On the way to Carter's morning day care program today (when all of our really important talks take place), we got to discussing the Bug's missing tooth. He was wondering when he'd get his new tooth and how it would happen. So I explained to him how a tooth grows in from the gum and will continually get bigger until it matches his other teeth. Afterward, I saw him chewing on that thought for several blocks and then came his "eureka" look ... you know, the one where you can just tell he's figured it all out.

"So, the Tooth Fairy helps it grow?" he asked.

"I guess," I answered, not having expected the direction this was taking.

"So, she sneaks in at night and helps it grow?" he followed.

"Yep," I said.

"So, she comes in at night, while we sleep, and sprinkles water into the hole until the tooth gets big like the others?" he continued.

"Yep, that's exactly how it works," I said, thinking that I couldn't have explained it any better myself.

And the needs of advertisers are changing because the needs of readers are changing, right?

And, finally, I enjoy having a job, right? ... Well, not necessarily, but I do enjoy paying the bills, let's say.

So what do those three things have in common ... well, a Web site. More specifically ... http://moms.inforum.com/.

The site is a niche site produced by staff here at The Forum, and populated with content by everyone ... meaning possibly you and me and anyone else who has an interest in parenting. The site could be considered an off-shoot of The Forum's weekly page in our Life section called "Moms and More".

Granted, the name may be a little bit of a misnomer. There certainly will be a number of moms that will be attracted to the site, but it's meant more to be a site that collects news stories, blogs and multimedia components that all parents would be interested in. It's new and just catching on, but its something I thought many other parents might find intriguing. In this age of hectic schedules and families being separated by many miles, I think a lot of us are looking for a wider network of parents who we might lean on for advice, for a laugh or just for camaraderie. That's the intention of the site.

And no, I'm not plugging the site because my boss is standing over my shoulder and giving me strong words of encouragement. (Really, he isn't ... wink, wink.) Nor is there a direct financial benefit to me. (Hint, hint to the bosses!) It's just that I set as one of the early goals of this blog to give other parents, single or not, a way to link up with other parents. I've joined as a participant on the site - yes even though I'm not a mom - and there are some really cool features. I probably won't be jumping in on the discussions about breast feeding anytime soon, but I've learned or appreciated something each time I've been on the site.

Sure, there's probably a Fargo-Moorhead tilt to the site, but I think even those of you not from the area would find it interesting. Let's face it: When you're a parent, you're a parent, whether it's here or in Truth or Consequences, N.M. There's always commonalities.

If you join, become my friend on the site so that I know you're there. (Actually, I would just turn that over to my editors as proof that my blog matters and force them to recognize the value of it! ... Think about it as like the impact Oprah has on something she endorses. Ahh, a guy can dream, right?)

But on Saturday, I found myself a block away from Wal-Mart after having made a stop in the vicinity. I knew I needed a lot of household staples and could finish all of this business off in one stop at the store I lovingly call "Retail Hell." After deciding it just made sense to save the extra trip, I found myself sitting in my car, steeling myself for the upcoming trauma. I put the car in gear and headed across the street to the gigantic parking lot.

Instantly, I knew I had made a mistake: Saturday afternoon at Wal-Mart is meant for only the retail hardy, and I admittedly am not one. But once you get into a Wal-Mart parking lot, it is near impossible to get out. So after finding an open spot, I figured I'd already invested nearly 15 minutes, I might as well finish the job. Again, I forged on.

Once in the store, the din of the cash registers dinging, the Wal-Mart employees calling for this and that over the intercom and the shrill voices of the teaming masses instantly reminded me why I shop during hours most people sleep. However, in all fairness to my fellow shoppers, most of my trip went fine. There was a minimum of "aisle-dwellers", as I call them -- you know the people who will sit in the middle of aisle or at the intersections of aisles talking on the phone, visiting with another shopper or just parked there for an inexplicable reason, oblivious that other people are trying in vain to get around them. And no one jumped in front of me as I was looking at something on a shelf. And no one ran or backed into me with their cart. All in all, after an hour in the store, my blood pressure was at a fairly regular level.

I was even happily headed to the check-out line when I realized I needed one last item: a hair dryer. I had purchased some plastic window covering which requires a hair dryer to shrink to a tight fit, and I didn't own a hair dryer. Obviously, with there being no women in our little bachelor house, we had no use for one. I changed course and headed back to the personal hygeine aisles where they are kept. I had quickly located the asile I needed and even managed to wiggle my overloading cart through a couple of tight spots to get in front of the hair dryers. Little did I know my day was about to worsen.

Like clocwork, as soon as I had positioned myself to be able to carefully study the hair dryer options in front me, both ends of the aisle filled with women. I hadn't really paid attention to the signs hanging overhead, except to note the one that included what I needed. In my zone, I hadn't really noticed that the hairdryers, for a very good reason I'm sure, were located in the middle of an entire section of women's products that included every imaginable fingernail care product on one end and Vagisil and a number of other feminin hygiene products on the other.

As soon as I was in the aisle, magically a gaggle of teen-aged girls moved in to form a blockade on the end with the fingernail polish, and a trio of what I assume to be college-aged women gathered at the other end of the aisle to peruse the options for curing a vaginal infection. Both groups began chattering away, all the while answering a myriad of text messages and taking up enough room that making a quiet exit was not a possibility. On one end, the teenagers were tittering away about the latest happenings in high school girls' lives and simultaneously discussing cuticle care. It was far more information than I wanted to know about what teen girls were doing. On the other end, the three 20-somethings were discussing things I wish I wouldn't have heard and do not have the stomach to repeat. That was information I wanted know even less. And then was me, sandwiched between them, just trying to find a cheap hair dryer. Problem was, it was taking far longer than I wished.

The cheapest dryer they had was on the top shelf, positioned there to be out of reach for most women and thus subtly encouraging them to buy a more expensive model, I would assume. But there was only one of the cheap ones left and it was to the back of the shelf, where even I couldn't get to it without stepping on the bottom shelf. Meanwhile, the conversations on both ends of the aisle were growing more intense and far more personal, and yet they remained oblivious to all 6-foot-3-inches of me standing between them.

Weighing my options, I knew I wasn't about to uncomfortably remove myself from the situation, only to grab a Wal-Mart worker and make another embarrassing foray into the center of the women's health hygeine world. And I ruled out using the flimsy metal shelves as a step stool to reach the top shelf, thinking it could only make things worse if I were to bring the entire works down. When the discussions were coming to a crescendo, I finally broke down and grabbed the next cheapest model I could find.

But there was no simple way of getting out the aisle without asking one of the groups to move aside. I decided upon the younger set because they were on the end closest to the check-out counters, but over the squealing and shrieking, I couldn't get their attention to move. And then, just as magically as all of the girls appeared or maybe more so, a woman, whom I can only imagine was a mother to one of the teenagers, appeared and sensed my distress. "Girls," she said, "I think the gentleman behind you wants out." I expressed my gratitude and started my way out of the estrogen epicenter of Wal-Mart. As I was passing the mom, she looked at me with a bemused look on her face, a look that seemed to express some sympathy to my discomfort, and asked, "Tough day shopping?"

"A little bit," I admitted. "A little bit."

Screw convenience from now on. I'm sticking to shopping late at night on weeknights.

Unfortunately, the poor kid has had to endure two consecutive nights of parents carving on his toe. Garrett has a pretty bad in-grown toenail and so two nights ago I cut the majority of it out until he couldn't stand it anymore, and then his mom finished off the job last night.

Afterward, he called to express his disappointment with my side of the family, being we are the ones he inherited the bad toenails from. I told him I thought the same thing years ago when I started suffering from in-grown toenails and learned that it is a lifetime problem.

"That sucks," he said.

"I can't disagree, buddy," I said. "But the problem with genetics is that you can't do anything about them. You're stuck with what you're given, pal."

"Mom says you gave me all the bad genes," he said, "that I'm going to be bald like you will be and that I need glasses because of your side of the family, too."

"Yeah, but at least you got your height from me," I said. "You're already taller than most of your mom's family, right?"

"Yeah, thank god for that," he said.

"And guess what else?" I said.

"What?"

"You also inherited Dad's striking good looks," I said.

"Oh, puh-l-l-e-e-a-a-s-s-e-e, Dad!" he said.

"Well, it was worth a shot, wasn't it?"

NORTHFIELD NEWS

PUBLISHED MARCH 17, 2006

NORTHFIELD, Minn. - I got lucky ... Kirby Puckett didn't.
No, this isn't just another column from a one-time fan about an adolescent sports hero. I believe that many better columnists than I this past week have extolled Puckett's virtues on the field and discussed his more recent poor off-the-field behavior.

No, this column is more about the mind-boggling and awesome twists that life can throw at anyone ... even multi-millionaire sports heroes.

It's been thoroughly reported this past week that Puckett died from the effects of a massive stroke he suffered on March 5. To many the news probably was shocking because they think of strokes as something that afflicts the old: How could someone as young as Kirby, who was 45, suffer a stroke?

Unfortunately, the reality is that anyone can have a stroke at any moment. Stroke does not discriminate against the old; it afflicts the young just as often. And it is the nation's third-leading cause of death behind heart disease and cancer.

It's not a surprise that most know so little about stroke; there aren't large national awareness campaigns such as there is for the various forms of cancer, and so how would the public know the facts about stroke until it impacts their own lives.

That's probably the only reason that I know more than I care to about stroke.

In fact, when I heard the news about Puckett's stroke that fateful Sunday night, a shiver crawled up from the base of my spine until my scalp tingled. It was a familiar feeling of fear.

On an April afternoon three years ago, my life changed forever when I awoke from a short cat nap after work to find that the right side of my body was numb, my motor skills were slowed and all of my thoughts were cloudy.

You guessed it ... I had suffered a stroke. Of course I didn't learn this for a frightening few days, and more specifically I suffered a transient ischemic attack, also known as a TIA or a "mini-stroke."

So, as I heard the news reports about Puckett stream through my TV, my mind drifted back to another time in my life that I'd just assume like to forget, but can't.

That afternoon when I suffered my stroke, I was awakened from my cat nap by my family coming home. I had arrived home early and was catching a snooze while listening to the 5 p.m. news. The next moment I remember is waking to hear my oldest son barging into the house, but my thoughts just weren't clear. And I noticed a strange numbness that ran down the right side of my face into my arm and leg.

That night I went to the hospital and several blood tests and a CAT scan revealed nothing. The next day I returned when I didn't feel any better and so I underwent a MRI, which detected a spot on my brain, the scar tissue left from my stroke.

I was immediately referred to a much larger hospital in Duluth and eventually to the Mayo in Rochester. My family and I endured several months of agony until finally doctors at the Mayo discovered that I had a small hole in my heart that allowed oxygen to enter the blood being pumped to my brain ... not a good thing. That had caused my stroke.

Finally, about six months after my stroke, Mayo doctors inserted a tiny titanium button into my heart to close the hole. That they believe should prevent me from having another stroke for at least that reason.

As my mind drifted when I heard the Puckett news, I was personally struck by his prophetic words he spoke the day he announced that he could no longer play baseball. Essentially, he told the world not to be sad for Kirby Puckett because there are no guarantees about tomorrow. And that was what my mind seized on that night in my living room: Kirby's resolve to never take anything for granted.

That was the very same promise I made to myself after my scary brush with my stroke: I remember thinking that I had survived a tremendous scare and I wasn't about to take my life for granted any longer. Especially being I was the father of two young children, and I had lost my dad as a 12-year-old.

But then life intervened, and I got busy taking care of kids and working and the many other thousands of other details that creep into our lives that make us forget just how awesome life is. I realized as the news about Puckett's death was announced that I had broken my own promise and forgotten about never taking life for granted. And that is why I thank Mr. Puckett.

Through his death, I again remembered something that I had forgotten since my own scare: There is nothing so big, so scary looming in the future that I can't be thankful for today. Today I will get to talk to and play with my two wonderful sons, Garrett and Carter, and go home to the wonderfully stupid grin of my 10-year-old Husky named Chuck, and go to a job I love, and visit with my friends, and call my mom. And I am happy about all of that because I remember too well that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Thanks to Kirby, I hopefully will hang on to this lesson a little bit longer this time.

-- Devlyn Brooks is the managing editor of the Northfield News.

NORTHFIELD NEWS

PUBLISHED FEB. 3, 2006

NORTHFIELD, Minn. - As I sit to write this column, I do so without a soda pop in front of me.
It's not that I can't afford one; it's just that I don't have any available spare change to buy one. And I can thank my 7-year-old son, Garrett, for that.

No, he didn't clean me out to buy the latest shoot-'em-up video game, or some other new techno gadget.

He, like the other hundreds of students at Greenvale Park Elementary, scavenged all of our available change for a project at school called "Pennies for Patients."

Last week, the students were challenged to bring in change to collect it to give to cancer research. The first day, the kids brought in all their pennies, the next all their nickels, and so on until this week they were collecting dollars. Ultimately, all the money from all the Greenvale classrooms will be collected, totaled and given to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

It was inspirational to see how Garrett dove into the project, and I admit a bit humbling for myself. He's always been a generous kid, always wanting to give to someone else much more than he wants to receive himself. But this past week he's been on a mission to ensure that there wasn't one single coin left in our house, car or my office, for that matter. (Hence, no soda pop for Dad.) He wanted it all to go to "Pennies for Patients."

For example, we have a routine in which after school, Garrett comes to the office with me and he receives a couple of bucks for a treat from the vending machine. Since the "Pennies for Patients" project began, however, he's accepted that money only twice, and only after I convinced him both times that he had earned those treats. Otherwise, he's collected for "Pennies for Patients."

Finally, after the third or fourth night of the ritual of turning over couch cushions and emptying out the pesky catch-all containers where change always ends up, I asked him what it was that lit a fire under him about this particular project.

I innocently assumed I'd hear an answer about his Nana who was diagnosed with cancer several years ago and continues to bravely battle a disease that has ravaged her body. In fact, his Nana, after hearing about the project, even mailed Garrett a few bucks to help him chip in.

But I was wrong.

His answer was much more simple and humbling. With all the nonchalance of a 7-year-old, he said, "Cuz, Dad, they need it more than I do," and he proceeded to dump out the small wicker basket I have on my home desk that serves as the vessel for my end-of-the-day pocket contents. "Score," he said, "there's quarters in here."

And that is why I don't have a soda in front of me as I write this. That 65 cents is being kept company by thousands of other coins somewhere, and eventually will make a difference for someone who needs it more than I do.

But by no means do I want to celebrate the philanthropic deeds of my son alone. It took the efforts of hundreds of his schoolmates to collect the $4,565.93 total that was added up on Friday. And it took the donations of hundreds more parents than just myself to reach that figure.

I suspect that Garrett's drive to collect change this past week could have been found in all of the Greenvale kids, and that is why I am humbled. Thanks to a simple idea, i.e. -- collecting the change that lies around uselessly in all of our homes, these children collected more than $4,500 that will go toward cancer research that could one day cure people whom need the money more than I do. People like Garrett's Nana.

So, today I drink coffee. It's available free at work and the money I may have spent on a soda is on its way to a much more important use. I suspect there are Greenvale Park parents all over Northfield who feel the same way.

-- Devlyn Brooks is the managing editor of the Northfield News.

The boys and I are here for our fairly regular "Library Night", the night when we head to the library so that the Bug can play on the computers set aside just for the young ones, Bubba can browse through aisles of young adult literature built on mysterious worlds of swords and castles and dragons and spaceships and magical cities, and Dad can peruse the Internet or read a news magazine or contemplate life without even the slightest of interuptions. You might call the library the Brooks Boys' own little playland.

Library Night is a creation of my own, I am proud to say. My fascination with libraries began young. Growing up poor in a town of about 8,000 in the Red River Valley, there wasn't a lot of action for a young boy. Sure, all summer long you could tear around town on your dirt bike or head to the river to fish, but even that becomes dull after a few weeks in the summer. There also wasn't money in my family for me to hang out at the video arcade like most of the boys my age were doing in the early '80s. And movies ... forget it: Movies were a rare treat enjoyed only when the entire family could go, which wasn't often. So come late fall, when most summer activities were off limits and we didn't have access to teen centers or after-school programs then, I headed indoors to our local library.

It was a small, community library - much like Moorhead's. Just a couple of thousand square feet, nothing special. And we still looked up everything in the card catalog. But early on, I learned that as soon as I walked through the doors of my library, I could go anywhere, do anything and meet anyone I wanted. There was vast shelves of books and magazines that held more knowledge than I could ever hope to learn in a lifetime and so the library became my home away from home. It's where I read the entire collections of Peanuts, Garfield and other comic books, and books about Sherlocke Holmes and The Hardy Boys and about sports legends. I discovered the refernce books containing literally thousands of pages about foreign lands and historic events and monumental adventures. And by the time I hit sixth grade, I knew every inch, nook and cranny of that library about as well as many of the staff members. ... Then, the summer after sixth grade, we moved to a smaller little town about half an hour away. Imagine how devastated I was to learn the town had what I would call a makeshift library that was open limited hours and contained a fraction of the collection of my library back "home." It was crushing.

Of course, I adapted, as kids are so good at doing. I found new friends and new places to bike and soon found girls and sports and cars when I became old enough to drive. In the process my trips to the library abruptly ceased. I didn't find my love for libraries again until just a few years ago. After the divorce, on the nights the boys and I were together, we needed to find something to do to keep my mind occupied and the boys busy ... or we were all going to go nuts ... Dad first. One Saturday we were on one of our many walks when we crossed by the library in downtown Northfield. I realized although I'd taken Bubba to the library a few times over the years, I'd never taken both the boys together. Life had just gotten too busy since Bug was born. So we bounded up the long, concrete steps and you'd have thought we'd found Nirvana by the look on the boys' faces when we pushed through the heavy doors. And that was how "Library Night" began. Three-plus years later and the boys and I are still jonesin' to get to the library when we can.

I don't know that I can explain our love affair with the library ... any library really, not just our hometown one. The boys obviously enjoy it because they know that once they step foot inside the doors, they are on their own for an our, maybe two if we have the time ... 60 to 120 minutes of unsupervised playtime in a world enriched by toys, books and computers.

As for me, I'm still trying to discover what my affinity for libraries is. Sure, the books and the thousands upon thousands of printed words contained within each library would be an easily explanation for somoene who makes a living by writing and editing. But I know that my fascination is rooted in something so much deeper. I love the quiet hush which serves as a hideway from the manic everyday life outside those doors. And I love the people I meet at the library, whether it's the staff who helps me with my queries or the people sitting next to me at the open computer carrels. I love the smell of printed words and the sounds associated with libraries. And I love the thought that our communities value education so dearly that we fund places where everyone, rich or poor, can obtain a free education - from the basics of children's books on up to the most complicated of sciences. I love the democracy of libraries and the fact that they are responding to the 21st century and beyond by becoming ever-more focused on multimedia. (NEWSFLASH: The Bug just informed me that the kid's section is getting for more computers just for them tomorrow, the librarion told him so!)

I love libraries ... simply for every reason you may think of.

As Bubba grows older I wonder how much longer that "Library Night" will remain an awaited event for him. He's almost 11 now and although he's beginning to read more now than he ever has, there are other activities and priorities creeping into his life. And I see a boy who is becoming a young man who could lose interest in libraries very soon. That makes me sad, of course, but I do hope to hang on to my youngest library buddy for a few more years. He's several years behind his brother and won't know the excitment of the young teen years for a while. If Bubba does wonder away from our library trips, I won't be surprised. But, I certainly do hope that he'll have enough good memories of our "Library Nights" that he'll do this for his own kids one day.

I guess that that's all one obssessive library maniac can hope for.

But this past week, I received such outstanding, professional and fair treatment from Xcel Energy that I was moved, no compelled, to contact the "investigator" that had been working on my complaint and thank her for the work she'd done. Being someone who works in a postion that is accustomed to talking to angry customers, I know from experience that every great once in a while you take a call or an e-mail from someone who thanks you for the work you do. And I know that when I do take that call or receive that e-mail, I never know how to respond. I'm grateful, but seriously you're not used to being grateful. Unfortunatlely , working in customer service, you get so accustomed to adopting your "I-could-give-a-crap" voice to deal with people who call and want to bitch at you ... you know that voice that is just a tad too soothing and pleasing, the voice you both know is fake but you keep up because it's the voice that business decorum demands.

And so, when the woman at Xcel wrapped up my case - which incidentally would have cost me something like $5,000 in charges that weren't mine - I was very impressed with the concern she demonstrated in wanting to really resolve the issue. She could have very easily passed it off as just another customer trying to pull one over on the company, but over the course of a week, she exhibited a concern that was above and beyond what I've come to expect. And so I wanted to tell her that. And you know what? It made me feel good. It also got me to thinking that maybe, just maybe, the next time a customer service rep tells me to hold on a minute, she's going to transfer me to someone who could help me, I might believe her.

However, for the boys and I, the trip was turned out to be about a lot amount more than just a chance to attend a family get-together and for the boys to play with their cousins. This trip was the first time we'd been back to the in-laws since the boys' grandmother (who was known as "Nana") died from cancer in April. Besides it being a long time since we had a chance to be with that side of the family, it was a challenge to both Garrett and I, although I didn't figure it out until we were in the car headed home Sunday night.

I am proud that I still am considered family by my ex-in-laws. We converse on a regular basis and still try to get together when the opportunity presents itself, which unfortunately isn't as often as one would like. But we were all excited for this weekend. The boys and I headed up on Saturday and made ourselves at home at my ex-brother-in-law's, a place where we know we're always welcome.

The boys got busy playing with their cousins and later that night I went out with two of the brothers and their uncle, something we hadn't had the opportunity to do in a long time. In fact, I'd never been out for a beer with my youngest ex-brother-in-law as he just turned 21 this year.

On Sunday the kids were up early playing and my ex-brother and sister-in-law got to prepping the house for their daughter's b-day party. And then the family started arriving and the teasing started and everybody was sprawled all over the house. It almost felt like the old times, before the divorce and before Nana became really sick. We ate dinner and had cake and sang happy birthday to the birthday girl and then it was time for me and the boys to hit the road. The Bug already had fallen asleep in a Lazy-Boy and I could see the tiredness in Garrett's eyes.

About 5 miles down the road, I noticed that Garrett was awfully quiet and I asked him if he was OK. That's when I heard the sniffling. Garrett doesn't cry often and so this was big. He admitted that he'd had a difficult time without Nana being there. He said it just didn't feel right being at a family celebration without Nana. And that turned the light bulb on in my head. Up 'til then, I hadn't known what was nagging at me during the weekend. However, Garrett's comments immediately brought into focus what I had been feeling.

I realized that the rest of the family has had time to deal with missing Nana. They have lived it every day since April ... they've moved about in the house she so wonderfully ran and have incorporated new rhythms into their lives without Nana. Prior to visiting this weekend, Garrett and I hadn't had that opportunity. While the Bug is too young to have known his Nana very well, Garrett had a very special bond with her. For 6 years, he was the family's only grandchild and he had developed a special bond with her. And for myself, my ex-mother-in-law became someone very special to me during the last three years after the divorce. And so, while we didn't know it heading up there on Saturday, for two of us, this weekend turned out to be a time to grieve and to learn a new reality. No longer when we visit, will Nana be there.

It was a long car ride back to Moorhead for Garrett and I. We attempted to talk about this or that, but there was a prevailing sorrow that hung in the air. Neither of really rebounded until we hit town.

I hope the next vitsit home is a little easier.

Unfortunately, the type size wasn't a planned change. The areavoices.com site seemed to have made the decision for me. It didn't matter that I was writing in my normal font style and size, it still appeared in a size that would have been suitable for Minnesota's mosquito population. And then I returned from being out of town this weekend to find that the problem persisted ... but not on every blog post mind you, just on random ones, just enough to drive a person insane.

While this morning, I don't have any answers, I've determined that at least I can cheat the system. And so I went back to fix the posts that appeared in mini-mini size. Let's see if those of you who couldn't read the previous posts for molecule-sized people can now see them.

That's the problem with being someone who is comfortable at using technology, but completely incapable of fixing technological issues. Despite what the techies tell me, I'm completely convinced that gremlins exist and that periodically they invade my computer. The techies, of course, tell me they are certain there are no mythological creatures that haunt gadgets and them wreck them when you most need them. I disagree ... I firmly believe that gremlins exist and I hope that is the explanation to my font style problems. Maybe they'll move on to bother someone else's computer.

We were at one of the ubiquitous library book sales that take place here in town. Pick any given month and I would be you that one of the area's libraries is liquidating some of its holdings to make room for the thousands of new books that are published each year. It's also a good bet that if there is a used book sale taking place, that I am there or all three of us are there. Now I mean no disrespect to those who actually suffer from debilitating addictions that cripple their health and their lives, but if you ask my sons (or anyone who has ever had the misfortune of helping me move) they would tell you that my book addiction does have some adverse effects on my life ... namely the fact that books consume much of my time and physical space.

So, anyway, the boys and I were at this book sale when I had started building my second pile I was going to buy. Garrett, who'd been off finding his own literary treasures (mostly more volumes in the Goose Bumps collection), returned to see me with my growing stacks. He asked me nonchalantly when I planned to read those books considering all of the books I had at home. I immediately sent him away, wanting to get back to the business of finding more books. But he'd ruined it ... As I continued to look for new titles that tantilized me, doubt about whether I really needed two more stacks of books at home started creeping in. Garrett was right. Even if I stopped buying books now, at the rate of reading 1 to 2 books per week, it'd be 10 years or so before I ran out of books to read. And that's not even considering that the boys and I are members at numerous libraries.

And so, while I felt like I was leaving behind a piece of my soul, I decided not to purchase books for myself that day. We gathered up the books the boys found and left.

That night, after the boys had gone to bed, I thought it prudent to start taking stock of just how many and what kind of books I do have lying about, packed away or on the numerous bookshelves in the house. In my bedroom, alone, there is a corner that contains a shelf sagging with sturdy, hard cover tomes from some literary giants and a couple of large stacks of pulp fiction, contemporary nonfiction and books about journalism. And then I have boxes and totes of books crammed in my basement that I haven't unpacked in the year and a half since I moved to Moorhead. I also have about a dozen totes of books stored at my ex-grandmother-in-law's house, and there's other books scattered around my livingroom, bathroom and yes, even my dining room. In the boys' rooms, they each have 7-foot bookshelves that contain hundreds of age-appropriate books. And, so literally and figuratively we have TONS of books in our house. After the quick accounting of my book holdings, I realized that my son is right. I am obssessed with books.

I'm certainly not ashamed to be a book-alholic, but Garrett's well-meaning question got me to thinking this last week about my obssession. I mean, I have not purchased a house here in town, and at some time I know that's something on my list to do. That means another move and quite frankly, I think I've tapped out all available family members and friends when it comes to moving. Each time I do, they all groan about the "book boxes" because they know. They've helped me move them a few too many times and they've said so.

And then there is the more practical issue: I seriously have enough books so that even if I didn't purchase another single book in the next decade, I wouldn't run out. Considering that I generally add another dozen or so every time we visit a used book sale, I don't see the supply running out. The books have sort of become like a pet bunny whose breeding is out of control. So why should I continue to buy more books, when I have hundrends of books already at home waiting to be read? About six months ago, I read this little book of essays by a former book seller. Essentially, the short book was a reflection on a life spent working with and loving books. In it, the writer makes the observation that even the most voracious of readers will at best read about 3,000 books in their lifetime. I can remember that the observation immediately filled me with sorrow. I don't want to think about the fact that there are hundreds of thousands of books out there to enjoy and I will only get to indulge in a small fraction of them.

So, despite the deep self-introspection the last week or so, I've come to no good conclusions about my book habit. I'm at a loss. Some of the books, I really don't want get rid of, despite knowing that I likely will never read them again. As for buying more books, I'm not convinced I can stop. And ... to be honest, I don't know that there is a reason to stop. I know I won't read all of the books that I own, but I guess that doesn't matter to me. Owning the books is a passion for me and I certainly will read a number of them. But if I never get to them all, I guess I'm not out anything. Besides, there are far more reckless pursuits I could be hooked on.

Won't Garrett be happy to find out he's inheriting them all ...

And so I'd been thinking a lot about the election and what would transpire on Election Day.

Given the weighty discussions being tossed about in the media, I was heartened last night by the comments of one, curious and clever almost-6-year-old who seemed to boil the race down to the guy with the black hair and the guy with the white hair.

I've already explained that the Bug and I discussed the election Monday night before going to bed because he was going to tag along with me to the voting both Tuesday morning. We had been discussing what it meant to elect a president and he asked me who I was going to vote for. After telling him who my choice would be, he adopted his thinking face, and asked "Dad, is he the one with the black hair or the white hair?" Honestly, I was bracing for a far more difficult question, a question about whether my choice was the man who was black or the man who was white. And the natural follow-up questions about race. But when Bug's question came out, I realized that to him, it didn't seem to matter that one of the candidates was a black man. To him race wasn't relevant. To him, the candidates were told apart by their hair color.

So maybe, just maybe, on Tuesday night Americans voted for the guy with the black hair and not the guy who had the black face. Maybe, just maybe, we've reached that plateau where we all really are created equal, that plateau where race or gender is no longer a factor in who we choose to lead our cities, our counties, our school boards ... even our country.

I hope the Bug was right. I hope we are over the color thing.

It might not sound exciting to some: Sitting up all night, monitoring election results from elections as local as the school board on up to the presidential election, eating bad pizza and working 12-14 hours ... or maybe more. But to those of us who really dig this job, who find it a calling versus a profession, election night is our Super Bowl. Well, actually, being in the driver's seat of a newsroom on any night that changes history gives you a buzz akin to a high. Some of my most memorable nights spent in a newsroom were the 2000 election, 9/11, the day Paul Wellstone died, the day Kirby Puckett died and of course tonight. Certainly there were many more memorable nights the last 15 years that I've spent in a newsroom, but the big news events rise to the top of your memory. If you've ever worked in newsroom, you probably understand the buzz that I'm talking about. But, I don't know how to describe it perfectly for those that work in other industries.

For news junkies, it's nights like tonight that we live for. We want to be the first to know the news. We want to be the ones reporting and relaying the vital news readers need to go about their day. We are nosy, we are curious and we feel compelled to be among the first to know. So when we get the opportunity to report a night like this ... oh, baby, you feel the juice.

Nights like tonight make up for all of the nights you spend sitting in hours-long city council meetings, or typing up briefs that get stuffed on Page C8 or taking the phone calls from irate readers who are pissed off about something in "That goddamn liberal/conservative rag you call a newspaper." There most definetly are a number of mundane tasks that fill our days as journalists; we aren't always writing stories about history-making events. But when you get to work on a night like this and contribute to a product that people are eagerly anticipating arriving on their doorstep the next morning, it's a thrill.

Tonight, we do feel like we are writing history. By all accounts, there will be a black man in the Oval Office and both houses of Congress will decidedly tilt toward the Democrats. While we can't possibly know what that means for the country's immediate future, for one night, it's thrilling to know that we have played a part in documenting history. We truly are writing the first draft of history. Oh, we all know that pundits and college professors and retired reporters will come along and re-write the hows and the whys about tonight's historic election into books or magazine essays or journal submissions. But that will take time and far fewer people will read their long-draft accounts of what took place tonight. That's why I think it's understandable that we puff out our chests a bit when we talk about the work we did tonight.

Given all the crap we take from the public ... Given that the public holds no respect for what we do ... Given that we give up years of weekends, holidays, birthdays, family occassions and regular work hours ... Given all that and more, every now and then, when you're sitting at your desk, surrounded by 20-some fellow colleagues whose eyes are glued to the TV watching the reaction of people in Chicago's Grant Park to Obama's win and you hear the respected Tom Brokaw break into his voiceover ... yeah, baby, it's all worth it.

Come on Election 2012 ...

Last night, as I was putting the Bug to bed, he asked what a president was and why people voted for one. I tried my best to explain how government works, but to a kid his age, it's a tall order to understand something as abstract as democracy. I eventually switched to explaining the president as a "boss" ... kinda like Dad has a boss at work. I explained the president as the "boss" of all the people in the country and that person got to make decisions to help our country run, just as a boss at work makes decisions to make a business run. That idea seemed to gain some traction so that's where we left it. Though I think he was still a little dubious about what all the fuss was about over choosing a new "boss" for the country.

However after another minute or so of propoganda by Dad, the Bug went to bed pumped about the opportunity to go vote with Dad this morning. He felt pretty special because I was scheduled to go into work late and thus had the entire morning off to spend with just the Bug. He knew that after we dropped Bubba off at school, that he got to go vote with Dad. He was prepared: He wore his comfy pants so that if we got stuck in line for a long time, like they were saying on TV, that he'd be comfortable. He also brought a notebook and some colored pencils with to entertain himself, another tip he evidentally picked up from watching CNN this morning when I was in the shower.

So off Bubba went to school, and off the Bug and I headed to the church about two blocks from our house to vote. Carter frowned at the thought that we were going to vote at the church because he already goes there for Sunday school and on Tuesday nights for Cub Scouts. Why, he wondered, would we go to the church to choose a new "boss" for the country. Again, I found it a little difficult to explain the why, but assured him that we were in the right spot. There was no magical building where we had to go to cast this magical ballot that everybody on TV has been harping about. We pulled up to the church, and although there were a few cars in the parking, there was no line out the door like the TV had shown, Bug noticed. "Are we in the right place, Dad?" he asked. Yes, we were, I assured him.

He grabbed his notebook and his colored pencils and we trudged into the church, both of us expecting more of a hassle than it turned out to be: A couple minutes registering being I hadn't voted here since I moved to Moorhead, a couple seconds to get my ballot, and about 10 minutes to fill in all the little bubbles. Frankly, the Bug hardly had time to start his next masterpiece when Dad had slid his ballot into the counter and returned his folder and pen.

"Come on, Bug," I said to him as he still sat at the table where I had been filling out my ballot. "We're all done."

Exasperated, the Bug set down his colored pencils and looked up at me with a look that is a bit difficult to explain, but it bordered on irratation, I think.

"Dad?" he asked, standing up. "This was it? This is how we elect a president?"

"Yeah, kiddo, that's how we do it," I said.

"Dad, that was boring," he said, a little above the average room conversation level. "Next time, I'm not going to vote. You can go alone."

Thankfully, about that time, a kind veteran election judge lady stepped in to save the day when she presented the Bug with a the well-known red "I voted" sticker. He proudly pasted that sucker on his chest as he watched others doing and marched out the doors.

"Dad?" he asked, as we left. "If I don't go to vote with you next time, can I still have your sticker?"

"Yeah, Bug, yeah you can," I said.

I probably shouldn't complain, the friendly mechanic behind the counter informed me that I got off easy: The guy before me had to give up a couple of internal organs.

I've known for some time that I needed at least new front brakes. But in the last week or so, the warning bar on my front driver's side tire began howling like a hell hound out for blood, which prompted me to finally make the appointment to get her fixed. I knew I was going to feel it in my pocket book, but I know there is no good time to fork over hundreds of dollars for a car repair. It just has to be done; you can only put of maintenance for so long before it winds up biting you in the ass.

So before work this morning I dropped it off at the shop.

"You the one with the brake job," said the cheerful mechanic behind the counter when I arrived.

"Yeah, that's me," I said.

"I thought I heard you pull in out there," he said, with what sounded like a menacing chuckle.

"Yeah, I can bet you hear a sucker like me from a mile a way," I added, my chuckle sounding a little more pathetic.

"Farther, actually ...," he said with a dry smile. "So you need some brakes, huh? Front ones, back ones or both?"

"I don't know," I said. "That's why I'm here. How much is a brake job?"

"Depends ...," he said, with dramatic pause. "Do you need front ones, back ones or both?"

"I get it," I said. "Will you call me when you find out?"

"Oh, we always call before we do something," he said. (And I can't be sure, but I thought I also heard, "That adds to the pain ... muwah-ha-ha-ha!" Though I could be wrong.)

Anyway, true to his word, he did call and told me that I got off lucky. I only needed a front brake job. BUT ... according to factory recommendations, I really should have the transmission system flushed, a new air filter put in, my brake system drained and refilled and new windshield wipers installed. However, they did do their 236-point safety inspection for free!

"Thanks," I said, "but I'll just go with the brake job. The rest is going to have to wait."

When I made it over to pick up my car, the cheerful mechanic was there again and smiled a big grin when I appeared to sign the paperwork to release my car, and an even bigger smile when I pulled out my debit card.

"Sure about the other factory recommendations?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure ... just the brake job," I said. "I can't afford my arm and leg."

Courtesly, he laughed as if he'd never heard that joke before and then relayed to me his joke about the guy before having to give up some organs. While his line was appreciated, I couldn't help but feel it was rehearsed ... just as I'm sure morticians repeat the same comforting words to family after family.

And while I still have both arms, I strongly believe they left them both so that I could continue working, earning some more money for the next time I have to bring in my car. Leaving my arm, so to speak, gives them job security.

You may have heard that there's this little thing called Halloween happening tomorrow night. You know, that night where little monsters get dressed up as ... well, different little monsters and tramp through their neighborhood on a hunt for free candy. You may have heard a little sumpin' about it?

Well, this is my plaintive plea to all of you: Don't become what used to be known among my circles as "That House." What, you say? You've never heard of "That House." Well, I mean it like when little trick-or-treaters gather at the street corners to compare notes, and one youngster issues a complaint about the house that gave him the trail mix or the granola bar or the pretzels or (insert any healthy snack here). And that's when the other kids chime in ... "Oh, That House! They gave me a blankety-blank, blankin' blank." (Oh, I know it's not your little angels talking like that, but ... gasp! ... other people's kids do.)

That's what I mean about not becoming "That House".

So, on behalf of all the little gremlins and witches and sports players and Draculas and Sponge Bobs that will be roaming your neighborhoods tomorrow night, I urge you to lavish them with candy. I know that it probably goes against the grain of what most parents want to hear, but I truly miss the days of my childhood Halloweens. Back in the days when a kid could home with a pillow case full of tasty sugarness and still have enough time to decide whether they wanted to head back out for one more round. ... Days when people would give out full-size candy bars, cans of pop, small bags of potato chips and even quarters. ... Days when Halloween was viewed as a sport and the kid in the household who came home with the most candy won. ... Days when capitalism reigned in "Candyland" and there weren't an untold number of houses in the neighborhood who felt compelled to hand out nutritional snacks or just shut their doors to Halloweeners altogether. ... Back in the day - man, that was Halloween.

I honestly feel bad for kids today. Between the over-the-top safety measures we parents have to take on Halloween and the number of healthy treat-givers rising in addition to the number of households who just refuse to participate in Halloween anymore, the kids don't get to experience the Halloween extravaganza that used to exist. And that's too bad. Hallowen for me and my friends was like the kid Super Bowl and New Years Eve and St. Patrick's Day all wrapped into one. It was a kid party - no adults allowed, and everyone was OK with it. It was a night for us to dress up and run through the neighborhood unabated and unsupervised. Sure, there were kids that took it to extreme and pull some low-level shenanigans, but generally other kids would rat them out in the hopes they could prevent a clamp-down on Halloween fun. And Halloween didn't just start before sundown. No, sir! Halloween started during the last hour of the school day, when teachers would allow Halloween parties, and then carrry on until your parents absolutely forced you to come home - sometime around when the neighborhood policeman was kickin' your butt home. And our parents didn't drive us up and down the blocks. Hell, no. Our parents stayed at home and released us on the neighborhood like a hungry pack of wolves. Ahh, ... now, that was Halloween.

Unfortunately, nowadays, what we have is Halloween-Lite ... a watered down version of what Halloween used to be. And who's suffering? The kids.

So, that's why on behalf of the youngsters out there, I urge you to make a conscious decision not to be "That House," the one that hands out a cheese and cracker sandwhich pack, the one who gives kids an apple, the one who shuts off their lights so that no one will knock, the one that gives each kid one of those little flavored generic Tootsie Roll candies that cost a penny a piece. No, no, no. Tomorrow night, I urge you to go all out: Heap candy on the kids coming to your door. Don't give them a granola bar or a bag of trail mix (well, unless of course it's heavy on the chocolate chips and the M&Ms). And don't be stingy - give 'em all a handful of sugary goodness and make your house the one kids brag about the next day in school.

We can't control the need for more supervision nowadays, but we can at least make an effort to give kids a taste of the Halloweens we experienced. I urge you not to be "That House." Please ... for the kids' sake.

Let’s face it … some jobs just aren’t cool.

Despite the public good we journalists do – or at least think we do – no

6-year-old brags at school about his dad, the newspaper editor. (“Oh yeah, well my dad defends truth and justice with a keyboard and a red pen!”)

And I’m slowly building a grudge against those dads who have the flashy, cool jobs that earn them invitations to speak at school. They don’t understand the angst we “uncool” dads have to live with when our children come home with stories about the most recent visit by a uniformed hero.

I’ve lived through these early years twice now … and the second time around my job is no cooler than it was six years ago when my oldest was in kindergarten.

My youngest, the Bug, recently reminded me when he informed me that a police officer had visited his classroom.

“Dad, he had a badge, and he has a gun,” the Bug said. “He was cool.”

“Cooler than the firefighter who visited your classroom last week?” I asked.

“I don’t know …,” he said, his young brain working overtime. “The firefighter gets to drive a fire truck …”

“Yeah, it’s tough to beat that,” I said.

“Dad, what do you do again?” Bug asked.

“I work at a newspaper,” I said.

“Yeah, but what do you do? The policeman said he arrests bad guys,” Bug said. “And the firefighter saves people’s homes. What do you do?”

“Well, I sometimes write stories that go in the paper,” I said. “But most of the time I help other people write their stories.”

“Oh …,” he said, the disappointment visible in his eyes. “You know, a policeman sometimes shoots his gun and a fireman puts out fires. Sometimes they have to save people. Have you ever saved anyone?”

“Well, no, I’ve never saved anyone’s life at work,” I said.

“Have you ever driven a fire truck?” Bug asked. “Do you ever get to wear a uniform?”

“No, and … ah … no,” I said.

Then the Bug went silent, a contemplative look on his face.

“Bubba says you sit and stare at a computer all day long,” he said.

“Bubba” is Carter’s older brother and has been just as disappointed about how exciting my job is since he was in kindergarten.

“Well, that’s not all I do,” I said. “Bubba’s exaggerating a bit.”

“So what do you get to do that’s cool?” Bug asked.

“Lot’s of things. I’ve gotten to do a lot of cool things and then write about them,” I said. “And I’ve interviewed a lot of cool people.”

“Like who, Dad?” he asked.

“Well, like a governor, senators, professional sports players, some movie stars, some Olympians … people like that,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, the disappointment building. “Dad, sorry, but your job’s not very cool.”

“No, it doesn’t sound very cool, does it?” I said. “But you know what? Superman and Spider-Man both work at newspapers. That’s kind of cool, isn’t?”

“Dad, they don’t work at newspapers,” he said. “They’re both superheroes. They save people. That’s their job.”

“Yeah, that’s their extra job, but most of the time they work at a newspaper,” I said. “They just wear disguises so that no one recognizes them.”

“Dad?” Bug asked after a pause, and then with growing excitement: “Do you have any superpowers?”

“No, Bug, I don’t,” I said. “I just work at a newspaper.”

“Oh …,” he said, disappointed yet again.

Curse you … you fathers with your flashy, cool jobs. Curse you and your shiny badges and guns and fire trucks … curse you.

Devlyn Brooks is a news editor at The Forum. He lives with his two sons in Moorhead. See his parenting blog at www.areavoices.com/singledad

I imagine it's inevitable ... be a parent long enough and you will find yourself developing phrases, mannerisms and attitudes that are like your parents, or in my case my parent. But it's a dark day when it finally dawns on you that you're beginning to harp on your children for the exact infractions about which your parents harped upon you.

I think we all - whether it's privately or not - vow never to turn into our parents when our children are born. It makes you think back to the days when your mom scolded you for not putting the clothes in the laundry basket, or chided you for leaving the lights on in the last three rooms you passed through but are no longer in or yelled at you for standing with the fridge door open and staring in as if you didn't realize there would be food in there. You know ... there's a thousand different things we were admonished for when we were children that we just knew as parents ourselves we'd let slide. Who wants to go around being the "crabby police" - as Garrett calls it - all week long.

I'm not ashamed to say that I was one of the ones who believed that when I was younger. I truly believed that when my kids were younger. I believed that either I would be such a stellar parent, or that my kids would be such darlings, that the constant hounding of them to do the necessary small things that keep a household running wouldn't be necessary.

And then sometime between when I held my first crying bundle of joy and now, my kids just lost their brains. No, I'm serious. Either the gray matter seeped out their ears onto their pillow while they were sleeping and I missed it when I next washed them. Or a small malicious gremlin-like creature crawled in through their ears and devoured their brains. Or ... well, there could be many explanations, but my point is that this past weekend as I found myself passing through the house to turn of unused lights for the 32nd time, and picking up the dirty clothes that lay lifeless on my bathroom floor after baths and closing kitchen cabinet doors that only pose problems to those of us who are over 4 1/2 feet, I had my fill. It was time to sit these brain-dead creatures down for a little 'what for' session.

I gathered the two of them in the livingroom, sat them down on the couch and turned of the TV. After the last action, both of their eyes widened because they know from past experience that when Dad shuts off the TV, things is goin' get serious. As mildly as I tried to begin, five minutes into the lecture I was brimmin' on the Crazy Dad mode, and it didn't help that Garrett was making matters worse with an ever-growing smirk on his face. Finally, I asked him what was so funny and he said was listening to Crazy Grandma sitting in front of him.

"Dad," he said. "You sound just like Crazy Grandma."

"No I don't," I responded smartly.

"Yes, you did," he said. "You sound just like does when she's here."

I, of course, argued with him for a few minutes over whether I did indeed sound like my mother. But, alas, it was no use. Just as I was having this childish debate with my 10-year-old, the sounds of my mother from my youth rang through my head. Eventually, I came to realize he was absolutely right. I had become my mother reincarnated. I was harping on the kids about all the same things she harped on me about. I follow the kids around the house turning out their lights and I drop piles of their stuff in their bedroom doorways so that the next time they go in there they either trip on it or kick it into their rooms. (Either way, it's back in their domain and out of mine. Besides I like to think of it as positive reinforcement: Pick up your crap and you won't have stubbed toes.)

It's undeniable - I have become my mother. My kids know it and I suspect that even my mother knows it, considering the sly things she slips in about my household when she's here to visit. I suspect that everyone knew it before I had my revelation this weekend. Oh my god, I have become my mother. Seriously!

I have calmed down considerably since the light bulb popped on this weekend. I've rationalized that my mother raised me and I think I turned out mostly OK ... maybe then my mother isn't such a bad parenting role model. But I still have one lingering question to solve: If I've become my mother for good reason, that means that at one point I was a brain-dead child who left his clothes on the floor, lights on in rooms I wasn't in and piled up the dirty dishes in the livingroom or my bedroom. Could it be ... that all those times I was chided or scolded or reminded to do - or not to do - something, that it was all deserved? Impossible ... The only plausible explanation is that the gray matter must have seeped out my ear onto my pillow without my mother noticing.

... Ugh, I wonder when my children will get their brains back.

Big times in the Brooks house this weekend ... the Bug received his first visit from the Tooth Fairy, despite that Dad almost screwed it up.

I know, it seems unfathomable that a kid like the Bug would still have all of his teeth at almost 6 years old. I believed long ago that he'd be in dentures by now, considering how rough and tumble he is. But somehow he's managed to keep them all in his little yapper ... until now. I'm thinking it must be a family trait because Garrett didn't lose most of his teeth until he was older, and my mom says I didn't either.

Carter's first loose tooth had been loose for a while. It had been hanging on by a thread for three or fours days when on Saturday he gave it one final push and out it came. He acted a little strangely because, of course, he'd never had that gap-between-your-teeth feeling before. He must of stared at the hole in his bottom row of teeth for five minutes in the bathroom mirror.

Then I explained how the whole Tooth Fairy thing worked (remember, this was a first), except I tripped a little bit when the Bug asked how the Tooth Fairy knew to come to our house when we didn't have a camera in the house. Well, I fell back on the ol' standby and told him she knew because she is magic. She just knows when every little kid loses a tooth ... because she is the Tooth Fairy. Thankfully, to a 5 3/4-year-old that logic still works.

We prepared the tooth, getting it into a little Zip-lock baggie so that we could put it under his pillow. And then we went about the day.

The next morning, I awoke to Carter climbing on top of me as he usually does. But this time there was more urgency in his voice. The Tooth Fairy had taken his tooth and not left him any cash. "What?" I asked. "The Tooth Fairy stiffed you?"

"Yeah, I've checked under my pillow," he said. "There's nothing there!"

I thought that probably made a lot of sense being Dad FORGOT to put the tooth under his pillow before going to bed. So I sent Carter off to his room one more time to search while I scrambled to the kitchen to stuff some money into the plastic bag. Unfortunately, I didn't have any bills in my wallet because I mostly use a debit card now; rarely do I carry cash anymore.

By this time the Bug was back in the kitchen and frantic. So, I sent him off to my room and his brother's room to check under the pillows there ... in case the Tooth Fairy had gotten confused. Meanwhile I dug for change everywhere there is some hidden - the junk drawer, a little place where I keep my keys and such, a desk drawer and then finally in my room in the coin cup. By the time Carter had finished checking his brother's room, I'd had enough time to slip into Carter's room and place the bag under his big, brown stuffed bear. I called to him and told him to come to his room. When he got there, I told him to pick up his bear and look. He did and his eyes widened when he found the loot.

"Wow, I didn't think to look under my bear!" Bug shouted.

"Imagine that," I said, relieved.

Garrett came to a very mature decision this week ... he's decided that he's too busy to continue with his violin lessons. And while, I know that kids will drop certain activities sometimes just because they can, really for no good reason, Garrett demonstrated a remarkable maturity in coming to his decision. And I am proud of him for it.

With Scouts on Tuesday nights and piano lessons on Mondays and sometimes Wednesdays, and violin lessons on Wednesdays at school, Garrett's week this school year filled up fast. Throw in your standard fifth-grade homework and trying to share time at both his mom's house and mine, and the young man's schedule got pretty hectic. After lasting a month, Garrett called a timeout this week to tell his mom that he had to give something up, and since his mother had recently invested in a piano, he wanted to give up playing the violin.

Even the next day when he and I talked about it, he still seemed a little apprehensive that either I or his mother would be upset with him for quitting. But I assured him that we weren't. In fact, I told him I thought he handled the situation in a very mature fashion: Before the stress of it all ate away at him, he spoke up. That was a remarkable breakthrough for a kid that by nature internalizes everything when he is feeling bad. I told him so, and told him that it takes more courage for a person to speak up than it does to continue on with something they aren't happy doing. You could see the relief in his eyes after he knew he wasn't going to get into trouble.

Besides, I told him, he's going to try out many different activities while he's young. And some he will dislike, some he will like and some he will love. But he won't know until he tries ... just like he did with the violin. And finally, I told him that just because he drops an activity now, doesn't mean he can't come back at it later. Next year, I said, maybe he'll want to try out band rather than the orchestra, or maybe he'll get involved in sports or an academic activity. Who knows? Most importantly, I told him that it was good that he spoke up.

I really can't believe how big my little man is getting.

Recently we drug Crazy Grandma with us to peruse the labyrinth that is Antiques on Broadway. (For those who haven't visited the store and who like to rummage through other people's stuff, this store is heaven. I'd highly recommend it, but bring money. You may be there a while.) Deep in the back of the large store, Garrett ran across a collector Star Wars-themed Monopoly set. Even though the $10 price tag was more than he had been allotted to spend on a treat that day, I had to admit that for a collectors game that had all the appropriate parts, $10 was a steal. And, sure, it doesn't hurt that Garrett knows that Dad is a Star Wars buff. He probably knew from the start that he had me on the hook, but he poured on the charm and flashed his baby blues to go over the top. We bought the game.

The boys had never played Monopoly. I'd never introduced them to the game because ... well, quite frankly, it hadn't dawned on me to. Monopoly seemed like a game you had to be a little older to enjoy because there's a heck of a lot more to it than just shaking dice and moving pieces around the board. But I should've known ...

When we got home that day, the boys couldn't wait to play. They tore into the box and set up the elaborate Star Wars board and prepared the money and property cards, etc. And we played. ... And we played. ... And we played. Several hours later, we finally finished our first game and I knew they were hooked. What was I thinking, I thought to myself: Why introduce the kids to a game that on the short end takes a couple of hours? We ended up playing several more times that weekend, including roping Crazy Grandma into a game or two. That single purchase occupied us for two days and now the boys can't get enough. This past weekend, having no Monopoly board at their mom's house, the boys played it online. And they can't wait for this weekend to play, especially now that they have a new game table downstairs ... meaning they never have to take the game down unless they want to play something else.

Crazy Grandma commented the other night that the game certainly has been worth the $10, and I had to agree. But I still wonder what compelled me to introduce the boys to Monopoly ... I must have been temporarily insane.

I helped my brother and his girlfriend clear out her dad's house here in Moorhead yesterday. She grew up here in a beautiful, big house along the Red River. Her dad is 88 and recently landed in the hospital. It became apparent that he could no longer live at home alone, and so his family started about the process of moving him into his late phase in life. He'll be living with my brother's girlfriend's sister when he gets out, about 70 miles west of here in North Dakota.

It was an eerie experience helping clean out and box up the belonging of a man who'd just recently lived in the house, the same as he had since the '60s. The house, immaculately kept through the years, was in a sort of disarray. Family members already had been in to box up what he'd need or want at his daughter's house, or to box up the precious momentos they wanted to keep. Yet, there was still a ton left in the house: a fully equipped kitchen, storage rooms full of everything you'd assume a person would collect over some 40 years, a garage full of tools and bikes and whatnots, etc. The house looked as if someone had quickly packed up what they needed and then they fled, a wonderful, long life in the house cut short.

My brother and I worked hard to load up the massive fridge, the washer and dryer and an older, larger console television. We also loaded box after box of belongings that his girlfriend wanted to take back with her and have some time to go through. And time we didn't have yesterday. The real estate agent was placing the house on the market today and the family wanted to clean out as much as they could before potential buyers started walking through.

Additionally, my brother and I moved around furniture that somehow became destined for my house. His girlfriend suggested that I use the furniture in my basement rec room. Since moving in I had never gotten furniture for it and had recently started looking around so that I could make it a cool place for the kids to hangout. So it was decided that I would take the furniture and a TV that had been in her dad's basement office. It was a tremendous present and in some way I'm sure it pleased her that her father's stuff would live on in a house she knew and visited. But, I'd be lying if I didn't say the stuff gave me mixed emotions.

After having done a similar chore when my mom's mom died a while back, I knew what I was in for before I even went to help my brother with the house on Sunday. But, I went because that's what family does. The entire day, I felt strange rummaging through a stranger's life's belongings, and then reaping rewards because the man fell ill and could no longer take care of himself. The entire episode seemed so cold and clinical and methodical and estranged from the fact that a man had worked hard to build up this house and to buy the things that occupied the house, and now we were discarding and boxing up and giving away all of his hard work. Some of it already was in boxes at his daughter's house, where'd he now stay, and other things went to family members. And still other stuff went to people like me. The rest was going to be boxed up by Boys Ranch and taken to thrift stores in the area. While I know the family was doing what it must, it all gave me an uneasy feeling.

Last night, as I wondered around my own home and looked at the task that lies ahead for my sons, I shuddered. Is this what it really comes down to, I thought. You work hard for 40 to 50 years and then you come to a point where you can no longer take care of yourself and almost in an instant what you've accumulated - including the house you dearly love - is sold off, given away or trashed. Sunday was a sad day, and I hope that my sons never have to go through it. Though, despite whatever efforts I make to head off the need, I know there will be loose ends they will have to care of, even if they are only financial and legal.

Sigh ... is this what it really comes down to?

"It's just not fair!" ... That's what Garrett uttered disgustedly as he watched me cheat my way to a loss during a game of Sequence last night.

Garrett had already won the game, but the Bug and I were playing for "second" place ... just as we usually do if Carter doesn't win a game. Garrett saw me slip a card the Bug needed to win into his hand and that was enough. Exasperated, he walked away from the table, asking why Carter "always" gets to cheat, why I always cheat for him and why I always make Garrett play by the rules when we play card or board games. "It's just not fair," he said, glowering at me with that look kids give their parents when the world is being unjust to them.

And I couldn't really blame him. He is right to a degree. When playing games with Carter, I often play so that Carter has a very strong chance of beating me. And when the three of us play a game, I play to win only up until the point one of the boys wins. If it's Carter, I'll then try harder against Garrett. If it's Garrett who wins, I'll let up and ensure that Carter finishes in "second" place. Those are the facts and I can't deny 'em. But no matter how many times I've had the discussion with Garrett that Carter is at an age where he doesn't fully understand sportsmanship and that playing a game isn't only about winning and losing, he doesn't care. Carter just knows that he loves playing games and that winning is more fun than losing. He's learning to play just as we all had to.

But to Garrett - who is between that stage and the stage of maturity where one can accept that not everything in life is black and white - it's unjust that I'd throw a game so as not to hurt Carter's feelings. To him, playing a game is about competing and there has to be a winner and loser, and sure it's more fun to win but sometimes you lose. There shouldn't be a "second" place and Dad shouldn't cheat to let Carter win. Cheating is wrong and he'd get in trouble if he cheated.

Yeah, that's one of Garrett's quirks; he's a young man who lives by a pretty strict moral code. He soaked in the life lessons about right and wrong and he stringently adheres to them. And so he doesn't understand why it's OK for Dad not to apply those same rights and wrongs when playing with his younger brother. I've had numerous discussions with him to explain why it is not OK to cream a 5 3/4-year-old in every game. But he doesn't care how much of a competitive edge Carter gives up to everyone. In Garrett's world, if you lose ... you lose. Deal with it.

I suspect it might be a few more years before he fully comprehends why Dad cheats to let Carter win; he needs to mature a little more before he'll see that it all involves a fairness that really does make sense. Meanwhile, I just keep telling him why I do it and why it's OK and hope that it eventually sinks in.

Oh ... and I'll also continue to remind him that I used to play games the same way with another little boy I know: I wonder who that could be?

All this time spent wondering how the Bug would fare once he got in school: Gsheeh ... turns out it was a waste of time.

We met with the boys' teachers for conferences on Monday night and the bottom word is that both boys are doing wonderfully and are loved by their teachers. What magical words to hear!

I haven't been concerned about attending any of Garrett's conferences ... ever. He just always was a studious, hard-working kid who was mature and well-mannered. All of his teachers have adored him and his latest teacher is no exception. He is doing far better at this stage of his school career than I was and is on track for some high achievements. He's reading at an advanced rate and has the vocabulary of a student three grades older than him. And he's in the advanced math class and performing at a high rate, despite the fact the kids in that class skipped an entire year's worth of math curriculum at the beginning of the year. To top it off, he gets along with a broad range of kids and is well-behaved. Wow, once your son's teachers tells you those things, what's not to be proud of.

Then came the Bug's conference: I would be lying if I told you there were no concerns. Considering that he was enrolled in a reading enhancement class earlier in the year and his natural high-spiritedness, there were reasons to be anxious. But, viola! His teacher loves having Carter in class and says that he's a leader when it comes to following the rules and participating and working with others. She noted that he has well-developed penmanship for a kindergartner and is far ahead in the recognition of his numbers. Granted, we're still working on identifying the entire alphabet, but he's come a long way in a month. Overall, she said it was a joy to have the Bug in class.

Whew ... what a relief. Coming out of the conferences that night I was proud of the boys and their efforts in school. We parents spend a lot of time worrying about how we're doing raising our kids: If we're making the right choices; if we're doing the right things; etc. And, other than the feedback you receive from close friends and family, who are obligated to say it, we get few barometers of how we're doing. So, on Monday night, when both of the boys' teachers congratuled us on the fine boys we have raised (in fact, Garrett's teacher said she wished she knew of a way to clone him to make more of him ... I assured her that if she lived with him, she wouldn't be so sure) it was a nice acknowledgment of the work we've done. I'm not getting too cocky. I know we've still got the teenage years coming up, but for a moment, it was nice to bask in the compliments offered by the kids' teachers. Parents don't get 'em too often.

While it is that time of year, you won't find a political endorsement here. It just plays heck with a newspaper career to let it be known where you fall on the political spectrum. And Daddy Brooks needs a job for about 12 more years ... if ya know what I mean.

No, what you'll find here are endorsements of a couple of blogs that I've been frequenting lately, both created by former journalists with whom I have worked, and both worth the time to check out. You'll notice them on the side of my blog under "Blogs I Read" and thus you may have already visited them. If so, great. If not, this is a pitch for you to check them out ... and for really different reasons.

Soon To Be Skinny Sooner documents the efforts of a friend I worked with earlier in my newspaper career. A while back he and his wife decided that once and for all they were going to lose weight. He's got an amazing and inspirational story to tell, and through frequent updates to his blog, he lets readers know the real, day-to-day story of someone who's already lost a lot of weight and is set on losing more. Like with all of us bloggers, he ventures into some other topics, such as Oklahoma Sooner football, once in a while, but the blog is really about an Average Joe's fight to get trim. It's an honest reflection of one person's battle ... something I think all of us can relate to in one way or another. I'm proud of what he is doing and excited maybe to share his story with others.

Shelley Bakes! is also a blog written by a former journalist friend ... one of my best friends actually. The Princess, as I like to call her, just started her blog after a hiatus from the writing world. We worked together at a paper in the Cities and I can tell you the day she left the paper to pursue a new career and a budding romance in Rochester, the journalism lost one of the best. I'm quite certain that one day when scholars attempt to describe the downfall of Western civilization, that one of the key turning points will be the day The Princess left journalism. So, to know that she's starting a cooking blog to share her wisdom with the masses is of great relief to me. And besides, as someone who sampled her cooking for a couple of years, I'm willing to bet that the recipes offered will be as valuable as her wit and her prose. If it were not for Shelley, the Brooks boys would not have eaten nearly as well as they did for a couple of years.

Please, take the time to visit each of these blogs. I think you'll find it worth your while. And let me know what you think. Maybe there are more blogs out there that I should be checking out.

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