Paul's statement that "ideas can influence millions" opens the door to the concept that the influence a person can have on others is potentially a far more potent form of "immortality" than trying to pass your genes on into the future by spending all you spare time practicing rumpy-pumpy. An artist or musician who inspires others to participate or a teacher who imparts information and skills to many students, some of whom may, themselves inspire others and/or teach. That strikes me as a far more potent form of immortality that merely passing along one's genes.

It's ideas, not genes, that are the really important agents in changing the world.

Of course one swells with pride when one's daughter performs beautifully and gracefully at her ballet school recital and one's son whacks his first home run in little league baseball. And your oldest son, who, when his voice changed, turned out to have a nice light baritone, is chosen to sing the role of Billy Bigelow in his high school's production of Carousel—and, of course, when they graduate from high school and get accepted into college. . . .

But here are a few more of the unalloyed joys of parenthood:

You have an important business meeting in the morning, but you selflessly pace back an fourth from two to four a.m. with a squalling, colicky baby because your wife, who has done this for the past four nights, tells you that she has reached the point where, if she can't get some sleep, she is seriously contemplating murdering the entire family and fleeing to Mexico.

For the fourteenth time, your eighteen-month-old, sitting in her high chair, picks up her sippy-cup from the tray and throws it on the floor, giggling insanely as you dive to pick it up before its contents spill all over the floor—again! But this time she follows it with her bowl of Jell-O, which lands on the back of your head with a juicy "splotch!" She squeals with glee!

Your kid hasn't come home yet from the Saturday evening party. At two a.m., you get a call from the police telling you to come down to the station and pick him up. He and his buddies, working with precision teamwork, managed to shoplift a case of beer from an all-night convenience store, got absolutely splashed, and got caught by the police running up and down the street throwing rocks and smashing street lights.

Three weeks later, once again the kid stays out beyond his now rigid curfew. You are wakened at two a.m. by the sounds of a car engine revving and kids yelling. You go downstairs and someone is fumbling with the front door. It's your kid. It seems they've hit same convenience store, but this time they managed to shoplift only two six-packs, so one of the guys slipped out with a couple of bottles of cheap wine under his jacket. It wasn't a good mix. Your kid stands there in the doorway with a silly grin on his pea-green face and as you are gasping for breath and trying to regain the power of speech, he up-chucks on your bare feet!

Your sixteen-year-old daughter has been acting funny for a couple of weeks. Finally, she bursts into tears and confesses. "I think I'm pregnant!" The father? "Well, it could have been Michael. Or maybe Kevin. Or Sean. Or maybe Jason. Or maybe it was . . . ."

Your seventeen-year-old son, with a look of fierce determination on his face, says, "I've been wrestling with this for several months now, trying to figure out how to tell you. But I guess the best way is to just come right out with it and get it over. I'm gay!"

Bon Appetit!

Don Firth