I apologize to those who've already seen this and/or were completely pissed off that my main man comandeered the major networks like he did. I post this for those like myself, who have had to cut cable in order to keep the heat on this winter. Rabbit-ears reception don't do the man justice. For those who are struggling, like us, watch. For those who see only the color of his skin...close your eyes and listen.

Exciting news...Spence has lost his first tooth! While on a field trip to an orchard with his class yesterday, he bit into an apple and lo and behold...that wiggly son of a gun just popped right out. I was under the impression these things didn't start happening 'til later, a couple of years maybe, but what the hell do I know. The adult tooth has already emerged, formidable white ridges rising above the gumline, so clearly it is time and I'm an uninformed idiot. I'm losing my grip on my defense mechanism of denial. He's growing up before my eyes, against my fervent wishes for him to remain small and needy and cuddly. Of course we still cuddle. I reserve the right to cuddle my son to my dying day, gangly and independent as he may grow. ADULT teeth, ladies and gentlemen, we are entering a strange new world here, despite my firmly planted heels and eyes squeezed shut against reality.

In other news in The Land of Brazen Independence, Julian is completely potty-trained. STOP THE INSANITY. Of course I don't mourn the loss of diaper money each week, but I do wistfully remember his needing me more. Now he trots off to answer the call of duty all on his own while I sit like a bump on a log. I'm probably the only parent on the freaking planet who is complaining about this, and don't get me wrong, I certainly don't miss lugging supplies all over creation or the smell of opening a freshly created present, I'm just saying...They don't NEED me. Luckily they still like me, and will keep me around for the moment.

School is going well, both for Spence and myself. I'm a straight-A student! I can say this because I've completed exactly one class and have earned an A in this, the easiest hey-dummy-this-isn't-high-school orientation class. The other two classes I'm taking this semester may reveal more about my scholastic aptitude when my true report card comes out in December. One semester down, 10 billion to go. This is going to take me foooreeeeveeeerrrr...

And Spence landed himself a ticket into a gifted reading class with his phenomenal assessment scores. Clearly things have changed since my elementary school days...He's already had his first offer of boyfriend-hood from a chicky-poo. A brainiac nerd outcast he is definitely not. Alas, the girl in question has been labeled a "potty-word" girl by my young Price Charming and let down easily. We simply don't associate with people who use potty words. We shan't, lovey, we simply shan't.

If I'm boring you to tears, hold on, it's almost over.

To those like myself, cringing at the thought of the long harsh winter spent pent up indoors, I would like to recommend...drumroll please...karaoke. Get out, have a couple of drinks with friends, and SING YOUR HEART OUT. I can't tell you what an effective stress-reliever it is to stand up and belt out those feelings. Try it!

The Supreme Court ruled today that the death penalty cannot be sought when convicting someone of the rape of a child. In a 5-4 vote this morning, they more or less threw out the death sentence already handed down to a Louisiana man convicted of raping his 8-year-old stepdaughter. Apparently the conviction stands, but the monster must be re-sentenced. The five states that have heretofore allowed the death penalty for child rape must now, of course, abide by this tragedy of a decision.

Thanks so much, Justice Kennedy. Thank you for broadcasting the message that if you commit a crime of this particular nature, come on down, we'll house you, clothe you, and give you three square meals a day.

Yes, I understand when Justice Kennedy says execution is not a "proportional punishment" for child rape. You are absolutely right, sir, it is far too quick, painless and humane as opposed to what their victims will suffer with every day for the rest of their lives. It's not proportional at all. But to my thinking, this particular breed of criminal falls into another category entirely, one which we certainly can and will utilize the death penalty and/or torture the shit out of under guise of interrogation, and that is "terrorist." Merriam-Webster defines terrorism as "the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion," and further defines coercing as "to restrain or dominate by force."

In today's world, where we bend the rules and interpret the law to satisfy our own ends, to justify domestic espionage and strip us of our civil liberties and whatever the hell else Dubya feels like doing when he wakes up on any given day...Why not bend those rules a bit in our favor? I've heard the Patriot Act applied to just about every nonsensical scenario in which they simply couldn't come up with something better, and you know it. I've lost a lot of faith in my country since Dubya stumbled up to the podium and started rambling about God-knows-what because he isn't speaking English...I think I could find a little patriotism left in me to give to a country where Homeland Security means the security of our children in their own homes.

I sincerely hope "Patriot Act," "Homeland Security" and "terrorism" blip across some secret agent's radar screen and they read this. How about it, guys?

A visit to dooce.com is always good for a chuckle and a reality check. Why did I stop writing, again? I'm just as good as any of the other 2.5 billion pointless bloggers out there, am I right? Can I get an Amen?! No? That's fine, too. Your surf-weary, slack-jawed, undivided attention is all I really require. Aaand...veg.

We are entering a brave new world. My oldest son starts honest-to-God school in the fall, real elementary school, and I am pissing my pants with fear. He's elated, of course, he's FIVE, what does he know of bullies and teasing and cliques? Kindergarten, dear Reader, is the gateway to hell and you know it. This is how it begins, milk carton planters made with safety scissors and love and the musty yet wonderful smell of real chapter books in the library...but before too long, it will be Where did you get that shirt, the Goodwill? and Oh my gosh, he's getting straight A's, like, ewww.

I'm desperately trying to reign in my own notions of school-age society and allow him his own experience. I don't want to overshadow his brightly innocent entry into school with my own painful memories of staring at that caged-in clock (why the little cage? anyone??) and fervently wishing the hands forward. Because yes, I did get this shirt at the Goodwill, thanks for asking.

I do recall the change that happened when my parents moved for the last time. I was in the eighth grade, and somehow slipped getting off of the bus and fell into the reasonably-cool crowd. I never looked back. It was WONDERFUL. But worth the eons spent trudging through those elementary and middle school hallways wishing I could melt into the floor? Doubtful. I am not exaggerating, by the way, to those that may enjoy my occasional sarcastic melodrama. I still deal with the residual effects of horrific posture after slouching my way through those growing years. What's a nerd to do.

So it's not quite so simple, for me anyways, as just waving them off on their first real bus ride. There are more crucial decisions to be made, monumental questions to ask myself, like do I risk a cartoon character on his backpack or play it safe and go with a solid color? Do I enroll him in martial arts classes immediately or wait until he's slightly more coordinated before teaching him eight different ways to break a man's neck? Like age six or seven, maybe?

Of course we want the best for our kids. Everyone says, I want my kids to have more than I had. I say, I want them to have 25 times as much as I had. And I'm not just speaking financially, I mean in the richness of their school experiences and beyond. LAWD am I ever digressing into sappiness. Throw me a lifeline here, I'm drowining in this sickly sweet shit.

Let me wrap this up before the flies start circling. When my son starts school in the fall, I hope to find a happy balance for my neurotic ass, somewhere between PTA president and vegan home-schooler. Although I'd happily settle for PTA president.

Look for the...bare necessities, the simple bare necessities...forget about your worry and your strife...You know, I used to be hip. I used to be cool, I used to be bad-ass, I swear it. These days I am a bona fide MOM, Mindless Operating Machine, complete with drool stains on my shoulders and a haunting Disney melody continuously looping in my brain. They're coming to take me away, ha ha, ho ho, hee hee...

I just had to get on here, my tiny voice in the world, and say GIVE IT UP CLINTON! Obama is, I sincerely hope, the obvious Democratic nominee and Ms. C. is making all nagging, stubborn hags look bad. Or worse, rather. We don't appreciate it. So please, please just stop. Stop borrowing money, stop threatening to run third-party, just stop. My respect for Ms. C. dwindles a little each day she stays in this race. Again, she's giving all of us with soccer-mom haircuts and wide smiles a bad name. Knock it off.

With that said, and with the clock running out on this workday (thank God), I bid thee farewell, dear Reader(s), and promise to return shortly with even more stunningly insightful fodder for your Internet-weary eyes. Stay tuned!

BIG NEWS!! You'll forget all about how horribly I've neglected you, dear Reader(s), when you hear that...We are moving!

Moving on ou-uuut...to the west side...We're packing up the whole show and hitting the road, bound for a western suburb where dear Spence will attend kindergarten in a DECENT public school system in the fall, and Mommy won't have to make good on her vow to Daddy, Over my dead body. Over my dead body will my children attend Cleveland Public Schools. These schools have got THE WORST reputation in the state, if not the country. Horrific.

So I shall valiantly take one for the team and make the commute into the city to continue my quest to become the World's Best Legal Assistant. Look for me in Guiness.

I'm rather excited, actually. The old man is in contractor heaven right now, fixing up our little fixer-upper, whilst I pack up 10,000 parts to 100,000 toys and prepare for the Big Move. We're a well-oiled machine, the old man and I.

Spencer, on the other hand, doesn't quite seem to believe the Big Move to be real. Tell us another one, Mom, tell us the one about the three pigs now. We've been discussing moving for so long (have I mentioned how much I dislike Cleveland Public Schools?) that it has ceased to hold its charm for him. I don't think he'll believe us until we arrive and he lays eyes on the ending to the Big Move fairy tale...The Yard. And they lived happily ever after.