can we come next week can we come see little maryn and you boys james if it;s not hot out when we come see you would you like to send me in the basement or outside?

Since God is a father, maybe it would make his day to see his children playing nicely with the other kids, being patient, growing, learning, and happily spending time with him.

I have not, despite all indications to the contrary, died. I have, however, been busier than I ever wish to be again. I make no promises that content will be coming regularly. I just wanted the world to know that Bob is still alive (and for that matter, so are Kelly and Miranda).

I have often thought that the parents have no imagination, but I now find that to be simply untrue. Instead, they have a rather curious form of imagination which I feel I must disclose for the benefit of the many others of you out there struggling to raise parents.

This particular bout of imagination has recently struck the parents, presumably because of their having spent far too much time indoors over the recent months. In fact, it is the doors themselves which seem to trigger this particular delusion. I will describe it for you, although I confess that even I would have a hard time believing such a thing had I not observed it with my own eyes on multiple occasions.

As you know, the snow is rather delightful this time of year, and I, being the lover of nature that I am, try to take advantage of this wonder as often as I can, though it is troublesome because the parents insist of placing my coat up high where I cannot reach it, forcing me to ask for their assistance, but I'm getting off the subject.

Anytime I open the door to go outside, one of the parents will invariably yell, "Close the door Miranda, you're letting all the heet out!" At first I thought maybe there were some small creatures named heets that I have somehow missed, but after close analysis of the doorway, I have determined that no small creature is trying to escape. It was only then that I realized what wonderful imaginations the parents have. I can understand their need for such a mental crutch, as being a parent seems very unfulfilling.

In respect to their delusion, I close the door. After all, I wouldn't want to let the "heet" get out. The parents would get so lonely.

It's that most wonderful time of the year again, and snow is once again falling from the sky, which, as you all know, means it's time for me to help Daddy shovel the driveway. I have really refined my methods this year, to the point where, honestly, Daddy would be lost without me. In fact, I have to stay very close to him and make sure I shovel right where he is trying to shovel, for his protection and education.

My most recent shoveling expedition was highly disappointing. Instead of snow, we had rain, and the driveway was covered with little ice chunks, which aren't nearly as good for making snowballs. Nevertheless, I helped Daddy scrape them off the driveway. Daddy said we had to clear it because some friends were coming over later and he didn't want them to slip.

Apparently he shared my disappointment about the lack of snow, as, a few minutes later, he emerged from the garage with a shaker and began depositing big pieces of snow all over the steepest parts of the driveway and on the sidewalk. It was very loud and hard snow, but I guess that's probably just because he had kept it in the garage for so long.

I should mention, at this point, that not only in snow great for making snowballs to throw at Daddy, but it is also a delicious and healthy snack, and I try to eat as much of it as I can when it's in season. It has a great crisp flavor that no other form of precipitation can match.

So, naturally, I had to try out some of Daddy's garage snow. For those of you who may be tempted to try it yourself, do not eat garage snow. I think keeping it in containers makes it go bad. Stick to the fresh snow. It's not as spicy.

Many of you out there ask how it is that I manage to deal with raising such terrible parents. I have found that the key to making it bearable is to treat the parents as a source of entertainment. The parents are rather simple-minded folks, and it is a source of great amusement to me to watch their puny minds contend with my great intellect.

My latest game is one that really gets them wound up. "Mommy, I want to take a nap," I say.

"Do you really want a nap?" she asks me.

"Yes. I'm really sleepy." We head upstairs towards my room. "I don't want to take a nap, Mommy."

"But you just said you did."

"No, I don't want a nap. I want to go downstairs."

"Why don't you try taking a nap?"

"No, I want to go downstairs." Mommy starts to go back downstairs. "I want to take a nap!"

Eventually I decide to move to the next phase. I go to my room and get into bed. I say goodbye to Mommy and snuggle under my covers.

I know she waits outside my room, so I stay very quiet. Eventually she will decide I'm asleep and go downstairs. I give her a moment, to really increase the comedic value, and then start pounding on my bedroom door. "I need to use the potty."

She comes back to my room and we use the potty. This time she asks a few extra times if I want a nap. I assure her I do, and she puts me into my bed and eventually goes downstairs.

"Mommy, help my find my monkey!"

We go through the cycle again. "Mommy, I need to poop!"

"Mommy, I'm done with my nap now!"

I know what you're thinking: "There's no way anyone would be stupid enough to fall for that more than once." The parents, however, never seem to catch on.

It doesn't quite make up for all that the parents put me through, but as I've found, it really is the little things that make life enjoyable.

I have a question for those of you out there. Do you know if parents can say one thing but mean something else? It wouldn't seem like something they should be smart enough to do, but I think I've seen signs of it.

The other day I was outside with Daddy, and I wanted to draw with chalk. There were lots of leaves on the driveway, so Daddy needed to clean them off so I would have enough room to really express myself. He got out the big broom and started sweeping away the leaves. It looked like fun, so I asked him if I could sweep the leaves. He got a smaller broom out of the garage and I set to work.

"I'm helping," I told him.

"Yeah, you're a big help," he said. And though I know he couldn't do anything on his own, something about how he said it almost made me think he meant that I wasn't being helpful.

Should I take his comment as the simple statement of gratitude that it is, or is there something more going on behind the scenes?

Hello, loyal and faithful readers. I apologize for my long absence, but the parents have been particularly troublesome lately. I know, I always think they can't get worse, or at least that I won't be surprised when they do, and yet...

As you all know, the parents are terribly small minded, and this causes no end of difficulty for me. Obviously I am as understanding and caring as a person can be, but even so it puts a tremendous strain on me. For example, the parents don't seem to grasp even the most basic of situations.

Is it really that hard to understand that I want the toy and don't want the toy, equally strongly and at the same time? How can they not comprehend that when I demand to be both indoors and outdoors, it is their job to make that happen, not to ask silly questions like "Which one do you want?"

If any of you out there have experience enlightening parents, please share your secrets. I'm beginning to suspect that mine may be defective.

I confess I am not a cook. Since I got married, Kelly has taken care of nearly every aspect of meal preparation. I am only called upon for the occasional omelette, bacon, or burger. I am mostly capable of following a recipe, so if something comes in a box with instructions on the side I generally feel competent to prepare it, but foods without such aids are beyond me.

Nevertheless, the other day Kelly asked me to prepare baked potatoes. There is a "baked potato" setting on our microwave, and I have used that with some level of success in the past, but Kelly wanted me to use her easy oven recipe. I preheated the oven to four-hundred degrees, popped any growing eyes off the potatoes, washed them in the sink, and, once preheating was complete, placed the potatoes into the oven. Per Kelly's instruction, I set the timer for forty-five minutes.

At the appointed time, I put on the oven mitt and proceeded to lift the potatoes out of the oven and place them onto a cutting board. The second potato had its own plan. When I set the potato down, it promptly exploded. The skin was separated from the potato and launched onto the still open oven door. Potato shrapnel flew from one side of the kitchen to the other, leaving a trail of white potato shards on the oven, floor, and cabinets. The pulverized core of the potato remained sitting on the cutting board.

And that is why Miranda had mashed potatoes for dinner last night.

Mommy and Daddy are up to their crazy schemes again. You'll never guess what they want me to do now, not in a million years. They have this silly bucket full of water called "The Potty" with its own little room. That's crazy, I know, but it gets worse. They want me (can I say this on the internet?) to pee and poop in it. I don't know which is more shocking: the concept itself or their audacity for suggesting it.

It's obvious what their game is. Those lazy parents are trying to get out of their chores. They think if they trick me into joining their little Potty cult then they won't have to change my diapers anymore.

They have even gone so far as to suggest that my friends already do this, and that they themselves use the Potty quite regularly. As though I would want to be more like them. I allow them to do whatever they want in their time off, but that hardly means I want to join them.

They even say that if I use the Potty then I'll be a "big girl". I'm not sure what they are implying, but I fail to see how peeing and pooping in a silly bucket will alter my size in any appreciable manner.

The parents simply can't understand that the idea does not appeal to a busy person like myself. I don't have time to stop and use the Potty every time I need to pee or poop. Not that they would understand such things, the lazy adults. Clearly I need to keep them busier.