Small Daughter was born Regan Christine Hand some 14 years passed. In that there is such a disparity of age between her and my oldest daughter, I took to referring to them as the First Daughter, and Small Daughter, noms de guerre that I cherish as being truly my own, and just between us three.

Imagine my shock when Small Daughter brought to my attention that my 11-year-old son, His Excellency and Future Pope, George Edward Hand V, was rooting for this voting year’s Democratic ticket. I won’t say her name, as I just ate and would like to retain my dinner… but suffice it to say that it rhymes with Pillory, or as in the case of my nickname for her: Schmidt-Head. My son; a democrat??

My son, my son… my only begotten dear son. I entered his room as he lay in bed reading just prior to the blessed hour of nighty-nite. I patted him gently on the head as I proceeded: “Georgie, I want you to know that this is absolutely nothing personal, rather it is strictly a business decision that has to be made… I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go as my son.” His eyes welled with tears. “Aw no… we’ll have none of that. Who wants a popsicle?!?


Understand that of course that none of that actually happened. In my earliest days of identity crisis, I became painfully aware of exactly who I was when Small Daughter and His Excellency were born. At that point in my mature life I knew beyond a shred of a shadow of doubt, that I was in fact ‘Dad.’ Yes, with every atom of my being I was Dad to children. No more me, no more I… just dad from now on, and I have no other purpose in life beyond raising these precious children.


It became immediately clear that Ms Regan is a hint of an enigma. In fact the Germans named a 2nd World War cryptology device after her… or so it was suggested to me at one time. But an anomaly she is, or so at least I fancy her one, as she racked up straight As and entered programs in school for gifted students of measured means.

At the ripe age of 55, and much to my chagrin, I found myself unable to assist her any longer with most of her homework. Ah, but that was until she took French in school… or so I mistakenly thought. Her French teacher rapidly became appalled with my Louisiana Cajun dialect, as I attempted just go ahead and do her homework for her.