A NOT-SO-MODEST PROPOSAL
Astudy recently investigated the causes of filial cannibalism, which is a fancy way of saying, "Eating your own kids." Apparently this behavior has been observed in several different areas of Kingdom Animalia, though scientists have as of yet been unable to link a single specific cause to the act itself.

Some animals, it seems, eat their kids because, pragmatically speaking, it's an easy meal. Others seem to subscribe to the idea that eating your kids makes one more attractive to members of the opposite sex. And yet a third option that has merited discussion is the concept that parents are rooting out the "inferior" offspring by consuming them. In the end, though, those studying the behavior were unable to come to any definitive conclusion as to why parents in the animal world at times eat their own young.

Well, kids, Uncle Andrew has himself a fourth idea that he thinks might just be the real reason. And yes, don't worry, I'll be sure to mention all of you when I'm accepting my Nobel Prize for this discovery.

The real reason parents eat their young, I've decided, is that they spend eight hours on a plane with them.

If I can't sit next to Andrew for six hours, I'll scream! Better yet, I'll scream anyway.

I recently had the distinctive misfortune of being on a flight from Boston to San Francisco, non-stop. Not such a bad option until you consider the children strapped into seats 15E and 15F. Their mother was in seat 15D, with yet a third urchin in her lap. The father, in what can only be called an act of supreme intelligence, was already in San Francisco, travelling sans children. And to think that there are still people out there arguing that women are smarter than men.

There we were, a plane full of California-bound passengers. The noise started off as a dull roar, punctuated periodically by apologies from the captain regarding how long it was taking to push away from the gate. The noise level from the 15th row began to intensify, but I'd managed to block it out to this point. My patience was rewarded. After two hours of de-icing delays, we got to take off. But then the fun really started. At this point in our journey, one of the aforementioned children apparently lost the ability to communicate at any decibel level below that of the typical space shuttle launch, which caused his sister to attempt to outdo his volume. All of this noise caused the lap child to scream mercilessly. Of course, all the while the mother, I think, was secretly reveling in the fact that she was able to share her own private hell with the rest of us. Six hours later, we landed in San Francisco, and it was only due to incredible self-restraint that I didn't ask the woman for her email address so that we could coordinate future travel arrangements to ensure she and I were never on the same flight ever again.

Now, when I complain about children, the typical response from the parental types out there is, "Andrew, you don't understand. You don't have children." Au contraire, mon ami. The problem is that I understand all too well. In fact, I understand so well that I don't have children. See how that works? In the non-political sense, it's a choice to have a child, yes? Ergo, it's also a choice to not have a child. And all of this points to the fact that for those of us who understand all too well and therefore don't have children shouldn't be compelled to spend time with the very thing we've chosen to not include in our lives because of the unpleasantness that they cause us.

Let me say for the record that I'm not anti-child. Case in point, plenty of children - yours truly comes to mind - are a joy to their mothers and to all with whom they come in contact. The Nantucket Independent ranks are full of well-behaved children. Shep's own kids are oftentimes better behaved than their father, but that's another column for another publication. And Mr. Dominic Costanzo is, in addition to being a slayer of bluefish, a great little guy to be around. And let's don't forget the truly important woman in the office, Ms. Liburd, who has her own pleasant offspring.

So now that we've established the fact that I'm not entirely against children, let's move forward. I'm not suggesting that people everywhere start eating their kids. That would just make life harder for the food producers of the world.

Instead, why not take them out fishing?

I wanna candy bar and I wanna lemonade and I wanna scream until Andrew's eardrums burst and I wanna go to the bathroom and I wanna get off this plane and I wanna see Daddy and I wanna segue.

Friends and neighbors, I have a confession to make. I wasn't the adorable little angel I sometimes profess to be. Of course, I had three older brothers who influenced me, so it wasn't totally my fault. But I digress. The reality is that I did have one or two times during my youth when I was deemed something of a brat. And the best way to shut me up back then - contrary to my brothers' opinion regarding masking tape - was to take me fishing.

I've heard a lot recently about how we need this and we need that on Nantucket to give kids something to do. Folks, there's a lot to do, and it doesn't require a trip to Hyannis for shopping or flights to the Caribbean for exotic vacations. Try going down to a local pond with a little fishing line, a hook and a worm. You'll get entertainment and education all in one trip. And what's more, you might even keep the kids quiet.

After all, it worked for my father.

Tight lines. I