I've heard a claim that at the instant a wee-widget screams his or her way into this troubled orb, the mommy is immediately flooded with a collection of happy hormones that allegedly dulls the memory of what she just went through.

Since I have never been female or pregnant, I can't say categorically if that is true, but I have to admit it makes sense to me. If every woman who ever gave birth retained a bright awareness of each oh-my-gosh associated with the process, I fear the long-term future of the species would be in doubt.

I began to ponder the concept of chemically induced parental forgetfulness during a recent family celebration that had nine of my beloved grandwidgets rampaging around Casa Aylworth III.



Let me say for the record I have the greatest, most intelligent, wonderful and odor-free 15 -- yes, I said 15 -- grandchildren on the planet. However, on this particular Tuesday even I was wondering -- briefly -- if I could trade them in on a cute box full of kittens.

Shrieks that could etch glass echoed off the walls. Our nonidentical twin felines, Koi and Kola, dove for cover under anything too small to admit a 2-year-old. The dog, Pirate, didn't know whether to join the passing horde or run for cover.

I was sitting on the couch and my first thought was to bellow a "Be QUIET!" at the passing parade. Then I realized the effort was both hopeless and unwarranted. In the first place, there was no chance in creation that I could scream loud enough to be heard over the herd.

I also didn't want this collection of beloved small people to think that Grandpa was the biggest grump "ever!"

On top of that the four parents of the rampaging horde were in the same room and seemed utterly unaware that a buffalo stampede had just broken out in my living room.

That got me thinking about how the world had been back in the olden days where the resident smalls were mine.

Admittedly there never was a time when nine kids under 9 shared Casa Aylworth with me and my dear bride, the saintly Susan, but we did have seven wildly active and loud kids.

I'm sure that there were times when the mob that called me Dad was more than loud enough to shake windows half a mile away and awaken any dead who happened to be lying around. Even so, I don't remember any auditory eruptions like the grandwidget commotion exploding in front of me.

I recall the "bedroom brawls," intramural free-for-alls conducted in a dark bedroom when cheerful fratricide was all part of the "joy?" of brotherhood, and "massive fumble recovery" when the brothers would throw a football on what passed for our front lawn, then fought for the ball as if it was pure gold. But the rock-concert noise level is not part of my memory.

Maybe we dads get our postpartum hormonal infusion when the kids move away and generate widgets of their own. Maybe that is when we begin to see the baby world in the golden hues of joyous perfection, more like we wanted it to be than it ever could have been.