Less than a year after my wife’s funeral I was confronted with the most terrible realities of being a widower¹ with five children.

Notes from school.

Field-trip permission slips, PTA election ballots², Troll Book order forms, sports sign-ups, medical forms and innumerable academic progress reports -- an onslaught of paperwork courtesy of the educational bureaucracy.

This “literature” has to be read and signed, or placed at the bottom of the birdcage. Regardless of its destination it must be dealt with on a daily basis.

One day, eight-year-old Rachel was helping³ me complete five (count ’em, five) emergency treatment forms for school. She would fill in the generic⁴ information (name, address, phone number), and I would add the rest (insurance numbers, doctor’s name, date, signature). After signing the forms, I checked them for accuracy. It was then that I noticed on each card, in the slot beside Mother’s Business Phone, Rachel had written “1-800-HEAVEN."