Karma

I've just been dealt a healthy dose of it.  Mrs. Powell, I owe you an apology.  In the time it took me to proofread my last post, Bar, the little darling, removed his diaper and finding therein a turd of significant size began to finger paint my carpet and ottoman with it.  All your kid did was forget his iPhone.  Mine, it seems, is clever enough to remove his own diaper, but not to avoid playing with what he finds there.  Sufficiently humbled, I now return to scrubbing the carpet. 

What if Bill Buckner worked for Apple?

He'd be this guy, Gray Powell.  Gray Powell walked into a beer garden a few nights ago and left, sitting on the bar, his prototype iPhone.  Oops.  I'm probably the last person in the blogosphere to catch on to this little story, so I'll not beat it to death much further.  But, as it was discussed in my living room last night, I realized that in all my musings about what Bar may or may not become, may or may not do, it has never once occurred to me that he might grow up to be, "that guy who leaves his prototype iPhone in a beer garden."  I somehow doubt that thought ever crossed Mrs. Powell's mind either.  So, to my son, dear Bar, I say this to you now on this most public of forums; should you ever commit a comparably boneheaded act and become, say, "the guy who accidentally mislays the only set of keys to the space shuttle," I will still love you without end or reservation, beyond limit and reason, but please, please don't.