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.

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.

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.

Has It Really Been That Long?

My best friend from high school called last week to inform me that our twenty year reunion had been scheduled for the end of September. Twenty years. Ho-ly cow. I know I'm not the first person in the history of humanity to ask the question, "Where did the time go?" but it feels unique to me. I can't be twenty years older. My body may feel the effects of nearly 40 years on earth, but in my mind I'm still a spry 25.

I haven't attended any of my previous reunions for various reasons. Either the timing was bad, I had a conflict in scheduling, or was simply disinterested. But there's something different about the twenty year reunion, and I've experienced a change in attitude. I recently reconnected with my best friend from high school after over ten years, and we've kept in good contact since then. Now I'm genuinely interested in returning home and catching up with several of my classmates. Perhaps that's the difference between being 25 and nearly 40. The 25 year-old is in process of establishing himself in life and is inwardly focused, while the 40 year-old has gained a little more perspective and is more able to see the big picture, focusing on things that are truly important like friends and family. At least I hope this is the case.

I don't think I'm going to be able to attend my 20 year reunion, and for the first time in my high school reunion history, I'm bummed. We already have vacation planned the week before, and I'm not sure that I can swing the tight turnaround. I'm looking into the options, but it's not looking good. It sounds like things fell through the cracks in the organization of the 20 year reunion, but should be more in line for the 25 year, so perhaps we'll shoot for that.

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: The Good Part 2

If I know anything about blog readers, it's that they'd much prefer reading about the bad and the ugly over the good. So I'll try to make the good brief, then move on to the juicy stuff.

Southeast had its first single-elimination tournament game Sunday morning against Tanque Verde. We cruised to a 7-2 victory and started to look like the team I envisioned prior to the tournament. Southeast was hitting its stride at just the right time because our next game was a rematch against The Amazon Women of Sahuaro, pictured above. As you can see from the picture, #8 is our tallest player. The three Sahuaro players at the left of the picture are all as tall, if not bigger. The whole team was like that. It was David vs. Goliath.

The atmosphere was electric, the tension, palpable. Parents of the Southeast players, quiet for most of the tournament, came to life. It felt like we were playing for a national championship. Pitching dominated the game. We hung with them for the first two innings, holding them scoreless. But the Sahuaro pitchers were too good and too plentiful, rotating in a new pitcher each inning, and our two pitchers eventually wore down in the heat. Sahuaro had two three-run innings and sent us home 6-0. Our tourney run was over, but we gave them a hell of a fight. After the game, the Sahuaro coaches told our coaches that we were the only team to give them a hard time up to that point in the tournament.

Kailey went 1 for 1 at the plate against Sahuaro, and was one of the few Southeast players to get on base. She fouled off one pitch from the Sahuaro pitcher, who was throwing smoke for a 12, er, 8 year-old. Kailey eventually drew four balls from the opposing pitcher and then hit a single off of her coach. It wasn't her best hit, but it was probably one of her best at bats. Since she batted at the bottom of the order, she never had more than one at bat per game. She batted .500 for the tournament going 2 for 4, with one strike out and one hit pitch. Not too shabby.

And I can't say it enough: Kailey toughed it out. Actually, all those girls toughed it out. It was hotter than hell out there and they were tired from playing so many games, yet they gave it their all. Not bad for a bunch of 8 year-olds. Hopefully they collected more than just their participation medals (that's what's going on in the picture. Kailey is the one walking back in line). I know that whenever I look at Kailey's medal, I'll be reminded of the hard work and the fight that she and her whole team put up in her first All-Star tournament. And I'll remind her of how proud I was.

Sorry kids, it's late and I'm tired. The tournament bad and ugly will have to wait another day.

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.

The Doctor is "In"

I'm not sure how this responsibility fell into my lap, but I'm rapidly becoming my work's resident counselor for relationship trouble. Guys seem to be coming out of the woodwork to pour their guts out about their women problems. I'm definitely not an expert in the field and I'm just as perplexed by the female psyche as the next guy, and I've told them as much. I guess I'm just willing to lend a listening ear, which is apparently what they need. I've been told more than once that they weren't necessarily looking for answers, just for someone to talk to. That works out well for me since I certainly DON'T have any answers to their problems, and though I have my opinions, I try keep them to myself. I don't want to mess things up any more than they already are. I can just see the aftermath of my advice: "Dude, thanks a lot. My marriage is OVER. You NEVER tell a woman what's REALLY on your mind. What were you THINKING? Why did I ever listen to YOU?" I can then see myself getting slapped with a lawsuit for practicing psychology without a licence. Perhaps I should steer clear of my new found calling as a counselor. Sorry boys, from now on the doctor is "Out". Unless, of course, you're willing to sign a waiver.

Gettin' Yer Bell Rung

Tuesday night, Diane and I took Kailey to her gymnastics class which we had to reschedule because of a conflict with softball. Her rescheduled class was later than normal, and the gym bustled with several classes of girls of varying age going through a variety of exercises from floor, to vault, to balance beam...you get the picture. Only one thing will stop all activity in the gym dead in its tracks and it's situated on one wall next to the vault: a bell. It is a common practice that when a budding gymnast accomplishes a new feat, she, or the occasional he, bounds over to the bell and rings it. The gym goes silent as all attention is directed toward the ringer of the bell, followed by the collective question inquired by all who are present, "WHADJA DO?" The bell-ringer then gives a description of the mastery of their new skill:

"I did a somersault!"

"I climbed the 20-foot rope without plummeting to my death!!"

"I did a roundabout half-pike, triple gainer with a lemon twist!!"

The gym then bursts into cheers and applause, and the bell-ringer runs back to join her class, beaming with pride.

Kailey recently moved up to the next level and is doing quite well. I'm often impressed by her gracefulness as well as her natural ability to pick up new maneuvers quickly. About halfway through the session, her class moved to the low balance beams, situated about a foot off of the floor. They began by doing their normal beam exercises, but then her instructor introduced a new move to the balance beam: the handstand toe-touch. The girls are used to doing this move on the floor. They start by going into a handstand, touch their toes at the top of the handstand, then bring their legs back down to the floor where they resume their standing position. Now they were supposed to do this on the beam. The handstand position was no problem for most of the girls, but they were falling all over the place as they tried to land squarely back on the beam.

When she started, Kailey was stumbling and tumbling like the rest of the girls, but then began sticking her landings. Granted, she was only going a quarter of the way up on her handstand, but as her confidence grew, she went higher and higher in her handstand while sticking more of her landings. Her instructor worked with her for a minute, saw her stick a landing, and, yup, you guessed it, sent her over to the bell. Diane and I smiled as we watched Kailey trot with confidence across the gym to where the bell sat on the wall. She gave the string a tug and the bell sang out, prompting everyone in the gym, as if on cue, to respond with the required inquiry:

"WHADJA DO?"

Kailey took a deep breath, then stopped. Her proud smile faded from her lips and the blood drained from her face as she realized she had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA OF HOW TO EXPLAIN WHAT SHE HAD JUST DONE. Her little body slumped against the wall as she felt the stare of every eye in the gym boring into her, waiting to hear the details of her fantastic feat. Her eyes widened to what seemed the size of her head, revealing the churning wheels of her mind that desperately searched for an explanation. After what seemed like an eternity, Kailey muttered something unintelligible, at least to Diane and me as we tried to stifle our laughter, then scurried back to her class to the gracious cheers of the parents and other gymnasts.

She completed the rest of her class without incident, but I think she left the gym having learned an important lesson. If you're gonna ring the bell, you'd better have a damn-good explanation.

Saving Our Planet

I just had the following conversation with Kyra as we were on our way to school:

"Daddy, yesterday in school we learned we need to save our planet by getting trashed."

Once again I'm questioning our decision to send our girls to public school. "What do you mean by 'getting trashed'?" I laughed.

"We need to pick up our trash and we need to have three different containers: one for paper, one for cans, and one for bottles," she explained.

"Very good, Sweetie, but that's called RECYCLING, not GETTING TRASHED."

Kyra might be on to something though. Getting trashed to save our planet might entice many more people to get with the program.

Use It or Lose It

All my life I've had a tendency to take the more difficult route in learning life's lessons: pull-ups on the clothes bar in your closet is not a good idea; flipping someone off in front of your history teacher will draw you a little time in detention; stealing the lids to the brand new garbage cans in order to play Knights of the Round Table will get you chased down by your mother; and peeing directly into the wind...well, you get the idea. Granted, these are all examples from my childhood and early adolescence, but trust me when I say that the process has followed me into my adult life. I've heard my most recent life lesson expressed thousands of times, but for me, lessons just never seem to sink in and take hold until I experience them first hand. And the lesson is this: use it or lose it.

Last week, a friend of mine informed me of the American Idol Songwriting Contest and invited me to submit a song. I guess another lesson I should learn is always see what you're up against before agreeing to do something. Since I was feeling cocky over completing my first song in three years, I took on the challenge. That was a week ago, Tuesday. The next day, a thought occurred to me: I wonder when the contest deadline is? I looked it up and my jaw dropped: April 17th, tax day. I had one week. Game over. Not gonna happen. I was already in the process of putting in twenty hours of overtime at work, and my taxes still weren't done. How in the world would I write and record a song in seven days?

Although the cards seemed to be stacked against me, I decided not to pack it in. I mean, I still had seven days, right? Actually, six. I spent Wednesday getting our taxes done. At some point, I don't remember exactly when, a concept came to mind that I thought I could run with, and I spent the next several days jotting down ideas and experimenting with rhyme schemes. I also pulled out my guitar and played around with several chord progressions until I settled on one I liked. After filling several pages with my scribbles, I finally sat down Monday morning to organize to my thoughts. I worked for about an hour and made significant progress, but that was the only free time I had. I entered Tuesday the 17th, deadline day, with an incomplete song.

I figured I had maybe two hours on Tuesday to finish, then record a demo of the song. HA! I pulled my Fostex MR-8 digital multitracker, and it's user manual, out of the drawer that housed it for the past year, and blew off the dust. Kyra was excited because she likes to put on the headphones and sing into the microphone while I accompany her on guitar. To her, this was playtime. To me, it was time to get everything set up so that when I took her to school, I could get down to business. We played for about an hour, taking turns singing songs. I love playing the guitar and having the girls make up tunes and lyrics on the fly. More often than not, they come up with some good stuff. I've been tempted to use some of it, giving them credit, of course.

I took Kyra to school, then went to work. I pulled out my guitar to lay down the guitar track to my demo. Remember, I didn't have a finished song yet. I thought I'd lay down the accompaniment track and then fashion the lyrics and melody to fit. After about ten false starts, I finally laid down an acceptable track. It was only a demo, after all, and I had already given in to the idea that whatever I presented was not going to be perfect. I just didn't have the time and I was OK with that. I recued the track to listen to it, but there was nothing there. Silence. What the crap! I forwarded through the track and found the beginning, roughly a minute in. Since I hadn't used the recorder in such a long time, I forgot to recue it after all of those false starts. Oh well, at least it was there.

I turned my attention to the lyrics, and after massaging them for close to an hour, I came to something I could live with (by American Idol standards, anyway). I then began to rehearse them with the guitar track I recorded earlier. This was the first time that I would attempt to sing the song in my full, head voice. As I was writing the song, I would rehearse it in a light falsetto that was usually audible only to myself. As soon as I sang the first verse, I knew I was in trouble: the key I had written the song in was too high for me to sing comfortably. Crrrrrrrrap! It wasn't always this way. I used to be able to sing up in the rafters with little or no problem, but since I haven't really used my voice consistently over the past few years, I've gotten a little rusty. OK, a LOT rusty. Life lesson? If you don't use it, you lose it. I got it.

Normally, I would say "No problem" and just transpose the song into a lower key, but I couldn't do that because my guitar is jacked up. It buzzes when I play certain chords, which is the reason I wrote the song in the key of E...no buzzing. So I was stuck. I also realized that the song was too long. If I was going to gut out the song in the key of E, I was going to have to shorten it, which meant re-recording the guitar track. What the CRAP!!

By this time, Diane was home from work and the girls were home from school. My "two hour project" was stretching to four hours and beyond. I recorded the guitar track over, this time with only a couple of restarts and recues, and then moved on to my vocals. I figured I'd give it one run through and be done with it, but I screwed up the first verse. I hit the "Undo" button which was only supposed to delete my vocals, but it also erased the intro of the guitar part. MOTHER PUS-BUCKET!! WHAAAAT THE CRAAAAAAP!! I was furious. It was late afternoon, I had been working on this song for most of the day and had nothing to show for it. I'd had enough and was ready to pack it in.

"Don't quit," Diane admonished. She assured me that she would keep the girls busy and gave me the green light to finish the job, so I returned to my makeshift recording studio. I laid down the guitar track AGAIN and quickly moved to the vocals. I practiced them a couple of times to warm up my voice and to ensure no screw ups, then hit "Record". I got through the first verse fine, but began to struggle at the end of the 1st chorus. Verse 2 was OK, but I was outright hurting by the end of the chorus. I mustered all of my strength to get through the bridge, but by the final chorus, I was flat out croaking the melody. It wasn't pretty. "It's a demo. It's a demo. It's a demo," I kept telling myself as I finished the song. Only later did it occur to me that I could have recorded the vocals in sections, taking a breather to rest my voice. But I wanted it done, and I got it done.

I walked into the kitchen where Diane and the girls sat at the table, grinning. Kyra had her hands over her ears, Kailey mimicked me singing, and Diane asked me if I was OK, all of them basically busting my balls. "It's not pretty, but I'm done," I replied. Not really. It took me another couple of hours to read the manual, then go through the long and tedious process of converting the tracks to a stereo .WAV file, uploading the .WAV file to my computer, converting the .WAV file to an .MP3 file, and submitting it to the Idol contest. But I eventually got it done and I was exhausted. And even though I got it done, it felt like I had wasted the day.

Lesson learned? Use it or lose it. If I used my multitracker more often, I'd know the ins and outs and not have to rely so heavily on the user's manual.

Use it or lose it. If I sang more regularly, I'd maintain some of my range. Granted, getting older will suck some of that range from me, but still.

Use it or lose it. If I'd write more regularly, I might have had a song already in the can that I could have tweaked/submitted instead of killing myself to write and record a whole new song.

Use it or lose it. Lesson learned? Probably not.

Am I a Life-Talent or a Talented-Lifer?

I was scrolling through Blogger's "Next Blog" feature, when I came across a blog that contained the following Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin quiz. I was bored, so I took the quiz. Normally, I wouldn't publish my results, but I thought they were interesting, and a little too telling of my current inner life-struggle, so here they are. You can read about the difference between a Talent, a Lifer, or a Mandarin here.

I'm a Talent!

You're a risk-taker, and you follow your passions. You're determined to take on the world and succeed on your own terms. Whether in the arts, science, engineering, business, or politics, you fearlessly express your own vision of the world. You're not afraid of a fight, and you're not afraid to bet your future on your own abilities. If you find a job boring or stifling, you're already preparing your resume. You believe in doing what you love, and you're not willing to settle for an ordinary life.

Talent: 56%
Lifer: 54%
Mandarin: 33%

Take the Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin quiz.


Notice that there is only a 2% difference between being a Talent and a Lifer. So I went back to the quiz and changed one answer that really could have gone either way, and, voila, I became a Lifer.

I'm a Lifer!

To you, a job is what pays the bills. You put in your hours, follow the rules, and then go home. Occasionally, you consider quitting, but then you think of how bad the job market is and you reconsider. Whatever happiness you get, you get from your life outside the workplace. Relationships, family, hobbies, and outside creative pursuits are what really matter to you. You're probably taking this test at work because you don't have anything better to do.

Talent: 54%
Lifer: 56%
Mandarin: 36%

Take the Talent, Lifer, or Mandarin quiz.


What is interesting to me is that, philosophically, I desire to be and to live my life as a Talent. But, practically, I'm living my life as a Lifer, working in a decent job that pays the bills and provides stability for me and my family. And I just recently came to grips with the realization that whatever happiness or contentedness I would experience in my life would come outside the workplace. Kind of freaky.

Building a Case for Worst Father of the Year

Recently, we've been having issues involving Kailey's decision making abilities when it comes to resolving conflict with her younger sister. Forsaking our constant reminders to "use her words" to settle issues, Kailey has chosen instead to pummel the crap out of Kyra, or at least that's what you'd think when you hear Kyra's horrified yowls from the other room. In reality, Kailey merely pushed, hit or kicked her out of frustration, but Kyra is such a sensitive soul that Kailey may as well have danced on her face. Still, pushing, hitting or kicking is not acceptable, and Diane and I set a course to put all such activity to an end.

Six months ago I seemed to find a solution. Time outs weren't working, and my spanking her for hitting her sister seemed to be a little inconsistent. One afternoon, totally exhausted after putting Kailey into time out for the umpteenth time for hitting her sister, I decided to give the "eye for an eye" solution a try. "The next time you hit your sister," I explained, "Your sister gets to hit you. Do you understand? Your sister gets a free shot. Then you'll know how it feels." Now I understand that there's inconsistency here as well, but at least it seemed more appropriate than me hitting her. I also explained to Kyra that it did not give her free reign to hit back; she was only to hit Kailey when I TOLD her to. Yeah, right. I was hoping that the mere threat would scare Kailey out of her hitting mode, and for a while, it did. But one day Kailey decided to test my threats, and I finally had to call her bluff. I called Kyra over after Kailey hit her in the arm and told her to hit Kailey back. Kyra is such a sweet girl that her idea of "hitting" was to give her a love tap on the arm. Kailey fell on the floor wailing and wrything in pain as though she had just taken a right hook to the kisser. Problem solved. After that, Kailey "used her words" or consulted Diane or me when Kyra was bugging her.

Last week though, Kailey relapsed into her old behavior and forced my hand to return to the "eye for an eye" technique (Super Nanny would be so proud). Yesterday after enduring two time outs and two threats of Kyra's retaliation, Kailey finally forced my hand. She had just kicked Kyra in the hand right in front of me, and I asked her if she wanted Kyra to kick her back. Kailey cast a defiant gaze at me. "Do you want Kyra to kick you?" I repeated, hoping she would back down. She didn't and gave me a nod. "OK, Kyra. Come here."

Now I was envisioning the love tap Kyra gave Kailey six months ago, but Kyra had apparently had enough of Kailey's bullying. Kailey was stretched out on her back across the chair and ottoman. Kyra walked up to her and, in a flash reminiscent of a ninja warrior, drew her leg up to her head and karate kicked down directly into Kailey's stomach. WHAM!! Kailey doubled over and started bawling.

"Holy crap!" I exclaimed, mortified. "Kyra, she kicked you IN THE HAND!!"

"You told me to kick her," she rationalized.

I had, indeed, told her to kick Kailey with no instruction as to where or how hard. She had me dead to rights. I sent her over to the couch and turned my attention to Kailey. Huge wet tears rolled down her face, and I suddenly felt like the world's biggest jerk. She was crying freely and I was surprised that Kyra's abdominal blow hadn't knocked the wind out of her. Kailey calmed down after a minute and I realized that the whole incident looked and sounded worse than it really was. It was at this point that I started laughing uncontrollably, which DID worsen the situation. It sent a mixed message to Kyra, who joined in my laughter, and to Kailey, who began crying harder. I collected myself and explained to the girls that there would be no more hitting, kicking, or pushing of any kind. They were also told not to tell their mother of this incident or they would be shipped to Siberia.

I later confessed my stupidity to Diane, and we agreed that if this didn't teach Kailey her lesson, nothing will. I know I learned mine: always give detailed instruction to a six year-old who is poised and ready to exact revenge upon her older sister.

Toughskins for Girls and An Apology to My Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daddy/Daughter Work Day

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

"Yeah?" I moaned.

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

"Yeah?"

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

"Yeah?"

"He sounds kinda mean," Kyra chimed in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Pays to Be Nice

I almost didn't stop. I was running a little late and the Sunday drivers were out a day early slowing the flow of traffic. I decided that I would pull in and see how the drivethrough looked; if it wasn't packed, then I would stop. But it's a Saturday afternoon and I've never seen fewer than three cars on a Saturday afternoon. I'm a Starbuck's junkie and I need my almost daily fix, especially before a 12-hour, no-break workday. The thought of a Starbuck's drivethrough drive-by gave me cold sweats, and I was delighted and amazed to see it empty.

I normally order a drip coffee, venti-sized, please, but on the special occasion of an empty drivethrough, I decided to splurge: venti vanilla latte. I pulled around to the window, grabbed my wallet, and selected the $5 bill I stole from Diane yesterday (hee hee hee). Two of the baristas greeted me as I drove up to the window. "We took a vote, and because you are so nice and in such a good mood every day when we see you, we decided to buy your drink for you today!"

Several thoughts crowded my mind, the first being, EXCELLENT!!, which was immediately followed by, "Wait, 'good mood'...are they sure they have the right guy?" which was closely followed by, "Who cares...FREE LATTE!!" Apparently they had served such an endless series of foul-mooded people, that my neutral moodiness was a breath of fresh air. Either way, I got a free latte and it made my day. And to think I almost didn't stop...and I still have Diane's $5!

Old Friends

Last night I talked to an old friend, my best friend from high school, for the first time in about 13 years. After I hung up, I thought about what had kept us out of touch for so long. It's not like we had a fight or a falling out. I think that life just got too busy, coupled with the fact that I do a really lousy job of keeping in touch with friends from the past.

It seems that I get too wrapped up in the present, in the now, to take the time to reach out and keep the ones who have mattered most to me in the past involved in my present. Truth is, I haven't really kept in touch with anyone from my past, outside of an irregular Christmas card that we manage to send out every two years. That's pretty sad.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and that may well be true. Lord knows that I have enough of them. I often entertain thoughts of "I should e-mail this person", but I seldom ever do (By the way, it's always "e-mail", never "call"...that would be far too scary. Last night, my friend called me. Good for him!). I need to carry through on those thoughts more often.

Oddly enough, my friend and I reconnected through MySpace, of all things. I joined "MyWaste", as I call it a few months ago at the badgering of a few of my younger colleagues at work. "I'm too old for this" I kept thinking, but I joined anyway. I did, however, set my profile to private in a vain attempt to preserve any last shred of dignity. He saw that I had an account, created an account of his own and contacted me. The rest is history. So I guess MySpace isn't that much of a waste after all...at least not in this case.

On Growing Up

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

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

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

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

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

Today was NOT pajama day

Justice or mercy? Tough love or protection? What would you do?

Yesterday Kailey came home from school all excited because her class had won a pajama party. Apparently this is a pretty big deal for kids these days. I think it's just sheer laziness...kid rolls out of bed and right to school. But who am I to judge. Today was a half-day of school and I thought it would be a logical day to have a class pajama day. Still, I had my doubts. "Are you SURE today is pajama day?"

"Yes, Daddy."

Normally I would have dropped Kailey off at the gate, but I promised her that I would walk her into the schoolyard to watch her do a new move she had learned on the monkey bars. This actually worked out to her benefit. I parked the van and walked Kailey to her gate. The schoolyard bustled with kids eager to work out their last bits of energy before the bell rang and the school day began. Kailey ran over and put her backpack down, rejoined me and we made our way to the monkey where I prepared myself to be amazed by her acrobatic prowess.

As she climbed up on the bars and waited for her turn, I scanned the schoolyard. I couldn't find any other kids in pajamas. I looked back over at Kailey and found her talking to a boy on the monkey bars. She quickly descended the bars with a harried expression on her face. "Dad, today is NOT pajama day...it's Friday." Right on cue, the bell rang and kids hurried to line up for the day.

What would you do in that situation?

I tried to get her to line up with her class with the promise that I would be right back with a change of clothes. Sheer terror danced in her eyes. I had to stifle the laughter building inside.

"But Dad, they'll think I'm stupid!"

Maybe then you'll pay attention to when freakin' pajama day is, I said to myself before assessing the situation. If I made her line up, she was primed to blow a gasket. Save face or perfect attendance? Public humiliation isn't all that it's cracked up to be. Plus, she'd never forgive me if I made her get into that line. Today, I chose to be cool Dad. I chose mercy.

We rushed home, changed her clothes, and rushed back to school where she received her first tardy slip (nobody really wants to have perfect attendance anyway). This afternoon we'll have a little chat about paying attention in class. Today I'll be cool Dad, but next time she'll spend the day in her pajamas!