I hope that every parent feels the same way, but I know it’s not true, and this kills me. It doesn’t make me weepy, like when I see service dogs, though; for this, I get angry.

Parents are there to protect their children, to nurture them, to teach them so that they grow up to be the best adults possible. Isn’t that our job?

Anyway, I mention this because I read a newspaper story yesterday about a father killing his daughter (and also his soon-to-be ex-wife, his sister, and his nephew). This is all too common lately. Last week, here in Illinois, a father did not return his two young sons to his ex-wife after a scheduled weekend visit and instead killed them and then himself, and just a few days later there was a murder-suicide in Santa Clara, California.

I just don’t understand this.

I can see how someone, mad at their spouse, would want to hurt them. (Note: In no way do I advocate this and I have never, ever, EVER felt this way about Kristen, but I can see how someone might feel this way, just not act on it.) It’s a completely irrational, over-the-top emotion (not to mention immoral), and people who think this way should get help.

For that person to take the next step and actually go through with it means that there is something seriously wrong with their noggin. But (again, this is not me condoning their behavior) that person can almost rationalize it –  “She was going to leave me. I had no other option. She was cheating.” — without them sounding bat-shit crazy. They are bat-shit crazy and should be locked up for good, but this is, unfortunately, not out of the ordinary and certainly nothing new. (Heck, just watch 48 Hours Mystery every Saturday night like we do and you’ll see how horrible some people can be. What? You think we go out on Saturday night?)

But the worst of the worst are those men (it’s usually men, isn’t it) that decide that they not only want to kill their spouse, but they also want to kill their children too (or just the children). This also usually ends with them killing themselves after.

Now obviously there are other things at work here — likely some sort of mental illness or severe depression — but how could anyone ever want to kill their kids? That man in Illinois’ children were 7 and 9 years old. They were innocent in every sense of the word, yet this guy, in an attempt to get back at his ex-wife, wanted the rest of her life to be worse than miserable.

I hope that this rash of killings is isolated, that it’s more copy-cat than a new trend. Because the news is depressing enough as it is; I don’t need to read another story like those for a long, long time.

So, do you have these problems? Or does it just have one banner at the top and no large white space?

“Red China!”

And they all parroted her: “Red China!” “Red China!” “Red China!” (In my memory they all that had really strong Minnesota accent.)

Well, my friend Ryan and I thought that was possibly the funniest thing ever, and it became something of a catch phrase for us. Anything wrong with the world — rising gas prices, lousy traffic, bruised produce — was answered with a resounding “Red China!” Any woman over the age of 45 (we were 20, what do you want?) was also “Red China!” (Look, we weren’t the cleverest of people, so get off my back.)

I’ve tried this out with Kristen and my friends in Chicago, but all I ever get is a blank stare.

Now I have nothing against the Chinese as a people. They put on a mean Olympics and their food is top notch. I am, however, completely worried about their shoddy exports, laden with crazy poisons and slip shod workmanship, especially now that there is someone in our house that is starting to put everything into his mouth (poisons and all).

As such, Kristen and I have really tried to stay away from toys that are made in China. The corruption in Chinese manufacturing is legendary, with proper ingredients being replaced with tainted ones (remember all of those animals getting sick? remember the bad medicine? I do), and the working conditions are some of the worst in the world. Add to that the very real possibility of MSG being sprinkled on a stuffed animal, and well… it’s just too scary for words.

(A side note: One of the biggest shams in modern medicine is the idea that people are allergic to MSG, what is commonly knows as the “Chinese restaurant syndrome” [really, that's what it's called]. In a recent metaanalysis from the past 40 years of published articles on MSG, the authors found that “despite a widespread belief that MSG can elicit a headache, among other symptoms, there are no consistent clinical data to support this claim. Findings from the literature indicate that there is no consistent evidence to suggest that individuals may be uniquely sensitive to MSG.” So extra MSG it is!)

The problem with buying toys that aren’t made in China is that a) they’re difficult to come by and b) they’re more expensive. So while you can drop in at Target and buy the latest Fisher Price doodad, to get something made in the U.S. or Europe means going to a specialty toy store (which we have several of in Chicago) or the internet.

The benefit of paying the extra money is, of course, they’re safer, but I’ve also found that the toys are much, much cooler. So many American-designed (and China-made) toys, seem that they’re there to entertain the child but without any real interaction. I mean, so many have the kid press a button and a song is played. Oooooookay. What is that, exactly? Is it a toy? Isn’t a toy something that a child actually moves around (or manipulates or something)? American toys move when you push a button. European toys move when the child moves them.

Am I acting crazy again?

Anyway, Kristen discovered a great company, Moolka, that sells European-designed/manufactured toys, and so many of them are out of this world wonderful. You want a stacking toy? How about a chicken stacking toy? You want blocks? How about the coolest looking blocks ever? We’ve gotten Henry a couple of things, and Kristen has set up a wish list for us to check off things to buy him when we have an extra $20 (or $30 or $120) sitting around.

Pretty cool, eh? And no headache.

The problem with these inane authors is that they are able to write whatever they want, knowing full well that they’re protected by the anonymity of the Internet. It’s very easy for someone from Lexington, Kentucky, to say something about Candidate A, only to be told by someone in Anaheim, California, to do something not very nice with a dog. It’s a hollow threat, of course, because there’s no way Mr. California’s going to get on a plane and fly to Kentucky with his pet basset hound.

But if the same thing happened, say, at the local watering hole, somebody would likely get punched in face. Actually, had these two people been within 10 feet of each other, the comments would never have been said in the first place.

What does this mean? Does the safety of hiding behind a username bring out the real feelings of people? Or do they know that, because they face no real repercussions from their remarks, just ramp up the rhetoric to get other people (like myself) in a tizzy?

The fact that much of these comments fly in the face of common decency is troubling. In articles about the thankfully-concluded election, writers regularly attack not only the candidate’s policy (which, when using actual facts and not half-truths and outright lies, is fair game), but their religion, their patriotism, and even their family (these are not fair game). The 65-year-old inside me regularly cries out, “What has the world come to?”

What will this mean for Henry? I’m really afraid that this behavior on the Internet is going to spill out into the outside world. I’m afraid that he’s going to be surrounded by rude, insensitive people. I’m afraid that disagreements are going to be solved not with rational discussion but with insults.

It’s times like this, when I see how terrible people can be (believing that they are, in fact, in the right), when I want to pack up everything and take Kristen and Henry to some deserted area in Montana and never have to see another soul ever again.

I’m not going to do that, of course, but it’s in the back of my mind. Maybe elections bring out the worst in people, and like the cicadas, it will only come around every four (or 17) years. And maybe it’s just me, and I’m overreacting.

As it’s probably clear by now, I tend to do that. A lot.

That was Kristen’s mantra for all the years we’ve been together, up to and including her pregnancy.

“My God, how am I going to be able to go back to work with this baby here? I want to be around him all the time! I don’t want to miss anything!”

This is Kristen’s current mantra.

I can accept both. I understand that there are people that love children, love their children, but feel hampered by the constant caring of a child. These people go the childcare route (nanny, day care, wolf pack), and this is what we had always planned.

But you see, friends (that was my John McCain impression), opinions can change, and Kristen’s certainly has. Before, she said that she needed to work, to be away from the house. Now, she is dreading the thought.

I’ve been trying to wrack my brain to see how we can work this out. My internal calculator is constantly chugging along, and causing me much distress. (It’s nothing, really. I mean, adding that to my never-ending list of anxiety- and insomnia-causing issues is like throwing a cup of water into the Pacific Ocean.)

This is a tough one, and one that I don’t know what to do. We have bills. Not an inordinate amount of bills, but bills that need two incomes to pay (mostly because we bought a place that would require two incomes). We bought said place (which we love, by the way) with the idea that Kristen would work even after we had a baby, with childcare budgeted into our finances.

One of the options I immediately thought of was selling our place. And with the housing market as strong as it is, I’m sure we would make a hefty profit, and quickly be able to move into something smaller and cheaper. What’s that? The housing market’s down the crapper! Why wasn’t I informed about this! Get me Alan Greenspan on the phone!

Okay, so with that out of the question, what else have I thought of to make up the difference between Kristen’s salary and daycare (or what I like to call the “Oh-my-God-where-are-we-going-to-get-that-much-a-month?” budget)?

(crickets chirping)

Yeah, that’s what I thought, Cheli. Mr. Idea falls flat once again.

It’s tough. It’ll be heart wrenching for Kristen (just as it’s been heart wrenching for me) to not see Henry for long stretches during the day. Friends of ours have already gone through this, and nobody has said that it’s easy.

Maybe I’ll win the lottery. (Note to self: start playing the lottery.) Maybe some strange person will come upon this blog, understand our needs, and selflessly send us $50,000. (I’ve always wanted a benefactor.) Maybe I’ll write the most kick-ass book or screenplay and we’ll be showered with cash by adoring publishers or producers. (Another note to self: get off your but and finish those writing projects.) And maybe I’ll get that 25% raise that I really don’t deserve but sure would appreciate.

More than likely, we’ll just have to continue to try and work things out, reduce how much either of us works away from the house, change jobs, change cities, whatever. Ultimately, I just don’t want Kristen to have to do something that she doesn’t want to.

Sounds easy, right?

I must admit that I’ve been using this site as my communication with most of you, that I no longer call or e-mail and instead just hope that you read this and know that, yes, I’m still alive, and, yes, I haven’t ruined Henry’s life. (Yet.)

But really, my bad friendship-ness isn’t anything new. Until I came to Chicago, I had moved around quite a bit (from Pittsburgh to various places in New Jersey and eventually back to the Pennsylvania city where I grew up) and job hopped even more. And in those various places, I met a lot of really nice people, many of whom I vowed to stay in touch with after moving away/moving jobs.

Of course, I haven’t. I’m a terrible, terrible person.

Now I don’t think I’m alone in this. People tend to move around — both residence and employment — a lot more than they used to. How many people younger than 40 do you know who have been at their same company for 10 years? How about 5? Not that many. (I think it has to do with impatience, frankly. Nobody, and I’m a good example of that, want to wait to be promoted internally when they can more easily do it by hopping from job to job, company to company.)

I think the biggest problem I have with keeping up with people is that the longer I don’t call them or e-mail, the harder it is to do so. I haven’t spoken with my friend Mindie in 6 years. If I call her now (and if I can even figure out what her phone number is), what would I say exactly? “Hey. What’s up? What have you been doing the past 2,000 days?” My friend Nick, who I met when I was in the sixth grade, I haven’t spoken to in nearly 2 years. What about Lynn, who actually tracked me down and sent me a Christmas card this year (which I somehow misplaced and cannot find for the life of me). Should I call her after 5 years of silence?

And even worse, if I start calling people now, it will seem like I’m only getting in touch so that I can tell them about how wonderful my chubby-cheeked baby is. (Full disclosure: oh, yes, I would talk about him quite a bit. Did you know that last night he slept in two 5-hour stretches? And that at his one-month check-up, also yesterday, he weighs in at a whopping 10 lbs? What a baby! What a chubby baby!)

So, here’s the thing. If you want me to call you, and you’re not afraid that all I’ll talk about for the first 90 minutes is Henry, leave a comment or e-mail me. If you’d rather just read this and remember me as I was when we spoke — likely 20 pounds lighter and more hair on top (and less on the back) — that’s fine too. Heck, I’ll probably just lose your Christmas card anyway.

On Saturday morning, I was worrying because Henry hadn’t had a poop for more than 24 hours. All I could think of was a clogged innard (to be gruesomely detailed by a baby gastrointestinal specialist), the surgery required, and all the terrible complications thereof. After 45 minutes of extreme worry (Kristen was none the wiser, thankfully), Henry decided that he would have the largest bowel movement in the history of bowel movements. It was fantastic, like he was attached to some poop spigot, so large that when we were changing him, he decided that he wasn’t quite done, and pooped some more.

I was quite relieved. Being relieved because you’re witnessing something like this is usually grounds for some sort of institutionalization, I think.

Soon after, we were allowed to go home, and Kristen and I were both quite glad to finally get out of there. We packed up all our stuff, I made a couple of runs to the car, and then we strapped young Henry in his car seat and headed home.

(I threatened to drive 18 miles per hour on Lake Shore Drive, but Kristen made me go the speed limit. I called her the lost Andretti child.)

It was extremely strange walking into our place with a baby. All of a sudden, it was real. Not that it wasn’t real in the hospital (it was, believe me), but here we were, no longer protected by doctors and nurses and people who deliver you food and take out your trash. There weren’t people there to come and take the baby for two hours so you could take a nap and not worry about having to change him. There was nobody.

It was just the three of us.

And the cats.

We placed Henry in his vibrating chair (it’s quite amazing… and soothing, too), and allowed Georgia and Cecil to come up and look at him and smell him and flinch when Henry decided to move his foot. There were several times when Cecil looked up at me with his head cocked to the side as if he wanted to ask, “He’s just here for a couple of days, right?”

We’ve let them in the room with Henry (always supervised, of course) a few times since yesterday afternoon, and it seems as if they’re getting used to him, or at least his smell.

They have to, because we’re keeping him.

One of the best things about living in a large city is that there is always something going on. One weekend it will be a big music festival (blues, jazz, rock), the next it will be a gigantic picnic stretching several blocks in a neighborhood (or in the case of Taste of Chicago, several acres of waterfront park), and the next will be some parade.

What all these things have in common, of course, is that we go to none of them. For that I put the blame sorely on my shoulders. You see, I hate crowds, and what these spring and summer events do is bring people out by the tens of thousands (Lalapalooza, which was a couple of weekends ago, had more than 250,000 people dancing and vomiting for three days, which is about 249,950 too many). Some of these people are kind and considerate and just want to either listen to the music or eat some hot dogs or mingle with friends.

Most, though, just want to be obnoxious and make your life miserable by being rude, inconsiderate, smelly, drunk, and patently unaware of how to act in public.

(Last weekend was Halsted Market Days, a 2-day festival in the Boy’s Town section of Chicago. One of my co-workers went and was talking about how so many people were crammed together, it looked like one flowing amoeba sliding about. He loved it. I would rather gouge my eyes out than be part of an amoeba.)

For the most part, we’ve been able to avoid all these events and the mass of people and traffic that go along with them. If something is in the Loop, we go nowhere near the Loop. If something is in Lincoln Park, we avoid it like the plague.

This may be a problem this weekend. Starting today is the Chicago Air and Water Show, which is in its 430th year or somesuch (yes, they were celebrating this junk even before the Wright Brothers). In it, thousands of people will flock to the lakefront so they can watch the Blue Angels or Green Devils or whatever fly over, sonic booms rattling every window in the city (the cats love that, I’ll tell you what).

This will surely clog up Lake Shore Drive, which is an 8-lane highway (of sorts) that runs from the top of Chicago (where we live) to the bottom. In the middle of the city, about 40 blocks south of us, is the hospital where Kristen’s going to be giving birth (any day now! honest!). But eight lanes mean nothing to festival goers. Because these lemmings (I call them with love) tend to not know the ins and outs of traveling in the city, with plenty of people swooping across lanes to get to an exit, impatient drivers honking and swerving so they can get one car ahead, and others who decide that even though everyone else is driving 30 or 40 or 50 miles per hour, they should drive 20 (or 80).

So what I’m asking Kristen is this. If she’s going to go into labor this weekend, I’d like it if she kindly does so between the hours of 11 PM and 9 AM, where traffic will be mostly clear.

If she was able to hold out so I could get my free ice cream, she’ll be able to work this out as well.

It’s not that windy (contrary to its nickname), although a good breeze off the lake is common. It’s cold in the winter, but we don’t get much snow (the lake effect usually hits Indiana and Michigan much worse). It’s hot in the summer, however I wouldn’t say it’s that much worse than New Jersey or Pennsylvania where I’ve lived in the past.

It’s typical of the Midwest, I think, except for one thing:

We don’t get tornadoes.

Much of Illinois, Missouri, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, even Wisconsin and Minnesota have more than a few tornadoes touch down each year. It’s one of the scariest weather-related happenings I can think of (and this is coming from someone who lived through a pretty rough hurricane), mostly because there is no real way to predict its path or whether or not it’ll even materialize. Hurricanes, snow storms, thunderstorms… there’s usually a path involved. Sure, things can veer off at the last minute, but in most cases, you have time to board up your windows or, inevitably, run to the grocery store to get gallons of milk and bread.

(I love that. Every winter, when a big storm is forecast, you can’t get near the bread aisle without being knocked over by some crazed woman grabbing the last 8 loaves of Wonder. I mean, do people eat that much bread? What about crackers? Or fruit? Of all things you’d want to feed your stranded family, I can think of a lot more interesting and tasty foods to give them.)

Anyway, tornadoes. While certainly Chicago is as likely to get hit by one as any other city in the Midwest, I don’t really think about them. And in the 7 years I’ve lived here, there never has been a significant threat.

Until last night. At around 8 o’clock, the sky opened up and rain came pouring straight down. It was coming in buckets — the hardest rain I’ve seen in forever. Then, the tornado sirens started blaring and emergency notices started to take over the television. So, in yet another fit of protection gone mad, I made Kristen go down to the basement.

We never made it completely to the basement, though, as we sat on the bottom stoop of the back stairway — which is covered but outside — and we watched the rain and lightening and listened to the loud cracks of thunder. At the first sign of a green sky or a whooshing noise, I was ready to carry her the last few steps down to the basement, but luckily it never came to that.

(There was talk of a tornado hitting two towns which border Chicago and are only about 40 blocks west of us: Park Ridge and Lincolnwood [mostly known for where we bought the crib mattress]. I’m not sure if there was any confirmation however.)

Later, I had to drive downtown to go to my class (a late run-through of a show that I’ve written something for), and although the rain had stopped on my drive in, it started up again when I was coming home, so much so that I had to pull over to the side of the road and sit for a while. I also had to make a U-turn in the middle of the street to avoid being submerged under water).

Of course, as all this was happening, from the first storm at 8 to my class to the rainy drive home at midnight, was the thought that this was the night, that somehow, on the most rainy, stormy night of our Chicago lives, we’d have to find our way to the hospital or get stuck on Lake Shore Drive and have some fireman deliver the baby.

Although I can’t wait for Barnabas to arrive, I’m pretty happy that it didn’t happen like that.