Either Ives and I are the parents of the decade and deserve some sort of award (I'd settle for a coffee mug proclaiming "#1 Dad!"), or criminally negligent sociopaths who need to be immediately incarcerated.

I guess we'll know in a few years once Fish figures out that it's cool to hate her parents.  As for now, she's 7 going on eternal and in love with everything in a benign world full of flowers, butterflies, and friendly creatures from beyond the stars.

Anyway, here is our daughter enjoying a little light reading before bedtime.  She chuckles at the "really scary parts", and digs all the "awesome!" artwork.  And even though she begged, I just won't allow her to read my story "In the Cave, She Sang," because, well... A cozy yarn about Charlie Manson traipsing through Death Valley, high on mescaline and pondering the end of humanity, replete with "f words" and "adult activities" that HBO would brand as "SC", just isn't something I want to shoehorn into that amazing mind of hers that is so filled with magic and light and true belief in all the good things in the Universe. Maybe I'll let her read "Flutes."  The dangers of secretive underground atom smashers sounds child-friendly enough, right?  Okay, we'll keep her on a steady diet of Shel Silverstein, for now...

"Creating a monster" doesn't even come close to describing what's going down at Grau Haus.  When Fish takes over the world, I just pray that she goes easy on her ol' pops. Maybe this picture will be "Exhibit A."  In what context the exhibit is presented (court room or stay of dictatorial execution) remains to be seen...