I laughed for about half an hour. Because I am a bad, bad father.

For the past several months, the Critter and I have been wading through a series of fairy books by an author with the unlikely name of Daisy Meadows. (A quick internet search tells me that this is actually the pseudonym for a collection of four collaborative authors. My google-fu is strong). Every night we read a couple of chapters from whichever Fairy we're on (we just finished Ella the Rose Fairy, and now we're working on Holly, the Christmas Fairy), and then I put the Fairy bookmark into the Fariy book, straighten her Fairy pajamas, and tuck her in with her Fairy duvet, underneath the Fairy hanging from the bed-tent top. You get the Fairy picture? Yesterday, I found this.

As far as she's concerned, "princess" is just what the creepy old ladies who get in her face at the grocery store call her. I just don't understand why the only fairies they sell also have to be princesses. Is not enough just to be a fucking fairy? You've already got effervescent butterfly wings and a magic wand and pointy shoes and a toadstool couch and two little tiny ponies to pull you around the forest in a wee cart. On top of all that, you need to be a member of some faerie aristocracy? With a fairy castle with little pixie maidservants and a whole fiefdom of lesser fairies to tax in order to sustain your royal extravagances? Why is it perfectly acceptable to celebrate this lifestyle of excess permitted only to those lucky enough to be yanked out of most royal of fairy vaginas?

Now that I think about it, the thing I like about these Rainbow Fairy books we're reading is that each book centers around a "working Fairy" (which is different than a "Working Girl", if you know what I mean) - they are in charge of a certain type of flowers or spreading colors, or blowing air into souffle's or whatever it is that Fairies do. But that struck so close to home that I nearly wet Fairy man-briefs in laughter.

This week, we braved London (which was easy) and the U.S. embassy (which was not) in order to register Squirmy with the Proper Authorities. This required an appointment - which had a 14 week lead time to arrange - and a mountain of paperwork roughly equal to three acres of felled amazonian rainforest sent in at least six weeks in advance. And when we got to the front of the line, I received a mild rebuke for having completed what was apparently the old Social Security document (even though it's the one that was on the Embassy's website). After around three hours of waiting there in the embassy and administering a pledge on Squirmy's behalf that he would grow up to be a contributing member of society, go to church at least on one major holiday a year, and vote Republican except in local elections where they don't list the party affiliation, they agreed to give us a paper registration of birth abroad (which is apparently about as easy to replace as a passenger pigeon - guard this with your life, was the message from embassy-window guy) and an "emergency" passport, which is good for a year and can later be replaced by a real passport. Which is cool, because now I can take Squirmy on the flight next week to California, to the much anticipated pleasure of the other passengers in the British Airways business class cabin. The Critter, meanwhile, enjoyed her first non-neighborhood sleepover. (She has slept over at our neighbor's house, but knowing that we're literally just around the corner isn't quite the same). My Bride and I were a bit anxious about the whole ordeal, but considering the Critter was going to stay with her best friend, she didn't even look over her shoulder as she waved good-bye. The reports back from the hosting parent included stories of the Critter saying "please" and "thank you" and, when presented with a chocolate High School Musical lollipop upon pick up (the combination of chocolate and that movie must have seemed like one of God's Better Gifts To Mankind), she responded with a serious look - "Thank you, but I should save this until after my dinner." My Bride and I high-fived in the parking lot. The Critter has managed to put a bit of a polish on occasional public ass-scratch in a way that Emily Post couldn't top.