A note from our goddaughter's parents:

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From: George Black Sent: Sunday, February 12, 2006 5:30 PM To: Giuia Grady; Grady, Ken Subject: Re: January 27th, 2006 I think by the time Abby turns FOUR that she might start to notice that her GODPARENTS are forgetting her birthday. FYI - For 2007... And we will have to say, I don't know why they forgot, but they didn't remember in 2005 or 2006, so maybe they have divorced you as their God Child... Losers. HEHEHE. OOPS, did I just say that out loud? HAHAHA GB

I'm putting this up on Gradygroove as a public acknowledgment of our shame, so that Abby can look back on this as she grows older and see that we really do care. We're just crap at reading the calendar. I'm going to have to blame the difference in time zones. Greenwich Mean Time moves at a different rate, you know. And the metric system. In metric, her birthday isn't until sometime next week. And water's freezing point is at zero degrees. If it's any consolation, Abby, I routinely remember my own mother's birthday about five months late. And I lived with her for seventeen years. I've only known you for four now. I had thought all of this would be taken care of, as I've always considered my Bride the Keeper of Birthdays and Other Memorable Events. Unfortunately, I seem to have neglected to tell her that, and she was thinking that was part of my job description. As we've proven that we're both crap at the role, we've decided to let the Critter have a crack at it. This has thrilled her to no end, as she loves to write out Happy Birthday cards (unfortunately, she writes "To Ella" on the front of everyone of them). She's decided that every Tuesday should be someone's birthday, and everyone gets a bouncy castle. Once we realize we were officially crap Godparents for Abby this weekend, I suggested to my bride that at least we'd be in time to hit our godson's birthday. Wrong. Man, do we suck.

I have never worn a watch. First of all, I can't get used to the feeling of something strapped around my wrist all the time, and secondly, I'm pretty much surrounded by time-keeping electronics where ever I happen to be: my car, my computer, my phone. In general terms, I've never had that much need to be so aware of the time at any given moment. I break my day up into basic segments: Wake up. At work before lunch. At work after lunch. At home in the evening. Sleep time. Anything beyond that is pretty much overkill. But there was one 30 day period where the United States Army made me wear a watch. The evening I showed up to report for Sergeant's school (PLDC: Personal Leadership Development Course, hosted at gloriously rainy Fort Benning, Georgia) your random Sergeant Major Stereotype stopped me and asked if I had the time. Me: - [squinting at where I thought the sun might be behind the clouds] - I think it's around 6:30, Sergeant Major, but I don't wear a watch, so I'm not 100% sure on that. As it turns out, that particular Sergeant Major Stereotype ran that particular Sergeant school. He had never met a soldier without a watch before, and found it truly remarkable. (It crossed my mind at that point to wonder what happened to his watch that he needed to ask me what time it was. As he was remarking at some length over how novel he found my watch-avoidance quite loudly, and to a number of senior NCOs standing nearby under a handy canopy, all of whom were busy agreeing with him, I thought it best not to ask). Then, the Sergeant Major suggested that since I was going to be attending his school for the next few weeks, I might find it a good idea to scoot on over to the local PX and invest in a timepiece, just in case he ever needed to ask me the time again. I nodded. It's difficult to speak when you're doing pushups in the rain. So later that evening, I picked up whatever was olive drab and cheap at the post exchange that evening, and for the next thirty days, I knew exactly what time it was. I was asked, often, by all of the instructors. Apparently by a remarkable coincidence all of their own watches had been broken, and they weren't sure they could trust the clocks on the walls of the school, so I was asked to verify the time sometimes four or five times a day. But at the end of that school, I left my watch at Ft Benning, and went back to my general categorization, feeling, if anything, less inclined than before to need to know the exact time of day. Now if only they had had this watch available. A watch that tells time like I tell time: "It's a bit shy of 2 o'clock" or "It's pushing 1:45". That's freaking genius. I don't think it's enough for me to run out and get one at this point, but it's nice to know it's an option, if I ever do feel the need.

My mother tends to accumulate a bunch of small things throughout the year to pass along to her children. Apparently, she manages to hit every Wal-mart, flea market, and garage sale within a two hundred mile radius, and, generous soul that she is, if she sees something that makes her think of one of her grandkids, she picks it up and adds it to the box. For example, a dancing, light-flashing, snowman that plays 'Frosty the Snowman' at an INCREDIBLY LOUD VOLUME made her think of the Critter. (The dancing part made the Critter laugh, but the agony of my face after an hour straight of Frosty the Snowman at volumes that would make Bruce Dickinson wince gave her an absolute giggle fit.) At the end of the year, the box is apparently big enough to require about a dozen books of commemorative Zydeco bands of the 1940's stamps. Now some people would just pay the postage directly, and let the post office do their magic. But some people aren't my mother. Either the Post Office in glorious Pleasant Shade, TN (population 47 - with nearly that many teeth between them) doesn't have one of those postage machines, or she's been saving up stamps in preparation for this day. It may have taken her an extra two and a half hours to line up the necessary stamps in the proper & visible order, but, by God, the package made it to the UK! If you're reading this, Mom, I want you to know that I will get you back for that damn snowman...