Little Things

Kyra tied her shoes all by herself this morning. Both of them. And I wasn't even badgering her about it. Just told her to put her shoes on. She usually puts them on, tightens the laces, then waits for me to finish the job. "You're going to have to learn to do this on your own someday," I chide. She just sighs and rolls her eyes.

But not today.

Today she put her shoes on while I brushed her hair, making life difficult for me as her little body bobbed and weaved, little hands navigating shoes on little feet. I usually tell her to knock it off, to wait until I'm done brushing, that it's hard to hit a moving target. But today I didn't. Don't know why. It seemed like an eternity for her to get those shoes on, but I soon discovered why. She raised her head enough for me to see her imperfectly tied right shoe. "Is it tight enough for you?" I asked. She pulled on the shoe, testing it, then nodded. Then she went to work on the left one.

I watched her as she worked. Bunny ear, bunny ear, around the tree and through the hole. My critical instincts screamed at me...the bunny ears are too small...the ends are too long...she'll never have enough slack to go for the double knot...and I even reached out to give her a hand. Twice. But each time, for some unknown reason, I told my critical inner being to suck it and leave her alone. Instead, I chose to listen to that other, smaller, wiser voice that said, Let her do it herself. I wish I did that more often. Because the payoff was huge.

"Daddy, I tied both of my shoes! All by myself!"

Her face beamed with pride and amazement and wonder, which made me want to hug her and cuddle her and never let my baby girl go. Never let her go. But I have to, little by little. She needs to learn how to do things on her own, in her own way. That can be a tough parenting pill to swallow. I released her from my bear hug and she skipped through the door wearing shoes with the bunny ears just barely peeking through the double knots and the long ends of her shoelaces flapping freely in the breeze. Not how I would have done it. But that's OK.

Really. It's OK.

Don't Blame Me

There's a nasty little rumor circulating around our household that I'm directly responsible for some of the girls' unladylike behavior. OK, OK...for ALL of their unladylike behavior. I think that's unfair. Just because I'm the only male in the house doesn't automatically make me a bad influence. That hurts my feelings. What hurts even more is the accusation that I am the one who "taught" my girls how to belch and fart. This needs be cleared up straightaway.

First of all, belching and farting are natural biological functions. The body needs some method to dispose of gaseous deposits within the stomach and intestines, thus, the belch and the fart. Some people choose to deal with the discomfort of those gaseous deposits and hold them in, people like, hmmmm, my wife for instance. Others, like me, choose to be comfortable, releasing those deposits with great regularity. As long as I'm in the comfort of my own home and there's no odoriferous accompaniment, I don't see what the problem is. So what it really comes down to is a matter of preference.

Now to address this business of "teaching". I have never, ever, sat down with either of the girls to discuss the proper form, posture, or technique for the maximization of bodily eruptions. It's not like I stop Kailey after she emits a breathy belch to offer instruction:

"No, no, no...come here. It needs to be crisp. You're limiting yourself by using just your throat. You need to utilize your whole torso. Tilt your head forward slightly and push from the diaphragm. Now try again."

Nor do I pull Kyra aside and whisper in her ear, "OK, watch and learn while I sneak up on Mommy and rip one on her head."

I would never, ever do that, primarily because Diane would kill me. I'm not that stupid. The girls have mastered this behavior, indeed taking it to the next level, entirely on their own. Kailey taught herself to swallow air and then shake the foundations of the house with her belches. And Kyra prides herself in snuggling up in my lap and wooing me into a false sense of security before unleashing anal fury on my leg. Each eruption is followed by fist pumps and whoops of wild laughter. And they have not learned this from me.

Do I discourage such behavior? No way. In fact, this is better than I ever could have imagined it, much less planned. See, my kids don't listen to me when I try to teach them things. They blow me off. They sigh. Loudly. They roll their eyes like they know everything in the world at the ripe old ages of 7 and 9. So the fact that they have taken enough interest in something to want to perfect it to an art form makes me beam with pride (and snicker). It's just too bad that they can't make a living as body eruption artists.

Or get a date.

My non-plan is complete.

Along Came A Spider

We were in the process of getting the girls ready for school yesterday morning when a blood-curdling scream erupted from Kyra's bedroom followed by the worst words in the English language, "THERE'S A SPIDER IN MY BED!!"

Spiders.

I HATE spiders. The way Indiana Jones hates snakes.

Arizona has tons of spiders. They're huge too. I've even had the pleasure of being visited by a tarantula...right in our guest bedroom. Oh sure, Mr. Tarantula, make yourself right at home whilst I introduce you to the bottom side of Mr. Flip Flop. It wasn't a big tarantula, only about four inches long (legs included), but still, a four inch spider in your house is no laughing matter. I didn't sleep for weeks after that one. Now that we've been in Arizona for about five years, I'm getting used to disposing of spiders around the house. I don't freak out near as much as I used to, but I still don't like it.

Diane and I rushed into Kyra's room (Diane first, thank God) and we began prodding through the pile of covers on the floor. Kyra was making her bed, and for her that process means pulling all the covers off the bed, then replacing them. That's when she found the spider on the top sheet. She reported that it was black, about an inch long, and fast. Gives me the wiggles just thinking about it. Diane and I took turns grabbing sheets and blankets and shaking them out, but to no avail. The little sucker was nowhere to be found.

"It's OK, Sweetie," Diane comforted. "Daddy will wash your sheets and vacuum your room. He'll find it."

I shot her a look that said, "Thanks alot." I didn't know when all this was going to happen since I was already slated to spend the day volunteering at Kailey's third grade luau, but since Diane promised, I now needed to make the time. Besides, the thought of a spider in my little girl's bed, potentially feasting on her was now pissing me off, and I wanted it dead.

After school the girls went down to a friends house to play, and I decided that it was time to go spider-hunting, roughly eight hours after it was originally discovered. I really didn't expect to find anything, but thought I'd give Kyra's room a good cleaning anyway (as though that would repel spiders). I stripped her bed and threw her sheets in the wash, then returned to start picking up a bit. Kyra has about a million stuffed animals that should go on her bed but spend most of their time on the floor, one of which is a massive stuffed horse, big enough for her to lay on. I picked it up to toss it on the bed when I saw a tiny black blur scurrying like hell from under it toward the bookcase/headboard of Kyra's bed.

DON'T LET IT GET BEHIND THERE, I screamed to myself, grabbing the first thing I could find, a roll of wrapping paper, to relieve the spider of its life. Why there was a roll of wrapping paper in Kyra's room is beyond me. Just another indicator that her room was in dire need of cleaning. But I was so glad it was there. The spider slipped into the four-inch gap between Kyra's headboard and dresser and was resting up against the wall. To miss meant that it would retreat behind either one. I measured my blow and struck. And watched as the little bastard slipped behind the headboard. FOUR LETTERED EXPLETIVE THAT RHYMES WITH TRUCK!!

Now Kyra's bed is not easy to move. The base of the bed is one big wooden storage unit with several compartments that happen to be loaded with, what else, books. That unit backs into the headboard which is a bookcase. Why, oh why do we encourage our girls to read? I dropped my wrapping paper weapon and tugged at the bed. It wouldn't budge. So I ran over to the storage compartments and heaved handfulls of books out onto the floor until I was able to move the bed. I pulled the bed out about two feet, then worked on the bookcase. This spider is long gone, I thought to myself, but after pulling the bookcase out about six inches and peering behind it, there he was. Thank God spiders are stupid. But at this moment I was seriously pondering which one of us was stupider. I picked up my trusty wrapping paper roll and once again measured my blow. If you miss, don't, DO NOT, let him go to his right and get behind the dresser. I struck. I missed. He ran behind the dresser. SON OF A FIVE LET...oh, you get the idea.

I pulled the dresser out, which was considerably easier than the bed/bookcase combo, and I now had plenty of room to operate. I also found tons of lost stuff: scrunchies, missing pieced to games, puzzles, toys, etc. Against the wall lay an unused tissue. I picked it up and there he was with nowhere to hide. This time I struck and the wrapping paper found its mark (notice I didn't use the tissue? wuss). I crushed the sucker, then used the tissue to clean up its carcass. Yes, I am bad ass. I then spent the next hour cleaning up my mess. Kyra's room has never been so clean.

And that spider? It was only about a half-inch long.

You Wouldn't Like Her When She's Angry

After Kailey's first outing as a pitcher, I knew that if she wanted to pitch with any regularity she was going to need to practice...a lot. And I also knew that I was going to need to carve out some more time to practice with her. So yesterday we made a quick trip out to Sports Authority so I could replace my softball glove that somebody "misplaced", a.k.a. "lost" (you know who you are), and then returned home where we proceeded to break my new glove in. I got a pretty sweet deal, BTW. After a 25% off coupon and finding a glove on sale for another 20% off, I got an $80 glove for $48. You can check the math.

In the girls' softball league, the distance from the pointy tip of home plate to the pitcher's rubber is 32 feet. That's a long way for an 8 or 9 year-old to throw a softball, underhand, with any sort of velocity on it, or accuracy for that matter. It takes a lot of practice. The good thing about pitching in softball is that, though it doesn't seem like it, the underhand motion of pitching a softball is more natural than the overhand pitching of a baseball. Baseball pitchers require several days to rest their pitching arms after an outing. Not so with softball pitchers. They can pitch day after day after day. And that's a good thing in a sport that requires an endless amount of practice to hone the technique and skills to become a pitcher. The only thing is, they have to want it, bad. So we're about to see how much Kailey wants to become a pitcher.

We headed out to the back yard and started warming up. She started with a Karate Kid looking drill called "The Flamingo" where she stood on one leg, pointed her gloved hand at me, and rested her hand with the ball on top of her head. It was quite amusing. In one fluid motion, she stepped toward me, pushing off of that back foot and simultaneously swinging her arm down and flipping the ball to me. Steeeee-rike! Of course we started this drill at about 20 feet and moved back a couple feet every five pitches or so. By the time she got back to 32 feet, she was all over the place. Then she started losing focus and screwing around.

This is where it becomes tricky for me. I'm not naturally one of those super-testosterone-infused sports dads, but when the girls start messing around when I feel they need to be focusing on the task at hand, I can feel my temperature start to rise. When I told Kailey to stop being silly and to focus, she got mad at me and wanted to quit. When I told her she couldn't quit, she started coming up with excuses: her tummy hurt, she was hungry, she had to go to the bathroom. I'd had it. Like Dr. Bruce Banner morphing into the Incredible Hulk, my transformation into bastard sports dad was complete. "Listen," I told her, "you are going to throw twenty more pitches. If I hear any more complaining out of you, you're gonna throw twenty more. Got it?"

Kailey glared at me. She was pissed. This exercise that was meant to be fun had become anything but. She wound up and let the ball fly. Ssssssssssss....crack. Right over the plate. Right into my glove, stinging my hand. It was as beautiful a pitch I've ever seen a nine year-old deliver. "That's it, Kailey! Again!" She was still mad, and delivered the same stinging pitch. Steeeeeeeee-rike! At this point, after seeing she had delivered two beautiful strikes in a row, Kailey's mood changed. I could almost see the switch being flipped inside her head. She dialed in, delivering three more beautiful pitches in a row. She was now having fun and so was I, and she probably ended up pitching around 35-40 more balls. She kept throwing strikes and I kept saying, "Good! Again!" until she finally asked if we could be done. I was thankful that we ended a potentially catastrophic practice session on a good note.

All of this has left me evaluating my role as a parent. Ultimately I want my girls to have fun in any activity they choose to participate in, but I also feel that in certain instances that I, as a parent, need to become a sort of co-keeper of their dreams, knowing when to push them and when to back off. I have no doubt that the girls will be able to do anything they want to do in life, but I would be doing them a disservice if I just let them wander through life with no focus or determination. I just don't want to become too overbearing in the process. If Kailey really wants to become a good pitcher, I feel like I need to embrace that as well because I know what it's going to take for her to get there: lots of practice and lots of repetition, even when she doesn't feel like doing it at that very moment. And if after putting in the work Kailey decides that pitching is not for her, I'm cool with that. We'll move on to something else.

For now, one thing's for sure. The next time Kailey pitches in a game, I'm going to get her nice and pissed at me, because when Kailey pitches angry, she's lights out.

Anatomy 101

I like to think of myself as someone who can adapt easily to change (stop laughing, Hon), which is a good thing or else I'd be going stark raving mad, especially at work. I'm open for new systems, techniques, routines, etc. as long as they make sense, make the job easier, or guard against a full system blackout. The same goes for the girls' education. I'm less interested in how they learn than that they learn. I learned in a system where there was a teacher, a blackboard, and a group of desks. We sat and the teacher taught and some of us learned and some of us didn't and those that learned made fun of those that didn't. Simple as that. Any questions?

Now I'm sure that today's educational system is, by and large, fairly similar to the one that I grew up with. There are still teachers and blackboards and desks, though they all have evolved over the years. The teachers sometimes wear jeans and are accompanied by teacher's aides, the blackboards are green, and desks, at least in the girls' classes, don't face forward, but are grouped together so that students are facing each other! HERESY! All this is to say that over time, research has shown that different people learn in different ways, and today's educational system has evolved to employ new pedagogies and teaching methods in order to maximize the learning potential of each student.

I've always embraced a "learning should be fun" philosophy, and I do what I can to contribute to the girls' educational development. I'd like to say that I created this fun exercise for the purpose of expanding the girls' knowledge, but in reality it started as something more puerile. It's a little game I like to call "Do This Or I'll Kick You In The _______." It's not that difficult of a game, but I'll try to explain it to the best of my ability.

I usually begin the game with a statement like this: "Hey Kailey, pick up your toys in the family room or I'll kick you in the throat."

She'll laugh then retort, "Oh yeah, well I'll kick you in the butt!" (Their first two responses are usually "butt" or "pee pee", which are infinitely hilarious to 7 and 8 year-olds...OK, me too.)

I'll kick it up a notch as we go back and forth, with offerings such as "spleen", "esophagus", or "medulla oblongata". They'll get a puzzled look on their faces and ask "What's that?" which I take as an educational opportunity to show them the different components of their anatomy. It's pure genius in my humble opinion. The girls will be in class one day where they're discussing the pituitary gland and they'll be able to yawn and say, "Yeah, I know all about that. My Dad threatened to kick me there the other night." But sometimes my little game backfires.

The other night Kyra and I were volleying over cleaning off the table when I threatened to kick her in the "Eustachian tubes". When I explained to her that they were canals that connected her ears to her throat, she freaked. "Mommy!" she cried as she ran from the room. "Daddy said he was going to kick me in the EUSTACHIAN TUBES!"

She might not appreciate it now, but in fifteen years, when she's breezing through medical school, she'll thank me.

Exercise Your Creativity Somewhere Else, Please

I've been tweaking the girls' bedtime routine lately and I thought I'd finally come across something that, for now at least, had the desired calming effect on them. I used to tell them stories about my childhood and sing them a song, but there are only so many childhood stories I can remember. And the pressure was always on because the stories had to be "funny". I'd finish a story and the girls would either be cackling with laughter, the opposite effect I'm trying to achieve at bedtime, or they'd stare at me blankly before giving me the bad news, "Dad, that wasn't funny." Then they'd whine and beg and plead for another, funnier, story. So for now, stories are out.

A few weeks ago I began writing words, one letter at a time (duh, that's how you usually write 'em), on Kailey's back. I'd write a letter and she'd guess what it was until she could decipher the message, usually in the vain of close your eyes and go to sleep or there will be hell to pay, but sweeter. One night Kailey asked me to draw a picture on her back.

"Ummm, OK. What do you want me to draw?"

"A unicorn chasing a butterfly."

She'd been thinking about that one for awhile. Now if she had asked me to draw that on paper, there would've been no frickin' way. I'd try, of course, but it would most likely elicit a response not dissimilar to my unfunny bedtime stories. But she didn't. She wanted me to draw on her back with my index finger, which is magic, by the way, and that night I created the most breathtaking unicorn and butterfly in the history of unicorns and butterflies. Rembrandt's jaw would have dropped in awe. Picasso would have shat. And Michaelangelo would have put down his brushes and walked away. It was that good. And the best part of all? It practically put her to sleep!

Each night we've been mixing it up, from back messages (not to be confused with back massages), to back drawing, to face tracing, where we, yes, trace each others' faces. Last night was face tracing night, and Kailey wanted me to go beyond the normal face trace and push the limits of my face tracing creativity. So I made her a clown. I traced all of her facial features the way I normally do, then added a big red smiley face to to match the big red nose. I gave her those high, arching eyebrows and freckles, a flowing curly pink wig, and topped it all off with a green bow tie. Voilà!

Kailey asked if she could have a turn. Who am I to turn down a good face trace. So she sat up and went to work immediately on my eyes, giving me those long, luxurious lashes that most women would kill for. She rouged my cheeks, lipsticked my lips, and for the pièce de résistance, gave me two humongous, sagging breasts followed by two tiny nipples. Then she collapsed in a fit of riotous laughter. I just grinned and shook my head.

"What? I was just being creative!"

Looks like I'm back to the drawing board on that bedtime routine.

Smile...You're On Candid Camera!

Kailey has recently cycled back into her clothing tirades, and it's really irritating. She had been doing so well in the past few months, but all of a sudden she's gotten very picky as to what she will and won't wear. I have no idea where she gets this from (shut up, Mom...any comments from you on this subject will result in banishment from seeing your grandchildren). A couple of weeks ago it all came to a head.

She picked a pair of jeans out that she has worn a million times before and decided she didn't like them any more. Why? In Kailey's words, "It teases me!" I have come to hate these three words more than any other three word combo in the English language. The two things that it communicates is that 1.) Kailey is somehow uncomfortable in that particular garment and 2.) if you don't remove it from her body RIGHT FRICKIN' NOW, you're going to have a meltdown of Biblical proportions on your hands, and no amount of patient reasoning or attempts to talk her down is going to stop it.

Well, I still tried. "How is it teasing you?" I asked, using every last ounce of patience available to keep my cool.

"They're too tight around here," she said as she pointed to her waist.

Just as I thought. She's growing. Kid's jeans have those little elastic bands that run through the waistbands. Each end of the elastic band has a series of button holes that can be used to tighten or loosen the waistband depending on where you secure the buttons sewn on the inside of the jeans. Kailey's a skinny kid. We have to button the elastic band on roughly the seventh button hole on each side just to keep her pants from sliding off. I figured it was time to readjust her jeans so she could once again enjoy circulation to the lower half of her body.

I tried to explain this to her but she would have none of it. She wanted them off. NOW. So she threw herself onto the floor and started kicking her legs like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. And that's seriously what it's like, because I'm standing there thinking this is not my daughter, and I'm frustrated and pissed because she's acting like a two year old. So in my frustration I blurted, "Kailey, if you could only see how ridiculous you look right now..."

Light bulb.

I turned and walked into our bedroom, grabbed the video camera off of the dresser, and popped out the viewfinder. I then calmly walked back to Kailey's position on the floor. The camera caught her attention. "What are you going to do with that?"

"I'm going to show you how ridiculous you look throwing a fit over a pair of jeans."

"Is it on?"

"Not right now, but if you don't straighten up right now, I'm gonna roll."

Problem. Solved.

The threat of the camera worked several times since then, until Saturday. Kailey had two meltdowns, one over putting on her own socks, and she finally called my bluff. I had two choices: I could either record one of her tantrums or put those threats to bed forever. The thought that recording one of her tantrums could make things worse actually had crossed my mind, but since she called my bluff I felt I had no other option. So I rolled.

I so wanted to post the ensuing footage, but thought that Kailey would never forgive me. Her performance made Linda Blair in the Exorcist look like Pee Wee's Playhouse (scary in its own right). Her voice changed, she threw stuffed animals and feces (kidding), slammed her door, and proceeded to inform me of the various ways she was going to bring me bodily harm. I guess I asked for it.

Later, after she had calmed down, put on her socks, and returned to her normal, sweet self, she asked me what I was going to do with the tape. My gut response was "You Tube", but thought that she had been through the wringer enough for one day. "We're going to sit down and watch it, just you and me, because I want you to see how crazy you got over a pair of socks. Then I'll record over it and it will be gone forever."

"OK."

Yeah, well, we haven't gotten around to watching that quality footage just yet. I'll forget it's there, only to discover it twenty years from now, when it will become an instrumental breakthrough in Kailey's therapy sessions as it sheds light onto just how badly I screwed her up. May as well send me the bill now.

Hiding the Salami

Time to add one more thing to my growing list of concerns regarding raising daughters. Actually, this has been on my list for quite some time, but I was hoping that it was just a phase and that the girls would grow out of it. No such luck. This one has me scared out of my mind and I don't quite know what to do. How do I put this in a way that doesn't sound really bad? I don't think there is one, so here it goes: it seems as though my daughters have an infatuation with seeing male genitalia, and more specifically, my genitalia. I'm completely freaked.

They enjoy playing a game I call "I Saw Your Pee-Pee" where they burst into the bathroom whenever I'm taking a shower or going to the bathroom. I do my best to cover myself, but they still cackle "I SAW YOUR PEE-PEE!" before fleeing the room. This is disturbing on so many levels, not least of which is having your manhood called a "pee-pee". OK, so maybe the water to the shower was still a little nippy when I stepped in. Cut me some slack! Having a female, regardless of age, point at your package and laugh is never a good thing.

Even more disturbing is the fact that one look doesn't send them running for the hills screaming at the top of their lungs and clawing at their eyes. This is the desired response, at least from my point of view. I want them completely disgusted by the mere thought of the opposite sex's member.

Lately I've been ascribing to the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy. I lock the door while going to the bathroom or taking a shower hoping against hope that if they don't have access to see "it", then they'll forget about "it". I don't think it's working...my philosophy, I mean. This morning I forgot to lock the bathroom door while taking my shower, and in burst Kailey to tell me something about her socks not fitting right. I immediately covered myself and huddled into the corner of the shower. "Does it look like I'm in any position to help you with your socks?" I asked over my shoulder.

"No."

"So where do you think you should go to get new socks?"

"To my drawer?"

"Exactly."

"OK." She turned and started to close the door behind her, then turned back and added, "I saw your pee-pee."

I spent the rest of my shower beating my forehead against the tiled wall. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if she had told me she saw my one-eyed Gila Monster, but I doubt it.

Still Steaming

"Dad? Daddy? Da-ad?"

It was Kailey. It was also 7:00 in the morning. On Saturday. During Christmas vacation. And this was the second time she had burst through my bedroom door with what she considered important information. She first interrupted my sleep to show me her freshly manicured fingernails and toenails, a reward from Diane for her dramatically improved report card. I am proud of her and might have been able to better show it at, say, 8 am. I somehow passed it off, she skipped out of the room, and I drifted back to sleep. Now she was back with Kyra in tow.

"Wha..." I managed from the depths of my pillow.

"Where is it?" asked Kyra to no one in particular.

"Daddy, where's our iron (pronounced eye-run)?" Kailey asked as she crawled across the bed.

"I have no idea," I answered, suddenly much more awake.

"Here it is!" added Kyra. Diane must have used it before going to work that morning.

"Dad, did you know that an eye-run can actually burn your clothes!" Kailey informed me, wide-eyed.

I just stared at her. Who are you, what did you do to my beautiful daughter, and why are you bothering me?

"Yeah, there's this thing that makes steam and you hang your clothes on this hook and it has this little, like, hose where the steam comes out and you put it on your clothes and the wrinkles come right out and it doesn't even burn your clothes!"

"Yeah, it's called a steamer," I informed her with much less enthusiasm.

"A TOBY steamer!" chimed Kyra from the peanut gallery.

"Yeah, a Toby steamer."

"How much television have you girls been watching this morning, and why are you watching infomercials?" I asked.

"I don't know," they replied in unison.

"What's an infomercial?" asked Kyra.

"It's a long show about stupid things like Toby steamers."

"Oh."

"Ummm...you said stupid."

At this point, the fatherly thing to do would have been to bite the bullet and get out of bed. But seeing as how I'm less than fatherly, I did the next best thing. "Why don't you girls turn off the TV and go play in your rooms."

"OK." And they fled the room.

I fluffed my pillow and flipped it over to the cold side, but the damage had been done. I lay there, wide awake, for several minutes before finally giving up and getting up.

Stupid Toby steamer. I'd better not be getting one for Christmas.

Another Fleet-ing Moment?

Hopefully...and hopefully not.

Kyra has been complaining of stomach pains the past couple of weeks. Combine that with the acid reflux that she regularly experiences and refers to as "heart pain", and it hasn't been a very fun time. We took her into the doctor Wednesday morning where we were informed that she could feel another "blockage" in Kyra's tummy. Yes, I said another. Not good news. Diane then took Kyra to get an X-ray of her stomach to see the extent of the back-up.

The first blockage happened a couple of years ago, and it was bad. So bad that Kyra was throwing up, getting dehydrated and not pooping at all. After several calls to the pediatrician, one of her nurses finally called us back with instructions. Diane was at work and I was the poor sap to receive her sadistic marching orders. "Yes, we're going to have you go ahead and give her a Fleet Home Enema and we'll see if that clears her out." Her delivery was monotone and matter of fact, as though she were telling me to do something as simple as showering, shaving, or clipping my toenails. I didn't even know what a Fleet Home Enema was.

"...a wha...what was that again?" I stammered.

"A Fleet. Home. Enema."

That's what I thought she said. "And can I get this at Walgreen's?"

"Yes."

And do you do house calls?

There are some things that you should never, ever have to do to your child. The Fleet Home Enema is one of those things. There are also life situations that reveal a depth of love that you never thought you could experience, a depth of love that empowers you to do things you never thought you could do, things like changing disgusting diapers, rinsing out puke-filled sheets, and giving Fleet Home Enemas. I took my bowel-bound 4 year-old to Walgreen's and picked up the treatment in the seemingly harmless green box. We returned home where I read the instructions, one thousand times.

When I felt sufficiently informed (notice I didn't say "comfortable"), I gathered Krya into the bathroom and gave her the lowdown. "OK Sweetie, this is going to help you go potty." I walked her through the procedure and told her that she was going to feel a lot of pressure and that she was going to want to poop. Really bad. "We're going to wait one minute before pooping," I said. "The longer it stays in, the more effective it will be and the more the poop will come out." Or so I thought.

At this point, if I were Kyra I'd be running for the hills. I thought that she would start to throw a tantrum, but she had no idea what I was saying to her, no frame of reference to let her know that the poop chute was a one-way exit only. She trusted me and simply replied with an "OK Daddy", and I felt terrible about the rude awakening she was about to experience.

I applied the enema and she freaked. It was the worst I have ever felt as a father because I was causing my child this discomfort. She screamed the whole time, but allowed me to empty the bottle and then sat on the toilet for that whole minute before letting loose. She was a complete trooper (a pooper-trooper, if you will) and though I felt horrible about inflicting this torture on my child, I felt equally proud of her.

The enema, however, didn't even scratch the surface of the behemoth that dwelt inside of her intestines. We had to do another enema, and when that didn't work, we had to delve into the realm of prescription stool softeners before Kyra was finally able to pass the obstruction. "Get the poop out" became our daily mantra where we encouraged Kyra to sit on the potty longer than her normal ten seconds. "Otherwise we'll have to go to the store to get another home en-e-ma." Talk about motivation to take a crap. Kyra would do well to take a page out her old man's manual of bowel movement etiquette: grab your book or the sports page and have a seat for some quality throne-time.

We have yet to hear back from the pediatrician on the results of the X-ray. She ran through possible treatment options where the #1 priority was getting Kyra cleaned out. She only mentioned using Merilax, an over-the-counter laxative, in that process, but in the back of my mind I have this strange feeling that we'll be getting a call from the nurse suggesting a parallel home-treatment.

I originally thought that the makers of the Fleet Home Enema merely had a good sense of humor branding their product "Fleet" which means "swift", or "to pass quickly" if you use the term "fleeting", because, really, that's what you need to do, pass quickly. But I did a little research and found out that C. B. Fleet was a man who built a bowel-cleansing empire! Talk about destiny. At any rate, all of us want this situation to pass quickly, with or without the home enema.

I, Chaperone

Today, I was the coolest dad in the world. OK, I was one of about five of the coolest dads in the world as a chaperone to Kailey's 3rd grade field trip to the University of Arizona Museum of Art and Center for Creative Photography. I was surprised (and relieved) by how many dads there were on the trip. I think there were more dad chaperones than mom chaperones. To art exhibits. Go figure.

I was actually looking forward to this field trip. I'm no connoisseur of art and photography, but I do enjoy browsing the galleries, amazed by some artists' works, bored by others'. The real question today was would these galleries hold the attention of a bunch of 8 year-olds? And my challenge was understanding that I wasn't going for my personal gratification and fulfillment, but to supervise a group of 8 year-olds and then, hopefully, to experience some of that fulfillment on the side.

The kids did surprisingly well. And the museum curators have done this enough to know the quicker, the better. The tours went faster than I would have liked, but today wasn't about me. I had four chargees to look after, including Kailey, and they were all fun and well-behaved. Our group started in the Center for Creative Photography. They directed us upstairs where they had pulled a series of prints from their vault, four of which were original Ansel Adams' (the only name I recognized). We were then herded downstairs to the gallery where the kids were given a guided tour and were asked several questions about the works and photography in general.

The phrase "there's always one in every group" definitely rang true today. One kid had all of the adults shooting glances and snickering at each other. He was the "know-it-all", the kid who constantly had his hand up, the kid who had the answer to every question, the kid who threw in a little historical context for extra flavor, the kid who made everyone else in the room feel like morons. At one point I turned to Kailey's teacher and said, "I'll bet this one keeps you on your toes."

She smiled and informed me that Captain Know-It-All was a fifth grader who was a part of the art club also on the field trip. "I had him in my class, though," she added with a smirk. "And the memories are now rushing back."

We finished the tour and waited out in the lobby for a few minutes before going to eat our sack lunches. There was a gift area in the lobby and the kids in my group asked if they could go look at the postcards. I agreed. Postcards at a photography gallery? Big mistake. It's probably the guy in me, but I saw it first, rotating around the corner as Kailey turned the display rack. A nude. A nasty, little too lifelike nude. All of a sudden, life down-shifted into slow motion.

"Oh my gyosh! Hey guys! Look at THIS!" she exclaimed.

"Nooooooooo!" I cried in my head as I launched my body toward the kiosk. But my body couldn't seem to move quick enough. I could see it now, forever banned from field trips as the chaperone who allowed his kids to view gallery porn. Thankfully the boys weren't old enough to "appreciate" that kind of art. They scrunched up their noses, critiqued the work with an "EWWWW", and moved on to better things. I finally got there after shaking the cement blocks off my feet and quietly spun the display away from young eyes while redirecting them out the door to lunch. Disaster averted. For now.

The Art Museum was very cool and I was surprised by how many quality pieces were on display there. The kids seemed to enjoy it too. The experience would have been perfect had it not been for the Museum Nazi roaming the second floor and randomly barking reminders to "STAY BEHIND THE BLUE LINE". This woman was seriously pissing me off. Now I realize that some of these works are priceless pieces of art. But the kids had been given guidelines and there were plenty of parents around to enforce them. And we did. I had to remind a couple of the kids to get back, but they weren't being disobedient. They were legitimately interested in the artwork, the color, the detail of the pieces and just wanted a closer look. I just politely asked them to stay behind the line, and they did. That's all it took. This woman is prowling around with a scowl on her face and scaring the crap out of the kids. It was completely unnecessary.

At one point, I was keeping an eye on a couple of kids who had wandered away from the rest of the group to look at paintings on the other side of the room. They weren't goofing off or hurting anything, just looking. So I let them. Museum Nazi suddenly appeared in the room, scowl in place, looking for trouble. She saw the stray kids, then saw me. Our eyes met and I shot her a defiant look that said, yeah, I know they're not with the group...so what? Or at least that's what I meant it to say. I don't know whether she got that message, but she did turn and leave the room without a tantrum. Chalk up a moral victory for me.

Everyone had a good time despite the nasty nude and the Museum Nazi, and I'm glad that I had a chance to finally accompany Kailey on a field trip. It's something that I've wanted to do for a while, and I think she appreciated it. She's growing up so fast and I know that I need to take full advantage of those opportunities as long as she still wants me around, as long as it's still cool to hang out with your friends and your dad. Those days are numbered and rapidly counting down. Hopefully no one will find out about the nude and I'll be invited to chaperone again.

Quitters Never Win...

One afternoon a couple of weeks ago, I was helping Kailey with her homework. Like probably most kids her age, Kailey has good days of doing her homework and lazy days. Fortunately, she has more good days than lazy ones. But when the lazy ones hit, they are doozies. She is usually overly tired and the homework seems to require a little more thought than your average, run of the mill addition or subtraction worksheets. I'll try to ask her questions that will prompt more thought about the question, when what she really wants is for me to just give her the answer. When I continue to ask her questions, she breaks down. "Da-ad. I can't do it...it's too hard!"

This is where the pep talk comes in, where I tell her that she can do it and that she just needs to work a little harder and not give up so easily. We were at this point on that afternoon two weeks ago. Kailey usually settles down and settles in after the pep talk, but not on this particular afternoon. After at least two additional failed pep talks, out of frustration I blurted, "C'mon Kailey, don't be a quitter!"

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. I don't want to be the type of dad who categorizes his children into camps of "winners", "losers", or "quitters". I do, however, want to raise two girls who work hard and don't give up in any of their endeavors in life, who don't feel like they are entitled to anything but will strive to achieve their life goals and dreams. And it starts with the simple things, like putting in the extra effort on difficult homework assignments. But right then I felt like the world's biggest jerk. And a hypocrite.

I took a deep breath to apologize, but before I could do it, Kailey blindsided me with a question: "Were you ever a quitter, Daddy?" Her question was completely sincere, but it staggered me nonetheless. It was as if, at that very moment, she could see into the most vulnerable, fleshy underbelly of my soul and was prodding at it's most tender spots. My gut reaction was to put up my defenses and deny it, to portray myself as a pillar of strength. If her question had been posed with even a hint of malice, that's probably what I would have done. But it wasn't. It was a question from a curious 8 year-old who wanted an honest answer to an honest question.

I took another cleansing breath, sat down next to Kailey and confessed that, yes, I had had moments in my life where I had not given my best effort or had given up altogether, and that they were moments that I was not proud of. I told her that one of the reasons I wanted her to learn to work hard and never give up is so she might not experience similar regrets in her life. And I told her that as long as I knew she gave her best effort in anything she did, I would be proud of her. I don't know whether or not she fully grasped what I was trying to explain to her, but she seemed content with my answer, and we proceeded to work through her homework with no further issues. It was a precious few moments where I was, once again, disarmed and humbled by my oldest daughter.

I know that I won't be able to fully protect my girls from failure and regret. In some ways, they are unavoidable experiences that help form character. But I also know that they will become stronger women if they can learn to work through those times of adversity rather than avoid them, come up short, or bail out completely. The saying goes, "It's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game." That's where Diane and I come in as parents, to teach the girls how to play this game of life, the good times and the bad. And if they need a dad to lean on a little bit to help them get through the rough times, I'll be here.

Dirt

Last night we let Kyra play games on the Disney Princesses website, but apparently that wasn't all she was doing. We found this letter laying on the kitchen table later that night:


At first I was amused. He he. Kyra calling Hope's brother a "cumeplanr" is the pot calling the kettle "black". Kyra is the queen of cumeplaning, not to be dethroned anytime in the near or distant future. Although it sounds like he might give her a run for her money.

As I read on, my amusement was replaced by guilt mixed with a dash of horror. A hoosg crush on a coot boy named Wyatt? I suddenly felt like I was invading her privacy, but, hey, she left the paper right there on the kitchen table for the world to see. It's not like I removed her personal diary from under her mattress and broke the lock on it to violate her personal space. But it's weird for me, as a Dad, to hear (or in this case, read) my youngest daughter express her emotions over a boy. I guess I should get used to it. I know Wyatt, and yes, he is coot. He's also a very nice boy, so my feathers weren't horribly ruffled.

Then it occurred to me, this is dirt. I can use this for personal gain! Or at least for manipulative purposes. And she can't even deny it! It's all right here in pink and white! And a Grinch-like smile crept across my face. Oh yes, this could work out quite well...

"Hey Kyra, go clean your room or I'll tell Wyatt you think he's coo-oot!"

"Oh, you don't think you need to listen to me? Well I think your entire class would find it very interesting to discover that you have a hoosg crush on a certain bo-oy."

This one's my personal favorite, and I've already used it. "Hey Kyra, you remember when you said Hope's brother was a cumeplanr? Yeah, you're sounding a lot like him right now." I used that this morning on the way to school, and for the first time in her short life, I rendered Kyra speechless. Utterly. Speechless. Maybe digging into her personal stuff isn't such a bad idea after all?

Party On?

As a parent, you hate situations like this. You want your child to be well-liked, to have lots of friends, to not be the last one picked in gym class, to have their birthday parties well-attended.

Kyra's birthday is this weekend and we're celebrating it on Sunday afternoon. Several weeks ago when we were planning the party, we posed the question to Kyra: "Do you want to have your party on Thanksgiving weekend so that your Nana and Aunt Debbie can come, or do you want to have it the week after Thanksgiving so that more of your friends can come?" We then tried to explain to her and prepare her for a potential low-friend turnout should she choose a Thanksgiving weekend party because a lot of her friends could be out of town visiting family. "That's OK," she conceded. "I really want Nana and Aunt Debbie there."

Fair enough. I figured she'd probably have a handfull of kids show up, but none of us were prepared for this. As of today, no one has RSVP'd. I feel terrible. And pissed. Part of me wants to go on a tirade for this terrible injustice. And part of me just wants to cry. Kyra has such a sensitive soul that she will be absolutely crushed if nobody shows up on Sunday afternoon. And I don't want to see that happen. I realize that it is a holiday weekend, but I can't believe that NOT ONE KID is available to come. I mean whenever Kyra comes home with a birthday invitation, it's all she thinks and talks about. She's so excited about going to ANYONE's party. I can't believe it's not the same with the other kids in her class.

So I am dreading Sunday. I think I'll take evasive action on Sunday morning and start canvassing the surrounding neighborhood for kids. I'll buy and wrap gifts for them to bring, just so there's no expense on their part. And hell, I'll even invite and feed their parents just so they don't think I'm some predator-freak who's trying to have my way with their kids. I'll do just about anything to try to make this party special for my baby girl. Then, for the rest of the year, Kyra will attend each and every birthday party she's invited to, sans-present, as repayment of being stood up by the rest of her classmates. Yes, I am a little bitter.

Disturbing "Developments"

It's taken me nearly a week to summon the nerve to write this post. You see, I grew up with a younger brother. We did "boy" stuff: foraged through the woods surrounding our house, made forts, played "guns", rode our bikes at kamikaze speeds down ridiculously steep hills, wrestled, farted on each other's heads...you know, boy stuff. Being the older brother, I knew what it was like to defend a sibling. The only two fist fights I ever had in my life were on account of my brother's mouth. It got him into trouble, and I went 1-1 trying to bail him out. But that's what boys do. It was all I ever knew growing up. I was ill-prepared to become the father of two daughters.

Diane and I and were married right out of college after five years of dating. Yes, we were high school sweethearts, though, technically we didn't start dating until after Diane graduated. We shelved any form of birth control at around the fifth year of our marriage when we decided it was time to start a family. At that point I knew I wanted boys, or at least a boy, with whom I could mold and shape and engage in activities that display all of that father/son testosterone-laden bravado...like farting on each other's heads. But weeks stretched into months into years with no results. Diane wasn't getting pregnant and we were both starting to worry. Most of our friends were starting families and would inevitably ask us, now nearly into our eighth year of marriage, "So, when are you going to have a baby?"

"Well, we're working on it," I wanted to say. "But so far it seems like I might be shooting blanks. Thanks for asking!" Of course I didn't say this. We'd just smile politely and shrug our shoulders. At this point it didn't matter to me whether we had a boy or a girl. I just wanted to be a dad.

Diane and I were just about to the point of seeing a fertility specialist when one day she walked into our apartment and pulled a home pregnancy test out of a Walgreen's bag. "Really?" I asked, and Diane nodded. She peed on the stick, set it down on the vanity, and we waited nervously on the bed. Positive. We were going to be parents. I guess I wasn't shooting blanks after all! It was one of the happiest days of my life.

"It's a little girl!" the obstetrician confirmed several weeks later. I broke out into a cold sweat. In the weeks following the positive pregnancy test I had regressed from I'll-be-thankful-to-have-a-child mode to I-really-want-a-boy mode. Or maybe I'm-scared-to-death-to-have-a-girl mode is more accurate. I immediately conducted a mental inventory of all the girls I dated, kissed, or otherwise tried to take advantage of during my pubescent years (thankfully, a short list), and I immediately repented of any wrong-doing, as if it might help the current situation. I was going to have a daughter. And the fact that nearly every guy we told responded with a varying version of "better get yourself a bat/shotgun/weapons of excruciating torture" didn't help the situation either.

All that crap flew right out the window after Kailey was born. She was the most beautiful baby in the history of babies, as far as I was concerned, and she had me hook, line, and sinker from the get-go. Kyra was born 20 months later (so much for shooting blanks...why the hell did it take so long the first time?), and I was resigned to the fact that I would be the father of daughters and that I wasn't going to worry about those teen years. We'd cross that bridge when we got to it.

It seems that bridge is a lot closer than I'd like it. Last week, on Halloween night, we had just gotten home from trick-or-treating and the girls were in the process of taking their baths. I was sitting in the living room chatting with Diane's folks and handing out candy to the last of the trick-or-treaters when Diane walked into the room. "Kailey just walked up to me and said, 'Mommy, my chest really hurts!'" I didn't think anything of it and just attributed her comment to the list of daily ailments that seem to afflict the girls. But I noticed Diane and her Mom grinning while exchanging a knowing look.

"Well, they say that girls are developing earlier these days," her Mom replied.

"I don't remember them hurting so much as itching, though they were a little sensitive, I guess," said Diane.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. My mouth about hit the floor. Are we talking about what I THINK we're talking about? What the HELL! They must have seen the horror on my face. "She's eight," I gasped. It was all I could muster.

"Yeah, they say that girls are developing earlier," my mother-in-law repeated.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. They who? Who are these "they" people because I'd like to have a word.

"She's EIGHT!" I grunted.

"Haven't you noticed," said Diane. "The past month they've been...swollen?"

Oh, Dear Lord in Heaven Above, I could not believe we were having this conversation. But sadly, I had noticed.

"Yes, but, but I guess I just figured we just needed to cut down on the afternoon snacks," I stammered.

"Honey, you don't gain weight in your boobs!"

"You did."

It's amazing how two seemingly simple, harmless words can have such a devastating effect. Note to all men, which is really a no-brainer, never, and I mean NEVER, make any mention of weight gain to your spouse, boobs or otherwise.

"Only because I was having YOUR babies!"

My mother-in-law rescued me by turning the conversation to the scientific reasons surrounding early development in young girls, but I really couldn't tell you what she said. My head was swimming with the inevitable: puberty was coming and it had blind-sided me. I think I would have been more mentally prepared for this if she were 10. But she's only 8. And I am freaking out. Since Christmas is just around the corner, I'm going to start on my Christmas list. Top three items? Baseball bat, shot gun, weapons of excruciating torture.

I Guess It's Just Not the Same

Getting the girls out of bed has been much easier the past couple of days with "Sexy" Rex the dog around. To make a long story short, I simply "release the hound". He launches himself from the holding cell of the family room, literally beating a path down the narrow hallway toward the girl's rooms with his spastic and potentially lethal wagging tail. Moments later the girls are startled awake from their slumber with cries of "Awwww, Rex!" What usually takes me 5 to 10 minutes, Rex accomplishes in 10 seconds.

So this morning, I decided to give it a try. My alarm went off at 6:00. I hit snooze once then got up and made my way into Kyra's room where I dropped to all fours and sidled up to her bed. Then I stuck my nose right into her ear and started sniffling like a dog. Never have I seen one's facial expressions change from joyful expectation to repulsive hatred so quickly.

"DA-AD! YOU'RE NOT REX! AND YOU WOKE ME UP!"

"Well, that was the idea. Did you think that I was Rex?"

"NO. Rex does it like THIS!" She shot up, stuck her nose in my ear, and performed her doggy-sniffling impersonation, pretty much EXACTLY like I had just done.

"No, I think it's more like THIS!" I countered, sniffling back. And there we were sniffling each other's heads back and forth like a couple of dogs at 6:10 in the morning. All of our commotion woke Kailey up, so she was expecting me. When I snuck up to her and started sniffling in her ear, she smacked me in the head. They SO don't appreciate me. But what I lacked in appreciation I made up for in effectiveness: the girls were out of bed in a minute, quicker than my fastest time, but still slower than Rex. I guess I'll have to leave the wake-up routine to the dog.

Coming to a Head

Kailey and I had a rough day yesterday. She was in one of her crazy, manic, non-listening moods that no amount of time-outs seem to cure. In fact, she acted as though time-out was a big joke which put me over the edge. "Does it LOOK like I'm joking?" I lashed out with veins bulging from my forehead. That alone was probably worth a laugh, but Kailey wisely shook her head "no". This situation repeated at least three times last night. I'd repeatedly tell her to do something or not to do something, each time going unheeded. I was mad and things seemed to snowball from there as I started taking her disobedience personally. Almost every word I spoke to her from there on out was cross. And when Diane got home from her trip, I washed my hands of the situation. "Welcome home, Hon. Here's your girls. Have fun."

This morning, Kailey took over where she left off from last night. The girls can't be in the same bathroom to brush their teeth without some sort of altercation, even though we have a double vanity. So I usually give them very specific instructions on who makes their bed and who brushes their teeth. This morning was no different, yet Kailey decided to do her own thing and brush her teeth while Kyra was already in the bathroom. A fight broke out and I nearly lost my mind. I sent Kailey to her room to make her bed, then I retreated to the family room to count to ten before placing my hands on my child.

Kailey came in shortly thereafter and she was hot. "Why are you mad?" I asked.

"Because you are always angry at me," she fumed.

It was like a slap across the face. I don't want either of my girls to have the impression of me as an angry father. I coaxed her over to me and sat her down on my lap. I told her that I didn't like yelling at her and apologized if I had hurt her feelings. But I also explained that I would discipline her when she did something wrong or didn't listen to me, both of which she had been doing a lot of in the past 24 hours. I gave her a hug and told her I loved her, and asked her to work harder on her listening.

I did the right thing in making sure we were OK before she went to school, but the whole situation still lingers in my head. Lately I feel like I spend more time fuming about the girls' behavior than I do just enjoying my time with them. I don't know why that is, but I know that I don't like it.

I think part of it is battling the feeling of being rushed all the time. We're constantly moving or getting ready to go to the next thing: tutoring, gymnastics, softball, etc. Throw in homework, dinner, and the bedtime routine, and there's not much family time leftover. But that's just family life these days, and I don't want to spend the little time I have with the girls blowing my top because they are acting like maniacs as I try to corral them from activity to activity. I guess I'll just consider this an opportunity to step back and reflect upon what kind of father I really want to be.

A Tale of Three Dinners

Diane is in smoldering southern California for her company's annual Holiday Meetings. Her folks are in Illinois visiting their son. I'm at home "batching it" with the girls and my in-law's dog, Rex. I guess that's not technically "batching it", as bachelor's are not usually charged with the responsibility of childcare, but I tried to make the most of it.

Last night the girls had softball practice. It doesn't matter how early I start the process of getting them ready for practice, we ALWAYS end up rushing to get there on time. Their practice is at 6:00, so I started the dinner routine at 4:30. The girls wanted spaghetti leftovers. Great! That's easy enough! I popped two plates in the microwave, steamed some veggies, and PRESTO! Dinner for two. I'd had leftovers for lunch, so I decided to focus on getting this gravy train on its tracks so we could get to practice on time.

I looked down at Rex's bowl and it was still full of food. I had picked him up from my in-law's earlier and brought him and that full bowl of food back to our place. He hadn't eaten all day. I decided to give him a fresh bowl of food because, seriously, who would want to eat anything that had been sitting out for twelve hours? So I mixed half a can of dog food with a cup of Ol' Roy dry, and VOILA! Dinner fit for a king! "Here you go sexy-Rexy," I gushed as I set the bowl down in front of him. He sniffed it for a second, turned up his nose, and walked away. Well if he starves, it's not my fault, I thought.

The girls finished their dinner, changed clothes, peed, and we headed out to practice. We got there right at 6:00. I guess I need to start dinner at 4:00. After practice, it was baths and bedtime. I gave the girls their final hugs and kisses goodnight, then returned to kitchen. Time for my dinner. I opened the fridge and stood staring. What do I feel like tonight? Nothing jumped out at me, so I opened the freezer door. There staring me right in the face was a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Now that's what a bachelor would eat for dinner! So I grabbed the pint and a spoon and plopped down into the big comfy chair that I usually share with Diane.

I downed about a third of the pint before finally coming to my senses. I can't eat this whole thing for dinner! So I put the pint back in the freezer and looked for something else to eat. Since I had already checked out the fridge and freezer, I turned to the pantry. Hmmm...what looks good...POPCORN...AND BEER. Popcorn and beer...works for me! I chucked a bag of Orville Redenbacher into the microwave and popped the top off a bottle of Red Hook ESB. Now THAT'S dinner fit for a king. I looked down at Rex's bowl. Still full. He hadn't touched it.

I had just settled back into the chair when the phone rang. It was Diane checking in from California. We were filling each other in on the happenings of our days when I told her about Rex's apparent hunger strike. "Oh, didn't Mom tell you?" she asked. "You have to put his food in the microwave for one minute or he won't eat it."

Are you frickin' kidding me? I looked at the dog laying in the middle of the floor, then to his bowl, then back at the dog. He sat up wondering what was going on. "You mean I have to nuke his food or this high maintenance animal won't touch it?"

"Yep. I can't believe Mom didn't tell you that."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered as I got up from the chair and put the bowl of dog food into the microwave. Rex's ears perked up as I closed the door and hit the express cook button. A minute later I placed the bowl of piping-hot dog food at Rex's feet. He devoured the whole bowl of food. It's amazing what people do for their pets. I returned to my chair and finished my beer and popcorn meal as well. And both of us went to bed, satisfied.

The End

The Answer to Everything

Kyra is an inquisitive soul. Kailey, not so much. Kyra has a hunger for learning and wants to know ev-er-y-thing. Her favorite follow up question is "Why?", with "How come?" as a close second. Her hunger for knowledge is a constant reminder of just how much I DON'T know about stuff in general, and most of the time that I attempt to give thorough answers to her barrage of questioning I end up sounding like a complete moron. For example, here's a question from this afternoon:

"Daddy, are there trees that touch the sky?"

OK, immediately I am doomed from the start. What exactly does she mean by "touch the sky"? These are the type of things I need to filter from the get-go in order to give a thoughtful, semi-intelligent answer. Oh, and I'm driving. Being a man means that multitasking is not my forte. "We-ell, there are these trees that are called Redwoods. They're really big, tall, big trees that go way up into the sky. I think they're the tallest trees in the world. There's a forest of them in California. Did I mention that they were big?"

"Do they 'touch the sky?'"

"Y-yeah...I guess so."

pregnant pause

"Maybe you should Google it."

She's six. And I'd be lying if I told you that it didn't hurt a little bit to have a six year-old tell you to Google something in order to come up with a satisfactory answer to her questions. What's worse is this has become Kyra's default response to ANY of my answers. I've heard "Maybe you should Google it" no fewer than a half-a-dozen times in the past 24 hours. I'm telling you, my confidence is shot! Never have I felt so much pressure to give a satisfying answer to a little kid. Telling me to Google something is the equivalent of saying, "Daddy, you're so full of crap that I need to pull up my boots!"

I wanted to say something like, "Oh yeah? Well if you're so smart why don't YOU Google 'Trees that touch the sky' and see what kind of 'satisfactory' answers YOU find. And don't you pull that but-Daddy-I'm-just-learning-to-read baloney on me either." But being the semi-mature adult that I am, I refrained. Instead, I Googled "Trees that touch the sky" just to see what brilliant material I would find. Suffice it to say that I'm quite satisfied with my big, tall Redwood tree answer. Perhaps one day Kyra will come to appreciate my brilliance. Or perhaps her teenage perception of her father as an idiot set in a little early.

And the Oscar Goes To...

I've heard it said that if a shark stops swimming, it will die. There are some days that I believe the same of Kyra's mouth: that if it stops moving, she too will perish. This is why I sometimes affectionately refer to her as Mouth. She doesn't like my little pet name, so I use it sparingly. To say that Mouth has a flair for the dramatic is the understatement of the century...and last century. Mouth has an answer, explanation, excuse, complaint, gripe, scapegoat for EV-ER-Y-THING. Mouth always wants the last word and fights like hell for it. One day I hope that her appreciation for the arts and her fondness of many, many, many words pays off for her, perhaps in the form of a Pulitzer Prize or an Academy Award or at least president of the damn debate club, because I'd hate to think that I've been put through years of endless verbal-Olympic-babble-jousting for nothing.

Those of you readers who have never met Kyra probably think that I am being cruel to write about my baby girl this way. Those of you who HAVE met her are laughing your asses off. We are not parents who wear rose-colored glasses when it comes to our kids. We know from years of butt-wiping that their crap DOES stink. At our recent parent-teacher conference, we found out that Kyra is doing great in school. She is incredibly bright and is testing at the top of her class. But when we asked her teacher how Kyra was doing in the "drama queen" department and getting along with the other kids, her teacher replied, "Oh, you're aware of that?" She was relieved that she didn't have to "break the news" to us that Kyra could be a little overly sensitive when it came to dealing with the other kids. Yeah. We kind of figured that out. I've stopped asking her how her day at school was because her answer is always, "Horrible, so-and-so stuck their tongue out at me, or so-and-so looked at me weird." Even as I write, at 10:02, Diane is attending to Kyra, who can't go to sleep because she has "aches and pains" in her head, chest, back and feet.

Yesterday, I tried to get the girls to help me out by cleaning their rooms. Kailey jumped right to the task, no questions asked. Kyra pouted. I decided to take a different tack. "Let's all work on our rooms and when Mommy comes home we'll surprise her with how clean our rooms are!" For a second I thought she was going to take the bait. But then the tears started to flow. "What's wrong? Don't you want to surprise Mommy?" I asked.

"It's not that." Kyra cried. "I'm just sad because you and Mommy go out on a date for your anniversary and you don't take me and Kailey and we can't decorate the house for you and we can't celebrate your anniversary with you. I just wish you would let us decorate for your anniversary."

The tears gushed down her cheeks as she stood there sobbing.

"But, Sweetie, our anniversary was TWO MONTHS ago."

"I know and you didn't even let us decorate for you. You just dropped us off alone with Grammy and Papa and didn't even let us be a part of your anniversary."

Harder sobbing.

"But what does that have anything to do with CLEANING YOUR ROOM."

"I just wanted to decorate for your anniver..."

"OK, OK, OK, OK, OK...I promise that I'll let you decorate the whole freakin' house on our next anniversary if you'll just settle down and go CLEAN YOUR ROOM."

And the next two hours were filled with explanations, excuses, complaints, gripes, and scapegoats as to why she couldn't clean her room. My earnest prayer is that this is just a phase that she will soon grow out of. Otherwise I pity the fool who has to listen to this crap for the rest of his life. Eighteen years is about all I am legally required to take.