Roughly 180 days a year, my morning ritual is the same: Roll out of bed. Put on the coffee. Pack the children's lunches.

I figure by the time my fourth child completes high school in 2015, I will have assembled approximately 9,360 sack lunches, give or take. The most complicated part? Remembering who hates mustard.

Of course, we could participate in the school lunch program, and occasionally (read: when we're out of bread), I put cash in my child's pocket rather than turkey (light mustard, no cheese) in a brown paper sack. But mostly I pack lunches because my children don't really like the food in the school cafeteria.

More important, when I pack their lunches I can at least imagine that I know what they're eating during the day, trading at the lunch table notwithstanding.

It turns out school lunches are becoming just another avenue to justify government overreach.

It's hard to say when this election got out of hand.

Some would argue it was the uproar in the Kentucky race for United States Senate, tarnished as it was with ridiculous accusations about Rand Paul's religious beliefs and a godhead called "Aqua Buddha."

In a cycle that included Christine O'Donnell's regrettable "I'm not a witch," Meg Whitman's undocumented housekeeper, Nikki Diaz crying on the shoulder of serial woman-scorned-attorney Gloria Allred, and West Virginia Gov. Joe Manchin III shredding a copy of the "cap-and-trade" bill with real bullets, there has been no shortage of memorable, if not teachable, moments.

I think the election reached its fever pitch the night we had a family dinner and my 13-year-old daughter explained to her grandparents that the problem in America is "the rent is too damn high." Unfamiliar as they were with the illustrious Jimmy McMillan, late of the New York gubernatorial contest, Amy brought my laptop to the dining room to play (yet again) the Youtube.com video of The Rent Is Too Damn High Party's mesmerizing candidate.

Too much election coverage in my house, or just a young teenager who wanted to get away with using the word "damn"? Hard to say.

Ask any man, "Tell me about yourself," and he'll describe what he does for a living. Ask a woman, and she'll tell you about her relationships.

It's a little quirk in our hard-wiring that all women will acknowledge. To wit: Michelle Obama refers to herself as America's "Mom in Chief."

It's likely that the instinct that prompts women to define ourselves by our roles — wife, mother, grandmother, daughter, sister, friend — actually was at the heart of what has become a controversial issue in the Oklahoma governor's race between a married mother and an unmarried professional woman.

Last week during a gubernatorial debate, Republican candidate and current U.S. Rep. Mary Fallin was asked to define the biggest difference between her and her opponent, Democrat and current Lt. Gov. Jari Askins.

Mrs. Fallin, who is twice married and the mother of two children by her first husband and stepmother to her current husband's four children, noted her experience as a mother raising a large family.

Miss Askins has never been married or had children. Ouch.

Ironically, I'm glad US Airways removed motivational speaker Johnnie Tuitel from his seat on a Sept. 23 flight because he was "too disabled to fly." If the airlines hadn't, most of us may never have heard of him or his inspirational message of "handicapitalism."

Here's the short version of what happened: Mr. Tuitel (sounds like "title") was scheduled to fly from West Palm Beach, Fla., to Kansas City for a speech. Because of cerebral palsy, he's wheelchair bound (and always has been), so, as usual when he flies, an airline employee helped him into his seat using a specially designed chair that fits into the aisle.

Once seated and belted and ready for the flight, Mr. Tuitel was told he had to get off the plane because he didn't have a travel companion and his disability rendered him unable to help himself in the event of an emergency. US Airways' policy requires passengers with disabilities such as his to be accompanied by someone who can assist them.

Left with no choice in the matter, Mr. Tuitel disembarked from the plane. Two days later, he flew to Kansas City on Delta Air Lines without incident, though reports say he missed his speaking gig.

So many things wrong are with this story, it's hard to know where to begin.

A week ago, the tragic suicide of Rutgers University freshman Tyler Clementi prompted me and countless other columnists to consider the rising rates of bullying among our nation's youth and young adults.

Mr. Clementi was the apparent victim of an invasion of privacy, as a fellow student reportedly used a hidden camera to stream Mr. Clementi's sexual liaison over the Internet. The humiliation of this incident led to his decision to end his life by jumping off a bridge.

The nation is reeling from this and several other recent suicides attributed to ongoing bullying and harassment. Meanwhile, news stories of more incidents of bullying are becoming as regular as the weather report.

To wit: "Delaware Teen Knocks Over Portable Toilet With Boy Inside."

This time, according to the report, a 14-year-old bully threatened a group of 7-year-olds in a Newark, Del., park until one of them, in an attempt to defuse the threats, complied with the bully's demand that he enter a portable toilet. The older boy then knocked over the toilet, leaving the younger child screaming and covered in human waste.

Reports say the bully laughed and walked away while the victim's young companions scurried to get their pal out of the unit and find help.

The marching band, the tailgate parties, the chill in the air and even fireworks when the home team scored a touchdown — all the trappings of a perfect college football game created a magical parents weekend on our daughter's university campus.

But while we mingled casually with her friends and their families, the students at Rutgers University were forced to entertain an unwelcome visitor to their campus: Grief.

Last week, Rutgers freshman Tyler Clementi learned he had been videoed without his knowledge while engaged in a gay sexual encounter in the privacy of his dorm room. Authorities say the videographers were his roommate, Dharun Ravi, and another student, Molly Wei. Mr. Ravi set up a camera in the room so that he and Miss Wei could stream the video live online, police said.

Upon learning of his exploitation, Mr. Clementi sought redress through university housing authorities but apparently was emotionally unable to accept the public humiliation to which he had been subject. His Facebook status, "Jumping off the gw bridge sorry," conveys in its brevity his helpless desperation.

Social scientists use the parable of the "floating babies" to remind us that we can't solve a problem until we know its source.

You know this story: The townspeople meet at the riverbank for a celebration when suddenly they notice a baby struggling to stay afloat in the river's rushing waters. Someone runs to save the baby; then he notices another one coming from upstream. More and more babies come rushing down the river as the people of the town quickly make a human chain to try to save the infants.

When a few townsfolk run upstream along the riverbank, someone yells, "Where are you going?"

"We're going to find out who is throwing these babies into the river and stop them!"

A new documentary, "Waiting for Superman," is posing the question: Just who is throwing an entire generation of American children into the rough and dangerous waters of public education, only to drown in a torrent of mediocrity?

The film is being criticized for pointing out that America's teachers unions too often protect incompetent educators and perpetuate a system that rewards longevity over talent. Being unions, they place the economic goals of their members over the educational needs of the children they supposedly serve. (Why does this surprise some people?)

It says something — draw your own conclusions — when the president's attendance at church makes national headlines.

There was a time when the banner, "President and family attend Sunday services" would have been akin to "President eats jelly on toast." But as we know, this president doesn't go to church much.

The cynic in me would note on my trusty calendar that Labor Day has come and gone, and thus it's officially campaign season (kind of like Lent for politicians), which explains the president's renewed interest in all things religious.

The president claims that his security requirements create a circus atmosphere in church that isn't conducive to solemnity and prayer. But it's odd that he has never mentioned pursuing a regular, logistically friendly alternative, such as hosting a home church in his private quarters at the White House.

Instead, the Obamas seem to live the typical, secular lifestyle that increasingly marks our 21st-century American culture, even among people who profess a strong religious belief.

Sundays are for sleeping in, reading a stack of newspapers, long walks with the dog, going out for brunch, playing a round of golf. It's all the stuff the Lord intends for a day of rest, without the fussy clothes and sitting still and long sermons.

Last Friday, 400 seniors at Norwin Senior High School in Irwin, Pa., thought they were attending a routine presentation on the importance of donating blood, offered by the community's Central Blood Bank.

Instead, when Assistant Principal Tim Kotch cued up the PowerPoint slides provided by an employee of Central Blood Bank, the giant screen was filled with gay porn. It gives new meaning to the term "flash drive," doesn't it?

Reports say it took somewhere between 15 and 30 seconds for the images to register in the minds of the large audience, and then for the assistant principal to pull the plug on the graphic photographs. Astonishingly, the guy from the blood bank actually took the microphone and gave his talk about donating blood, which students say they'll now never forget.

Even before I have the chance to stow my purse and kick off my sandals, my son pops into the room to ask: "What are the new rules?"

"Rules?"

"Yeah," he says. "I figured since the parent meeting at school was mandatory, they must be telling you about all sorts of new rules."

"Nope," I reassure him. "Same rules as before."

He can't imagine what administrators and parents would need to discuss if not some sort of complex rubric to define the various rings of hell one might be required to visit in the event of a behavioral lapse.

I explain that the meeting wasn't about school policy, but rather about the school's mission. "You might say it was a mission-effectiveness seminar for parents," I say.

He glazes over and then says, "Huh? Well, good night."