Little Things

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

But not today.

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

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

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

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

Really. It's OK.

You Gotta Love A Guilty Conscience

We were enjoying a nice family dinner together when Kailey excused herself to go to the bathroom. As soon as she left, Kyra, suddenly overcome by a melancholy funk, set down her fork and grabbed her stomach. Our immediate thought was something along the lines of "SHE'S GONNA BLOW", but it turned out to be something completely different.

"Does your stomach hurt, Sweetie?" Diane asked.

"No, it's just something I pinkie-swore Kailey I wouldn't tell," she mumbled.

Diane and I shot each other that "parental" look. You know the one. The one that says, "Oh brother, here it comes."

"Why did you even bother pinkie-swearing if you're gonna just rat-out your sister?" I asked.

Diane shot me the parental look. Then she turned back to Kyra. "What did you do?" Kyra just whimpered. "Did you girls go into the wash?"

Kyra looked up with big, sad, droopy puppy dog eyes and nodded. "Mmmm hmmm."

Our community was built with a series of washes, or channels meant to collect rainwater. Here in the desert, a decent rain means the washes can fill in an instant. And it doesn't even have to rain in our community for the washes to fill. It can rain in the mountains and that rainwater will drain down into the city. Bottom line: it is not safe to play in the washes, especially for 7 and 9 year-olds.

The problem is that the girls' best friend lives right next to one of the outlets, and she has an older brother who likes to play in the wash. So they go down to play at their friend's house where everyone is playing in the wash that we have strictly forbidden the girls to enter. I have to admit that it would suck to be sitting outside the wash when all of your friends are playing IN the wash, the equivalent of going to Disneyland but denied access to the rides. But it would suck even more to be swept away in a flash flood, so we're sticking to our guns.

It was about this time that Kailey returned to the table, and when she realized that her little sister narked on her, her eyes blazed and practically ballooned out of her head. "Ky-RA!" We reiterated the evils of the wash and I tried my best to scare the hell out them with horror stories of being sucked down the wash by raging floodwaters. A little over-the-top, I know, but sometimes you do what you gotta do.

"At least she has a conscience," Diane reasoned.

True. And I'm choosing to cling to that positive character trait, because the thought of raising a stool pigeon just kills me.

Grounded

I crossed into a new frontier of parenthood earlier this week when I dug deep into the archives of disciplinary action and plucked up this gem: "KAILEY, YOU'RE GROUNDED!" Up until now, grounding had no effect seeing as how Kailey had nowhere to go or no one to play with on the block. But now that the girls have discovered a friend down the street, grounding is back in play!

We've had a rough time getting through to Kailey that hitting is not an acceptable form of venting her frustration. The girls get into an argument, Kyra doesn't do what Kailey wants her to do, Kailey whacks her a good one, and I lose my frickin' mind...for the millionth time. I've tried just about everything to curb this behavior, including letting Kyra hit her back (moronic, I know).

This happened, again, on Sunday afternoon...in the van. I should have known better. I usually don't let them sit together in the same row for this very reason, but they had been getting along really well, prompting my momentary lapse of sanity. As we were driving they started arguing because Kyra wouldn't play Kailey's game. I pulled up to a stop light and told Kailey to get in the back row, and as she did, whap, she slapped Kyra in the head. I watched her do it in the rear view mirror. I summoned the strength within to postpone my breakdown until I was at least able to pull the van off to the side of the road. Then I lost my mind. Right there. In the van.

"WHAT DO WE SAY ABOUT HITTING!"

"No hitting."

"THEN WHY DID YOU HIT HER!"

"Because she wouldn't play with me."

"WRONG! TRY AGAIN!"

"I wanted her to play a game and she was mean."

"WRONG! TRY AGAIN!"

I could see people slowing down and reaching for their cell phones while trying to decipher my license plate number.

"WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN KYRA DOES SOMETHING YOU DON'T LIKE?"

"Use my words?"

"WHICH MEANS?"

"Tell you or Mommy?"

Yes, we've been through all of this before. Then I said it:

"KAILEY, YOU'RE GROUNDED. THERE WILL BE NO PLAYING OUTSIDE WITH YOUR FRIENDS, NO TV, AND NO TREATS FOR ONE WEEK!"

It's official. I've become my parents. I threw the car in gear and got the heck out of Dodge before the police could arrive. We completed our errands and returned home where Kailey's punishment commenced.

I've since come to wonder who grounding punishes more, the kid or the adult. TV and playing outside gets the kids out of your hair for a period of time. Taking it away means you have to entertain your kids (like that's a bad thing). Kailey fought her punishment at first, acting all mad and pouty at me, but she eventually embraced her fate and the two of us were actually able to enjoy some one on one time while Kyra played outside with friends. Whether it will end her hitting habit remains to be seen. And I'm still waiting to see if the police are going to show up at my door.

You Wouldn't Like Her When She's Angry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Table Manners

Our family dinner time is a casualty of my and Diane's (mostly my) abnormal work schedule. At most we sit down to dinner together as a family three nights a week, and that's a stretch. And I blame any inadequacy of table manners on this disturbing yet unavoidable trend. Even so, Diane and I are doing our best to teach our girls appropriate table behavior, and to some it might seem we're fighting a losing battle.

Now I'm not sure how this happened, but our dining room set seems to have this mystical power over the girls' digestive systems. Or perhaps it's merely the relaxing nature of family dinner time that loosens their bowels. Or maybe they just like taking advantage of that hard wooden surface resting against their butt cheeks. Regardless of the reason, it seems like dinner time has become synonymous with gastrointestinal relief time. It got so bad that I finally had to make a decree: "If you girls have to fart, leave the room!" Well that backfired as well (hee hee) because even more disruptive than table-toots are two giggling girls frequently rushing into the den to make their gaseous deposits.

The other night it all came to a head and I was forced to amend my decree: "If you have to fart, don't! Just hold it in until after dinner!" That's what I do, and I don't think it's too much to ask of my girls.

We proceeded with dinner, and all was going well when Kyra tapped me on the shoulder. "Daddy, may I please be excused?" I was impressed by her manners, but was also puzzled because her plate was nearly full.

"Why? You're not done eating, are you?"

"No," she leaned in and whispered, "I have to fart."

At least she asked politely. That's half the battle.

Exercise Your Creativity Somewhere Else, Please

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

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

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

"A unicorn chasing a butterfly."

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

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

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

"What? I was just being creative!"

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

The House is Alive with the Sound of "Music"

My mom bought the girls their very first "real" guitars for Christmas, a couple of Fender Starcasters. They're gorgeous little guitars and I think I was about as excited as the girls were. Kyra probably would have been more excited to get a Hannah Montana guitar, but I was glad that my mom didn't go that route and buy her a total piece of crap for her first guitar. It wasn't too much later on that Christmas morning that the three of us assembled in the den for their first "lesson", the girls nearly bursting with excitement as visions of stardom danced in their heads. Those visions quickly evaporated as I wrestled with their inexperienced fingers to help them each form a "D" chord, where they realized that playing the guitar is a painful experience in the beginning.

"It hurts my fingers," Kyra complained.

"I know, Sweetie. Those are steel strings and they're going to hurt your fingers for awhile until you build up some callouses on your finger tips."

I finally get their fingers to stay where they need to, or close to it, and give them the green light to strum away. Pldit, pldit, pldit...not the prettiest sound in the world, but they don't care. They're making music. We "play" for nearly a half-hour until their fingers are totally raw and call it a day. We've had several lessons since then where the primary goal is to play a little bit more to build those callouses.



As a parent, I feel like one of my duties is to recognize the natural talents, dreams and passions of my girls and then to equip and encourage them to develop the skills necessary to see them come to fruition. Not in a psycho Lynn Spears kind of way, where I see the talent of my children as my meal ticket to a better life, but in a much more subtle way, where the girls are happy and fulfilled by the pursuit of their passions. If learning and playing the guitar helps in that regard, great. If not, well we gave it a shot.

My mom recognized my musical talents at an early age and did what she could to encourage their development. She tried to get me to audition for choirs and musicals and even offered to pay for piano lessons. But in my mind, I was a jock, and even though I secretly longed to be on stage and in the spotlight, I was terrified of the abuse I would get from my friends for partaking in such "sissy" activities. I politely declined her offers and to this day, my biggest regret in life has been not taking her up on those piano lessons.



Kailey and Kyra have inherited some of those natural musical talents, so I take up the mantle where my mom left off. Kyra is a natural and driven performer. She actually scares me a little bit because I think she would like nothing better than being the next Hannah Montana. Seriously. She is constantly singing karaoke and performing in the family room. It's her favorite thing to do. She could spend hours a day perfecting her craft and be perfectly happy.

Kailey lacks Kyra's drive, but is probably a little more naturally talented. Kailey could be a fantastic music writer someday. I am amazed by the emotional complexity of the songs she comes up with right off the top of her head. While many kids her age might sing about horses and rainbows, Kailey sings about things like being left out at school or just wanting to be loved. These aren't things that she personally experiences (at least I hope not), but that she's witnessed and that has impacted her enough to permeate her songs. When she's improving a song, Kailey sounds much, much older. One of my favorite things to do is to grab my guitar, play a chord progression, and have her sing an original song. Her stuff is good. Really good. Tempting-to-rip-off-and-claim-as-mine good. But I haven't...I'm not that desperate...yet.



So we'll start off with guitars and callouses and "D" chords, and we'll see where that leads us.

Quitters Never Win...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirt

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Priorities

Well it looks like we've got ourselves a good, ol' fashioned dilemma brewing. Since missing a day of school on Monday due to a fever/cold combo, Kyra has developed a dry, course, nasty cough. She sounds like a hoarse dog. We should probably keep her home another day, which brings us to dilemma #2: my mother-in-law spent mucho dinero on four tickets to see Hannah Montana in concert in Phoenix. Tonight. She also signed the girls up for the Hannah Montana fan club, which entitles them to attend a pre-concert party on Hannah Montana's party bus. If we keep her home from the concert, Kyra will never, ever, ever, ever, ever forgive us. And she would remind us hourly of that transgression for the rest of our lives. What to do, what to do?

Well, we did what any responsible parent would do: we kept Kyra home from school so that she could rest up and enjoy the concert! What?! Oh, don't give me that crap! Like you wouldn't do the same thing! Did I mention the fact that these are HANNAH MONTANA tickets? They're more precious than gold, people! Kids can make up their school work. There's no "making up" Hannah Montana!

And still my guilt consumes me. Don't think for a moment that I didn't lobby like hell to try to sell those babies. People are paying a bazillion dollars for them after all. I tried to reason with them...we could buy a Ferrari, a vacation home in the Hamptons, a small tropical island! I even tried the humanitarian route by offering to use the proceeds to feed a small African nation...for a year! But they were steadfast in their decision. It was Hannah Montana or bust.

By now, Grammy, Diane, Kailey and hoarse-dog coughing Kyra have packed into the van and on their way to Phoenix for a girls night out with Hannah Montana. I hope they bring me back a T-shirt.

Coming to a Head

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six Years

Last night during dinner, Kailey turned to me and asked, "Dad? After dinner can we go on the computer so you can show us what happened when the planes hit the buildings?" We've had many mini-discussions about 9/11 in the past week since both of the girls' classes at school have been covering it in light of today's anniversary.

I was flooded with conflicting emotions at Kailey's request. As a father, my immediate instinct was to protect my children. I hope they never experience a day like 9/11 in their lifetime: the fear, the grief, the utter sense of loss and helplessness, the anger...it all comes rushing back even six years later. Not enough time has passed. But it's also important for them to know what happened, even when they are probably still too young to comprehend it all.

I decided to focus on some of the positives from that day. We talked about how people came together to help one another; the heroism of the passengers from Flight 93 as well as that of the NYPD and NYFD. As we talked, my heart swelled with pride at the efforts of these people, everyday people who rose to the occasion and made a horrible, horrible day just a little bit brighter. If there's anything I really want the girls to "get" about 9/11, this is it.

After dinner, as the girls took their baths, I watched some of the YouTube entries on 9/11. "You're going to get yourself all depressed again," Diane warned. She was right and I knew it. But this was my way of remembering and paying homage to those whose lives have been eternally altered as a result of those senseless attacks, however sick, twisted, and masochistic it might seem. I do a pretty good job of sheltering myself from the pain 364 days a year. One day of letting it in isn't going to kill me.

I didn't let the girls watch any video last night. Too many of the clips had pictures or video of people falling to their deaths, and I didn't want to open that can of worms right before bedtime. Perhaps I'll let them watch something this afternoon if I can find a clip that focuses more on the indomitable human spirit than the death and destruction of that day. It's the former that makes this nation of ours great and is what will ultimately heal those wounds.

Holy Javelinas!!

I looked at my ringing cell phone and saw that Diane was calling. Being the good husband that I am and seeing that I had nothing to hide, I answered my wife's call. We started our conversation with the usual chit-chat, "How was your day," "How were the girls for you tonight," etc, when Diane decided to tell me a story.

"Tonight I did something YOU would do," she began. "I don't know what I was thinking...It was so...STUPID."

It took a moment for me to realize that my wife, the love of my life and the woman of my dreams, just referred to me as "stupid". Actually, she referred to my actions as "stupid", which is true because many of the things I do are admittedly "stupid", but I don't really need my wife to remind me of that. What I need from my wife is the reminder that she loves me IN SPITE of the stupid things I do.

"HEY," I objected, but she just laughed it off and continued with her story.

Rewind a couple of hours to another cell phone conversation I had. This one was with Kailey. I answered the phone to her animated voice, "DAD, WE JUST SAW A JAVELINA (hah-vuh-lee-nuh)...ON OUR STREET!" We live in a residential area on the outskirts of Tucson that is surrounded by desert. It is not unusual to see coyotes roaming around neighborhoods at night. But I've never seen a javelina roaming around in the neighborhood, which would be very exciting. Diane was driving the girls to softball practice when Kailey saw the javelina in a neighbor's yard roughly six houses down from ours. Diane didn't see it, and on Kailey's request, turned the van around to have a look and verified that there was, indeed, a javelina in the neighbor's yard. The girls flipped. out.

Fast-forward to the current conversation of the alleged dad-like "stupid" thing done by my wonderfully supportive wife. As they were coming home from softball practice and pulling in the driveway, Diane told the girls, "Papa kept the garage door up when we left for softball practice. I hope no javelinas got in there." The girls flipped. out. Kyra was bawling at the top of her lungs and wouldn't get out of the van because she was convinced that she saw a javelina lurking in the dark corner of the garage. The girls spent the rest of the evening screaming and freaking out at every little noise and inspecting under chairs and beds (like a frickin' javelina could fit under the bed) to make sure they wouldn't be mauled in their sleep. It turned out to be an exhausting night of bed-prep for Diane, and all because of a little comment.

As she finished telling me the tale of her borrowed "stupidity", I was no longer hurt or offended. In fact, I could feel that hurt turning into something like pride because this was something I would TOTALLY do. And finally, after sixteen years of marriage, I could see my wife, the love of my life and the woman of my dreams, FINALLY taking on some of MY characteristics. May God have mercy on our children.

I Hope This Lasts

Well, we finally did it.

Actually, Diane finally did it. I'm gleefully tagging along for the ride. She finally got sick enough of constantly cleaning the house only to have it completely destroyed mere minutes later that she put together an allowance list. That's right, we've stooped to the realm of bribery and cheap child labor, appealing to the greed of our children in order to keep a clean home. Or, for those who prefer a positive spin on the situation, we're teaching our girls the values of hard work and personal responsibility, as well as the lost art of earning and saving money. Yeah, yeah, yeah...those things will hopefully sink in to their rapidly developing brains, but right now we're more concerned about not breaking our necks after stepping on a strategically placed Happy Meal toy.

Kailey and Kyra each have their own lists for the week. And each list is not limited to the usual daily/weekly chores. They also contain duties concerning personal hygeine, personal development, and the attitudes in which the duties are completed. We're going to experiment and see how far we can stretch this sucker. For instance, will the promise of monetary compensation be enough of a motivator for the girls to "be nice to one another"? Probably not. But we're going to try it anyway, though we haven't worked out the finer details of how much we'll dock the girls for being turds to each other. Now that I mention it, we haven't really decided how much we'll reward them either. No matter. That'll come.

So far our dastardly plan is coming along swimmingly. The house has been clutter-free, the girls' rooms no longer resemble obstacle courses, and the fresh scent of Pine-Sol permeates the air. One of Kailey's weekly assignments has been to mop the tile floor in the kitchen. She's so desperate for cash (not really...she's loaded) that she opted to mop DAILY. I started to tell her that she only had to do it once per week before Diane shushed me. "Don't discourage her," she chided. "If she wants to mop every day, let her." Okie-dokie!

The real question will be how long we can keep up this ruse. How long will the weekly promise of cold, hard, petty cash motivate them to become domestic goddesses? That remains to be seen, but so far, so good.

Just Another Entry in the Journal of Bad Parenting

Kyra woke me up yesterday morning, which is not unusual since she wakes me up EVERY morning, usually by rushing into our bathroom and slamming and locking the bathroom door. Why she needs to lock the door is a mystery. I guess she likes her privacy. Yesterday was different though as she shook me awake bristling with excitement. "Daddy, I'm going to pull another tooth!"

I wasn't sure she had any teeth left in her head to pull. It seems like every other day one of the girls is walking around sporting a bloody Kleenex and a fresh gap in her teeth. It's a little maddening. I asked Kyra if she even had a loose tooth. "Yes! Look!" she said, thrusting her opened mouth within an inch of my face and wiggling her remaining top front tooth. And with a maniacal cackle, she fled the room. I turned over, flipped my pillow to the cool side, and made a vain attempt to return to sleep. Two minutes later Kyra returned, head down, lower lip puffed out, tail between legs. Kyra is susceptible to severe mood swings. It makes me kind of concerned for her future. "It won't come out," she pouted. I consoled her and gave her the old "keep wiggling it" pep talk then sent her on her way.

We didn't hear anything more about the loose tooth until lunchtime when, out of the blue, Kyra punctured the silence: "WHERE IS IT!!" She darted around the room screaming, looking under couch pillows, and scanning the floor.

"Where is what?" we asked, thoroughly confused.

"MY TOOTH!!" she bellowed as she pointed to the newly acquired hole in her head. "I WENT TO WIGGLE IT, AND IT WASN'T THERE!!" Surely enough, the loose tooth gave up without a struggle, and not an ounce of blood was shed. I also noticed a pronounced lisp as she explained her situation. Without missing a beat, the rest of us began combing the family room for the missing tooth. Diane and Kailey pulled the bottom cushion off of the love seat and investigated the long lost kernels of popcorn and other miscellaneous pieces of crap that congregate under the cushion to see if the missing tooth was hiding among them. Kyra did the same with the couch. I scoured the floor for a moment before making my way over to the kitchen sink to inspect Kyra's lunch plate. Sure enough, mixed in with the remaining crumbs of Kyra's lunch and garnished with just a touch of tomato sauce (or was that ketchup?), sat Kyra's tooth.

I've never cheered for a more disgusting sight in all my life.

Fast-forward to this morning. Kyra woke both of us up, head down, lower lip puffed out, tail between legs. "The tooth fairy didn't come last night."

CRRRRRRRRAP!

"Well did you write her a note?" Diane asked groggily. I've got to hand it to my wife, she's quick on her feet and able to pull BS out of her nether regions even while half asleep. I fell in love with her all over again, morning breath and all.

"Noooo," Kyra whined.

"Well, we'll have to work on that today. She'll come. Don't worry."

Kyra seemed somewhat satisfied with Diane's response, so she continued with her morning routine by slamming and locking our bathroom door for her morning pee pee.

OK, we suck. I get that. But in our defense, we had a very busy night last night entertaining Diane's family and throwing a birthday party for our sister-in-law. We baked five pizzas...from scratch! And did I mention that we decorated for a birthday party? We were busy, busy, busy. Cooking, cleaning, decorating, eating, cleaning, partying. After the family left, we bathed the girls and didn't get them to bed until 9:30. We were tired.

And we were a little traumatized, too. At around 10:00, Diane decided to put together a batch of margaritas, but discovered shortly after mixing the necessary ingredients that we had no ice. NO ICE!! We used it all at the birthday party! All of our ice was gone! Gone, I tell you! So Diane and I stood at the opened freezer door and stared at the ice maker willing it to produce some ice. It didn't work. So we nursed ice-less margaritas until Diane heard the water turn on about a half-hour later. I rushed to the freezer, collected the ten or so precious cubes of frozen H20, and deposited them into our warm drinks.

We finished our drinks and went to bed, and never gave Kyra's tooth fairy pillow a second thought. We were tired and traumatized, and maybe a little toasted, so I guess when it comes right down to it, yes, we're bad parents. We'll pay though. Literally. I'm sure that when the tooth fairy comes tonight, she'll be leaving Kyra a fresh, crisp Ben Franklin to make up for all her troubles. I think I need another margarita, warm or otherwise.

Tourney Time

It's Monday morning, and we're all recovering from a hectic weekend of softball, Kailey's first All-Star tournament. Overall, it was a good experience, even though the Southeast Boring White Jersey All-Stars came nowhere close to winning the tournament. I was, most of all, proud of Kailey, because this tournament was one of those times where you hope you can teach your children some important life lessons. While I can't proclaim with any measure of certainty that she learned that lesson, I'm confident that a solid foundation was put in place, and Diane and I, as parents, need to continue to build.

As I tucked Kailey in bed last night, we talked about the tournament and about those lessons and what she learned. At one point she asked me, "Daddy, why are you whispering?"

I played it macho. I couldn't tell her the real reason I was whispering; that I thought I might break down if I talked in my normal voice. That's how proud I was. I just told her it was late and we were talking in our goodnight voices. She was OK with that.

Enough of the mushiness and on to the details of All-Star Weekend: the Good, the Bad, & the Ugly.


The Good

The Southeast All-Stars played their hearts out. They had a rough start to the tournament and played five games in 30 hours, something probably none of them have ever done before. They very easily could have gotten down on themselves and given up, but they gave their very best to the bitter end.

Friday and Saturday's games were used to determine the tournament seeds. Actual tournament play took place on Sunday. Southeast played three games on Saturday to determine their tournament ranking. They went 1 and 2 and ended up being ranked 5th out of 6 teams. Ouch. I honestly wasn't expecting that. In their first game, they played the Amazon Women of Sahuaro, the softball juggernauts of Tucson. They are the Tucson softball equivalent of the New York Yankees...the very best that money can buy. Did I write that out loud? Everybody ("hates" is a really strong word) wants to beat them really, REALLY bad. Problem is, they're too big and too good. Their smallest player was as big as our biggest player. And they cleaned our clocks 9-0 on Saturday morning. Welcome to the tournament, ladies and germs.

The bats came to life and we bounced back in our next game against Las Ninas, winning 7-5. However, Kailey suffered a bit of a mental crisis. The girls were taking batting practice before the game, and Kailey cracked herself in the knee with her bat while warming up. She had a bruise, but I think the combination of injury, heat and fatigue took its toll on her little body. She didn't want to play and told Diane she wanted to go home. Since that wasn't an option, she instead sat out of the game until it was her turn to bat. That's when the pitcher hit her on the other leg. Talk about adding injury to injury. Kailey limped to first base and ran to second on the next batter's base hit where she collapsed on the base and burst into tears. Her coach scooped her up and carried her back to the shade of the dugout. We applied ice to her leg, and she sat out the rest of the game.

I thought Kailey's leg was well enough play. Diane thought so too. Her coaches graciously stayed out of it and supported and encouraged her as best they could. But Kailey had made up her mind that she was hurt and couldn't play at the risk of further injury. Thankfully, there was a nice long break between games two and three, so we went home, cleaned her up and laid her down for a much-needed nap. In fact, we all laid down for much-needed naps. We also gave her a nice long pep talk about teamwork and not giving up and working through adversity and all that not-so-crappy crap.

The bottom line was that her team needed her and she wasn't pulling her weight. Sure it was hot as hell out there, but everyone was playing in the same heat. And before the game, one of Kailey's teammates got hit in the nose during warm-ups unleashing a bloody geyser across right field. She played the whole game because Kailey was riding the bench with a slightly bruised knee. Kailey's response: "Well it stopped bleeding." I guess compassion isn't one of her strong suits.

After making sure Kailey was well rested, fed and hydrated, Diane and I basically told her she would play the next game. I guess compassion isn't one of our strong suits either. We weren't being cruel, overbearing sports parents (I don't think). But we know our children. We know when they're giving their all and when they're holding back. Kailey had a bruise on her knee half the size of a dime, yet she carried on as though she was awaiting the amputation a gangrenous leg. We knew this was a situation she was going to have to push through, and we pushed her to do it.

Their third game was against a fundamentally sound Oro Valley team. I could tell by the way they were warming up that this would be a tough game. Kailey gave us a couple of last-ditch-effort whines before the game, but we encouraged her to stick with it. And she did for the rest of the tournament. Southeast gave them a great fight but fell short 4-2, thus cementing our 5th seed. If we were going to win the championship, we'd have to win three games on Sunday and beat the #1 seed Amazon Women of Sahuaro in game 2. Incidentally, Oro Valley was the #2 seed.

Kailey played the game, and afterward we heaped on the praise. She didn't give her greatest performance, but she pushed through the pain, the discomfort, and the fear, and for that, I'm extremely proud. And she contributed to her team when the tournament officially started Sunday morning.

...to be continued.

Daddy, the Enforcer

Last night, Diane called me at work shortly before the 10:00 newscast, and as we were chatting, she gasped, "Oh my gosh, Kyra's still awake. She's in her bed singing. Here, I'm going to give her the phone. Tell her to go to sleep."

She caught me off guard. "Wha...why don't YOU tell her to go to sleep?" I asked.

"Because she'll listen to you. Here she is."

And with that, I was cast into the spotlight: it was showtime. Kyra took the phone and greeted me in her cheery voice, "Hi Daddy." Today was a half-day of school for the girls, which meant Kyra would go to school in the morning instead of her usual afternoons, and that she would get to take her lunch box and eat in the cafeteria with the other kids. Kyra was going to get to do big girl things and she was excited. Too excited to sleep. But still.

I quickly took my disciplinary tone with her, "Sweetie, it is WAY past your bedtime and you need to be up early for school tomorrow. Stop messing around and go to sleep."

"But Daddy..." Kyra ALWAYS has something to say.

"Stop messing around and go to sleep...goodnight," I enunciated.

"BWWWAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaa," the sound of Kyra's bawling trailed off as Diane took the phone and exited her room. You'd have thought I thrust a spike through her ear. Have I mentioned before that Kyra has a flare for the dramatic?

Diane got back on the line and I thanked her for that pleasant and uplifting phone experience and then excused myself to get ready for the newscast. Sometimes I hate playing the heavy.

Overprotective Dad?

I am a dad who has been "blessed" with two beautiful daughters. On several occasions when I've been out with the girls, at the store or the playground or the coffee shop, I've had other dads make comments something to the effect of, "Daughters, huh?" which is usually accompanied by "The Look." Every dad with daughters knows "The Look". "The Look" is a telling expression of pity and concern recognizing that you, dad of daughters, were once a teenage boy with raging hormones...raging hormones that sometimes took over your ability, or desire, to treat members of the opposite sex with the dignity and respect they deserve. "The Look" says get ready, 'cause payback is hell.

For the most part, I was a good boy as a teen, able to keep the hormones somewhat corralled, something I'm quick to remind the Good Lord of while pleading for the lives of my girls. I was a good boy...kinda! Please don't punish them to punish me! Please don't let them give in to the raging hormones! Please give them the horse-sense to know the difference between LOVE and HORMONES! Now, I don't want to be the dad who polishes his shotgun while potential suitors come calling, but I will if I have to! I like the following resolution even better, sent to me by a friend: The Trunk Monkey chaperone...he'll keep the boys in line when you're not there to.



Hopefully, God will be merciful and we won't need a Trunk Monkey to keep those boys in line, but I'm going to check it out as an option on our next vehicle...just in case.

Extortion, An Excellent Motivator

Last week while at Kailey's gymnastics class (yes, it's not enough that the girls are on separate softball teams...they're now in separate gymnastics classes), Kyra busied herself by perusing the gymastics outfits in the "gift shop". The "gift shop" is nothing more than a coat closet with several racks of leotards along the wall, a couple of snack machines, and a cash register where all of my hard earned money resides. She hadn't browsed long before finding and falling in love with a pink, sparkly leotard. Sticker price: $36. All of my girls have been "blessed" with expensive tastes. Kyra ran to get Diane to show her this amazing find. If I had been there, the answer would have fallen in the category of, "Thirty-six bucks for something you'll be able to wear for six months max? No frickin' way!" But Diane is a little more tactful. She resorted to extortion.

Don't get all self-righteous and judgemental, because you know you do it too. Here's how it all shook down. Diane paused for a moment, then reasoned, "We'll see. If you can show me that you can clean up your messes without complaining and be a good listener, then maybe we'll get you the outfit." I love my wife. She's a freakin' genious. We've been dangling that little gem over Kyra's head all week long and it works like a charm.

Last night as I was getting the girls ready for bed, I asked her to clean up her mess in the family room which she did willingly. She picked up her toys and took them to her room, then returned to inform me that she didn't want to clean up her room. I quickly replied, "Then I guess you don't want that gymnastics outfit."

"Oh, all right," she moaned. "I guess I'll clean my room." A grin crept across my face as she moaped back to her room.

I wonder if we can stretch this thing out until she's eighteen.