Mike Maddock I’m ashamed to admit it, but there's a reason I’d rather watch American Idol than Hannity and Colmes . When I’m getting ready for church (or not), I’d rather watch geese flying over Lake Wogachoba on the Sunday Morning show than John Kerry and Bill Frist duke it out on Meet the Press . I even have a reason for fishing out the sports section and chunking the rest of the daily newspaper in the garbage.

My aversion to such lofty, heavy–handed things and attraction to the simpler pleasures in life are easy to explain. I’m just too tired to save the world. I can handle putting empty milk jugs in the recycling bin if that helps the next few generations, but staying informed is exhausting and far too depressing.

I’ll take Simon Cowell berating a clueless, aspiring young singer any day over a politician with an agenda and ten minutes on the Today Show. And I’d rather mourn a five–game losing streak on the basketball court than be subjected to some editor’s opinion on property taxes and school choice. With the up to the minute barrage of mass media, it’s easy to see why people are mad, sad, or just plain tuned–out.

I don’t know the status of Sadam Hussein’s trial, but I can tell you the last four winners on American Idol . That’s not something I’m swelling with pride about, but it gives you a glimpse of what life has become for me.

Don’t get me wrong. My wife and I are well-aware of the responsibility we have undertaken raising three children in a world where the divorce rate is 67% and a show like The Osbournes can pass itself off as family entertainment. We know we have to stay somewhat informed and aware of the environment we live in. Unfortunately, the more we know, the more it scares the heck out of us.

My two girls are in their first years of elementary school and are already giving each other grief about various boys in their respective classrooms. I feel like I just got them out of diapers, and now I have to worry about love notes and candy hearts. I don’t have the time or energy to focus on the crisis in the Middle East when Skippy the eight–year–old Casanova is chasing my daughter through the monkey bars. Nothing or no one on Meet the Press can help me with that.

My son isn’t chasing girls yet, but he presents other challenges. For example, he likes to climb to the top of the Chick–fil–A playground equipment and get stuck. He also likes to let everyone within a two–mile radius know, in no uncertain terms, that he will remain stuck until I squeeze my way to the top of that hard–plastic maze to rescue him. Talking down my three–year–old son from a ten foot tower of terror while a less–than–helpful six–year–old with a runny nose and a mouthful of waffle fries tells me “the playground is not for grown–ups” is not exactly newsworthy, but it is my life.

That’s just it. Life presents enough challenges. Whether those challenges happen to be crooning little boys or boys stuck at the top of a slide, it’s tough to have the additional worry of the Alaskan Caribou or Iranian nuclear weapons. I am grateful we have people who enjoy dealing with such things, and maybe some day I’ll be one of them. But for now I’ll just keep recycling my empty milk jugs and do my best to raise three productive members of society. I may miss out on my chance to save the world, but I won’t miss my chance to save my son the next time we go for a chicken sandwich.