paint off concrete sometimes.  Late last year I bit the bullet and bought a portable DVD player, and that's become my best friend on long drives. 

In fact, it's not the actual driving that makes my brain want to beat its way out of my skull; it's the bathroom stops.  When you have two responsible adults in the car, you can quite easily take turns watching the youngster while you alternately evacuate.  But when it's just you, all you can do is strap them in a stroller, hope to God the handicap stall is free, squeeze in tightly, and wonder if you can actually pee with an overly curious toddler sitting next to you.  The phrase "performance anxiety" comes to mind.

And let's not even get into a deep discussion of the mess.  After a trip north, my car resembles the business end of a garbage truck.  Dry cereal, crackers, gummies…it doesn't matter.  I could give her two pretzels and — somehow — the back seat would look like an explosion in an Italian restaurant by the end of the trip.

Oh, speaking of MVN.com (second paragraph): my co-writer, James, was in a car accident a few weeks ago that left him with severe injuries.  He is expected to make a full recovery, and no injuries are life-threatening, but among his wounds are two broken arms.  I'd like to take this time to call for prayers for Jimbo's recovery — and for his wife, who is probably forced to wait on him hand and foot.

In other news, I was in Delaware this past weekend for one of my two annual trips to Dover International Speedway for the NASCAR race.  Let's just say it's a good thing the part of the trip that is most enjoyable is actually the tailgating.  Otherwise, it would have been a long, boring day.  For a better idea of what the day consisted of, check out my blog over at FoxSports.com.

This summer is looking like it may be a first in more ways than one.  For one thing, there are currently at least four movies I want to see that are in theaters right now: The Happening, Get Smart, The Black Knight and The Love Guru.  And the other first?  Of those movies, half of them are not comedies.  Shocking.

Other Ramblings…

• Why does the state of Kentucky get labeled as a place for nothing but the reddest of necks?  Well, all accusations of rampant inbreeding aside, it's possible it could be a result of their naming a town Rabbit Hash.  Or, just maybe, it's because that town's mayor  was a Black Labrador Retriever.  Ol' Junior Cochran just died, though; I hear the race for his replacement will be a fight between a gerbil and a bent paper clip.
• The Pittsburgh Penguins' run to the Stanley Cup Finals was a sight to behold, losing just two games in the first three rounds.  It looked, though, like they were going to get blown out in the finals after Detroit won the first two games.  The Penguins fought back, though, bringing the series back to 3-2 after putting up two games for the ages — including a triple-overtime defeat in which Petr Sykora actually called his game-winning goal.  Not since Babe Ruth's rumored calling of a game-winning home run has such a ballsy call been made and answered.  I'm reminded of Seattle's Matt Hasselbeck's overtime call of, "we want the ball, and we're gonna win!"; Green Bay proceeded to score on their first drive of overtime, forever making the Seahawks' quarterback look like a complete idiot.  Yet another reason we salute you, Brett Favre.
• Shania Twain's husband, Robert 'Mutt' Lange, left the drop-dead gorgeous — and, from what I hear, incredibly gracious and personable — country music star recently, providing irrefutable evidence that "Mutt" is not an endearing nickname, but rather a reference to his cognitive abilities (as if his sense of style wasn't indicative enough).  Single, desperate, delusional men the world over salute you, Mr. Lange!
• Sunday's forecasted high temperature is 102 here in Raleigh.  Relief is on the way, however; by Tuesday it should be back down to a refreshing 97.

More than once, I've arrived at the sitter's house to tales of horror.  The worst of these were a result of her getting bored while laying down for a nap and proceeding to finger-paint with whatever she had available — usually found in her diaper.  That's what I would call being a kid.  Today, though, she got ballsy.

Saint or Sitter (SoS): "Did you go poopy?"

Her Cuteness: "No."

Conversation over, right?  Well, yeah, at least the pleasant part.  The little turd Her Cuteness turned away, waited for the sitter to do something else, and then reached into her pull-up (clearly, elastic was not our friend today).  Out came a fist-full of excrement, that then got ground into the carpet, and onto the coffee table, and — according to the debriefing — over everything else within reach until the sitter saw what was transpiring.

Okay, let's back up a step: a trend we've both noticed is that her mood changes dramatically after her nap.  Most kids go from whiny, tired messes to adorable little angels after a good snooze.  My daughter, though, turns into a cross between the critter from the movie series Predator, Fred Sanford and Archie Bunker — only with a less sunny demeanor.  Do not — I repeat, not — turn your back on her at this point.  You can literally hear All Hell Breaking Loose™.

I tell you this, because there are three simple signs of A Bad Day at the Sitter's House (I think I'll trademark that phrase, too):

1. My lovely daughter wearing different clothes than what I dressed her in that morning;
2. A little blond monster cooped up in a Pack-and-Play in the livingroom;
3. My Little Ray of Sunshine mysteriously sitting quietly on the couch when I arrive

There's one sign far more telling, though: the volume of her ecstatic cry of "Daddy!" when I ring the doorbell is directly proportionate to the amount of trouble she got in that day.  If I can clearly hear her over the television and four or more other rowdy kids, I know not to make eye contact with SoS. Today, she was louder than ever.

Okay, I got her out of there in one piece.  I was royally ticked because, on top of the poo-painting, there were other incidents we won't even get into.  But, she's two now.  Lately we've been getting uber-serious about her behavior, and today she spent 10 minutes confined to her room.  I let her out and gave her some grapes — but, if you asked her, they were undoubtedly sour grapes.  Dad's not happy at this point, either, but he let's that slide — that is, until she picked up the bowl and threw it across the kitchen when I wouldn't give her more grapes before dinner.

Use the potty before bath time?  Nooooooooooo.  Give her a pacifier?  Not a chance.  After her bath she spent another three minutes on the couch in timeout, and nearly made me melt when — without my prompting or prodding — looked at me with soggy eyes and said, "I sorry Daddy."

So we went through our nightly ritual — an episode of Garfield and Friends while she lays in the dark on the couch.  She went to bed pretty easily.

Too easily.

Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Then, after 20 minutes of no noise, I hear the sound of her bedroom door open.  I'm angry at this point, but when I saw her I had the hardest time staying that way.  There, on the dark side of the bedroom doorway, I saw my little blondie with her shirt collar pulled down around her waist and only one pants-leg on.

Damn, that cute smile.

After a lengthy fight (okay, it felt like an hour but really covered about 53 seconds), I got her back to bed.  Five minutes of babbling later, I went to her door to tell her once again to be quiet and go to sleep.  Darn, if the little girl didn't figure out the fake-like-you're asleep maneuver.  I saw her rapidly roll over and close her eyes as I swung her door open.

Amazingly — and finally — she fell asleep just like that about 10 minutes later.  Holy crap and Hallelujah.

Her Cuteness has never been what I would call a "normal" child.  She is, after all, offspring of InvertedMind.  And she's my first-born, too, so she probably came from the most potent of my…uh…you know.  She inherited my sense of humor, too, and that can only be described as frightening.

The one thing I thought was normal about her — until today, that is — was her preference for food.  She always seemed to like the usual suspects.  She's a pizza fanatic, and she loves sweet stuff.  I did think it strange that she just completely stopped eating chicken fingers, though.  And my concerns became quite well founded today, when — 24 hours after shunning said chicken fingers — she ate three helpings of fresh pasta primavera.  For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically pasta and sauteed vegetables.  The girl was thrilled to eat broccoli.  Yes, she's my child, and I loved it growing up.  But I was totally unprepared for the possibility that God would make such an exact copy of me.  I mean, really, is the world ready for two of us?

Life would be a lot easier during the winter if Her Cuteness could 1) tell me when her stomach is upset, and 2) know to run for the porcelain throne when it becomes unbearable.  That way, I wouldn't spend Sunday mornings cleaning a disgustingly stinky mess out of the carpet and the couch.

To be fair, at least this time it didn't happen in the middle of the night.  And, really, I should have been expecting it.  She'd been under the weather all week long with a "noticeable stomach issue" — I'll spare you the details, but I hope you can glean from that description at least a sense of what I'm driving for — and she had been holding her belly a little that morning.  That should have been my second clue.  The first should have been that she woke up at 6:30, a full hour earlier than normal.  But it was 6:30 in the morning, after all.  How coherent do you think I am at that time of the day?  On top of that, I'd been up late the night before enjoying a movie with someone.  It really added up to be a pretty good storm of events that just made the morning that much less entertaining that I had hoped it would be when I went to bed Saturday night.

It happened a total of three times.  By the third time, I had caught on to the fact that, like her father (umm…me…), her episodes are almost exactly one hour apart.  It was the same way back in November when this all happened the first time.  It's a weird clockwork thing that really comes in handy when you know you're going to get sick again, but you have things you need to get done.  As long as you plan your day in chunks no longer than 45 minutes, you're fine.  Okay, I admit, maybe "chunks" wasn't the best choice of words.  But the point is that I was able to wait for it and be ready and waiting with the bucket when the time came.  Woo-friggin'-hoo.

We wound up falling asleep on the couch after that episode, partly because we were both exhausted and also because she wouldn't let me get more than four feet from her that morning.  That's understandable — after all, it's pretty traumatic when you don't realize it's just part of having a stomach bug.  And, even at 27 years old, barfing still has not become one of my favorite pastimes.

The same "someone" I enjoyed the movie with — who Her Cuteness absolutely adores, by the way — brought over some Pedialyte that afternoon to help speed the recovery process, and stuck around with me until the youngster was about ready to wake from her afternoon nap.  I'm really hoping I get to write more about her here in the future, but that's a different story altogether.  By Sunday evening, we had shared some chicken soup and were both none the worse for wear.  But it's a day I'd just as soon erase from memory if I could.  All the same, it was just another day in my little slice of paradise (and there's no sarcasm attached to that, either)!

I've been asked for a recent picture of the youngster, so here's one from tonight.  I'm not lookin' so hot, but that can be expected after working and taking care of a kid, captured for eternity on a cell phone camera!

Every morning we wake up
And get started with our day
I stumble to the shower
As I quietly pray
For the strength to make it through the morning
And to survive the afternoon
To fight the evening traffic
So I can come home to you

It's just me and you
And I try to be your everything
It's so hard to be strong
When there's no time to be weak
But when I look into those baby blues
I see the child I wish I still could be
Please remember, little Angel
You're everything to me

I don't have the time
To spend with you like I should
Sometimes the ends don't meet
Quite like I hope they would
I wish things worked out different
And we weren't here on our own
But always know I'll never leave you
And you'll never be alone

'Cause It's just me and you
And I try to be your everything
It's so hard to be strong
When there's no time to be weak
But when I look into those baby blues
I see the child I wish I still could be
Please remember, little Angel
You're everything to me

I lay you down each night
And I read your favorite book
All the struggles I go through are worth it
When you give me that little look
That says you'll always trust me
To be your hero and your friend
And you'll always be MY hero
Until the very end

It's just me and you
And I try to be your everything
It's so hard to be strong
When there's no time to be weak
But when I look into those baby blues
I see the child I wish I still could be
Please remember, little Angel
You're everything to me