A Love Story

Several years ago, Patrice spent much of the winter, including Thanksgiving and Christmas, in Florida for work. This was in the relatively early stages of our courtship. Our budding romance was interrupted by this separation and Patrice, not happy about the circumstances, voiced his displeasure once or twice. The boss secretly flew me out there to surprise him on Christmas Eve, then on Christmas morning led my honey on a scavenger hunt. The boss said Patrice had to work for his gift, even if after the fact.

The clues took him all over the house, to the bottom of the pool, onto the golf course, down the street, and eventually back to the garage. Opening the garage door revealed the actual gift (it wasn't me after all):

We went for a spin around the block and a new romance began.

Patrice and I spent several hours on winding rides through the Colorado mountains. He loved his bike.
 L-O-V-E-D it. It was more than just a motorcycle. It was his first Harley. It was a very special gift, symbolic of the friendship between him and his boss as well as recognition of his hard work and dedication.

The relationship with that boss soured and Patrice found himself searching for other employment. We struggled together, but the bike did provide a nice cushion. If it came down to it, the bike was an asset that could be sold to keep us afloat. Once during our times of trial he actually advertised it for sale and declined to sell it to a guy who wanted to put different handlebars on it. It would ruin the bike and he just couldn't bear to sell it, knowing it would be altered. Fortunately, we were never so desperate that he was forced to give it up.

I didn't ride anymore after Nicco was born. I have a hard time putting both of my baby's parents on a motorcycle. But Patrice still enjoys having his knees in the breeze.

Time went by and we came to Arizona...an even better place for riding the bike. He can ride all year long and the winding desert roads are just as spectacular as the winding mountain roads. After The Big Ride a couple years ago, Patrice rode a different kind of bike and started longing for an upgrade. That's what happens with mistresses. They need to be replaced every once in a while with a newer model. One with more energy, a different look, a nice rear end.

Stars aligned in my husband's favor this fall so that he was able to get the new model without spending a dime out of his own pocket. His friend from back home commented that Patrice is the only person he knows to whom people just give Harley-Davidsons. The old bike was great. It served its purpose, but I think selling it was cathartic in a way. A page turned, a chapter closed.

After some negotiating and trading, Patrice discarded the old model and got his new mistress. He loves her. He caresses her. He adorns her and makes her shine. He shows her off to the guys. They envy him.

See? He likes her rear-end.

I'm glad he has her. She's good for him.

Now I need to go run. Or buy a new pair of jeans. I don't want to be replaced by a newer model with a nice rear end!

Hmmm...

Sláinte!

I took Nicco to the St. Patrick's Day parade down town. Yippee! My boy takes after his great-grandpa Madsen in that he loves a P-rade. We got our green on and found a spot on the corner, a block from the festivities at the city park. Kids all around us were coming from the park with vuvuzelas and Nicco really wanted one. I told him I would get one after the parade, hoping that by then they would all be sold out. He told me we should go to the park then come back. I told him we would lose our spot. He told me to go ahead, he would save our spot. Sorry buddy, no dice.

We were at the end of the parade route, so we had to wait quite a while for it to get to us, horns teasing and tempting my boy the all the while. A vendor walked by with 2 horns and a bunch of hats, boas, and beads. A guy offered to buy a display horn, but the vendor said no...if he sells the horn, he won't sell his hats. Okay. Whatever.

The obligatory pipers. Nicco always questions men in skirts.

The Coyle and Zappia clans, Mario, Luigi, a shamrock and a clove of garlic. ???

The Mashed Potato Queens. I think they were already "mashed."

Finally, something Nicco could understand! Although, he was a little confused...that must be a GIANT leprechaun, he said, knowing that leprechauns are little people. I had a pang of anxiety when some actual Little People walked by wearing leprechaun gear. I guess they were sort of asking for any leprechaun comments they may have gotten, but I was glad my boy didn't say anything to them, or about them anyway.

The parade was pretty much the lamest parade ever. No one threw anything! No candy! Grr! Some groups walked by with bead necklaces, but didn't toss them into the crowd. When the roller derby girls skated by with beads, Nicco ran them down and came back with a prize. He was tired of being overlooked by the paraders!

There were two young-ish ladies a few yards from us who jumped out into the street and took turns posing and taking pictures with each float or marching group. Really silly. Maybe they were "mashed" too.

When the parade ended, I took Nicco to the fair and was glad to see that all the vuvuzelas were indeed sold out. We had to navigate the winding liquor lines to find a little something for the boy. He chose a pint necklace for a dollar. At least it doesn't make any noise!

I thought he might have been disappointed, but he said he had fun, so I guess it was worth the drive and a dollar.

Oh, and we were visited by a leprechaun in the night. He left a pot of gold! Nicco said, "Mom, it's not even real gold. It's just chocolate." I told him that's the thing about leprechauns, they're tricky!

Here he is, taking a sip from his pint. With his eyes half closed, he looks like half the people we saw at the festival!

Happy and safe St. Patrick's day!

Degrees of Crazy

Alternate title, What Kind of Mother Are You?
(Warning: Stream-of-Consciousness rambling ahead)

We all have mothering issues, right? Some of us are helicopter moms, hovering about our babies. Some of us rush to their rescue. Some of us coddle them, spoil them, ignore them, obsess over them. I think there is a spectrum for all these issues and I think it is normal and even good parenting to hover a little, rescue sometimes, love and coddle them a little and even ignore and obsess too. We are charged with the care and nurture of these little people and they require and deserve our undying love and protection. It's just a matter of degrees. When does proximity and observation become obsessive hovering? To put it another way, just how crazy am I?

I know that this is my biggest issue parenting my boy. (Observers might disagree, but don't tell me so. Words of affirmation is my love language and if you criticize me, you will deeply hurt me and make me feel unloved. This is a stream of consciousness...no room for criticism! Leave me alone!) I have a really hard time letting my little bird fly. I want him to learn and grow and explore and discover, but I want him to do it within my line of sight.

I had to suppress urges to intervene the first time he played outside at Grandma and Grandpa Madsen's house with his big cousin. I did suppress the urges though, and he was fine.

I felt anxiety the first time I left him at a friend's house for a play date. I had to call my sister. (Convenient excuse. Then again, any excuse is a good excuse to talk to a sister.) But, I did let him play out of my sight and I didn't even call or stop by to check on him, and he was fine.

I still watch him walk from the front gate at school until he rounds the corner to his classroom. Every day. I don't leave until I see him go around that corner. But, I don't walk him to the door myself. I let him go and he is fine.

Whenever Elizabeth's mom invites Nicco for a play date, I offer (read: insist) to pick the kids up and drop them off at her house. Elizabeth rides the bus, and I am not ready to let my boy ride the bus to a friend's house. I haven't crossed that line yet.

Nicco and his buddy are in a kids' gym class together. I take him and I stay and watch. Jackson's mom takes her kids and leaves them to run errands if she needs to. I'm not ready for that. Another line I can't quite cross, even though I know he is supervised by professionals and within an enclosed and safe place.

I was talking with a couple other moms about this yesterday at the gym because I have a new cause for anxiety. They both said that this problem of mine is not unique to me, that all mothers have the same instinct to a degree. They also both said that this particular issue diminishes with subsequent children. Nicco is not only my first, but he's my only, so the consensus was that my protective watch instinct is probably more severe than most moms.

So here's the thing: we are going to enroll Nicco in the International School of Tucson summer French program. There are options--you can enroll one week at a time, or for any number of weeks, up to the entire eight weeks of the program. You can go half day from 8:30 - 12:00 or full day, from 8:30 - 3:30. Both Patrice and I agree that he will get the most benefit from the most instruction and we are leaning towards full day, for 7 weeks (excluding the week we will be in CO in July--yippee!) I say leaning because I have not yet visited the school to evaluate whether it is actually something we want to do.

I have a couple internal conflicts. One is that if we do the full day program, I think it would be a little too much for him to also do the swim team, with practices almost every evening. I think that is too much work for a little guy. Also, I want him to enjoy his childhood summers...if he's in French school until 3:30 then swim for an hour in the evening, when will he get to freely enjoy his own back yard pool? If we did half day French, I would feel fine about doing the swim team too because he would have plenty of down time and free/independent play at home. But, for just a summer, I think there may be more value in the language for him at this point. Even though we have to make a decision about half day or full day and swim team or no swim team, it's a relatively easy decision.

The hard decision is the one that relates to my separation anxiety. The school is pretty far away from our home, close-ish to down town. That isn't the safe haven to me that Oro Valley is. I really don't want to send my kid to school all day so far away from me, in that particular part of town. What if something happens? I'm a good 45 minutes away from the school. If something happens at the elementary school, I'm 5 minutes away. Also, it's a pretty safe part of town. Not that a crazy person couldn't get on the grounds, but the risks are lower in the 'burbs. It's a fact. So, I'm thinking of taking my laptop and going to the library or the UofA just a couple blocks away and working while he's in school. Patrice thinks that's a little overly paranoid. To which I say it's only paranoia until something happens, and I'd rather be paranoid than sorry.

Besides, I'll save gas by only driving there and back instead of there and back twice. Also, I'll probably make more money if I'm at the library than if I'm at home. Also, it's a noble sacrifice I'm willing to make for Nicco to have this educational opportunity. Nice rationalizations, am I right?

But here's the thing...crazy people need their meds. The medicine for my brand of crazy is to be nearby my kid. Not hovering over his shoulder, just nearby.

The other thing is I might get over it quickly after spending 7 hours with my laptop at the library.

So, back to my original question. What kind of mother am I? A good conscientious mama, or a crazy obessive mama?

(That question is rhetorical. No answer required. Especially if the answer is B: Crazy obsessive. Leave me alone! AAARRRGGGHHH!!!)

Are You Smarter Than a Kindergartner?

If so, then maybe you can explain this:

The instructions on Nicco's homework are to say the name of the picture out loud, then write the first letter of the word and trace the rest of the letters. I don't know what that is a picture of. So, I went through the alphabet:

aeg beg ceg deg eeg feg geg heg ieg jeg keg leg meg neg oeg peg qeg reg seg teg ueg veg weg xeg yeg zeg

Leg and peg are the only words that even make any sense. Nicco decided it is the leg of a chair, but "then what the heck is that thing?" he asked, referring to the loopy thing sticking out the side. If it is a picture of a human leg (or any living thing for that matter) then I really don't want to know what the heck that thing is.

If this makes sense to you, I need to know what drugs you are taking. Otherwise, I won't be able to help my son with his homework beyond maybe 3rd grade, if we're lucky.

Seriously though. What hell is that thing?

Play Date Antics

Nicco's buddy came to our house after school. Car conversations are always fun with Jackson in the back seat. Jackson's family spent the weekend in Vegas because his big brother was a ball boy for the WAC basketball tournament. Jackson told me "there are a lot of unappropriate things in Vegas." Indeed. The city gave up its family friendly campaign and fell back on the common understanding that "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." At least they acknowledge the den of iniquity that is Vegas.

The boys kept telling me that they wanted to play Mario, but I kept stalling them. It is such a beautiful day, I wanted them out in the sunshine breathing air and moving their muscles. They played in the sand box while I picked weeds. Then they blew bubbles. Then they wanted to see if the bubbles would float on the surface of the pool. Then they dipped their toes in the water. Then...

I suppose it was inevitable, once they dipped their toes. Just as wading at the beach became "wading" at the beach. Where there is water play, there are soaking wet kids.

They sunned themselves to get warm and dry. In case you are wondering, yes. I was giggling myself silly.

I gave them a fizzy refreshment under the palms.

 I L-O-V-E Arizona.

Jackson claims to be imitating his brother here, but somehow I get the impression that the fist/chest pounding may be a Jackson original.

I love noisy boys.

But I'm ready for a play date with Elizabeth.

Festival of Books

This weekend is the annual Festival of Books at the U of A campus. There are vendors, authors, stories and activities and loads and loads of books.

The campus is a good drive from our house which elicited small grumblings from my young backseat passenger, but the real problem was finding parking. Oh goodness gracious me. After searching packed streets and packed parking lots for fifteen minutes the boy was ready to give it up and go home. We're never going to see the book festival, said he. I finally found a spot just a couple of blocks away, but to hear the boy complaining you would think we had been trudging across the scorching desert for days.

Nicco didn't know what to expect (neither did I, truth be told) which was good...no expectations means they can't not be met. We saw the llama from either Is Your Mama a Llama or Llama, Llama Pink Pajama and Lyle the Crocodile and Biscuit as we walked the grounds. Nicco was a bit intimidated by the big characters, but I convinced him to take a picture with Biscuit by telling him that Mrs. Cornwell wanted to see pictures of the kids with the characters they met. Anything for Mrs. Cornwell!

Nicco listened to a story while I stood in line for him to get his Stink-O-Pedia book signed by Megan McDonald, the author of the Judy and Stink Moody books. He said very timidly, "I love Stink." She thanked him and signed his book, "Stink it up, Nicco!" He saw Mrs. Cornwell while we were in the check out line buying his book. He said, "I didn't know my teacher would be here! Is this like a school?" You know how it is when you see your teachers out of context.

We walked around the booths, desperately looking for Pete the Cat. We stopped and made a story out of stamps, looked at some optical illusions, spun a prize wheel, got a couple free books (yay!) and listened to some stories from the Japanese countryside. Nicco was disappointed that he didn't see Pete the Cat anywhere and wanted to go home a half hour before the Literary Circus was due to start. He did have expectations for the circus, and I was very afraid they would not be met. There could be many interpretations for a literary circus. Literary, after all, is not the same as literal. The book fest itself could accurately be described as a literary circus.

I was relieved when we reached the circus pavilion and saw poles and flags and ropes and wires. That was an indication of some kind of circus-like performance. It turned out to be an acrobat show, which was lots of fun for my small boy and met his expectations. They got away with calling it a literary circus by having a kid in a Pinocchio costume and making random minor references to the Pinocchio story.

This is "Gerhardt the Great" as Geppedo. You remember the part where Geppedo was dangling and swinging from ropes, right? Gerhardt was quite strong, very flexible, and extremely gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

This is a Roman Ladder. That's the Blue Fairy at the top.

You also remember the part where Pinocchio trained a pink elephant, I'm sure.

Nicco was impressed and happy, and that is what counts. He wants to come back tomorrow to see the circus interpretation of Peter Pan. Somehow, I think it will be exactly the same program with costume changes. Maybe the Blue Fairy will dress as Tinkerbell.

When the circus was done, we found hot dogs for lunch and walked miles and miles and miles back to the car, twirling a Japanese country-girl parasol. Whatever. Again, the kid was happy, therefore, I was happy.

Act of Valor and Pete the Cat

A few nights ago my phone rang at 9:30 p.m. Nobody calls our house at 9:30 p.m. unless it is something of an emergency, or unless there is an especially juicy story that must be told, or unless one (or more) husband is out of town and a sister is up alone with young ones in bed, needing another sister to talk to.

The number on the caller ID was an 800 number. I silently warned the party on the other end of the line to prepare for the wrath of Tam. I answered the phone with a poison laced hello and the party on the other end asked if she was speaking to Tam-air-a. If you pronounce my name Tam-air-a, then you probably should not be calling me. Especially at 9:30 p.m. I reminded her with acid in my tone that she was calling my house at 9:30 p.m. She apologized for the late hour and said she was from Neilson (the ratings company) and they were just trying to finish up a survey in my area and how often do I go to the movies?

I not so politely informed her that we almost never go to the movies because it's all communist crap.
Do they have a box for that? my Dad wondered.

So, when there is a movie that is NOT communist crap, I eagerly attend. I like to be entertained, not insulted. Act of Valor is not communist crap. It was All-American Bad-Assery on full display, covert and overt, for two hours. Awesome. From what I've seen and read, All-American Bad Asses love it. Apparently, All-Americans love it, bad asses or not. Commie sympathizers and America haters hated it.

Here's the thing. (I'm talking to you, hollywood commies.) Americans like to see their heroes portrayed as heroes. Americans like to see their values and honor protected and defended and respected. Especially by Bad Asses. When do you think Hollywood will figure out that traditional values and American exceptionalism bring money to the box office? My guess is probably never. But I suppose that is okay, since capitalism is evil and rich people are evil, according the the commie hypocrites who permeate the movie and entertainment industry.

Anyway, I loved the bad acting of the Bad Asses in Act of Valor. Know why it was bad acting? The actors weren't actors. They were real live active duty Navy SEALs. Know why? There are no limp wristed hollywood commies who can do the things the Bad Ass SEALs can do. Only SEALs can.

If you love America, go see this movie.

In other news, we have a new favorite at our house. His name is Pete the Cat. Nicco found Pete at the book fair at his school on Tuesday. Pete is groovy and cool, and no matter what he steps in, he keeps walking along, singing his song because it's all good.

Pete the Cat is a simple story with kind of awesome artwork. It made my boy smile, and almost anything that makes my boy smile makes me smile. He read the book with me, he read it with his grandma. He went online and listened to the author read the story and sing the song. Nicco read the story again, this time mimicking Mr. Eric's tone and cadence. Mr. Eric is jazzy, hip, and soulful, so it is amusing to see my boy copying that style. And I love it.

Ever since, Nicco and I can't help ourselves. We walk along singing our song too.

If you don't have kids, buy or borrow Pete the Cat. Entertain your inner child. If you love your kids, borrow or buy Pete the Cat. If you don't love your kids, buy or borrow Pete the Cat. They'll start walking along, singing their song, and you will love them.

They're Off

Nicco and I took my parents to the airport this evening. They are on their way to Australia! When they get back, they will have visited six of the seven continents. I want to be like them when I grow up.

Nicco wanted to walk them to their gate, but we didn't park the car. He said, "This is breaking my heart!" My poor, sweet, tenderhearted boy. As we pulled onto the highway after saying our goodbyes, Nicco started to cry and said, "I just can't stop thinking about Grandma and Grandpa!" I love that he loves his family so much that it makes him cry to say goodbye.

When we got home, we were worn out. Nicco said, "When you don't go on vacation, it is tiring to drive to the airport. It's not so tiring if you get to ride on an airplane." I agree, four hours in the car is tiring. Especially without the promise of a vacation.

He'll Appreciate Me Someday

I took my parents and my kid on an adventure the other day. Nicco loves adventures. (Sarcasm)

Actually, he does love adventures, but he HATES the idea of adventures. Oh, how he moans and groans and grumbles when I tell him we are going on an adventure. I'm not sure why, but it could have something to do with the fact that if I ever get lost while driving, he tells me he feels worried that we're lost. I tell him with much enthusiasm that we are not lost, we're having an adventure. Not that it happens often. *ahem*

Anyway, we woke up on Saturday and I told him we were going to have an adventure day. (grumble grumble, murmur, curse) I took him to the Home Depot kids' workshop and he made a race car. He said that was a good adventure and asked if we could go home now. We went to Walmart and the sporting goods store instead so the Grandparents could get a couple more supplies for their Grand Adventure. They needed an underwater camera for taking pictures at the Great Barrier Reef and Grandpa needed another pair of good traveling pants.

Okay, okay, my boy said. Now can we go home? So we did. We went home, ate lunch, then packed the car with snacks to head out on our Real Adventure. There is an indian ruin that I've wanted to visit but it's kind of far away and never seemed like a legitimate day trip for just me and my boy, so the Grandparents provided a good enough reason for me to go on up. I made a plan to go to Casa Grande then take the back road and stop by the Greek Orthodox monastery in Florence on our way home.

The road to the Casa Grande national monument was well marked with big brown signs until we were about a mile away, then we didn't see a single sign. We turned down the road toward the tourism center, but it was closed due to the Cotton Days festival. Nicco got really excited when he saw the carousels and roller coasters. He was bitterly disappointed that we didn't stop at the fair. He was even more disappointed when he made a couple of backtracks and detours and found our intended destination.

Here's the Big House. It was impressive. Even Nicco said so. I've never seen an indian ruin this big before. It's amazing to see how precise their buildings and measurements were back in the day, but then again, it is kind of pathetic when you think how much more advanced the Europeans were 600 years ago.

My boy, bored, hot and tired, wandering around the compound.

Resting on his mama's lap. (See, my haircut isn't so dramatic a change. It is refreshing though, and therefore, sassy. My bangs were blown a little, and it is the bangs that make most of the sass.)

Are we getting an idea of how Nicco felt about this visit?

He did enjoy the museum a bit more than the monument itself. He's holding a Devil's Claw. Awesome!

Nicco the mule deer. He had a little trouble keeping his antler in place.

This model shows how the indians made the floors in their multi-story buildings. A row of logs topped with a layer of saguaro ribs, then something else. I forgot. Maybe the caliche mud.

Nicco was getting progressively more hot, tired, and bored, so we got back in the car to head to Florence. He was really excited when I told him we were going to stop by a church on our way home.

This isn't it.

This is it. The main gate to the Greek Orthodox Monastery. Mom and I knew that we had to wear skirts and long sleeves, but Mom's skirt was not long enough, neither were my 3/4 sleeves. And we didn't have scarves to cover our heads.

This is the main church. The grounds were so well kept and just a beautiful little oasis in the desert. The store had some of the products the monks make, like jellies and sauces and herbs, along with the other icons and tokens of their faith.

One of the pretty planters, full of colorful blooms. I love my desert, but it is nice to see color once in a while.

We arrived just as the gates were being closed to visitors, but the Father was kind enough to dress us up properly and allowed us to walk the grounds briefly, as long as we promised not to enter any buildings.


Dad said we looked like Russian babushkas, Nicco said we looked "kinda cute."

We enjoyed our visit. Well, three quarters of us enjoyed our visit. One quarter of our party called it the Worst Adventure Ever and swore he would never go on another one again. Ever. My mom told Nicco he's lucky to have a mom who takes him on outings to learn the history and culture of our region.

Someday, I think, he will look back on his childhood and agree with his Grandmother. He will remember these adventures fondly, and appreciate his super awesome mom for unplugging him and taking him out in the world to learn and discover.

Someday.

For now, he's bitter. It could be a long time before he forgives me for taking him on a long drive in the desert to look at a crumbling down house and a church out in the middle of nowhere.

Sisser Sasser Seuss

Dr. Seuss turned 108 yesterday. ("Ah jeez, Jesus is WAY older than that!")

Nicco sported his Cat in the Hat hat pretty much all day. It made him feel smart. Or something. Apparently, it helped him to do his math work. 

I thought he would choose Seuss books to read with his grandma, but he chose airplanes. I think because they are going on a big airplane ride to Australia in just a few days.

You know, even if there is not much to say about some moments, they must be documented. My kid in his Seuss hat and Mario jammies reading with his grandma must be preserved.

Signs of Spring and an Emotional Rollercoaster

We picked the remaining oranges from our tree yesterday and found this:

They are mourning doves, I think. I hope we find a quail nest somewhere too!

We also saw a promising sign on our grapefruit tree:

The branches are loaded with little buds. It didn't produce any fruit at all last year due to the freeze in the winter. It looks as though it has recovered. That makes me happy.

Another thing that makes me happy is my boy's new preferred phrase. He says "ah, jeez" at every opportune moment. And every moment is opportune. For example, "ah, jeez. I have to go potty," and "ah, jeez. There's a rock in my shoe," and "ah, jeez. Where did I put my CTR ring?" It's a new phrase and I wonder from whom he picked it up. It makes me giggle. And it reminds me of when he was just a small fry and he would say "okay" to everything. He had a sweet, high little voice as most small fries do, and his sweet, high-voiced compliance tugged at my mama-heart. I visited my big sister at Thanksgiving time when Nicco was just a year old and she smiled at his okays too and said, "someday when he's big you will think back and say 'remember when Nicco was little and used to say okay all the time?'" So now that he says "ah, jeez" all the time, I'm reminded of that little voice saying "okay." It makes me feel nostalgic.

I got a haircut today, and I feel a little sassy.

But mostly, today, I feel sad. When celebrities die, I usually just say "oh." I don't feel sad or depressed or like the world was much changed or that the world will miss much in their passing and I usually think people are weirdos for getting weepy over the death of someone who was either a) old (circle of life, people. It happens.) or b) dead as a result of the celebrity lifestyle (I find it pathetic rather than tragic. It's hardly surprising that certain choices are unhealthy. Crack heads poison themselves and die.) or c) a complete stranger! It is hard for me to feel any emotion at all about the death of a stranger, even a well known stranger whose personal life bombarded the public through the media. So I feel weird that I am saddened to the verge of tears at the news of Andrew Breitbart's passing.

He was bold, brave, a patriot and a leader. He was a pioneer and a warrior. Freedom loving patriots owe him a debt of gratitude for his work and his voice on our behalf and I hope that his friends and colleagues will carry his torch with the same courage. I think that his critics are despicable, not for criticizing or disagreeing or even hating him, but for celebrating his death. I admit, I was happy and celebrated the day the SEALs took out bin Laden, but this is hardly the same. If our Dear Leader died, I would not be sad. I would probably be shocked, but definitely not sad and even though I really do despise him, I would not revel in his passing. I think that Breitbart is our Obi Wan Kenobi. As in, "if you strike me down now, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." He built a movement that will live on, I believe, and even grow stronger with the passing of its leader.

From his speech earlier this year at CPAC,

"This is my war cry for 2012. You need to join me in this war against the institutional left. This is not your mother's Democratic Party. John Podesta, George Soros, this is not your mother's Democratic Party either... I don't care who the candidate is, and I haven't since the beginning... Ask not what the candidate can do for you; ask what you can do for the candidate. And that's what the Tea Party is. We are there to confront them on behalf of our candidate. I will march behind whoever our candidate is because if we don't, we lose. There are two paths... one is America and the other one is Occupy... Anyone that's willing to stand next to me to fight the progressive Left, I will be in that bunker. And if you're not in that bunker because you're not satisfied with this candidate, more than shame on you, you're on the other side!"

As his colleagues at the Bigs said in memoriam, "Andrew lived boldly, so that we more timid souls would dare to live freely and fully, and fight for the fragile liberty he showed us how to love."

Dare to live freely and fully.

And rest in peace, Andrew Breitbart.