I don’t feel good. I feel like the Red Line is not run properly. The trains are almost never run at regular, reliable intervals during rush hour, and commuters can’t be blamed for wanting to avoid it at all costs. I think that many people only take the trains because they can’t afford the cost of parking in the city. They certainly don’t take them for the convenience and reliability.

Last week, I snuck out of work 10 minutes early and walked down to the Kendall Square station. When I got to the platform, I noticed a very large crowd of people waiting on the opposite side of the tracks – a sign that the trains going that way were backed up. That is usually bad news. But, I hoped for the best and boarded a fairly empty Red Line train en route to Alewife Station.

We were moving right along, stop after stop, without much trouble. Then, at Davis Square, the train screeched to a halt. We passengers sat looking at one another for a minute or two until the muffled loudspeaker kicked in with the usual scratchy announcement – “We will be standing by for a few minutes due to traffic ahead. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

Now, if this was something that only happened once in a while, it would be no big deal, but these delays seem to happen on about 80% of my afternoon rides. The problems are described either as “traffic ahead” or as a “switching problem.” Now, to me, that means that the folks at the Red Line have a hard time keeping the trains on schedule. Maybe some train had to stay at a station for extra time during a shift change or coffee break, or because someone fell asleep at the controls, and it threw everything out of sync.

If the delay had been due to a disabled train – and the loudspeaker is always sure to mention when it is – then that would at least be somewhat understandable. The Red Line surely needs an upgrade. According to a 2009 study (available at www.mbtareview.com), 74 Red Line trains with an expected lifespan of 25 years have been in service since 1969. That report also mentions (according to wbztv.com) that a project to replace floating concrete slabs designed to absorb track vibration – and avoid derailed trains – has been unfunded for more than three years. David D’Alessandro, tasked by Governor Patrick to conduct the review, told the Associated Press that he would not ride the Red Line between Harvard and Alewife stations.

All of that tells me that the maintenance and technical issues are real. But, when I continually get held up because of traffic or “switching” problems, it makes me think bad thoughts about the people running the Red Line.

So there I sat on the train last week, thinking bad thoughts and wondering why I had forgotten to bring a book. A few minutes passed, and then a few minutes more. After 10 full minutes, the loud speaker garbled something more about traffic and empty apologies – I didn’t get all of it, but we didn’t start moving.

We sat there for about 10 more minutes before the train finally came to life. 20 minutes is not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but at the time – when I was anxious to get home and live my life - it seemed like 4 hours. As the minutes ticked by, everyone in my car was looking at one another and shaking their heads in frustration.

It’s important to remember that if we were stuck in place for 20 minutes, every train behind us was likely stuck, as well. That’s a lot of wasted time for a lot of frustrated MBTA customers. Why, it’s almost as bad as a line of cars waiting at a toll booth.

When we finally got to Alewife, I had to resist the urge to yell at the MBTA employees as they leaned out of their little windows on the train. Well, ok, I may have mumbled something involving a bad word and the term “idiots” as I walked past, but I doubt anyone noticed.

For the people in charge, I imagine that the MBTA is a ticking time bomb. The cycle appears to be that each Governor assumes office and tries to patch the problems - and keep them off the front pages - without truly addressing them. If the Governor can buy some duct tape and a few buckets of spackle and get out of office before something really awful happens, he or she wins. To his credit, Governor Patrick seemed to buck that trend when he authorized the November 2009 study, but it is now August 2010 and things don’t seem any better to me, the lowly commuter.

After four years of frustration, I took some action. I now frequently drive all the way to work, and I don’t feel a bit bad about it. If the man conducting the official review of the Red Line wouldn’t ride it, why should I mindlessly wait for traffic to clear or for my train to derail? To those tasked with running the MBTA: Please, help me to feel good again, and save the environment while you’re at it.

I no longer watch the Red Sox or really pay much attention to Major League Baseball.

Phew, it feels good just to admit it.

Lately, when I get done with work, I just don’t feel like settling in for 3.5 hours of baseball. In the past, I would miss games here and there but would comfort myself with the idea that there would always be one the next night. My finger never really drifted very far from the pulse of the Red Sox season. When I wasn’t watching games, I was reading about the team or baseball history, managing my fantasy teams, and generally paying attention.

Then, the other day, my brother said to me, “I think this Saltalamacchia kid is going to turn out to be a great pickup for the Sox.”

I looked at him for a second. “What?”

“Saltalamacchia – that catcher from Texas with the crazy long name. The Sox traded for him the other day.” He looked surprised to have to tell me, and I can’t really blame him.

After all, I was the little brother he used to call to settle baseball trivia bets. I was the little brother who knew Kiko Garcia hit .199 in 1980 – heck, I was the little brother who remembered that Kiko Garcia was an infielder for the Orioles. I pretty much knew (and still know) who won the World Series every year in baseball history.

Before this year, there is little doubt that I would have launched into 15 minutes of opinion about the trade, including thoughts about why Saltalamacchia struggled in Texas and my calculated but firm opinion about the catcher’s future in Boston. Instead, I just looked at my brother blankly.

That wasn’t the only example, either. I was at a restaurant the other night and the Sox were on TV, playing the Tigers. My wife asked me, “How are the Tigers this year?” I thought about it, reaching into the depths of my brain, but came up empty. After a few seconds of furrowing my brow (which probably looked as if I was experiencing gassy discomfort), I had to admit that I had no idea.

It’s a weird feeling. When I sit down to relax after work, I tend to watch a recorded show on the DVR, or pop in a DVD, or even just take some time to read. We’ve been grilling and taking walks with the baby and the dog. It’s been nice.

I still pay attention from a high level. I happened to be watching this week, at a friend’s house, when Mike Lowell (a favorite of mine) came up to the plate to a tremendous ovation and launched the first pitch over the Monster. I still got goose bumps. I can still talk generally about the injuries and how the team has really overachieved this year.

But, I don’t miss the long games. I don’t miss watching hitters step out of the batter’s box to perform unnecessary rituals while the pitchers walk a lap around the mound. I don’t miss becoming enraged when the latest middle relief “solution” blows a lead. Baseball just isn’t a central part of Summer 2010 for me, and I’m not sure that I miss it.

If the Sox make a run at the playoffs, I’m sure I will make time for them, but at this point they just aren’t winning the face-offs against my other entertainment options. Bill Simmons wrote about something similar this week on ESPN.com, and one of his points was that maybe it’s just not as important for Red Sox fans since we won in 2004 and 2007.

That might be it for me. Or, just maybe, it’s that now I have a life.

Losing The Boss is a loss to the sport. One of my Yankee friends thinks that Steinbrenner is among the top 5 most important people in the history of professional baseball (he includes Babe Ruth and Kenesaw Mountain Landis on that list), but I think he’s a little overwhelmed by the moment (and influenced by his blind love of all things Yankee).

I think that history will show George as one of a group of colorful owners - including Bill Veeck and Charlie Finley - and that his drive to win and willingness to spend ruthlessly helped to shape the game we have today, for good or for ill. I will never forget 2003, when the Yankees traded for Alex Rodriguez after the Red Sox had failed in a similar effort and Steinbrenner said something to the effect of, “It’s too bad that the Red Sox were not willing to go the extra mile for their fans.” That jab hit home to the problem that all Red Sox fans had with the rivalry - the Yankees would go out and sign the big players and the Red Sox would unveil tired, broken down warhorses like Jack Clark and Andre Dawson as their marquee acquisitions.

George Steinbrenner was many things - from what I have read he was arrogant, petty, and could be incredibly difficult to work for - but he was never boring. Baseball was more exciting with him, and he will be missed.

People have asked how my dog, Callie, is with our new baby. I tell them Callie ignores little Bronco that most of the time, but that the two of them will develop a much closer bond once he starts making Cheerios rain onto the floor. Then, I suspect that their relationship will change into an extended game of hide and seek once he achieves mobility.

When we first brought him home and placed his car seat on the floor, Callie walked over, gave him a quick unimpressed sniff, and then wandered off to scan the street for stray mailmen. However, the first time his screams filled the living room the dog looked up at me with bewildered and accusing eyes, as if to say, “What have you done?”…

…I haven’t researched it, but I think there must be something about seeing a happy baby that causes endorphins or some such chemicals to spill into the human brain. The other day I came home from a particularly rotten day of work, followed by a ridiculous commute, but my mood changed as soon as I saw my little baby Bronco wriggling around with a smile on his face. It was as if I had shaken my head - like a big bald Etch-A-Sketch - and cleared the troubles away…

…If my baby could talk, I suspect that he would say, “Dad, will you please stop asking me ‘Who’s the baby?’ Can we just stipulate that I am, in fact, the baby, and that I am your baby boy, and can we just assume that the answer is yes to all of those questions that you fire at me as if from a machine gun of nonsense? Also, tell Mom that no, I am not planning to tell her a story; rather I am attempting to work some gas through my system. Now change my diaper, I think it’s a bit ripe.”

But, he can’t talk, so instead we get, “Coo…LAA!…LAA!….grmpblk!” which is, of course, delightful…

…I read somewhere that at this age, we can’t spoil little Bronco by picking him up too much. But I think that he read the same book, because he has this habit of falling asleep in my arms, and then crying when I put him down. I pick him back up, and he falls right back to sleep. Put him down, crying. Repeat.

Situations like this cause experimentation. What if I put him in the bed, but stand next to the crib and hold onto his arm? Crying. Hmm, how about if I put him in his little swing? Crying. Sound machine that plays noises like a mother’s heartbeat? Crying (can’t say that I blame him on that one).

Eventually, one of the plans will work, even if it’s just because the boy is tired of crying. It doesn’t have to work for long, mind you, just long enough for me to escape into bed and pretend to fall asleep. Then, when he starts crying again, I can tap my wife and say, “Your turn.”…

…It is a bit disconcerting when we notice that our son has dirt under his fingernails. I mean, where does it come from? We keep him pretty clean, and it’s not like he’s outside, or even on the floor or anyplace where he would encounter actual dirt. It’s not food. He doesn’t touch the dog. I’m sure it’s fine, and I could find out by looking it up on the internet, I’m just not sure that I want to know…

…One more thing, speaking of fingernails: Since my son was born, I have stopped biting my fingernails. I’m not trying to stop; I just haven’t been biting them. I have regularly bitten my nails as far back as I can remember (except for the first month or two after I met my wife, when I actively tried to stop - she would call this part of my whole “Bait and Switch” campaign, but that’s a story for another time). But, once the baby showed up, the cuticle gnawing just stopped. Weird.

My friend Betsy suggested 3 possible reasons: 1) I no longer have anxiety [Right! Who’s going to pay for all of these diapers?]. 2) I no longer have enough time, or 3) I no longer have a free hand. I think I have to go with a combination between 2 and 3, added to 4) I’m just too tired. Everyone I know who has kids told me how tired they are all the time, and to be fair, I didn’t understand what they meant because I didn’t have any context for it. Now that my body is unwilling to burn calories to satisfy a nervous tic (fingernails don’t provide nutrition), I think I get it.

When I figured out that I would be taking three weeks off for paternity leave, I made some really big plans for that time. There was a list of things I wanted to do, and to my mind three weeks was an eternity – plenty of time for all of my projects. I would spend time writing, cleaning up around the house, and fixing things. Then, BANG, three weeks had passed with the list of chores still largely intact. I was living my life in two hour increments – between feedings and diaper changes and family and friend visits and trying to sneak in a bit of sleep the time just melted away. There was one notable accomplishment, however: My wife and I managed to clear out our DVR by watching everything that we had recorded…

…One project I did attempt to complete was to repair the brick steps in front of my house. I bought all of the mortar and tools last summer, when the bricks first came loose, but I didn’t make the time. By this year, the bricks were regularly falling out of the steps and were a definite hazard – especially for someone with a baby in his or her arms.

So, I looked on the internet for tips, mixed up some mortar, and started the job. The first thing to do was to remove the problem bricks. This proved to be a much bigger job than I first expected – I would remove a brick, and every brick around it would suddenly come loose. Before long, I had a small fireplace worth of bricks stacked up next to the steps. What had been a quick fix had become a major project.

But, the job needed to be done, so I began to replace the bricks. After about 7 hours, stretching over 2 days in 90+ degree heat, I had replaced 6 bricks total. These bricks weren’t level, the mortar was unevenly applied, and I had made the rookie mistake of lining up the seams (bricks should be offset from one another). Before long, it became clear that the job called for a professional.

Luckily, I have a friend – Steve - who does this sort of thing for a living. He came over, looked at the uneven jumble I had slapped together, and broke up laughing (“nice redneck teeth,” he said). I can’t say that I blame him. He then told me that he could finish the job in about an hour – or roughly 265 times faster than me.

Now the steps are fixed, and you can see the clear difference between the clean, professional job that Steve did, and the bumpy display of inadequacy that resulted from my attempt. Looks like Dad won’t be teaching little Bronco the fine arts of masonry any time soon…

…Speaking of little Bronco, he has been a carnival of sights, sounds, and bodily functions. When he is on the changing table and feels that he has been freed from his diaper, he often goes into full sprinkler mode. In one memorable episode, his mother was lifting Bronco’s legs to clean him, and he sprinkled onto his own face. We can’t wait to tell his prom date all about it…

…Another thing Bronco does is exploit my inability to properly affix his diaper. This has happened a number of times, including one fairly explosive blowout that ruined my brother’s shirt. The most recent example was the other night when I was laying on couch, watching a Celtics playoff game. Little Bronco was asleep on my chest. It was all quite peaceful, until a dark, warm stain began to spread across my shirt. Seeing as how I had just updated my Facebook status to say, “I think I’m getting the hang of this diaper thing,” it was a bit embarrassing. Of course, like any good sports fan, I waited until halftime to change.

…So, that’s about it. When my wife and I aren’t changing, soothing, or feeding the boy, we spend our time delighting in his every movement and facial expression. Often, I find myself standing over his crib while he is asleep, watching him to be sure that he is breathing and marveling at how cute and peaceful he is. I’m sure that, in time, this will all become routine (probably sooner for our family and friends than for us), but for now our little Bronco remains a wonder - a pooping, screaming, hungry wonder.

http://www.telegram.com/article/20100709/COULTER01/7090345/1189/COULTER

It was the only place of its kind around, and that, along with the quality of the fish, meant that the place was usually pretty busy (and during Lent it was like God was handing out money in there). Now that they are closed, the clintonmass.com message boards are filled with people asking about other places to go, and the other restaurants in the area have rushed to fill the void by advertising takeout fish and chips. I have tried many of them (I love me some fish and chips) and they are good, but Seafood & More was more than fish and chips.

First, there was the variety and quality of the seafood. The scallops, shrimp, haddock, clams, and calamari were always excellent. I would often get a combination plate with haddock and scallops, and my wife would get the shrimp. It was always fresh, there was always plenty of it, and it was reasonably priced.

That’s not to say that I loved everything on their menu. I tried their clam chowder a number of times, and it was always a bit oily for my taste. Their fries were sort of soggy and unsatisfying (but, like bad pizza and bad sex, even soggy fries are pretty good). I tried the chili once, and it tasted like unrefined petroleum, but who orders chili at a seafood place? (My friends often joke that I would buy sushi at a gas station in the middle of the desert)

But, the people in the area either disagreed with me, or, like me, didn’t care about such shortcomings. The seafood was so good that they came from miles around for it.

The busy nature of the place created an atmosphere that could be intimidating at first. The counter area was a bit small, and often crowded. The harried employees, who always looked like they had been working in a crowded blast furnace, tended to shout at one another. There was an edgy humor in the place – the type of edge people develop when they repeatedly succeed under pressure – and when I was waiting for my order to be ready I would enjoy watching them work. They were like the gears of a clock.

Despite the pressure and the heat and the shouting, it must have been a decent place to work, because I saw the same faces year after year.

I also miss the owner, Jim. He had a gruff exterior, but after I had picked up my order and head for the door, he would always look up from what he was doing and thank me for my business. From what I could tell, he did that for everyone, every single time. The first time, he startled me, and I looked at him for a second, stuck for something to say. He smiled and gave me a friendly wave. It was a nice touch.

One cold winter night, the battery in my wife’s car died in his parking lot. I drove over there to jump start her car, but found that I didn’t have any cables. When I went in and asked if he had any jumper cables, he put down what he was doing, came right outside and insisted on giving us a jump start with his truck. How could I buy my fish anywhere else after that? Unfortunately, now I will have to.

When I first heard that the restaurant had closed, I was shocked - it happened suddenly, and if the rumors are to be believed it was not due to any problem with the business itself. I wish I had known. I would have stopped and looked around, taking a minute to appreciate that crazy atmosphere one more time. I would have taken a minute to thank the people there that had given me so much great food over the years.

But, I didn’t know. So, although I don’t remember it specifically, I imagine that on my last visit Jim thanked me for my business, and I told him to take care. Then, when that screen door banged shut behind me for the last time, Clinton was suddenly a less interesting place to live.

That is great news. And, as a Catholic, I applaud the statement. But, it isn’t enough. Given the Church’s history of protecting the accused and shuffling the deck to hide the abusers, the Pope needs to do much more than deliver carefully prepared statements. We live in a world of carefully prepared statements, and they are increasingly meaningless. The time has come for firm, committed, public action by organization that has an unfortunate track record of being more concerned about public relations than the welfare of its most vulnerable members.

The Pope should appoint an independent counsel - someone with a good reputation who cannot be influenced - from outside the Church. This person should be given carte blanche to build a team and investigate; with the goal of rooting out every single person involved in covering up the scandal.

The process should be made as public as possible. Show the people what is being done about the problem. I realize that such an investigation would likely air more dirty laundry than the Church wants to have aired, but there have been enough cover-ups. In fact, as horrible as the child molestation scandal has been, it has been the reportedly consistent pattern of covering up the problems – and in doing so, enabling the abusers to perpetuate them - that has really made my skin crawl.

This may sound a bit like a witch hunt, and I guess there are many who would see it that way. But the point is not to worry about the media frenzy - instead, the most important thing is to endure the process and clean out the corruption. Open the books. Identify those who abused, and then identify those who protected those who abused. Then go up the line and identify those who gave the marching orders to those protectors.

In such a large organization, it is not usually the low-level people who make the final decisions about such scandals – especially when the legal system is involved. The consistency of the behavior of reassigning abusive priests in several different areas makes me think that perhaps these orders came from someone a bit higher up on the food chain. These people, if they exist, need to be identified and ejected from the Church. In cases where criminal acts are discovered, then those people and the evidence against them should be handed over to the relevant civil authorities for further investigation and/or prosecution.

An argument against cleaning house might be that there are not enough priests, and to remove everyone who was involved in the scandal on any level would further exacerbate that problem. I think the priest shortage may have been a factor in the re-assignment of the abusers in the first place, and it is not a valid argument in my eyes. Besides, this scandal, and how it has been handled, has likely had a significant impact on the people deciding on a career in the priesthood.

If I were a prospective priest, I would be concerned about dedicating my life to an organization stained by such unresolved problems. I would want to be sure that those above me in the hierarchy were more concerned with the welfare of the flock than with the image of the Catholic Church or with a shortage of manpower.

Other people may think that a public investigation and cleansing is inconsistent with the idea that, through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, people’s sins are privately forgiven. I have no problem with the forgiveness of sins. Those who have sinned in this case should be forgiven, but having proven their inability to work in a manner consistent with the ideals of the Church, they should be removed. To my mind, this is not unlike the priest who urges a confessed murderer to turn him or herself in to the authorities.

It is clear that the time has come for there to be an open, professional investigation into this matter. A report commissioned by the Church revealed more than 4,000 church officials, in the US alone, accused of abusing more than 10,000 children between 1950 and 2002. Those numbers are staggering, and people who might have been responsible for the original cover-up cannot be allowed to conduct the inquest.

The organization that results from such an investigation may be lean, and as such may need to develop new policies and methods to allow the Church to run successfully. But, that Church would be run by people with clean records and clear consciences, and the focus could return to the good works of a faithful and dedicated clergy. An open investigation would allow the dark times to be put firmly in the past, and allow us to once again place our faith in the Church as a pillar of the community.

I didn’t know it this past April 1st, but I should have. I was sitting at dinner with my wife, trying to remember one of my great aunt’s names, and it occurred to me that I should pull an April Fools joke. I would use my wife’s cell phone (mine had a dead battery) to call my mother and tell her that our baby had been born early. Hilarious, right?

Ok, totally not hilarious. In fact, the whole thing just screams “Bad Idea Jeans.” But, despite the fact that I was only drinking iced tea, my head was clouded with visions of hilarity. I bounced the idea off of my wife, and she sort of smiled nervously, but didn’t tell me not to do it (I secretly think she knew this would blow up in my face, but thought it was important that I learn this lesson for myself).

There was no answer at my parents’ house. This was a sign, but I plowed forward. I called my mother’s cell phone. Someone answered, but disconnected right away. Hmm. I waited a while and called my mother’s house again (or perhaps as many times as Jon Favreau called that girl in “Swingers”) but there was still no answer. At this point, I feel that God was trying to tell me something, but I wasn’t listening. I began to get frustrated. The need to pull this joke began to make my brain itch.

I looked at The Megger. “Should I pull this on your mother? Honestly, I’m a bit afraid to do that. She might destroy me.” Now, at this point, I feel that it was The Megger’s job, as my spouse, to tell me to cut it out. Wasn’t that in the vows? Apparently not, because she didn’t talk me out of it. I told her, “I have this fear that I’m going to call your mother, tell her that the baby was born, and then there is going to be no one there because she has dropped the phone, and in a few seconds I will hear her car roaring out of the driveway.”

The phone at my in-laws house rang and rang, but there was no answering machine. I assume that someone was on the phone and didn’t want to pick up, but they saw that it was The Megger’s cell and they would probably call back. It’s important for me to remember that in each situation, I had a chance to think better of it and throw in the towel. But, I’m an idiot. So there.

The Megger and I left the restaurant. When we got home, the phone rang and the caller ID told us that it was my mother in law. We didn’t answer, because, you know, we were “at the hospital.” I waited a few minutes, then walked out into the front yard with my wife’s cell phone (we don’t get cell service in my house), and called back.

“Hi, guess where I am?” I asked when my unsuspecting mother in law – Terry - answered the phone. “I’m at the hospital with your beautiful grandson.”

Terry said, “Oh my God!” just as two cars drove past me on the street. Then she began to say, “Tim? Tim? Hello?” I tried to talk back to her, but it was clear that she couldn’t hear me. I looked at the phone and, yes, the call was dropped. I looked around, but there was no cell phone pitchman in thick-framed glasses telling me I was “good.”

I raced into the house and called her back from the land line. Busy. I could just imagine her car roaring to life as I called back. She answered (thank God). What could I say? “April Fool’s! I was just kidding! It was a joke! I’m sorry!”

To her credit, she showed an amazingly good sense of humor about the whole thing. Sure, she called me a few names that I can’t print in a family newspaper, but since that time she has not introduced physical violence into our relationship, nor did she poison me on Easter.

So, since that went so well, naturally I had to immediately repeat the experience with my own mother. Why? Because I am really, really dumb. This cannot be overstated.

I ran back outside and called my parents’ house. My mother answered and immediately asked, “Did you call me earlier?” I admitted that yes, I had. “Oh,” she said, “because I was in church and had forgotten to shut off the ringer. That was embarrassing.”

Another sign from God. Do I listen? No. I plow forward.

“So, I’m at the hospital with your grandson,” I tell her.

“Joe?” She asks. To be fair, this is the name of her only grandson out of utero, and she is immediately concerned about why he might be at the hospital.

“No,” I try to explain, “the new baby.” Even I see at this point that this is falling apart and will in no way be funny.

“The new baby?! Is he ok? This is so early!”

Again, I need to just stop. Nope.

“He’s fine, everything is fine.” At this point, I hear my mother begin to fill up and she starts to cry. I pull the plug, way too late. “Mom? Mom, I’m just kidding, it was a bad April Fool’s joke. Everything is fine, we’re at home. I’m sorry.”

Because my mother is an inherently kind person (unlike her youngest son), she forgave me. Mostly. I think.

I do love me some April Fool’s Day. I can’t wait until next year. I’m sure I’ll think of something.

My wife is expecting, so, God willing, there will soon be a little boy in my house. Since my wife and I have been cruising along for a number of years with only ourselves and a dog to worry about, I’m not sure that we’re ready for the whirlwind that is a little boy. I think of some of the things I did as a kid, and the sweat just explodes out of my forehead. Some examples:

- I used to try to see how many stairs I could jump down in my house. I would climb up a number of steps, pause for dramatic effect, and leap for the bottom. Often, upon landing my head would ring off of our heavy wooden front door at the bottom of the stairs. Once the world stopped spinning, I would bounce back up and do it again. This probably explains quite a bit about the current state of my brain.

- Speaking of stairs, I cannot count the number of times I would fall down the stairs. I would be hurrying down, get my feet tangled, and end up in a pile at the bottom of the steps. I’m glad the stairs were carpeted, and also that little boy bones are made of rubber bands.

- Along the same lines, when I was on the schoolyard swing set I would try to get the swing as high as possible – and then I would let go. I would soar through the air, briefly, and crumple to the earth in a cloud of dust. Then I would get up and run back to the swings to do it all over again.

- I would write my name on every flat surface I could find. The problem was, I wasn’t sure of the whole left-to-right part of the English language, so there were several spots in my parents’ basement that proclaimed “MIT” in large, shakily drawn letters. This was clearly dangerous because of the real possibility that my parents would kill me when they found out.

- This doesn’t necessarily go along with the other items, but my favorite sandwich as a young boy was American cheese and grape jelly on white bread. Now, nothing about this sandwich is inherently dangerous, but it’s disgusting. And, as a parent, how do you even discover that your kid likes a cheese and grape jelly sandwich? I find myself wondering how many other combinations my mother tried that I didn’t like…maybe it was revenge for me writing my name on her walls.

- When I was really young, I once pulled whiskers out of my dog’s face - not with the intention of hurting her, but just to see what would happen. What happened was, she winced, yelped, and ran away. Looking back, this sickens me, and I realize that my poor dog was a saint in fur for not chewing off my ear. She survived that stage of my development, thankfully, and we got to be good friends. It occurs to me that this activity probably puts my psychological profile into a category with all kinds of fun people – like serial killers. Comforting.

- When I got a little older, I used to put bugs in the freezer - again, just to see what would happen (I know you’re curious, so I’ll tell you: When I took them out they would defrost and keep on trucking like nothing had happened). My mother never knew, and if she reads this, I won’t be surprised if she drives to my house and slaps me for putting bugs in her freezer. I don’t think there is a statute of limitations on stuff like that.

- Also, once, I ate a live ant. Because some other kid dared me to do it. That wasn’t the worst thing that happened in my backyard, though – once I watched one of the neighbor boys eat dog poop because someone dared him to do it. I don’t even know what to say about this, except that it just couldn’t have been healthy.

- I also went through a phase, again when I was a bit older, when I just had to find out about fire. I lit little fires in the back yard, with either magnifying glasses or stolen matches. Then, as I got a bit more brazen, I used to burn my brother’s model airplanes (he had already moved out of the house, so I took them through eminent domain). I used to sneak his models into the woods because, if you are going to be lighting fires, you want to do it in an area far from the nearest water source, and that has dry pine needles and leaves hanging around.

- Long before I ever saw the movie “A Christmas Story” I found out about skin sticking to cold metal. One winter, I walked up to my neighbor’s above-ground pool and for no reason at all put my lips on the cold metal trim. They stuck. I then tore my lips off (literally) and noticed the resulting blood. I remember thinking, “Cool!” Then I did it again. And again.

Those are just a few of many, many things I remember doing. And, that doesn’t count all of the things I did as a teenager. The funny thing is, I don’t think that I was that much different from the other kids that I grew up around. As soon as our parents were looking the other way, or ducking into the fridge, we would do dumb stuff. And, most of the time, we would be lucky enough to survive and learn a lesson from the experience (even if that lesson was, “Cool!”).

I noticed some time back that my friends with kids had a certain haunted look about them. I always thought it was from a lack of sleep, but remembering my childhood makes me think that perhaps there is a deeper reason. Our son isn’t due for a couple of months, but I’ve already started to lose sleep.