Living in Florida poses it's own problems, primarily it's a question of geography. Florida sits closer to the equator than the rest of the continental United States, which means that while every other American is enjoying a lovely spring month of May, we Floridians can't leave our homes without SPF 2000 because our state is literally two inches from the sun.

This being the case, we are required to take our children to the mall so that they can play with other children (children at outside parks typically melt before making it to the bottom of the slide.). At the mall by our house they have a small area for toddlers that is always packed with strollers. There is a special area for parking strollers outside the small play area (with a sign and everything,) but new Mom's apparently have a great fear of "stroller-jacking" and so they bring their strollers into the (did I mention...) small play area. But that's not what I really want to talk about today.

No, I want to talk about the crushing despair that must face every parent when they arrive at the playground, look around and realize, "My child is not the cutest one here." The feeling of loss in the knowledge that your mongoloid child, your tiny little Genghis Khan, is head-and-shoulders outside of the attractive gene pool when compared to others. It's enough to make me want to stop taking Sam out in public, as a show of support for all the parents who are shoved into the reality sunlight that is, my beautiful, dazzling, child. It's embarrassing, really, watching these parents play with there tiny little Morlock children, deluding themselves into believing that they stand a chance in life against the almost God-like worship that my perfect child will surely inspire as she grows older. Bow down mortals, behold the Queen of Cute, The Princess of Precious!

Poor bastards.