THOSE TO WHOM YOU GIVE LIFE GIVE IT BACK

Here's the thing they say about having children: It's unconditional love. That's part of the story. It's also unconditional confusion.

I've been a parent 17 years. Logic dictates I should know a few things about it by now. I do. Some days, though, I feel I haven't learned a thing.

The television show "The Simpsons" met with such success, I believe, not because of the bad-boy antics of Bart, which became grating in almost no time, but because of the tireless aspirations of Homer and Marge to have an idyllic family life.

The Simpson household portrays the worst, most inept moments of trying to raise children, all against the backdrop of mostly good intentions ... and we identify with the struggle.

In my previous incarnation as a columnist, I used the occasion of my daughter's birthday, which is this weekend, to file a "State of My Children" report, a self-indulgent document that year after year detailed my bafflement with fatherhood and forever provoked a community groan. I offer then the usual disclaimer: If you care not for children, or just my children, or just parental angst, don't read on.

Among the many blessings I count in my life is the fact I have three bright and healthy kids. In my own biased view, they are exceptional, having overcome the singular and significant obstacle of being my offspring.

My remark is not altogether self-deprecating, since I recognize in it enough truth to smart a bit. Witness it in a common scene at my home: A child approaches the two of us and asks my wife for permission to do something.

Hey, what am I, a statue?

Of course, what I am usually is not there. On too many occasions, as I've given my attention to career, the kids turned to their mother for authority; the rightful expression of that, while not mean-spirited, is the solicitation of her permission in my presence.

What better to bring you down to earth, being consigned to irrelevance by those you gave seed to.

Mrs. Newton suffered a downside of this, too. Enlightened as I tried to be in sharing the child-rearing duties (hey, I can be Alan Alda with the best of them), my wife changed far more diapers, gave far more baths and administered far more meals than I ever did ... it wasn't even close.

While she got them dressed and fed and to the school Christmas program on time, I was the one who breezed in from the office before the first song, applauded loudly at the end and then suggested ice cream afterwards. The lesson is unfairly taught: Mom means works, and Dad means fun. She becomes the taskmaster by necessity, and I become the guy who suggests we take a few minutes off to relax.

These convoluted roles contribute to my previous allusion to "The Simpsons" ... unlike business or athletic contests or war, parenthood finds itself ultimately dependent on having your heart in the right place. Each action need not be perfect (because it won't be, anyway), but sincerity and love are critical. If Homer and Marge and Bart and Lisa and Maggie mirror many families, it is because of what they seek, not what they achieve.

My oldest child is 17, gifted in guarded answers and elusive as anything that lives at Loch Ness. Whatever natural chemical makes teen-agers embarrass easily remains abundant in his system, which is why he gets no early reading of this piece. Prior restraint is a concern in my household, and especially worrisome now that he is taller than me.

My other son is 10, moody and curious, gleeful at one turn and brooding the next. (Where would he get such traits? It can't be the bloodline.) Unblinded by adult sensibilities, he rightfully finds puzzling those things his elders bypass as commonplace.

Walking with him to the front steps of the State Capitol last week, I pointed out the state motto carved into the stone high above the door: "Salus Populi Suprema Lex Esto."

"It means, `Let the welfare of the people be the supreme law,'" I told him. "It's Latin."

"Why didn't they just write it in English?" he asked.

I smiled, an adult's smile, and started to explain it to him ... then I realized I had no explanation. Why did they write it in Latin? How many people in Missouri speak Latin?

My daughter is soon to be seven and retains what Jackson Browne might regard, though not in this pre-pubescent form, as the "energy of the innocent." Her emotional repertoire features a retreat from mirth to pout that is startling in speed ... and she can go the other way as fast.

Consider it the age. She celebrated her sixth birthday with a group of her peers at Chuck E. Cheese, and when the star of the establishment made an appearance, he was swarmed by the group. I turned away from this frenzy and its threatened target, hoping not to witness anything that might result in litigation, but was jolted to hear a six-year-old's voice above the din saying of the restaurant's mascot, "Let him up. You're hurting him." A costumed rodent at risk from a pack of kindergartners ... it was more than I could take.

In vignettes, that is the state of my kids ... and probably the state of most kids. Family life lumbers ahead in its own imperfect way, fetching large measures of joy along with assorted moments of misfortune. Those to whom you have given life give it right back, claiming dominion in your heart and asserting in you hope for things to come.