I was woken up at about 4:30 this morning by muffled cries coming from my son Jake’s room. I grabbed the cricket bat I keep by the nightstand and rushed in, expecting to find him half out the window in the midst of an alien abduction or something. Instead, he was just sitting there, rocking back and forth on his bed, tears streaming down his face. He picked up his pillow and screamed into it and I sat down and asked him what the problem was. He just looked at me through red eyes and said – in pretty much the same voice that kid in the Sixth Sense used to tell Bruce Willis he saw dead people – Who would win in a fight – a bear with an assault rifle or shark with a hand grenade? I got up, went downstairs, poured him a glass of water, came back up and gave it to him. It’s moments like this that I’d like to comfort myself with the knowledge that he’s adopted or that Moira was unfaithful but I can’t avoid the stone cold fact that he’s mine and my genetic code runs through his DNA like a bacteria-resistant infection. “The bear,” I told him. “I worked it out in storyboard last week. I’ll show you tomorrow. Now, go to sleep. You’ve got ice skating drills in a few hours.” Armed with the solution to his dilemma, he settled in and was fast asleep as soon as he fell back onto the Adventure Time bedsheets. Yep, my boy all right. I can always recognize my particular brand of wacko.