The right monument?

With the Bush Administration's time in office coming to a close in 2009, with less than 280 days remaining until the Constitution dictates a change at the top, I'm beginning to wonder how the United States will commemorate these last eight years. Will Bush be remembered as many other Presidents are, with his name appearing on airports, freeways and ball fields? Will he join the pantheon of those few leaders commemorated through monuments on The Mall in Washington, D.C.? Or will a fitting independent monument to the Bush Legacy be constructed elsewhere?

One California group has an idea. Called the "Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco," the group claims to be a grassroots movement that wants to memorialize the Bush Administration thusly:

As we near the end of George W Bush's presidency, we think it is important to select a fitting monument to this president's work. On matters ranging from foreign relations to fiscal and environmental stewardship, no other president in American history has accomplished so much in such a short time. To honor George W Bush for his eight years of honorable public service, the Presidential Memorial Commission of San Francisco is sponsoring a ballot initiative this November in San Francisco. It reads:

"Should the City and County of San Francisco rename the Oceanside Wastewater Treatment Facility the George W. Bush Sewage Plant?"

Now I make no secret that my views tilt to the left, and that I've never been a fan of George Bush or his policies. But I feel naming a sewage treatment plant after the 43rd President is, as a memorial, absolutely inappropriate.

The reason? Sewage treatment plants exist for one reason: to, and pardon my French, clean up shit. According to even the most basic Internet research, the Oceanside plant has been competently handling effluent and runoff from San Francisco's nearly 900 miles of sewer line without incident since it opened in the early 1990s.

Conversely, Bush has been busily creating a worldwide mess since his inauguration. And he's shown no intention of cleaning up even a single ounce of the crap he's created.

For that reason, memorializing the Bush Legacy by renaming such a competent, well-functioning facility after George Bush is simply inappropriate. It's an affront to sewage treatment plants everywhere, and as such, should not be supported.

On the other hand, I wonder if any of the three remaining Presidential candidates have considered the following: If Bush is serious about reconstructing Iraq, if his constant commentary about "encouraging democracy" and "nation building" wasn't just talkin' smack, why not secure a post-Presidential appointment as "Special Ambassador to Iraq, In Charge of Reconstruction?"

Sure, he'd have to be on-site, but if he wants to construct a better legacy among those who currently rank his Presidency somewhere between "prostate exam" and "root canal," why not? If it's too much, for such a gig I'm sure he could find a partner and work out some sort of job-sharing arrangement.

Anybody know if Dick Cheney is busy after Jan. 21?

When the values stick

So far, 2008 has been a tough year. Time-intensive transitions away from cribs and Pull-Ups have shaken the schedule, disciplinary challenges are keeping my fathering skills on the hard-line, colds and flu and strep have kept us away from the one serious illness in our extended family, and the relentless demands on time have all combined to keep me seriously off-balance.

If one thing keeps me going in these trying times, it's those things my son will say on occasion; words that can surprise, and amuse, and delight. As a bright, energetic and defiant three-and-a-half year old, he's at the point where he displays tremendous verbal abilities but near-zero judgment. Everything I tell him has to be repeated without end, and I wonder openly how many of those values I'm trying to teach him -- empathy, consideration, keeping in good humor -- are actually getting through.

So we're driving last week, and The Boy is thinking about his grandma, who's been down for the count all year with complications from heart surgery. She's been in and out of the hospital since January, receiving everything from intravenous antibiotics to morphine drips, and doesn't seem to be on her way to recovery. The one thing that seems to help her is an occasional phone conversation with The Boy, which brightens her day and gets him thinking.

"Is Grandma back in the hospital?" he asked at the end of one call.

"Yes," I told him.

"Is she healing up?" he asked.

Having no answer, I had to fudge. "Well, the doctors still don't know quite what's wrong," I told him. "The doctors are trying to figure it out, so they can help her get better."

The Boy thought for a moment. Then, as he reached his solution, The Boy's confident little smile came out.

"Grandma should go see my doctor," he pronounced proudly, sticking his index finger in the air to emphasize his point. "My doctor does a good job."

Wow, I thought. Actual empathy. Something got through.

A week later he's on the potty, straining away while I -- thanks to his demand of privacy -- monitor from some distance down the hallway. As he grunts, I wonder how long I should let it go before checking in.

He's been doing well on his potty efforts lately, though. So I decide a verbal check-in is sufficient.

"How's it going in there, Buddy?" I ask from my post down the hallway.

No answer.

"Buddy," I ask, "is everything okay in there?"

"Leave me alone, Dad," he says, taking a break and breathing hard.

"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned.

As a dad, I spend day after day trying to teach my son the ways of the world. Between lessons and repetition, discipline and love, endless discussions of right and wrong, of people and behavior, and even the occasional political primer, one never knows what's sticking and what's not.

"LEAVE ME ALONE, DAD!" he shouts. "I'm trying to push Dick Cheney out of my butt!"

When my laughter subsided, I realized something: You never know exactly when you'll hear an instilled value confirmed.