So, I had the experience of taking my daughter shopping for panties today. Understand - I was her single father, Dad, for the first three or four years of her life, until my girl (the collared, marriage-ish one) came into our lives. I tell myself I should be able to handle this, no problem. Right? Good. I'm a cop.   I have a gun.   I've been shot at.    I've been stabbed.  I can handle a little underwear shopping. Yeah. Not so much. Fucking panties.   Underwear shopping shoul

First – this letter is going nowhere, until my daughter (and probably an edit for my son) reaches the age of leatherly consent.   Ie, when she’s an adult and I’m no longer freaking out about every boy she looks at.  (Thank God that only entails Justin Bieber, Thor and Superman right now.  Although she’s eyeing up Rainbow Dash, so maybe it’s a bi thing.  I would be okay with a human Rainbow Dash.   Just please God, not Rarity.) This is a letter that’s going to take me at least

parenting is a joy, as all parents know - it's a headache, a pain in the neck, and the spine, and occasionally the genitals (they WILL run headfirst into ANYTHING). But there are also moments of joy, especially with two child aspie-s. (aspergers) At Home, Morning Daughter: "Daddy, I wanna go to the steak place with the clams." Cassie: "I didn't know you liked clams, girlie? Kenova: "I guess you could say she digs clams. She's a 'clam-digger'. " Cassie: smacks Kenova Cassi