Immaculate Misconception

Madonna has a child without being impregnated. No, it's not the story of Jesus's birth, but the latest in Hollywood accessories.

It has been made official (after a few weeks of lies) that Madonna is adopting a child from Africa. I have a few problems about this:

1) While I am well aware that is it easier to adopt a child from a foreign country than it is in the United States, there are still plenty of parentless children right here in our country, some living in as impoverished conditions as those who live overseas. It's not like Madonna NEEDED a child, as some childless couples do. She already had two and it's not like her clock is ticking. She could have waited the appropriate amount of time to adopt an American (or even British) child.

2) The boy she adopted, David, isn't even parentless. He has a father and a grandmother. Sadly, his mother died a month after he was born and he's been raised so far in an orphanage. My question is why isn't the father raising him? As a parent, that's your job - to raise your child. It's your obligation and responsibility, no matter how difficult. The father is 32, so I would guess the grandmother is only in her 50's. Between the two of them, surely they could care for one child who is only a year old.

3) This seemed to be less about adopting a child from an impoverish country and more about Madonna's publicity. Otherwise, she wouldn't have have trekked over to Africa several times to visit several orphanages. If your heart tells you to adopt an impoverished child, then you take the first one you see. You don't go shopping for a child like he's a handbag.

4) Malawian law specifically prohibits non-residents from adopting Malawian children. They feel it is better for a child to stay in his/her own environment, surrounded by his/her own kind. I wonder if Madonna chose this country simply so she could be the only western person in the world to have a Malawian child?
Adoption of any kind is near and dear to my heart. And I do applaud Madonna for reaching out and doing charity work with her megamillions. But I also believe that charity begins at home. In 2002, there were 20,009 foreign children adopted by U.S. families. That's just over 20,000 U.S. children that could be living in loving family settings instead of orphanages and foster homes.

Admittedly, it is sad that these children are born into such horrible conditions. But the thread of our country is unraveling because of a lack or absence of parenting ability and skills. Plucking a child out of his environment in a foreign country, no matter how despicable, might make your soul feel warm, but it's little consolation to the countless number of US children without parents, the 600,000 children in the US foster care program, and the several thousand childless couples who would love to have a child of their own but cannot employ the same means as a pop star.
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Luke Visits

This past weekend, my friend Luke visited me while touring the U.S.

Luke lives in Australia, and we met a little over two years ago in NYC while he was visiting for the U.S. Open and I was just beginning a test phase for a heart treatment at Columbia Hospital (we all know how THAT turned out, don't we?).

When Luke and I met, it was as if we had been friends, or rather mates, for years. We spent two days together in NYC, and then he came to DC for a weekend before traveling back to Australia. For the past two years, we have stayed in constant contact via email and phone. Last year, before my heart surgery, I instructed my sister to call 5 people and give them updates on my condition. Luke was one of the five (my best friend Jeff, roommate Ashley, gal-pal Kelly, and The BF before he was The BF, were the other 4).

When visiting the states this year, Luke put Chicago on his list to spend a few days with me and meet The BF. He arrived on Friday night after spending a week in LA and Miami. And Friday night kicked off a drunkfest the likes of which I have not partaken in ages. I don't go out to bars very much, so going out three nights in a row was a huge deal. And Luke was constantly entertaining.

On Sunday, The BF and I attended a birthday party at Bin Wine for our friend Heather. We invited Luke to come along, but he took the three hours to sit at home alone on the couch and chill. I realized that he probably hadn't had any alone time since his trip started, much less time to just relax and do nothing. We went without him and he met up with us later at Mary's Attic for Gong Show Karaoke.

Luke flew out Monday morning for NYC, where he will stay with his best friend for the next two weeks before returning back to Oz. His three favorite things about Chicago were:

1. The surplus of beefy, older men
2. Quiznos (which they don't have over there), and...
3. The BF

It's a great feeling having friends that you might not see all the time or even talk to much, but when you are together, it's as if no time has passed between visits. I think that is what defines true friendship. We've scolded each other, listened to each other bellyache, praised each other and laughed alot. Perhaps it will be another two years before I see him again, perhaps not. In any case, no matter how long it will be between our visits, it will seem like yesterday.

It was a blast, mate! Bon voyage!
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Subliminal Advertising

I'm just saying ...


Do you see it? If you are having trouble, just look at the cube and focus on the brown areas.
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One-Third

So North Korea has an atomic bomb that they have tested once, or perhaps twice, this week. The leader of the country, Kim Jong-il, is a megalomaniac with a Napoleon complex. Let's see now, where have we heard all this before?

1. Terrorist country
2. Tyrannical leader
3. Posesses weapons of mass destruction

Oh, right! Iraq, of course. Those were the three reasons the USA led a military attack on Iraq, to depose its leader and make the world a safer place, according to the administration at the White House. However, despite these exact same reasons - THESE EXACT SAME REASONS - "W" said that we will not attack North Korea, even though North Korea says it has grounds to attack the US. And going one step further, "W" won't even talk to North Korea, as requested by United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan.

But then, "W" doesn't really listen to Kofi anyhow; he didn't then and he won't now. Iraq did nothing to the US - no WMD's, no ties to Al Qaeda, no threat to the world at large. Meanwhile, Osama Bin Laden roams free because "W" now says Bin Laden is of no concern to America. The man who led the attack on the US which led to the deaths of over 3,000 Americans is of no concern.

Wow.

And as a reward for this, "W"'s approval rating is now at an all-time low of 33%, according to Newsweek. Which means that exactly two-thirds of the country think our president sucks. I not only want to see the republicans lose on November 7th, but I also hope it is an embarassing defeat. A message needs to be sent. And impeachment is not too late.
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U.S.A. = United States of Apology

My, but we are a sorry bunch, aren't we?

Every day I open the paper or read online where someone is apologizing for something: Mel Gibson makes anti-semetic remarks, Avril Lavigne spits on paparazzi, Denny Hastert harbors and protects pedophiles (as does the Catholic church too, for that matter). Actors, musicians, politicians (and even popes) are eating crow on a daily basis these days for slips of the tongue or social faux pas.

Janet Jackson went on national television (as her family does) and gave a gut-wrenching mea culpa for something that was termed a "wardrobe malfunction". Kate Moss said she was sorry for disappointing people regarding her cocaine addiction. Ashlee Simpson regretted lipsynching on Saturday Night Live, but blamed her band. Hugh Grant took his show on the talk-show road, apologizing for cheating on his girlfriend and getting a blowjob from a hooker in his car. Before all that, though, who can forget Rev. Jimmy Swaggart's tearful plea for forgiveness for having sex with a hooker in a motel room.

But is it enough for them to simply say "I'm sorry"? Because there seems to be so many of them lately that it almost doesn't seem to mean anything anymore. Back when Jimmy was throwing himself on the altar, that was real news. People weren't going on national television to air their dirty secrets and apologize for their shortcomings. But the days of reality television brought us a constant barrage of nipple-slips and fuck-ups. We see people constantsly saying or doing the wrong thing - in short, being themselves - and I think it has desensitized us to being ... well ... sensitive.

Granted some things, like cheating on a spouse, should remain a private affair. The public doesn't need to know this. However, sexual predators need to register with local police departments - and that is a community affair. And certainly covering for someone who is a sexual predator carries some kind of legal weight. At least I would hope so. Because in a land where the lawmakers are the ones breaking the law, anything is possible.

Rock, Paper, No Scissors

The BF and I were uber-excited about seeing the Scissor Sisters in concert this past Sunday at the Riviera. I have seen the Sisters twice before in DC, and I enjoyed the idea of introducing their live performance to The BF. He has shown me so many new things this past year, that I felt really good about acquainting him with this. We bought their new CD and listened to it constantly for a week, just to be familiar with the new songs.

And then I got an email on the Saturday night before from my friend Matthew telling me that the concert had been cancelled. I immediately went to the Sisters' website for confirmation. And there it was. Paddy, the drummer, was being treated for back pain and three tour dates were postponed until possibly the end of the tour, which will probably be next year sometime.

Admittedly we were pretty disappointed. I got the tickets more than a month ago and was really looking forward to sharing this experience with not only The BF, but also my roommate and a bunch of other friends too. But we ended up at Crew anyway and The BF, Jessica, Neil, Kevin, Will, Chris, Scott, and Chuck all drank ourselves into the night and had a really good time otherwise.

I guess it's more about who you are with, than where you are.

(Today's lesson is brought to you by the letter S, the number 9, and Fat Tire Amber Ale.)

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Girl, You Are Trippin'!

Lately, I have been tripping over nothing while walking. It started a few months back - I notice it mostly while walking in the lobby of my office building. I am not sure if I am shuffling too much, not lifting my feet high enough, or what. But I will just be walking, minding my own business, and then suddenly trip over ... well ... air.

Yesterday I made a conscious effort to not trip while walking through the lobby. And I succeeded. I was so sidetracked for making it all the way that I ended up tripping twice on my way back through. This morning, after my daily misstep, a man following me put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have to watch out for those jumping floor tiles".

Hardy. har. har.

I don't think it's my shoes, cause I wear these shoes frequently. So I am thinking that it could just be work related. Perhaps I just listlessly drudge along as I "hi-ho, hi-ho". I guess I need to fix that with either new shoes, a spring in my step, or another job.

Please - don't get me started.

Mark Foley Is A Pedophile

In old news this week, U.S. Representative Mark Foley was discovered to have sent lascivious emails to teenage male pages while working at the Capitol in DC (you can read here how it all unfolded). He resigned in shame, as well he should, and has dealt yet another blow to the already deservedly embattled Republican party of ne'er-do-wells.

The NEW news is that Foley blames his troubles on being molested by a priest when he was a teen himself. What a convenient truth that would be. Is this where we shake our heads and replace the blame for his perversity on someone else? Foley won't say which church he belonged to, nor would he provide the name of the clergy who molested him. Which leads me to believe that he is lying, again, and is just hoping for sympathy. Let's face it, he's already proven to be morally corrupt.

Where was Mr. Victim a few years ago when the priest molestation scandal was rocking the country? Why didn't he mention it then when it actually could have helped other men who had gone through the same thing? Why did he wait until it would garner pathos for him to suddenly reveal an allegedly horrible youth? I have no sympathy for Foley (who co-chaired the Congressional Missing and Exploited Children's Caucus, by the way) because he should know better.

And with typical "it's not us, it's them" fodder, House Speaker J. Dennis Hastert (himself in the hotseat for not doing anything about this situation when he first found out) has stated that he blames Democrats for making this public so close to election time. "Democrats have ... put this thing forward to try to block us," Hastert told conservative talk show host Rush Limbaugh yesterday. My question is - Shouldn't the public, and the law, have been made aware of this anyway???

Mark Foley is a pedophile (pure and simple), and the republicans knew about it (pure and simple) and did nothing (pure and simple). Election time is here. Vote wisely.

Noah's Arc

Last week while in DC, I managed to catch my first glimpse of LOGO, the all-gay cable TV channel. I was interested in seeing what programs the channel had chosen and what the whole experience was about. And frankly, there was nothing on there I couldn't already watch on BRAVO.

I don't see a need for an all-gay cable TV channel. During the few days I watched it, there was not one informative program or groundbreaking show that I thought justified having a channel devoted to gay themes. And speaking of groundbreaking, I caught a few episodes of Noah's Arc, the series that centers on black gay men and their relationships. Personally, I didn't find this show all that interesting either.

First of all, I didn't get the message from this show. True, it is the first time television has shown sex between two black men, but one of the central characters isn't sure he's gay, even though he is dating Noah, who couldn't be gayer. I was kind of hoping to get an insight into what is it to be black and gay, which I thought was the purpose of the series. But nothing transpired in the 6 episodes I saw that was specialized to being both black AND gay. And even worse, after two seasons, both the writing and the acting were embarassing.

In one episode, Noah gets gay-bashed by three white guys at a gas station. Interestingly enough, there was no race card played here. There was no mention that the three men were white and that it could have been racially motivated. Which seems odd to me because THAT is how it would be played in real life. Also, Noah apparently suffered three cracked ribs from the ordeal. But still with bruises on his face, he sits and stands from the couch as if nothing has happened. Apparently, neither the actor, director, or scenewriter has ever had a cracked rib - it's hard to breathe, let alone move. And with three? Fuggitaboudit.

It was hard not to compare the show to Queer As Folk (which actually had some complex storylines compared to Noah's Arc) and was certainly "better acted". And while QAF was certainly groundbreaking in its portrayal of gays and their relationships, Noah's Arc just seems like an excuse to watch brothas get it on.

Which, I guess, has its place.

A Year In Chicago

Last week, September 25th to be exact, marked one year of my living in Chicago. Admittedly it started out a little rocky here, but everyday since has been one more day of affirmation that moving here was the right thing to do.

Oddly enough, I was back in DC the same day on which I moved a year ago. And I will say that there is something to the phrase, "you can't go home again." While I spent 10 formulative years in the District, I didn't feel like I was home while I was there last week. Yes, it was great to see Aaron, Marc, Keith, Serhiy, Kelly, Eric, Jon, Derrick, Andrew, and even my best buddy Jeff - even if all too briefly. And it was also great to finally meet these guys face to face after a year of emails back and forth. But as much as I cherished being with these people whom I love, I really just couldn't wait to get home. Seven days is a long time to be away from your life.

I had 10 wonderful years in DC. But I expect the next 9 years in Chicago to be as amazing as the first. There is a comfort in knowing where you belong. And just because you may have many friends, or even family, in one location - it doesn't mean that location is supposed to be your home. "Home is where the heart is".

And my heart - my new, rejuvenated, ready for more life heart - is in Chicago.

Anna Nicole Smith

Up until a few days ago, I was in her corner. I figured she was just misunderstood, a product of bad publicity and unfavourable television editing. Actually, I thought she was just getting a bad rap, as fallen beauty queens always do.

And then I read THIS

At first, I couldn't imagine what kind of mental state she must be in - still in the hospital after giving birth to her daughter and her 20 year old son drops dead in her room next to her. The joy and misery combination must be unbearable, or so I thought. But while still in mourning, she strikes a tasteless and almost unbelievable business deal with In Touch magazine for $600,000 to publish the last photo taken of her now dead son, Daniel. Even though she said she couldn't remember him dying.

When she married the 89 year old oil tycoon, I just figured she saw it as her chance to get out of what sounded like a pretty desperate life. I might have done the same thing. So I quietly rooted for her, as I sometimes do for the underdog. She saw a chance and took it without really hurting anyone.

But to find out three days after her son's death that she struck a deal with a magazine to publish what should be the most private and treasured photograph of her life - well, it makes me sick. Rest in peace, Daniel.

One Last Ride

So Sunday I took what was to be my last ride on my bicycle - unbeknownst to me - because today some asshole has STOLEN MY BIKE, which was chained up outside of the Bryn Mawr "L" stop. AARRGGHH!! I was going to get a new bike in the spring anyway . . . but still! I bought this bike about two years ago right after another asshole had STOLEN MY BIKE which I bought a week after yet another asshole had STOLEN MY JEEP. This makes the fourth bike in 7 years that some asshole have stolen from me. Clearly, I have no luck with vehicles.

But I digress . . .

My bike ride on Sunday lasted several hours, most of which was riding the 47 miles of roadways through Rose Hill Cemetery in Chicago. One of the largest (if not the largest) cemeteries in Chicago, it boasts a few famous people (hot dog king Oscar Mayer being one of them) and more than a few odd monuments and tombstones.

This is the Pearce Monument (click on images to enlarge):


which houses a sculpture of Frances M. Pearce and Frances Pearce, a mother and child who died in childbirth. It was more than just a little creeptastic. I swear the woman looked like she was going to open her eyes at any minute.

And there were some other monuments that I thought were kinda interesting, like this one, that I have titled Not Anymore. Check out the name:


And this one I call The Death of Home Cooking:


And this one I call Adolescence in Hell:

Remember when you replaced all your cassettes with CD's? This is where they are buried:


And my personal favourite tombstone:

So now I am a pedestrian again and will have to wait until next Spring before I can once again ride through cemeteries and make fun of dead people. Until then, I will just have to spend more time with The BF who has STOLEN MY HEART - and that's a whole different kind of fun.

Trainspotting

On my train ride in to work every morning, I usually sit on the right side and look out the window as my train snakes down through Edgewater and Uptown. And every morning, just south of Wilson, I see two homeless people - a man and a woman - sleeping under a tree on a large piece of cardboard. And what strikes me in the heart is that every morning when I see them, the are spooning each other while they sleep.

They are either a husband and wife who fell on hard times, or perhaps two single people who met one another on the street or in a shelter. Either way, they found each other. And it must be some comfort to them, that even in the worst of time, it's better to have someone by your side to help you get through.

Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

Back in 1967, a movie was made that shook the fabric of society. It was a comedy about a very serious subject at the time - interracial marriages. The movie was Guess Who's Coming To Dinner. Spencer Tracy (in his last film) and Katharine Hepburn (in another Oscar-winning role) played a couple who's attitudes are challenged when their white daughter brings home her black fiance. It was groundbreaking for sure.

What's truly interesting is how similar yesterday's interracial marriages are to today's same-sex marriages. The same old prejudices arise. But at the end of the film, Spencer Tracy's character gives a speech that is just as relevant today as it was almost 40 years ago. And what a way to end a career.

Read the words below and remember when they were written. They are timeless. Credit goes to writer William Rose:

Because in the final analysis, it doesn't matter a damn what we think. The only thing that matters is what they feel...and how much they feel...for each other. And if it's half...of what we felt...that's everything.

There'll be a hundred million people right here in this country... who'll be shocked and offended...and appalled at the two of you. And the two of you will just have to ride that out. Maybe every day for the rest of your lives.

You can try to ignore those people...or you can feel sorry for them and for their prejudices...and their bigotry and their blind hatreds and stupid fears. But where necessary...you'll just have to cling tight to each other...and say screw all those people!

Anybody could make a hell of a good case against your getting married. The arguments are so obvious that nobody has to make them. But you're two wonderful people...who happened to fall in love...and happen to have a pigmentation problem.

And I think that now...no matter what kind of a case some bastard could make...against your getting married...there would be only one thing worse. And that would be if...knowing what you two are...knowing what you two have...and knowing what you two feel...you didn't get married.

How Big Are You?

The other day in the gym, I was unfortunately privy to a conversation two machines over involving two twinks who, together, could bench 100 pounds. This conversation was not about working out, however. Oh no. It was about sex. And by sex I mean dick size.

Both twinks were, apparently, bottoms. The conversation went something like this:

Twink A: I don't know who she thought she was kidding.
Twink B: Oh totes. Like she could even handle that.
Twink A: She's a mess.
Twink B: Well I need at least - AT LEAST - 9 inches or it's over.
Twink A: You're preaching to the choir, sister. Gimme 10, 11, hell 12 and make me feel it!
Twink B: For real.

And after I shook off the twinkie cooties, I thought to myself, Is that supposed to be a selling point? Is being able to take something that is 12+ inches long supposed to make you more appealing? If you need something the size of a road cone in order to feel sexually satisfied, doesn't that say something about YOU?

I think it should be changed. I think, instead of the bottom asking the top "how big are you", I think the top should now ask the bottom "how gaping are you". Are you kitchen drain size or closer to Holland Tunnel size? Are we talking paper towel holder or The Big Dig? How about this: If we put a potato chip up in there and you competed in a triathlon, would the chip break?

Personally, I don't want to be with anyone who can take me and my five best friends, all at the same time. Perhaps being able to do it is something to be proud of - in private - but I don't think putting it out there is a good thing. It makes you sound . . . well . . . slutty. I'd rather be with someone who could not handle it, as opposed to both of us not feeling anything.

It's All Greek. Or French.

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Congress Fights Hollywood - Again

Yesterday it was announced that Congressional Democrats are trying to get ABC-TV to pull a miniseries about the September 11th attacks that makes then-President Bill Clinton and his aides look inept. It will be interesting to see if the Democrats have as much pull with the networks as the Republicans.

Remember, if you will, just a mere three years ago that Nancy Reagan and the Republicans pressed CBS-TV to pull the miniseries, The Reagans, because it "distorted Ronald Reagan's legacy". Nancy and the boys were successful at having it taken off of basic cable television, but the movie aired on CBS affiliate Showtime instead. I, incidentally, bought the DVD. Not because of my love of Reagan (of which there is a sore lack thereof), but because I have always had an interest in the Presidents (current one excluded, of course).

I guess now we will see if sitting Democrats have as much pull in TV-Land as an ex-First Lady with concerns that a movie might tarnish her husband's reputation and contributions? Perhaps Hillary should be the one to give ABC-TV a call instead.

Censorship

It was a sad day, several months back, when my boss blurted out to me, "Oh yeah, I read your blog all the time."

"YOU read my blog???"

"Oh yeah, you’re a great writer."

And instead of coming back with something appropriate like ‘thank you’, all I could think was SHIT!!!! What had I written about work? Who had I cut down? What had I complained about? All these thoughts about what I could have written that might affect me negatively at my job came rushing into my head. I always thought you had to eat too much ice cream to get a brain freeze, but no – you just need to be caught doing something that isn’t illegal but could still get you into a heap of trouble.

So the casual stroll my outer self took back to my office belied the agitated state my inner self was wrapped in. "ShitShitShitShitShit!" I kept thinking to myself. So I sat down and pulled up my blog and proceeded to go through and delete every post I had written that concerned my job.

And then I was mad. I was mad that I was allowing myself to be censored – not because someone told me to stop doing something, but because I thought it would be best to not dig the ditch any deeper. See, I was trying hard to fit into my office; no one there looks like me. That is, in an office of 45 people that is 72% male, I am the only one who shaves his head, has any kind of facial hair, has my kind of build, and sports a tattoo. Everyone else looks like he just stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad. So in an effort to "fit in", I didn’t want something personal like my blog to affect my professional career.

The sad thing is, there is a TON of stuff I could write about. It’s corporate America, for petesake: where they won’t spend money to hire a receptionist but thousands are spent each month keeping free sodas in the refrigerator. And I can’t write about this stuff.

Perhaps I will start another blog where I just complain about my job. And if I do, I will let you know where that is. You just have to keep my boss distracted long enough for me to do that.

A Close Shave

Back in college, I had a little trouble getting stoned. Not sure why, but I would sit with my friends and watch them all ascend to LaLaLand and I seemed to stay sober as a judge. “It never happens your first time,” I would hear. But after time number 8, we figured something was wrong. BF#2 said that I was perhaps thinking about it too much, whatever that means. But we decided that I perhaps needed a little more guidance on the subject. So BF#2 enlisted the aid of the biggest pothead we knew on campus. He said he would get me higher than a kite if I, in turn, taught him how to do one thing...

Shave.

Being as I was one of the few guys in school with a decent amount of facial hair, he figured that I was a pro at this and wanted me to impart my wisdom because he always seemed to be ripping his face apart when he attempted to shave. So I asked him what his procedure was and he told me that he basically just took a razor to his face. I found it interesting when he explained that he was raised by a single mother and no one ever showed him how to properly shave his beard. And I was struck by how many others like him there probably was – boys, raised by single women, who are either too proud or too embarrassed to ask their mothers how to begin being a man.

(Let me flash forward here for a second and say that The BF has got to be shaking his head at this. He thinks I shave too quickly and too dangerously. But I almost never knick or cut myself - its just years of practice and good technique.)

So that following Saturday afternoon, Chris – the stoner dude – called me in my dorm and asked me for a lesson. We were an odd pair as we ventured to the Piggly Wiggly (I went to a southern college) and bought a decent razor, shaving cream, exfoliant and after shave balm. Then we returned to his dorm and I walked him through the process:

1. Always shower first. The steam from the shower helps to soften the beard area. I personally shave in the shower.
2. Always exfoliate the area you are going to shave. It gets rid of dead skin cells and softens the face.
3. Invest in a good razor (don’t use those disposable Bic things) and be sure to use a clean blade. The life of a razor blade is dependent on the thickness of your hair growth. Personally, I change blades about once every other week.
4. Lather up the face and shave with the grain of your beard. Rinse the razor frequently with hot water.
5. Rinse your face in cold water to close your pores.
6. Apply a soothing gel or balm to the area to recondition the skin.

Later that evening at a house party, Chris approached me with a broad grin, a smooth face, and a beer. He thanked me for helping him out and not making such a big deal about it. He said he didn’t have a dad or a big brother to teach him how to do a lot of things. And he appreciated my help. Then he gave me the beer, put his arm around my shoulders and led me outside.

And that night, I got higher than the Empire State Building.

The Third Generation

I have some pretty terrific nieces and nephews; eight, in fact. Every time I go home, they are affectionate and friendly, which has surprised me because there have been times when months go by between visits. I have to give alot of credit to my parents and siblings for keeping me present in the kids' lives. It would be very easy for them to be a little distant from me when they don't really know me except for what they hear and the stories my family tells.

But with every trip home, I am greeted with shouts, warm hugs and homemade presents, be them crafts or just pictures torn from a colouring book: I have a small woven basket that serves as my change holder, a coffee mug with bugs drawn on it I use as a pencil holder, a flower refrigerator magnet, countless portraits, and thank you cards for every birthday card or present I have ever sent them.

I talk alot about my siblings alot, but I don't mention their children and how proud I am of them. It is harder to be away from my nephews and nieces now than it was when they were children. They email me now and tell me about new pet turtles, or homeruns, or good grades. Every time I travel home, one of them seems to have grown a foot taller.

Kim has two sons (John 22 and Seth 20), Matt has four sons (Shaene 25, Bjorn 15, Ethan 13, and Liam 9), and Mike has two daughters (ages Jordan 11 and Mikayla 6). Each child is very unique in much the same ways Kim, Matt, Mike and I were. They all have very different interests, so my parents - who used to have to attend games, plays and concerts for 4 kids - now have to do double time for 8 grandchildren.

And as cousins, they treat each other more like brothers and sisters because they are around each other so often. They fight, argue, debate, and laugh together. They all get along extremely well and they are kind to one another. One of the funny things, though, is that each of my siblings has a child that is his/her splitting image; so it's like watching them all grow up again. And as I will never have a child of my own, these are my children in a way. And I think I've done a pretty good job.