My father's out of surgery. He didn't need blood during, the surgeon is pleased in general, and they don't think the tumor penetrated the colon wall. (We won't really know until the pathology report comes back.) So far, so good.

The trunks of our pine trees are steaming in the morning sun. I feel I should go out and Morris dance or something.

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The children are very needy now. They have every right to be. They're worried about moving from the place they've lived 9 years, about leaving their schools, their grandparents, and everything they know except us. They're scared and insecure. Since they're children, this comes out not only as clinginess, but as quarrelling and confrontation and petty misbehavior and tantrums.
The problem is, we're all needy right now. We're all exhausted. The wells are dry. Mom and Dad are frightened too. Mom and Dad are overwhelmed too. Mom and Dad need comforting too.
But part of the iron-clad commitment of parenting is that you will be there. Doesn't matter that the baby's screaming when you have three-day flu. Doesn't matter that your needs are obviously greater than theirs -- after all, you're a grownup and you have Big Grownup Problems. Oddly enough, Big Kid Problems seem just as urgent and weighty to them. So Big Kid Problems must be addressed. Because you're the Mommy, and that's your job.

My father's going into surgery for the colon cancer in an hour. Pray for us, or wish us well, please.

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I adore old melodrama: Beau Geste, Ouida, Kipling, The Prisoner of Zenda, Graustark, Scaramouche, and so on. So far, a quarter of the way in, S.M. Stirling's The Peshawar Lancers is making me happy. It's in an alternate British India (don't want to spoil the premise) in which the British are nearly completely assimilated, although they have maintained their rule. Thugs! The Great Game! Romance! Adventure!

Today's new Internet amusement: Googlewhacking

Find two English words that, when searched in Google, produce precisely one result. The official (or as official as such things get) rules.
Mine is "onomastic codswallop". Or it will be, until this page gets indexed.

In quiet (well, not-so) despair over Bush administration foreign policy, which boils down to "Do as we say, not as we do." International law applies to other people, not to us. Over the weekend, an Administration official expressed surprise at the idea that the conditions at Camp X-Ray might adversely affect the treatment of our prisoners of war.

The free-flying accusations of non-patriotism are scary, too. If I continue to believe that the President has the IQ of day-old steamed zucchini, the terrorists have won. I didn't respect the man September 10th; why should he be sacrosanct now?