Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Monday, December 15, 2003

Oh. My.

Yes, it seems one of the young men at church has taken a shine to Oldest.

Oh, it’s not like there haven’t been other rumblings of her nascent feminine power—there’s the kid who rides the bus, there’s the kid who plays the sax in the band, there’s whispered talk of this one or that one who might want to talk to her—so it’s not a total surprise. And she is going to turn out to be quite a stunning looking young lady—the thought of which, as well as the act of actually setting it down in word form, just managed to make a couple hundred more hairs on my head turn snow white with an audible pinging sound.

I’ve had my “touch my daughter and you’ll never draw another easy breath for the rest of your life” speech pretty well memorized for a while; the exact spot in the den marked where I intend to lovingly wipe down the Bushmaster and seethe about “the one that got away” as her nervous caller shifts nervously on a tiny, uncomfortable chair; the exact moment when I, as her chauffeur to some movie or other event, will lean over and release one of my weapons of pants destruction and forbid them to roll down the windows while cackling loudly…you know, the stuff all dads do to simultaneously embarrass their own children while striking fear and terror into the hearts of the children of others.

But this, THIS I did not anticipate—she actually managed to allow herself to be smitten by a nice young man who doesn’t have a shaggy mop of Leif Garrett hair, whose pants actually come all the way up to his natural waist, who says “Yes, sir” and “no, sir”, whose brain works overtime, and who is just a doggone decent kid.

Ashley has never felt like part of the teenaged group at church—part of what she sees as their cliquishness is a result of her own insecurity about being around anyone who might make fun of her, as well as some honest-to-goodness cliquishness, compounded further by her occasional inability to take the high road herself and not return petty invective for petty invective—but this young man even managed to coax her into sitting with them yesterday.

I don’t know if he would ever find this little corner of the blogworld, but if he ever does, I’ll just say be the good, kind, kid you know to be.

Or I’ll crush your trachea.

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