Bucket-Trained

Puke patrol is one of the downsides and necessary evils of parenthood. Kids get sick. Kids hurl. They need to be comforted. And someone to clean up the mess. That's where I come in. I have traditionally been the one to mop up, sop up, and rinse out the barf, because if I didn't do it for the girls, I'd be cleaning up double barf doses after Diane hurled from smelling the hurl. Yay me.

When kids are young, they have no concept of rushing to the bathroom when they're sick. If you're fortunate enough, they'll at least notify you that their tummy's aren't feeling too good, giving you the opportunity to rush them to the can. In the middle of the night? Forget it. You're alerted by their wails after the fact. You rush into their rooms to find their pajamas, sheets, comforters, stuffed animals, walls, and anything else within range soaked with barf. Once you get everything cleaned up and changed, you set out a bucket and put your child back to bed with these specific instructions: "OK, if you feel the need to throw up again, go to the bathroom. If you can't make it to the bathroom, I am placing this bucket (show them the bucket) right next to your bed (show them the placement of the bucket). Please, please, please, please, oh please use it." And an hour later you're changing the sheets again.

This week I think we experienced a major breakthrough in the area of nighttime puke cleanup. Diane had gone to bed and I was up putzing around when Kailey walked out to the family room with tears in her eyes. "Daddy, my tummy hurts," she cried. I escorted her to the bathroom where I asked her if she felt like she had to puke or just go to the bathroom. She said the latter, so I evacuated the premises while she did her business. She felt better afterwards, so I tucked her back in bed before getting ready for bed myself. I was brushing my teeth when I heard all hell breaking loose.

"AHHHHHH! I DON'T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS ANYMORE!"

I rushed out of our bathroom and into the girls' to find Kailey hunched over the bowl and Diane violently rubbing her back and willing herself not to join her at the bowl. Kailey was in full freak-out mode, cursing heaven and earth and everything in between. "WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!! retch. I HATE PUKING!!! cough, cough, sputter. I WANT THIS TO BE OVER RIGHT NOW!!"

She finished up and Diane got her back to bed, puke free, while I went to fish the bucket out of the garage. I returned to her room and gave her the bucket spiel, fully expecting to be rinsing out sheets in the not-too-distant future. I went to bed and, despite my anxiety of impending puke patrol, fell quickly to sleep. I was awakened an hour later.

"AHHHHHHH!"

I shot out of bed and ran into Kailey's room where I found her sitting up in bed clutching the bucket to her chest. I grabbed the bucket and guided her into the bathroom, and she finished emptying out the contents of her stomach. To my amazement (and slight disgust), Kailey had used the bucket. Rinsing out a bucket is SO MUCH EASIER than rinsing out sheets. For the first time ever, we escaped a nighttime barf-o-rama without having to change the sheets, something I consider a major accomplishment. And for once I'm GLAD my girls are growing up.

Cold Turkey

Last weekend, Diane called me at work with some news: "Guess what? Kailey just gave up her blankie."

"Really?"

"Yup. I just finished putting her to bed when she walked out and told me she was too old for her blankie. So she folded it up, put it in the linen closet, and went back to bed."

My heart sank and I literally had to fight back the tears. It was another indication that my baby girl was growing up. While I'm proud of her maturity and the way she came to the decision on her own, there's a part of me that has a hard time letting go.

I knew this was coming. Diane has been prepping Kailey for this moment for months. "OK, when your birthday comes, Kailey, it's time to give up the blankie because nine year-olds don't have blankies." What's the big deal? I thought. It's not like she carried it around with her everywhere she went, holding it to her head and sucking her thumb. She just used it at bedtime and in the mornings when she got up. And besides, even Diane has a "blankie"...she likes to sleep with a quilt that her grandmother made. So I told Kailey, "You just tell Mommy that you'll give up your blankie when she gives up hers."

I'm not sure what it was about this particular blankie. Like most babies, Kailey had about one million blankies in which we used to swaddle her, then cover her at nighttime as she got older. But this was the blankie that she became attached to, the chosen one. Perhaps she liked the green and white checkerboard pattern on the one side, but more than likely she was attracted to the cute farm animals on the other: tiny chicks, lambs, and cows in a varying pattern. This was her blankie, the blankie that became the subject of nightly pre-bedtime searches for the past nine years, the blankie that calmed her fears and accompanied her into deep, peaceful sleep night after night.

Well Kailey's 9th birthday came and went. Diane reminded her of her position on blankies and nine year-olds (while I rolled my eyes), but didn't force her to get rid of it. A week later, it was neatly folded and lovingly deposited with care in the hall linen closet. Something in her mind just clicked and she decided she didn't need it anymore, that Mommy was right: she was nine and too old for blankies. And I know what's coming. Soon she'll be too old for stuffed animals, too old for dollies, and too old for Barbie's, each graduation bringing with it a fresh wave of bitter-sweet pride where we celebrate Kailey's transitions into womanhood while mourning the loss of her childhood.

The other night I went into Kailey's room to check on her before retiring for the evening, and I was happy to find her snuggling with her blankie. She had retrieved it from the closet and told Diane that she thought she needed it for "just one more night". And I think that's OK. It's hard to quit anything cold turkey. She slept with it that night then returned it to the linen closet, this time pushing it way to the back where it has stayed ever since. Until this morning. I retrieved it to wash it, perhaps for one final time before it becomes yet another artifact of Kailey's childhood. I'll wash it, then return it to the back of the closet. That way, if Kailey has one of those nights where she feels she needs a little help, it will be there waiting for her.

That Makes Two of Us

In light of recent developments, Diane bought Kailey a pack of supportive camisoles during their post Hannah Montana concert shopping trip in Phoenix. For those of you clueless Dad's of daughters out there, I'm going to try to walk you through this as best as I can. I don't want anyone out there getting blindsided like I was. A supportive camisole, or "cami", as Diane likes to call them, is basically a tight-fitting tank top with extra, you know, support. Diane's going to totally laugh at me for calling it a "supportive cami", but that's what it is! The cami with a listening ear. OK, moving on.

Kailey was initially excited because a girl in her class was already wearing one. "Yeah, I can feel the straps of it under her shirt when I put my hand on her shoulder," Kailey explained to Diane. Why she's putting her hand on her classmate's shoulder is beyond me. Maybe Kailey's just trying to be supportive. Any excitement over her new cami evaporated the moment she tried it on in the dressing room.

A little background to describe Kailey's style preferences...let's just say she's a little particular, with a dash of mental, when it comes to her clothes. We once went through an eight month stretch last year when every time Kailey put on a shirt, she would reach both arms straight up into the air like a bandit caught robbing a bank. If her belly showed while she "reached for the sky", she absolutely would not wear the shirt. We had to buy her shirts that draped down over her knees just to be safe. And it's not just shirts. We carefully monitor Kailey's expressions as she gets dressed in case an intervention is needed. She gets this look on her face when her mind is not agreeing with the fit of the clothing. Then she freaks.

"It teases me! It teases me!"

This, we have since decided, is Kailey's way of saying, "Mother, Father, this garment that you have chosen for my attire is fitting me in a most displeasureable way and I am currently quite vexed." We then go through a sophisticated process of Q & A before taking action: how is it teasing her, can it be adjusted, stretched out, tucked in, rolled over, or cut, or do we just simply need to start over? It's pretty aggravating.

Diane noticed "the look" on Kailey's face moments after she put on the new cami and quickly intervened. It helped being in a public dressing room which kept Kailey's ensuing conniption at a minimum. Diane calmly explained to her that she was growing up and that though the cami was uncomfortable, it was something she was going to have to learn to deal with because she would be wearing something like it for the rest of her natural born life. She then explained that it would be uncomfortable for a few days, then she would get used to it and it wouldn't bother her any more.

And then something amazing happened: Kailey was OK with it! Just like that, excitement over supportive cami-wearing was restored! Doing her best Brandi Chastain at the World Cup impersonation, Kailey ripped off her shirt to reveal her new cami to her Papa as soon as they got home. "Look what I got, Papa!"

"Oh, yeah...nice!" he politely responded, not really knowing what was going on.

She proudly wore it the rest of the day, no problem. I think she even slept in it. But then we let her take Sunday and Monday off.

Big. Frickin'. Mistake.

We reached DEFCON 1 in a matter of seconds yesterday morning while getting dressed for school. And nothing was working to get Kailey's mind off of the tight-fitting cami. Diane reprised her eloquent dressing room speech. Bomb. I used Jedi mind tricks ("You WILL wear the cami..."). Bomb. Threats of loss of TV and treats. Didn't care. I finally decided that I just needed to get her out the door because the only thing that was going to get her mind off the cami was being in public. Nobody wants their classmates to see them having a total meltdown. It worked. She was a little pouty in the van, but the worst of the storm was over.

All throughout her tirade, Kailey kept crying, "I don't want to grow up! I don't want to grow up!" And though I was currently annoyed at her tantrum, I later couldn't help but think, "Neither do I, Sweetie. Neither do I." But I could do without the hissy fits.

This morning Kailey still met the cami with a little resistance, but it was brief, maybe reaching DEFCON 4. And hopefully tomorrow cami-tantrums will be a thing of the past, another step in the journey of growing up.

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.

Oh, There's Need To Fear, All Right

Yesterday was the first Friday I've had off in a long time, as well as the first evening I've had alone with the girls without some sort of extra curricular activity to attend. I've been putting in a lot of overtime at work covering a co-worker's vacation and haven't seen much of the girls in the past couple of weeks. Diane was working late, so I decided to have a daddy-daughters date night where we would do dinner and a movie. The movie of choice for the evening: Underdog. Kyra lobbied hard for Bratz, but finally conceded to seeing Underdog after I explained to her that it would be a cold day in hell before I EVER saw the Bratz movie. She pouted for a bit, but seemed to perk up when I asked her if she wanted to stay home or go out for date night.

"Date night?" she asked. "Is that where we go out and you teach us about what we're supposed to do on a date?"

"Uhhhh...I suppose." I laughed. I hadn't really thought about that, but it made sense. Why shouldn't I, as a father, teach my daughters about what they should expect and what they shouldn't tolerate on a date. Granted, they're still about eight years away from the dating scene (oh please, dear Lord), but I guess it's never too soon to start.

Kailey didn't want any part of it. "I am NOT going out on a date with my DA-AD," she protested. "We're just going to go see a movie!"

Fair enough. So Kyra and I went on a daddy-daughter date and Kailey tagged along for the ride. Kyra was hilarious, holding my hand, giving me several spontaneous hugs, and frequently asking, "Is this what YOU used to do on your dates with Mommy?" Kailey kept her distance and looked at us like we were a couple of freaks.

Since we left the house a little late, I decided we'd see the movie first and then catch a bite to eat. To tie us over, I splurged for the $100 small drink and small popcorn at the concession stand, fully knowing that at some point during the movie Kyra would have to go to the bathroom. She did...about an hour in. I don't think Kyra's ever seen a movie in the theater start to finish. I didn't mind taking her this time because the movie SUCKED. I've taken the girls to several movies, usually animated, that I have enjoyed nearly as much as they have. This one, though, was painful to sit through. So Kyra's bathroom break was a welcome reprieve from the torture of this film. The girls enjoyed the movie, and Kailey's frequent bursts of laughter at Underdog's antics and Kyra's loving arm hugs made the time worthwhile.

For dinner, we hit the food court at the mall where the theaters are located. The girls wanted pretzel bites and cheese for dinner, but I said they had to have dinner first. They opted for cheese pizza and I obliged. Big diff, right? At least the pizza had tomato sauce.

As we sat down to dinner, Kyra returned to the practice dating theme. "Daddy, is this where we're supposed to talk about each other's interests and get to know each other?" Kailey rolled her eyes. I laughed. This kid was totally cracking me up. At the same time I was also getting a little freaked. Kyra was WAY too into this dating thing. It very well may have been that she was just excited to be going out with her dad. But I've also heard her verbalize her love for a certain boy at school and how they will one day get married. As innocent as it is, it's still hard for me to suppress the feeling that all of this is a little much for a 6 year-old. Call me paranoid. Call me over-protective. Can't help it. I'm a dad to two daughters.

"Sure," I said, suppressing my paranoia and choosing to indulge my youngest daughter. "This would be the perfect time to get to know each other. So what do you like to do?" Kailey was turning pale and looked like she could hurl at any moment. Part of me could identify with her and was glad she wasn't that excited about dating.

"I like dressing up and going to the mall and singing High School Musical songs."

"Everything I'M looking for in a woman," I teased.

"Daddy!" Kyra blushed. "I'm so embarrassed!"

They finished their cheesy pizza, then the three of us shared a small order of pretzel bites, taking turns identifying the various shapes before devouring them. "This one's a snowman!" Chomp. Off with its head. "Here's a piggy!" Chomp. Off with its head. "This one's a dog...no, it's UNDER-dog!" Chomp. Off with its head. Good riddance.

We stopped by to see Diane at her store before calling it a night and heading home. I love daddy-daughters date nights and will continue to have as many of them as I can before they become too "mature" to go out with their old man and before they start dating for real. I'm sure that day will come soon enough. I wish Underdog were here. Oh, that's right. Kyra bit his head off.

No, the irony is not lost on me.

I Hope My Princesses Don't Have to Kiss A Lot o' Frogs...

I pulled into the driveway the other night when out of the corner of my eye I saw something that caught my attention: a large dark pile resting up against the house along the front walkway. "What the hell?" I thought as I rolled into the garage. It looked like a Bull Mastiff decided to empty the contents of its bowels on our walkway. Nice. But closer inspection revealed the turdy-looking lump to be something completely different...a very large frog. Or toad. I'm not sure which. Either way, it was pretty gross; all moist and slimy and bloated. So I did what any responsible father would do. I ran and got my camera so I could gross out the girls in morning. As I squatted down to take this picture, I realized how big this thing was, easily the size of both of my fists. I thought, "If this thing jumps while I'm down here, I'm going to wake up the whole neighborhood with freakish schoolgirl screams." It didn't, thank goodness. In fact, it looked like it just slept there through the whole ordeal, oblivious to my presence. Either that, or it was so big that it just didn't care, figuring if I gave it any trouble that it would merely jump up and eat my face off.

After completing my toad photo shoot (...tilt your head...YES, JUST LIKE THAT...click...the camera loves ya, baby...), I went inside to check on the girls before going to bed. The whole experience brought to mind the fairy tale of The Frog Prince, where the princess kisses the frog and he turns into a prince. YIKES! I couldn't even imagine HOLDING the turd toad much less KISSING the thing. It brought a whole new realm of perspective to the well-known tale.

Then my over-protective daddy mind kicked into gear, wondering how many frogs will hop their way into the girls' lives before they meet their "prince". Hopefully not many. But the thought left me feeling helpless knowing that I won't always be there to protect the hearts of my little girls; that my little girls are growing up faster than I would like and that they would have to go through their own series of relational trials on their path to womanhood. So that night, in my helplessness, I said a little prayer for Kailey and Kyra as I rearranged their covers and tucked them in. I asked that they might grow to become caring, strong, confident and self-assured young women, and that they would know how to effectively handle those frogs. I think much of that is my role as a father and a parent, teaching them and caring for them and reassuring them, preparing them for life, but a little (or a lot of) Divine Guidance never hurts.

All of this from an encounter with a turdy toad on the front stoop. Man, I need to start getting some more sleep.

Dad Turned Off the TV

My parents divorced when I was about ten years-old. The details surrounding their relationship have always been vague, and I've never pursued either of my parents for how and why their relationship ended. I don't know why. I guess I just don't want to drudge up the past. Their divorce was civil. As far as I can remember, there was no drawn out legal battle, and they didn't drag me and my brother into the middle of things and use us as pawns for leverage. I think they tried their best to do what was right for us, and, from my perspective, they did a good job of that.

I don't remember dragging around a lot of emotional baggage from the divorce like some kids do. It seemed back then that kids would cry and blame themselves for their parents' split. My brother and I didn't do that. All we knew was that prior to the divorce there was a whole lot of yelling and screaming between our folks; after the divorce, they got along. Sure it sucked that my Dad no longer lived with us, but whenever he'd return us home after a weekend visit, he and my Mom would sometimes sit and talk for hours. I never saw them do that when they were married. So I gladly embraced a divorce that enabled my parents to talk civilly to one another over a marriage of screaming and yelling.

I think the divorce was something of a wake-up call for my Dad; an experience that told him it was time to grow up a bit. I honestly don't have that many memories of my Dad pre-divorce, other than him tormenting me and my brother. Dad liked to "hang out with the boys" in those days, but I think the divorce helped him to sort out his priorities, and my fond memories of time spent with my Dad emerge post-divorce. We'd spend every other weekend with him, and during those times we'd go bowling, see movies, have breakfasts at a little dive restaurant down the street, or follow him around to endless softball tournaments that his team had entered. We didn't mind the tournaments because we'd have the run of the park, or we'd be bat boys and engage in various smart ass back-and-forths with the guys on the team.

But the most significant thing my Dad ever did, the thing that has made a lasting impression on me and to this day has become a priority in my attempt and desire to be a good Father to my girls, is to listen, ask questions and be interested in our lives. We'd be lounging around watching TV in the living room of his 900 square foot rental house, with its' green shag carpeting and bing cherry red furniture, and he'd grab the remote, turn off the TV, and say, "Let's talk. I want to know what's going on in your lives."

"Awww, Da-ad," we'd groan and put up a feeble resistance, typical of pre-teens, but eventually would give in to the quiet of the house as we revealed details of school, friends, sports, family, music and girls. It was a very simple exercise, just a click of a button, that has had a profound impact on my life.

And that impact has even greater significance now that I'm a Dad. Sometimes it's so much easier to keep the girls "occupied". We color, role play, sing, play sports, watch videos, etc., which are all important things, but can sometimes just be busywork. It's a whole different story to slow down, turn off the boob tube or the computer or the iPod or anything that distracts us in our fast-pace society, and say, "Let's talk." It's a lesson from my Dad that I will work hard to employ for the rest of my days. Thanks Dad. Happy Father's Day.

And They Came Bearing Gifts

The girls are back from their trip with Grammy and Papa, and they didn't come home empty handed. Whenever Diane and I go on a trip alone, being the amazingly fantastic parents we are, we always bring back a gift for the girls, even if it is just a "stupid" T-Shirt. Well the girls, taking a cue from us, decided they couldn't possibly return home without bearing gifts for their beloved parents. They came to this decision while on a delay at the airport waiting for their return flight home. So Grammy and Papa accompanied them to the airport gift shop where the girls carefully and thoughtfully selected their gifts for Mommy and me.

Their flight didn't arrive in Tucson until late Wednesday night, so the girls spent the night at my in-laws. I stopped by to see them yesterday morning on my way in to work. The first thing they did, after giving hugs, was run for their presents. Kyra grabbed hers first and proudly presented it to me: a water bottle from the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle, decorated with a 3-D mural of a variety of animals. Cost: $9.95 (the price sticker was still affixed to the bottom). She told me that I could use the bottle at work. Very thoughtful. I DO get thirsty at work. I gave her a big hug and told her that it was perfect.

Kailey then ran up and handed me her gift: a key chain from, well whaddaya know, Woodland Park Zoo! I'm noticing a theme here. The key chain had a fabric strap with a cheetah or leopard, I'm not shure which, on the end. Cost: $5.95 (we haven't yet taught them the practice of removing price tags from gifts). She told me that she knew I didn't have a key chain and thought I needed one. She's absolutely right. So I attached the key chain to my already too-bulky ring of keys because I am an awesome and supporting Dad who loves his daughter enough to walk around with a very large bulge in my pocket. Besides, it makes up for some of the shortcomings down there. I gave Kailey a big hug and thanked her.

It is often said that it's not the gift, but the thought that counts. I believe that whoever coined this expression must have been a parent. I was moved as my girls took turns revealing the overpriced airport gift shop treasures that they selected specifically for me. And regardless of the price tags, seeing the expressions of pride on my girls' faces as they showered me with their gifts has made them forever priceless.

Mourning Final Mornings

Tomorrow is the last day of school and we'll be attending Kyra's kindergarten graduation in the morning. After a short summer vacation, both of our girls will be full-timers at school, and that makes me a little sad. Sure, part of me is screaming FREE TIME, which, as a homeowner, I know really isn't true, but there's another part of me that is truly going to miss spending mornings with Kyra.

There were mornings where things just had to get done: cleaning in preparation for a family visit, doctor visits, grocery runs, or the seemingly endless house calls for home repairs/services that were beyond my limited level of expertise. But most mornings I made time for Kyra where we engage in a variety of activities. We'd play board games or cards where more often than not she'd flat out kick my butt in everything we play. Or we played make believe, everything from Star Wars to princesses (I was a prince) to Lion King. We sang karaoke, Disney-style, or I'd pick up my guitar and pluck out a tune for Kyra to create her own song to. We played soccer, softball, and basketball, and when we were bored, we'd make up games, my personal favorite being roll-ball, a game that started out rolling a ball to each other but quickly turned to beaning each other. I tried to take full advantage of the limited time we had together, and as I look back on these times, I'm glad to say that I have few regrets, and I hope Kyra will feel the same way.

I thought yesterday would be my last morning with Kyra, and I wanted to make it special: take her out to breakfast or do whatever she wanted to do before going to school. Tuesday night, that plan was shot to crap with a single KABOOM! The shock rattled our whole house and Diane and I thought a car had run through our garage door. We rushed out to the garage to find nothing peculiar. I then went out the front door to investigate. Nothing. Our neighbor from across the street joined me. He heard the boom over the din of his TV, which is saying something since he is older and hard of hearing; I can sometimes hear his TV from inside our house. We looked around for a few minutes, but still found nothing until I tried to open our garage door. The opener pulled it open about an inch, then stopped. I looked up through the gap created at the top of the garage door and saw two medium-sized springs where one large spring used to reside. It had broken in two, creating the "explosion" that led to our investigation. Mystery solved. I wonder how much THIS is going to cost.

I informed my neighbor of what happened and he told me that he had his spring replaced earlier in the winter. Just another one of those joys of being a homeowner. So I spent my last morning with Kyra on the phone trying to get someone out to fix my garage door. Turns out the door won't open with a broken spring, so I was stranded with both of our vehicles stuck inside. After calling EVERY garage door place in the phone book, I finally arranged to get someone out before I had to get to work. But my original plans were thwarted. I tried to make the most of the limited time with Kyra by challenging her to a rousing game of Monopoly Junior, Disney Princess version. I was thoroughly humiliated as Kyra once again cleaned my clock. I think the game lasted all of fifteen minutes. Then the garage door guy showed up, early for a change, and freed our cars from the prison of our garage. When he finished, it was time to get Kyra to school. Not exactly the way I wanted to spend our last morning together, and I spent the rest of the day fighting a funk.

This morning, though, I caught one of the few breaks that life tosses my way. The girls spent last night at my in-laws because I was working late and Diane was in Phoenix leading training sessions. Kailey had an awards presentation at school this morning and I met up with Kyra and my in-laws for the short ceremony, then I took Kyra home for a couple of hours before taking her to school. I was so thankful to have that time and I gave her my undivided attention. She wanted to sing karaoke, so that's what we did...one hour and fifteen minutes of Disney karaoke. We spent our last morning together doing something we both love: singing our fool hearts out. It was great.

Tomorrow morning, she graduates from kindergarten, and I didn't think I'd experience the range of emotions I'm feeling. She's my baby and she's taking another step in her journey towards adulthood, and right now I'm having a hard time with that. The other night while getting ready for bed, Kyra came up to us and sang, "Start spreading the news...I'm leaving today..." Diane promptly requested for her to be quiet, an indication that she's struggling with this life transition as well. Don't get me wrong, we're extremely proud of Kyra and know that she's more than ready for the next stage of her life. We love seeing her experience new things where she succeeds and learns and grows. But for some reason, it's taking Mommy and me a little longer to get on board the grow-up express.

Cubs, Why Must You Torment Me?

I've been biting my tongue all season long, but I can't take it anymore. My Cubbies spent a butt-load of money in the off season and they still suck. Should I be surprised? Not really. Tonight, they blew a 4-0 lead against the Mets, eventually losing 5-4 by WALKING IN THE WINNING RUN! I've been an unwavering, die-hard Cub fan for nearly 35 years, and I'm tired of always waiting until next year. I know it's still early in the season to throw in the towel, and I hope to crap that I end up eating my words, but I'm tired of being cursed by loving a team that is itself cursed.

I blame my Dad. He made me a Cub fan through one small, simple gesture. And I vividly remember the exact moment in my young, impressionable life when I freely gave myself to the curse of being a Cub fan.

I was four years old and in the hospital for a series of skin graft surgeries to repair third degree burns on my left arm. Talk about a parent's nightmare. While at a babysitter's house, I thought it might be a good idea to stick that arm into her wringer washer machine, but soon learned otherwise. A wringer washer machine is an old-fashioned washer equipped with two rollers that "wring" the water out of clothes. It's the equivalent of the modern day spin cycle only nuclear turbofied. So while the machine was wringing the crap out of my arm, I stuck my right thumb in the gears trying to get some leverage to pull my arm out. Off came the tip of my thumb. Did I mention I was four? In runs my babysitter to find me stuck in and bleeding all over her washing machine. She popped the top off the rollers, freed me from her washing machine of death, and held me until my Mom arrived to take me to the emergency room.

They whisked me into one of the exam rooms and immediately began cutting off the long sleeve of my Garanimals shirt. I don't know if they still do this or not, but back in the early 70's, Garanimals were known for making long-sleeve shirts with non-elastic cuffs. That way boys couldn't pull their sleeves up to their armpits and stretch all the elastic out of the cuffs. Moms thought this was awesome. Boys frickin' hated it. Between my Garanimal shirts and Toughskin jeans, I was one miserable hombre. Anyway, because I couldn't roll up my sleeve, we had no idea of the extent of damage awaiting us under the shirt. Besides, everyone's attention was focused on my hemorrhaging thumb. How could anyone but a doctor have guessed there were third degree burns under my sleeve? They cut away my sleeve and the last thing I remember before passing out was, "Hey, why does my whole freakin' arm look like cheese pizza?"

I awoke the next day (or at least I assume it was the next day) to BOTH of my arms heavily bandaged and hanging in slings. I quickly became known around the children's ward as "Popeye" because of my bulging arms. Children can be so cruel. I had several skin graft surgeries over the next several months to repair the damage to my arm. Or maybe it was just weeks...I have yet to meet a four year-old with a good sense of time. Whatever the time frame, suffice it to say that I spent more time in a hospital than any four year-old should.

What does any of this have to do with the Cubs? During one of my stays in the hospital, my Dad, God bless him, brought me a gift, a talisman guaranteeing my lifelong devotion: it was a plastic Cubs batting helmet. It was my first piece of Cub memorabilia and I took it hook, line and sinker. From that moment on, the Cubs were MY team. All because of a stupid royal blue piece of plastic with a red "C" on the front.

He was a well-intentioned soul, my Dad. How on earth could he know he was passing down the curse? Somehow, now that I think about it, he knew. He knew exactly what he was doing. He himself had endured the torment throughout his lifetime, and now he wanted company in his misery. In time he recruited my brother as well, who is now paying the ultimate price. You see, my brother turned coat and became a bandwagon Cardinals fan after they won the Series in the early eighties. Now he's back and he's a Cub FANATIC, the worst kind of torture there is. His daily mood is determined solely by the Cubs final box score. Poor bastard. At least I see the final score, mutter "Stupid Cubs" and then carry on with my day. But it's getting old...really old. I don't want to wait until next year anymore.

Daddy/Daughter Work Day

This morning I was in the den checking e-mail and paying some bills when I heard Diane call me from the family room, "Hey Hon?" We've been together for 20 years. I know this call. This is the "I-have-a-big-favor-to-ask-you" call.

"Yeah?" I moaned.

"I have a haircut appointment at six o'clock..."

"Yeah?"

"...and mom wasn't feeling very well last night..."

"Yeah?"

"He sounds kinda mean," Kyra chimed in.

"Yeah, he does," Diane agreed. "Could I drop one of the girls off with you at work while I get my hair cut? I can handle one, but I'm not so sure about two."

Hmmmm. Daddy/Daughter work day? That didn't sound too bad. "Sure."

I work at a television station where I'm responsible for airing local news as well as syndicated and network programming. There are a lot of buttons. Rows and rows of buttons. Buttons for switchers, and buttons for satellite dishes, and buttons for tape decks, and buttons for servers, and buttons for tuners, and buttons for cameras, and buttons for scopes, and buttons for routers. I am, in short, a "button-pusher". The girls have visited me at work several times in the past, and they know they are not allowed to touch ANYTHING. And they have shown me that they are able to behave while at the station. So I was excited about having one of them with me at work.

It turned out to be Kailey. My cell phone rang after the 5:00 PM newscast. I went to the back door and there she was, holding a duffle bag of stuff that seemed to weigh as much as she did. I opened the door and she shuffled in. She had a grin that ran the width of her face. So did I. I took the bag and we headed back to the control room.

We had a great time. I took her into the news studio and introduced her to the camera operators and the chief meteorologist. We returned to the control room and I showed her how to check the levels on the studio cameras, letting her adjust the picture and change it from dark to light. She thought that was pretty cool.

During the 6:00 newscast, she settled in with a comic book and had an interesting conversation with one of our engineers. I couldn't help but laugh as she explained to him in vivid detail the very specific procedures for tomorrow's spelling test. She seemed WAY too grown up.

After the newscast I put her to work and made her earn her keep. I had her roll a couple of commercial breaks, superimpose the time and temperature graphic over local programming, and roll the backup video for our primetime programming. I let her push A LOT of buttons, and she was loving it. So was I. Kailey and I don't get to have much one-on-one time, so I think this was a special time for both of us.

Once we got into primetime, I pulled out her spelling words and helped her study for her spelling test. She was working on "information" (is it me, or is that crazy for a 2nd grader?) when I noticed something. "Are you wearing makeup?"

She looked up at me and smiled. Her face looked a little darker than normal, but I thought it was just because we were in the darkened control room. Now that I had positioned her under a light, I clearly saw the makeup. She had foundation caked all over her face. "Did you do this, or did Mommy?"

"I did it," she said proudly. Apparently she wanted to look pretty for Daddy/Daughter work day. "Mommy wiped some of it off with a kleenex, though." Not enough. I laughed and grabbed a tissue to work off a little more of the makeup, and we went back to work on the spelling words. Kailey had a little trouble with "information" but eventually got it down. She's a good speller.

Diane arrived a few minutes later, and Daddy/Daughter Work Day came to an end. It was late, but I was sad to see them go. Times like this make me so proud as a dad that I can literally feel my heart swell. I am proud of how well Kailey behaved and composed herself at the station. I am proud of the way she interacted with my coworkers. And, most of all, I am proud of the way she beamed with pride each time she completed an assigned task. Every parent loves to see their children try new things and succeed. Scratch that...most of the time parents are (or should be) content just to see their kids try new things. The bonus is to see them succeed. Tonight was a bonus night.

As they were leaving, Kyra had the distinct feeling that she had gotten the short end of the stick, so she offered a suggestion, "Maybe next time Kailey can go with Mommy and I can stay with Daddy." That'd be OK by me.

Pearly, Pearly Whites

Do you remember the old 70's commercials for Pearl Drops Tooth Polish? It was basically a head shot of a seductive young woman who slowly massaged her upper teeth with her tongue while moaning, "Nnnnnnnnnnn". Actually, I was only about ten years old and knew absolutely nothing about the ways of seduction; I just thought she was really into her teeth. I found an 80's version of the commercial, but it's nowhere as good as the 70's version I remember:




Diane tells a story of how she actually badgered her mom into buying Pearl Drops just so she could do the tongue thing. Whatever works, I guess, as long as you can get your kids to brush their teeth.

Anyway, lately I've felt like a very lame 21st century version of the Pearl Drops commercial. No, I'm not a seductive temptress hawking tooth polish. But I am trying to get the girls to brush their teeth appropriately. And in order to help that along, I've been brushing my teeth an average of four times daily, basically because Kyra asks me to.

It all started innocently enough. Diane or I would tell the girls to brush their teeth, they'd brush for appoximately 10 seconds, spit, rinse, wipe the remainder of the toothpaste off on MY TOWEL, and move on to the next event, usually school or bed. Since they have practically no concept of time, I decided to show them how long two minutes was (get your minds out of the gutter RIGHT NOW...besides I'm AT LEAST a three-minute man). I decided to BRUSH MY TEETH WITH THEM. So we loaded up our toothbrushes and went after the plaque. It was fun to see them mimic everything I did: I'd start high and right, and they'd follow. I'd slide over to the top front with a circular motion, and so would they. I'd spit, and they gladly obliged, usually all over the mirror. After a few times, they became pretty good brushers in their own right.

Recently, though, Kyra's become soft; a backslidden brusher. Her excuse: "I foagot how to bwush." She can be a little dramatic sometimes.

"But you used to be such a good brusher," we'd say. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Standard kid answer.

So for awhile I did the standard dad thing: threaten her, which rarely ever works, but it's our default setting, so we start there. Fortunately for me, I've slowly been learning (sloooooooowly) to take a step back and look at the situation to decide how best to handle it. That usually takes place after I blow my top and am utterly ashamed of my behavior. So I asked her what she wanted.

"Daddy, could you bwush with me?"

What can I say? She's still my baby. How could I say no. So I've been brushing my standard two times a day along with her two times a day. Hopefully as a result, my aging, slightly coffee-stained cuspids will be on their way to becoming blinding, pearly whites. Does anyone know where I can get some Pearl Drops?

You Can't Shelter Them Forever

"Someone wrote a word in the girls bathroom," Kailey nonchalantly offered between bites of pizza.

It was dinner-time. Diane was working late (which she doesn't really do that often...it just seems that way in my writings) and we were on the tail-end of one of our hectic Mondays. Fortunately for me, my sister-in-law, Debbie, is in town for Thanksgiving and was there to help take up the slack.

We turned our full attention toward Kailey, our curiosity suddenly aroused by her statement. A pregnant silence filled room around us. Something deep inside me did not want to know what was written on the wall of the girls bathroom of CW elementary school. I fought the question inside me that begged to be asked. Debbie asked it for me.

"What word did they write, Sweetie?"

I don't think I will ever forget the image of my oldest daughter in that moment: sitting perfectly erect in her chair, head slightly cocked, eyes sparkling with confidence as though she was the only one in the world who knew the right answer. She looked completely innocent, though much older and more mature than her seven years. I've noticed recently that those glimpses of maturity are coming with greater regularity. My little girl is growing up more quickly than I would like. I braced myself.

"Fuck you."

Her delivery was quick, clear, and crisp. Her manner, matter-of-fact. She didn't move. She didn't giggle or laugh like she delivered the punch line to a great joke. She didn't scan our faces to try to gauge whether or not it was wrong for her to say those words. She simply told us what was written on the wall of the girls bathroom. Then she sat there.

So did we. A small smirk emerged on my face as I slowly turned my gaze from my precious little girl to Aunt Debbie. The look on her face was an odd mix of amusement and horror. YOU NEVER ASK WHAT IS WRITTEN ON THE WALL OF THE GIRLS BATHROOM! It's like the U.S. Military...don't ask, don't tell, and all will be fine. I took a deep breath and turned back to Kailey. We're venturing out into uncharted territory here.

"Do you know that that's a bad word?" I asked.

"No."

"OK. Well, it is. You're not in trouble and I'm not mad at you. That's a bad word and I don't want you to ever say it again, OK?"

"OK," she replied. "But what does it mean?"

Kailey obviously witnessed a great ruckus in the girls bathroom over those two little words, and she didn't get it. Curiosity fueled our dinner-time chat. But a full explanation would open about ten more cans of worms. And I'm not opening one of those cans without Diane. In fact, I might let Diane handle ALL of those cans. She's definitely in charge of the can opener. I told Kailey that I couldn't fully explain what it meant, but that it was just a very mean thing to say to someone. Thank goodness she seemed to accept that.

For now...

Gotcha!

Oh, how humiliating it is when you get duped by a 5 and 7 year-old. I'm so proud of my girls!

This is the time of year when the weather turns colder and the critters and creepy-crawlies seek refuge in the warmth of our home. I've gotten used to hearing the melodic, sing-song summons of "Hon-ey" or "Da-ad" over the past month, and I've become quite adept at deciphering their meaning..."we need you to come kill something"...usually a spider.

I don't really like spiders. I've gotten better about spiders over the years, but the bigger ones still freak me out a little bit. Don't get me wrong, I'll still dispatch the little suckers, but the big ones require me to collect myself before going in for the kill. At this point, all the PETA-people out there are letting out a collective gasp and imploring me to at least do a catch-and-release. No friggin' way. A catch leaves open the possibilty of escape which leaves open the possibility of me running through the house screaming like a schoolgirl. I'm sorry. If it ventures into my home, it's dead. End of story. Since moving to Arizona, I've had to take care of two tarantula-like spiders IN MY HOUSE. They were small for tarantulas (3 1/2 inches each, respectively), but big freakin' spiders to have in your home.

This morning I was in our bathroom shaving when I heard the call from my girls, "Da-ad". Great. They were in Kailey's room.

"I'll be there in a minute!" I groaned. I finished shaving and could hear them shrieking and giggling and carrying on as I steeled myself and headed to Kailey's room. I expected to find one of those medium-sized, lightning quick wolf spiders, as they have been my prime prey over the past couple of weeks. I walked into Kailey's room to find both girls on Kailey's bed.

"Where is it?" I asked. Kailey pointed to her bookshelf, about waist-high, right next to where I stood. I turned and saw a huge black spider sprawled out on the edge of the bookshelf about a foot away from me.

I jumped.

The girls cracked up laughing.

The spider was not real.

"WE GOT YOU! WE GOT YOU!" they sang at the top of their lungs. Indeed, they had. Kailey had clipped one of those plastic spider rings to the edge of her bookshelf and I didn't expect it. At least I didn't scream...I don't think.

I spanked both of them, sat them in the corner, told them there was no Halloween candy or Disney Channel for a month, told them they were both adopted and that their real parents loathed them, and then spanked them again. OK, I really didn't do any of that. I just laughed and told them they were rotten kids. They got me good and I knew it. And I'm man enough to admit it, even though I'm barely man enough to handle a little spider.

Making Friends

When I was growing up, I had no fewer than thirty kids in my neighborhood that I could play with. I would come home from school, throw my bag down and be out the door to see what everyone was up to, that is unless I was in the mood for Gilligan's Island. We did everything: bike riding, baseball, basketball, football, home run derby, tag, war (in the woods), trading baseball cards, and, when the sun went down, ghost in the graveyard. We knew our neighbors and our neighbors knew us, and everyone seemed to look out for each other. We had the run of the neighborhood.

My, how times have changed. We've lived in our home for almost three years now and we barely know any of our neighbors. It seems that everyone is content to keep to themselves. I rarely see any kids out playing as most of the kids on our street are older, junior highers or high schoolers.

One afternoon last week after school, the girls wanted to ride their scooters out on the sidewalk. I complied, as I had a little yard work that needed to be done. I like to be out there with them since I don't really know our neighbors that aren't immediately surrounding our home. As they rode their scooters, they encountered several other kids walking home from school. They were all older, but every time one of the girls saw one, they'd scream, "KID!" and peel out on their scooters to go meet them. It was like watching lions in a feeding frenzy on a fresh kill.

"What's your name?"
"How old are you?"
"Where do you go to school?"
"ME TOO!"
"What grade are you in?"
"Where do you live?"
"Do you have a scooter?"
"Do you have a dog?"
"Do you want to play?"

In almost every instance (this happened three or four times), the accosted child was merely passing through our street to get to their home on another street. Witnessing this made me realize for the first time just how different my childhood was from my girls'. It made me sad.

Finally, a little while later, the girls noticed a little boy out riding his scooter. POW! They were off like a shot to administer the inquisition:

His name is Shawn.
He is six years old.
He goes to the same school as them...duh.
He's in first grade.
He lives five houses down from us on the opposite side of the street.
He has a scooter (they didn't have to ask that question...he was standing on it).
He doesn't have a dog.
And, most importantly, he DID want to play.

Phew! They spent most of the rest of the afternoon riding their scooters until Shawn's mom called him inside. She probably feels the same way I do: she has no idea who I am and is not exactly sure if she wants her son down at my house. I don't take it personally. I was just glad the girls were able to make a friend on our street.

We've seen quite a bit of Shawn this past week. He's a rambunctious little guy, but he's nice and the girls like playing with him. He did tell us, however, that his dad is in the military and that his family is moving in December. So in a couple of months, the girls will be back out on the street looking for new neighborhood friends.

This time I'll beat the streets with them because I want them to enjoy the same kind of childhood that I remember.

On Growing Up

Sometimes my kids can completely throw me for a loop, in a good way. Tonight as I was tucking Kailey in was one of those times. Every night I usually ask the girls what the favorite part of their day was and why. Then we talk about the day and all the things we had done. Kailey finished telling me about how riding her bike without training wheels made her feel all grown up. I was humored by the thought. I wish it were that simple. In a way it's certainly true. I feel "grown up" when I accomplish something that's personally significant: hanging a ceiling fan (without getting electrocuted), writing a song, grilling the perfect steak. I could definitely relate to what she was saying. That's when she hit me with the question.

"Daddy, do you ever wish you were a kid again?"

About a million things went through my mind at once. It was a simple question, but it seemed so mature coming from the mouth of, well, a kid. I could see one of my friends, one of my peers posing the question, but from my seven year-old daughter? It completely took me by surprise.

On the one hand, it would be nice to not have to worry about all the things we adults concern ourselves with. To have the luxury of playing the afternoons away. But then I remembered school, the tests, the peer pressure, the first love, the heartbreaks, PUBERTY, and I was instantly glad to be an adult. And that's what I told her. Well, everything but the puberty part. That's a whole other can of worms. One that I'll let Mommy deal with, thank you very much.

Truth is, part of me still feels like a kid and it's hard to believe I've been on this earth for 37 years. I still experience those "grown up" moments of satisfaction and I hope to continue to experience them for the rest of my life. I think that's part of the joy of living, the satisfaction of a job well-done.

On Being Pampered

"What color do you want?" Kyra, my five year-old, demanded.

"None, thanks...I'm good."

"Boring! Nobody will see, Daddy."

"How do you know?"

"BeCAUSE...people don't look down when they look at you. They look in your eyes." Duh. "So, what color do you want?"

She's persistant. I've got to give her that. "This color." I said as I pointed to my fingernail, implying that I wanted to go au natural. She didn't get it.

"Pink! Boys don't wear pink!"

Kid, you didn't know me in the 80's. "What color do you think?"

"Blue...boys wear blue."

It was actually a light aqua. You don't see too many boys in light aqua either. She carefully opened the small bottle adorned with the image of Ariel, aka the Little Mermaid, on the front.

"What do you want first?" She asked as she tapped her foot.

"Why don't you start with my feet." I replied, hoping that she would grow bored and forget my hands. No chance. She meticulously globbed the aqua blue (oooo with SPARKLES) fingernail polish to my big toe. Notice I didn't say toe-NAIL. Much of it made it to the nail but there was a noticable trail of sparkly aqua blue down my toe. I watched her as she concentrated on the task at hand, or foot, and repeated the process on each toe, then to my left foot, then to my hands. Damn.

But by the time she reached my hands I no longer cared about the stigma of wearing sparkly aqua blue nail polish. My heart swelled as I witnessed and experienced the developing expressions of my youngest daughter's motherly care. She was loving me and I let her.

She examined her handiwork and told me not to do anything until the polish had dried, a process she learned from her mother. I agreed, then watched her run off to the day's next activity. I smiled in amusement as I noticed the scent of blueberry filling the air around me.

Now if I can only remember where Diane keeps her polish remover.