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.

Anatomy 101

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Answer to Everything

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

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

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

"Do they 'touch the sky?'"

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

pregnant pause

"Maybe you should Google it."

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

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

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.

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.

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.

Mourning Final Mornings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I'm An Idiot...And Lovin' Every Minute of It

One of the great things about being a parent is the opportunity to be an influence in the lives of your children. Notice I did not say "positive" influence. Whether I am a "positive" influence on the girls is open to interpretation. If you ask me if I think I'm a positive influence, then it's a big "hell, yeah!" My wife, on the other hand, may not be so quick to jump on that bandwagon.

One of the areas in which we are not so equally yoked is our taste in movies. I need to be diplomatic here because Diane reads my blog. Diane tends to be a little more selective in her cinematic tastes while I like to dine at the smorgasbord. If we're channel surfing and I see a black and white movie with a ridiculous-looking creature, or a dude in a cowboy hat, in uniform, or holding a samurai sword, or gunfire/explosions of any sort, I'll shout, "OOooh, what was that!" Diane just rolls her eyes, groans, and keeps on surfing. I'm particularly proud of my ability to identify a movie in the brief second or so it takes to surf by it: "That was Platoon...Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid...My Bloody Valentine...Meatballs II...Police Academy V..." More groaning and eye rolling.

Fortunately for us, we identified this difference relatively early in our relationship. I can remember one night we decided to have a movie night over at her place and she asked me what I'd like to see. "Have you ever seen Young Frankenstine? Oh it's hilarious...we have to get that one." Diane AND HER MOM went to about four different video stores to find the movie. They finally found it and we watched it together with Diane's parents and her sister. I busted a gut for an hour-and-a-half while they all sat there stone-faced wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Now that I think about it, it's a wonder they allowed me to marry their daughter.

Anyway, that was a long tangent simply to say that I'd like to have more of an influence on the girls by giving them a wider appreciation of the cinema. And I've had some success in this area. They are already big fans of The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and super hero movies, much to Diane's chagrin. This morning I pulled off a huge coup d'etat, although it may backfire and bite me in the butt. This morning I introduced the girls to a classic cinematic art form...the creature feature.

I was surfing through channels, and because Diane was at work, I stopped at all of those channels that looked promising because I was in control for a change. I came across AMC (that's American Movie Classics) and saw a black and white movie with two men sneaking around in the dark dressed in 50's style swimsuits. Who wouldn't stop channel-surfing for that! Then I saw it. The rubber, fakey-looking body suit; the fins; the gaping mouth...it was The Creature From the Black Lagoon! Score!! Of course, the girls came in at this time and wanted to watch it. I mean they REALLY wanted to watch it. I protested at first, but they BEGGED me to watch it. I was so proud. What else could I do? So I made cinnamon rolls and we snuggled up and watched one of the dumbest movies ever made. It was great!

What's also great is that I'm an incredibly sound sleeper. So I won't have to deal with the girls when they are awakened by nightmares in the middle of the night. Sorry, hon.

Gotcha!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I jumped.

The girls cracked up laughing.

The spider was not real.

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

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

Making Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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