Humanity dodged the big one on December 21, when the Mayan Apocalypse failed to appear— world-ending predictions aren't like they used to be. And, just when the latest generations pulled back from the brink of oblivion, the next generation arrived. Meet Beau, my first grandchild, born minutes after the Earth was supposed to explode or do whatever the apocaholics* said was supposed to happen. It was also the shortest day of the year, tho' I'm sure my daughter would disagree after enduring about 12 hours of labour.
So Beau is here, and now I'm wait on my eldest daughter to deliver Penny (babies come pre-named these days) to show up around the beginning of March. So, by spring I'll have two grand kids to spoil... and two young pliable minds to corrupt.
* a delightful term coined by Gary Alexander that accurately describes the hordes of Doomsayers found mainly in the environmental movement
