Someone tell me . . .

Where do my children pick these things up? Right now--now, now . . .
very now!--they are all three marching around the house singing the
following lyric:

Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoo, fly, lobotomy!
Shoofly--lobotomy!

I don't recall using the word "lobotomy" at any point, and we didn't
watch _One Flew Over the Coo-coo's_ nest with the children at any time.

Egad.

ds

Dear Blog:

We never talk anymore. I wish we could go back to the way things
were. This silence scares me . . . hurts me. Oh, I live in anguish!

But you--you never wear your heart on your sidebar as I do on my
sleeve. So how can I know what you think--what you know--what you
will never know?

Write back--please. I hope we can work this out.

ds