There is absolutely nothing funny about this column. I am legally obligated to state this right up front. In fact, I’m legally obligated to believe it. I’m legally obligated to promote it, preach it, scream it from the hills.

I am also legally obligated to say that pillow fights are bad. That they can lead to serious injuries, and should never be performed with actual pillows. Air pillows — the imaginary kind — are the only kind that should be used in a pillow fight. I am legally obligated to say that if you do use real pillows, bad things can happen. Horrible things. Major injuries may ensue. Society might collapse. You will spend the rest of your days starting sentences with, “I am legally obligated to …”
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The letter from my daughter’s first grade teacher said: “We will be celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with a special project. Each student will be asked to build a ‘Leprechaun Trap!’”

A Leprechaun Trap! Hot diggidy dog!

It’s supposed to encourage her imagination and ability to write about a sequence of steps. But I don’t know why it kept talking about her. I GET TO BUILD A LEPRECHAUN TRAP!!! WOOHOO!
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There’s something post-apocalyptic about January. Maybe it’s because Christmas is over. Maybe it’s because a new year is always a little bit scary. It stretches out toward the horizon, long and endless, full of unpredictable twists. Maybe it’s because summer and vacations and swimming pools seem so far away.

The weather is miserable. Usually. And when the weather is great — it’s been pretty great! — something still comes along to ruin it. Does any other state get pollen blizzards in January? Not like Florida. Gesundheit!
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It was something I realized while riding with my daughter. We were taking our dog to a park.

She’s almost two, that dingo of a dog. We were going to throw the ball to burn off some of her energy. It gets stored up in reserve batteries she keeps in her haunches.
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I don’t know how fast I was going. Or how slow. It felt quick. Adrenaline speeds things up. So does wind in your hair. Gripping a steering wheel. Breathing noxious engine fumes. Knowing your hindquarters are just inches off the ground.

Who cares how fast you’re going? It’s really how fast you THINK you’re going.

And it felt FAST! Rocket car fast.

These were go-karts at a local “adventure speedway.” We were there for a birthday party. One of my daughter’s closest school chums. It warms the heart to see two little girls hug. Like they haven’t seen each other in ages — not just a couple days ago.

Little boys don’t do that. They slug each other in the arm and say, “Happy birthday, pickle breath. Hope your momma’ got you good looks for a present.” Little boys don’t show affection. That is until they see something amazing and incredible and stupendous … like a go-cart. Then they scream, “I LOVE you!” and run over to hug it like they haven’t seen each other in ages.

That was pretty much my reaction when a ticket to the speedway was tucked into my hand.
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And now the column where much thanks is given for the little things in life:

• I’m thankful that my dog can hold her pumpkin. Little pumpkins, left over from Halloween. They were part of a display on the dining room table. A nice, simple Thanksgiving display. Very nice. Then they started disappearing. One by one.
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Great men — brilliant men — have often speculated about time machines. Devices that might take us backward or forward to our past or our future. But why hasn’t anyone explored the idea of a time-slowing machine?

This occurred to me the other day after walking my daughter to school. As I strolled back carrying her scooter, I marveled at the Christmas blowup toys in someone’s front yard. “Already out!?!” I thought. “How can this be? It’s too early.”

But it isn’t. Thanksgiving is almost here, and that means we’re locked and loaded, buckled up and bundled in with a heavy foot on the gas, headed for Christmas.
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Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids. On a field trip. In a school bus. It’s chaotic chatter — like birds in the trees — until one child starts humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Why Beethoven’s Ninth?

And then they all start to join in, one after another. Only … wait a minute … no, they’re not humming. They’re moo-ing. They are all moo-ing like cows! Beethoven! All of them now. Every last one. The bus is filled with the sound of bovines.
And I just have to smile.

Nothing reminds you you’re an adult like hanging out with a bunch of kids.
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There is no drama in my daughter’s school lunch. I just realized this the other day. There’s no mystery. No excitement. No surprise.

No “ick!” And I don’t know how I feel about that.

Because isn’t that what school lunch is all about? It was for me.
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She sat there with a carrot plugged into the side of her mouth. Gnawing on it. It’s the only way to describe it. The kid was gnawing on it with her back teeth, grinding away little bits and smacking her lips while she did it.

My daughter will ask for a carrot before she’ll ask for a piece of candy — who knew such a thing was possible? Not carrot sticks, but a whole carrot. She’ll chomp down to the very end, until her fingertips are brushing her teeth.

She was doing this at the dinner table and I looked over at her. I put my chin on my fist and got nostalgic.
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