When I was 10 years-old, I thought my parents knew everything.  And, in point of fact, they were very smart.  And I felt very, very safe.

SOS is approaching that same tender age.  And I am not so smart and, as each day passes, I understand less and less about the world and its workings.  And I am not someone who can watch events unfold with quiet conviction that all will be okay in the end.

Maybe my parents saw their own version of a scary, out of control world and worked hard to shield us from it.  After all, the 1950s and 1960s were all about communist infiltration, threat of nuclear war with the Soviets and the reality of wars in far-off places.

Maybe my parents looked smart to me but were just as concerned about their future as I am now about ours.

Maybe I don’t have to have the answers; maybe it is enough that I can kiss away some of SOS’s problems with absolute promises that it — whatever “it” is — will turn out fine. Because the wonderful thing about having little kids is that sometimes they have little problems.

Maybe all that matters is that he feels very, very safe.  And so far he does.  And, protecting him makes me strong because I have to be.

So, LIFE, bring it on . . . .