The Heat IS On

It finally turned cool here in Southern AZ just before Thanksgiving, cool being in the upper 60's/lower 70's and sunny. It's the perfect weather, in my humble opinion, but it was short lived. The past two days have been cold, cloudy, and downright gloomy. They've been the kind of days where all you want to do is lay in bed and pull the covers over your head, which is pretty much all I did yesterday, minus the bed and the covers. I napped in the chair. This morning reminds me of an Illinois fall day: crisp, cloudy, and windy. The thermometer on the patio shows me that it's a brisk 49°. In Tucson. That just ain't right.

Given the change in weather, we finally turned the heat on last week, especially with overnight temps flirting with the freezing point. Since we moved here, Diane's blood has thinned and she has gone all Southern AZ on me. When temperatures dive below 75°, she dons sweaters, turtlenecks, ponchos, anything to keep her warm. Now that the temps are in the 50's and 40's, there's an ongoing debate about climate levels inside our humble abode. You'd think that because of the way I was raised, I'd have no problem with maintaining a tropical climate within the house during the winter. But I do, and I have absolutely no idea why.

Growing up, my brother and I would engage my Mom in a constant epic battle over the thermostat. The most heated battles took place during the summertime when my Mom insisted that the air conditioning be set at 88°. "What's the point! We're dying in here!" we'd plead. The point was that I had a single mom trying to raise two boys on a teacher's salary, and we could either eat and have enough money left over to do the things we wanted to do, or we could pay the electric bill. But not both. At 88°, much of the humidity, which is brutal in the Midwest during the summertime, was removed from the house and made things a little more bearable. Barely. My brother and I made frequent trips outside just to remind our bodies of the difference in heat and humidity, then go back inside to convince ourselves that even though it was 88°, it was still cooler than the muggy heat outside.

In the wintertime, the thermostat was set around 69°. I don't remember us complaining so much about that. All of us would just bundle up. We'd throw on extra sweatshirts and wear slippers around the house and shock the hell out of ourselves and each other every time we'd touch something or someone. And each of us had these plaid blanket-thingies with snaps that you could snap up into a sort of floor-length gown with arm holes and everything. They kept us warm, but I'm sure we looked like a misfit, plaid-frock clad order of monks. All we needed was a chant: Do-mi-ne, Lord we pray, keep us toa-sty.

Now I'm all growed up and the master of my climatic domain. While I've totally chucked the notion of sweating my ass off in the summer, for some reason I've embraced freezing it off during the winter. And I still have my snappy blanket tucked away somewhere in the closet, though I haven't used it for nearly 20 years. Perhaps it's nostalgia. Perhaps I'm a lunatic. Perhaps it's a combination of both, but I like keeping it cool inside during the winter. I have compromised a little though. Last night as I was getting the girls' pajamas out, a shivering Diane peeked in the doorway and asked, "Honey, is the heat on?"

"Yes, the heat IS on," I confirmed. "It's a balmy 72° in here."

And if you don't like it, there's a red and black plaid snappy blanket in the hall closet with your name on it.

Sweet Sixteen

On this day sixteen years ago, I stood before my beautiful bride and vowed before God, friends, and family to be a loving and faithful husband;

in plenty and in want,

in joy and in sorrow,

in sickness and in health,

as long as we both shall live.


I promised to love my beautiful bride,

to honor her,

to cherish her,

to obey her,

and to protect her.


And today, sixteen years later, though I know I've fallen woefully short on my promises at times, possibly in the, ahem, obedience department, I don't regret them a bit. Happy Sixteenth, hon. I can think of nothing better than sharing this life with you.

Camping In

The girls have recently discovered the joys of "camping out"...inside the house. They've always enjoyed building tents out of blankets and pillows, then their aunt Debbie bought them real pup tents a couple of years ago which led to a period of indoor camping. It's amazing how much space a couple of pup tents occupy when set up in the family room.

Well aunt Debbie struck again a few weeks back when the girls made the trip up to the Northwest with Grammy and Papa to visit her in her new condo. Since space and sleeping arrangements was an issue, she bought the girls these Disney Princess air mattress/sleeping bag combos. They're actually pretty cool. You inflate the air mattress then slip the sleeping bag over the top. The sleeping bag stays in place and you don't have to worry about sliding off of the air mattress. I've got to hand it to aunt Debbie: she is the giver of cool gifts.

The girls brought the mattresses home after their trip, and they weren't much of an issue until this week when Diane's brother and his family came to town. He has two boys roughly the girls' age and at some point someone came up the idea of doing sleepovers. One of the girls would spend the night at Grammy and Papa's house and one of the boys would come home with us, then the next night we'd switch. Great plan.

Out came the air mattress/sleeping bag combos, and they worked great. My youngest nephew, who's four, made a little macho fuss over sleeping in a "girls bed", but that didn't last long. Both sleepover nights were huge successes. But now we can't get the girls to sleep in their own beds! They've taken turns sleeping in each others' rooms and have been putting up a fuss about sleeping in their perfectly good beds. So we've decided to put the kibosh on this recent trend before it gets out of hand.

And believe me, I know from personal experience how out of hand it can get. When I was about 11, my brother and I saw the movie Alien. It was a Sunday night and we were at my Dad's place. He let us stay a little later before dropping us off at home so we could watch the Sunday night premiere of Alien on HBO. So we "watched" the movie (mostly through our fingertips), it scared the mother-junkies out of us, and my Dad took us home in time for us to get into bed because Monday, as it turned out, was a school day. I slept not a frickin' wink. My brother slept not a frickin' wink either. We spent the better part of three months taking turns sleeping in a sleeping bag, sans air mattress, on the hard floor of each others' room, well aware of the fact that monsters materialize UNDERNEATH the bed, making the unfortunate floor-dweller of that particular evening easy fodder. But I guess we figured that getting eaten together was better than getting eaten alone. And unlike the poor fools in Alien, we weren't in space where no one can hear you scream, so we persisted in our nightly ritual. And I wonder where the girls get some of their nervous, paranoid tendencies. Mystery solved.

So we packed the air mattresses away. It's only a matter of time until I do something stupid like let them watch a movie that they're too young to see and that scares the mother-junkies out of them. Then history will repeat itself. At least they'll have comfy air mattresses to sleep on.

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.

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.

You Say It's Your Birthday...

Eight years ago today, my sister-in-law white-knuckled Diane and me to Overlake Hospital in Bellevue, WA for the birth of our first child, a girl. It was shortly after 1:00 am when Diane was blindsided by her REAL contractions prompting us to cram into the backseat of our '94 Olds Cutlass Supreme where we were rushed to the hospital by my pale-faced and sickly looking sister-in-law. Diane twisted and writhed in pain as I did my best to rub her back and legs in a vain attempt to comfort her. "HELP ME!!" She bellowed. "I AM!!" I retorted. I realized that she was in pain, but I was doing everything I learned in that stupid, useless lamaze class, and she didn't appreciate it. I think that the two of us screaming at each other did more to take her mind off the pain than any rubbing I could do. Debbie stepped on the gas.

We arrived at the hospital and were escorted to a room where Diane's first words were, "Epidural, please." Moments later, she received her epidural and was able to rest until it was officially time to push. Kailey was "pushed out", as she likes to say, roughly seven hours later. I remember everything like it was yesterday, and I can't believe that eight years have passed. Where did my baby go? She has grown into a beautiful, fun, creative, athletic, and hard-working little girl. We are so proud of you, Kailey. Happy Birthday.

Fathers, Do Not Exasperate Your Children!

My Dad loved to torture my brother and me when we were kids. Most kids love to wrestle with their dads, but we absolutely hated it because my Dad's idea of fun was pinning us to the floor and smothering us until we screamed bloody murder and pleaded for him to let us go. He thought this was great fun and would cackle with delight at our cries. "Jim," my Mom would plead, "Leave the boys alone." He would eventually let us go, but not until he was satisfied that we were truly hyperventilating and not just faking it. Whenever my brother and I saw that mischievous gleam in Dad's eye, we'd each try to throw the other in his direction in an attempt to make a clean getaway.

Now that I'm a Dad, I've learned my lesson...sort of. It might have been different if I had boys, but I don't. I still wrestle with the girls, but I'm always quick to remember those claustrophobic moments of my Dad pinning me to the floor. No, my torment of the girls has become more mental than physical. And I rationalize it. I figure they torment me for a majority of the day, so they can handle a few minutes of torment from me. Not to mention the fact that I just can't help myself. They hate it about as much as I hated becoming one with the green shag carpeting, but I just can't overcome the temptation. It's in my genes.

My favorite form of tormenting the girls goes like this. Every morning after we get up, the girls play for awhile and then they come find me.

"Daddy, I'm hungry."

"Well hello there, Hungry. My name's Daddy. It's good to meet you!"

"Nooooo, my TUMMY's hungry!"

"You named your tummy, Hungry? You're weird."

"Nooooo, Daddy! I DIDN'T NAME MY TUMMY HUNGRY! IIII'M HUNGRY!"

"I'm sorry, Hungry, I guess I just got a little confused."

"MY NAME'S NOT HUNGRY!"

"But you just told me that you were Hungry."

"I AM hungry!"

"Well make up your mind."

The same dialogue works for "thirsty", "hot", "cold", "tired", and pretty much any other adjective they use to describe themselves. If I'm in a merciful mood, I'll let them off the hook early. Most times I'm not. And all my fun will come to a screeching halt the day they finally learn to simply ask me for something to eat. I hope that day doesn't come soon. At least it's not as bad as eating carpeting.

Toughskins for Girls and An Apology to My Mother

I just sent Kyra to school with a small rip in the right knee of her jeans. Just as we were preparing to walk out the door, she giggled, "Look at me, Daddy, I can walk on my knees!" Rip. I didn't have time to change her, so off we went. At least it's still somewhat fashionable to wear holey jeans (a bit of a stretch for a six year-old, I know), but I still feel bad about it. The kid is going through her jeans faster than we can buy them for her. It reminds me of someone...hmmmm...perhaps ME when I was her age.

My brother and I both worked destroying jeans to an art form. I can even remember one occasion where I put two holes in the knees of a brand spanking new pair of jeans by performing a double knee slide on the asphalt of the playground at school. My mom was not happy, so she eventually struck back. She bought us Toughskins.

Toughskins were a Sears brand of jeans for boys that were virtually indestructible. They basically sewed large squares of what seemed to be cardboard into the knees of their jeans, thus making it impossible to rip a hole in them. However, it also made it impossible to bend your legs, so running, sliding, jumping, and wrestling were completely out of the question. Basically Toughskins produced a playground full of robot-mimicking boys. They took the reinforced knees out of the equation because boys simply couldn't play in them. We hated Toughskins.

But my mom hated holey jeans more, so we wore Toughskins. Money was tight, and we simply couldn't afford to buy new jeans every time I did a double knee slide. I hated that as a kid. As a Dad, I get it. I'm living it. Stop laughing at me, Mom.

I went to the Sears website to see if they still sold Toughskins, and, amazingly enough, they do; but only for boys. I guess that's OK. I'll spare the girls the emotional trauma of walking straight-legged for the month or so that it takes to wear those suckers in. Truth be known, if they made Toughskins for girls I'd at least take a look at them. We have to stop the jean-hole hemorrhaging somehow. For now, I guess we'll just keep buying them.

Oh, and sorry Mom. Your craziness then now makes sense. A little.

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?

Saying Goodbye

This Christmas season has been a tough one. A week before Christmas, my Grandpa lost his three-year battle with cancer. I've spent the past several weeks sorting through thoughts and emotions, trying to decide the best way to pay tribute to an extraordinary man whom I admired greatly.

My Grandpa was a man of uncompromised honesty and integrity. People loved him and wanted to be around him because he made everyone feel valued and important. He was a tireless innovator and was relentless in his pursuit to see his dreams come true. At his visitation and funeral, I was amazed to see and meet so many people whose lives he impacted. It made me immensely proud to be a part of his legacy. It also inspires me to be a better man: to embrace hard work; to value family and people above everything; to never give up on my dreams.

I had the opportunity to see him shortly before he passed away, to say my goodbyes, to tell him that I loved him, and to hear him say that he loved me. It was hard to see him in the condition he was in, but I will treasure that moment for the rest of my life. In that moment, it was just him and me saying the words that matter most.

For now, it's goodbye. Grandpa, you will not soon or easily be forgotten.

I Got One Hand in My Pocket...

OK, first off, get your minds out of the gutter. It's not like that...not this time, anyway.

Today has been an interesting day of "pocket-finds". Why is it that everyone gets so happy about finding money in their pockets? I guess it's the closest we come to finding lost or buried treasure. Well, this morning I was putting away some clothes when I found a $5 bill in the front pocket of Diane's slacks. I was giddy with excitement. Not only had I found lost treasure, but I also knew I was going to STEAL it! And so I did. It was a rush. Finders keepers, losers weepers. I think I even did a happy dance as I carefully placed it into my wallet. So, Hon, if you're wondering what happened to that $5, it's in my wallet. Just try to take it back, if you dare!

Next, in the same session, I found a long-lost stick of Chap Stick in the front pocket of my jeans. OK, it wasn't lost that long; just long enough for me to have to buy another one. If there is one thing I absolutely NEED to get through winters here in the Southwest, it is Chap Stick. It's really wierd. It seems that as long as I have a stick of Chap Stick in my pocket, I don't really need it. But the second that I leave the house without my Chap Stick, my lips immediately dry up and I go into withdrawal, licking my lips like a raging psychopath. And now that I'm writing about Chap Stick, I'm having to apply it every thirty seconds. I'm totally mental. Anyway, I swear that I previously checked all of my pockets in my quest for my Chap Stick, so I was amazed when I found it. And I'm now strangely excited to have TWO Chap Sticks. Envy me if you must.

My third and final pocket-discovery of the day came when I pulled out my "winter" coat. It's been freakishly cold and windy here in the Southwest, and by freakishly cold, I mean in the 30's at night and in the 60's during the day. I've become a desert wuss. My "winter" coat is actually more of a fall coat, and I don't get to wear it very often. This was made evident when I pulled four theater tickets to the production of Peter Pan out of the front inside pocket. They were dated November of 2004. We went to the show on Kyra's 4th birthday and saw Cathy Rigby in her farewell performance. The girls wore their pajamas to the show and we had a great time. It's a good memory.

So five bucks, backup for a Chap Stick addiction, and a fond memory...not a bad haul. What's in your pocket?

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.

The Perfect Gift

My dad's birthday was this week, and I finally got him what I believe to be the perfect gift. He's not the easiest person in the world to buy for (whose father is?), but this year I nailed it.

A little background: I was born nearly 38 years ago on January 12, 1969. Any sports nut worth his or her weight will know that one of the greatest upsets in American sports history happened on this date. On January 12, 1969, Joe Namath delivered on his guarantee of victory as he and his upstart New York Jets defeated the heavily favored Baltimore Colts, 16-7, in Super Bowl III. The victory gave much-needed credibility to the AFL, whose teams had been blown out by the "superior" teams of the NFL in the previous two Super Bowls. My dad never saw a minute of the game. Not a huddle. Not a snap. Instead, he waited for his precious baby boy, his first child, to be born. And nearly every year of my 37 years, he has reminded me of this.

Until now.

The idea came to me last year as I looked for my dad's birthday present, "I wonder if there's a DVD of Super Bowl III?" So I jumped on the internet and searched. I came up empty in my DVD search of Super Bowl III, but I did find something in a format called V-H-S...it's a video tape played through a V-C-R. They seem vaguely familiar. Anyway, I stumbled across a video series called "The NFL's Greatest Games", one of which was Super Bowl III. SCORE!! IN YOUR FACE! IN YOUR FACE!! Except the series had gone out of print (or whatever videos "go out" of) and retailers wanted $1 million for the tape. Abort. Abort. I bought him a hat. I'm not cruel...he collects them.

This year in my quest for a birthday present I returned to my search for the NFL's greatest game to see if it had come down to a respectable price. It had. SCORE!! IN YOUR FACE!! IN YOUR FACE!! So I purchased it along with a couple of hats, Jets and Colts, of course, and sent them along to my dear ol' dad.

I talked to him a couple of days ago and he told me he just laughed as he opened up his gift. "Guess I can't tell you that I've never seen the game anymore, can I?" he said.

Nope, I reckon not. But I'm looking forward to the day when we can watch it together.

THEY'RE BACK!!!

One of my guilty pleasures is pumpkin pancakes from IHOP. This goes way back almost fifteen years ago, shortly after Diane and I were first married. We stumbled into an IHOP (I make it sound like we were drunk. Not that there's anything wrong with a drunken pumpkin pancake binge, but we were sober.), saw pumpkin pancakes on the menu, thought they sounded intriguing, ordered them and fell instantaneously in love...with pumpkin pancakes. Oh, how we loved our pumpkin pancakes! We quickly discovered two problems, though. First, IHOP did not offer pumpkin pancakes year-round. They were seasonal, usually introduced around mid-October and served through Thanksgiving, perhaps through Christmas. Second, neither Diane and I are very good at planning or marking things on the calendar, so quite often we would miss the window of opportunity to enjoy our beloved pumpkin pancakes. It's actually been five or six years since I last enjoyed pumpkin pancakes (can it really be a guilty pleasure then?). Until Sunday.

We were sitting in the van after church going through the ritual of putting together a plan for lunch. After much discussion and some opposition from Kailey (one of the girls always opposes the lunch plan), we decided upon IHOP. You can get breakfast OR lunch there, even though it is the International House of PANCAKES. We arrived and sat down in a booth, arranged the activity mats and distributed crayons to the girls. The hostess gave us only three crayons and I was surprised when there wasn't a fight over who had more crayons. After helping the girls decide on their order, Diane and I perused the menu. I was investigating the omelette section when I heard a gasp. I looked up to see Diane reaching for the little advertisey-tent-display-thingy that restaurants always adorn their tables with to inform patrons of the latest cuisine and beverage specials.

"They have pumpkin pancakes," she breathed.

My eyes exploded from my head and we stared at each other in a competition to see whose eyes could bulge out the farthest. "Do you think we can add them on to our omelettes?" she asked.

I would have paid any amount of money to add pumpkin pancakes to my order. Turns out that for an extra $.79, we could add pumpkin pancakes to anything our hearts desired, at IHOP anyway.

They were delicious. Just like I remembered them. Kailey likes pumpkin pancakes too. HA HA...a convert! Kyra declined to try them, but she too will be turned. So head out to your local IHOP today and try the pumpkin pancakes. Tell 'em I sent you (at which point they'll cock their head and look at you strangely). But stay away from the coffee. IHOP coffee still sucks.