Explaining Yourself

Anyone out there ever feel the need to explain that something you weren't in the room for wasn't your fault?  My wife and daughter went to bed last night and were lying in her bed when I walked in.  Nothing special so far, and this occurrence isn't uncommon.  However, my other daughter - the six month old one - has had trouble sleeping all night recently after doing it like a champ for a couple of months.

Before heading into my bedroom, I went into Rachel's room to check on them.  Just as I step foot in there, Amelia starts crying.  The first words out of my mouth were, "I swear I didn't go into her room at all and do anything."

This was a defense mechanism.  My wife has done extraordinary things with taking care of Amelia, but I know that the late night work sometimes makes her edgy, so I have to do all I can to not disturb the Little Miss and pre-empt the sleep cycle.  I've done this before, and the scathing looks could melt butter.

Sherry didn't scold me or say anything.  She just got up and headed to Amelia's room to quiet our daughter.  I sat down on Rachel's bed to tell her good night and that I loved her, and what were the first words out of her mouth?

"Daddy, you really shouldn't have woken Amelia up."

I can't win unless I strap a camera to my face 24/7...and even then the outcome would be far from certain.

Russ

Hello my name is .... dad who can not resist!

Recently at church, one of the children's classes spent weeks practicing the Matthew West song "Hello My Name Is." (Give it a quick listen, just the first 20 seconds or so.) My daughter was in the group. They were to perform the song on stage during a special church dinner one Sunday night.

My daughter looked forward to it. She loves to sing, and isn't shy about performing in front of large groups. For an 8-year-old, she's immune to stage fright. But as I would find out, she is susceptible to embarrassment.

The big night came. My daughter was one of three kids with a solo. All eight were lined up on stage, behind mics. The audience was 120-plus strong, sitting at round tables on the gym floor. All eyes on the performers. The teacher hit play on the CD.

Showtime!

Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!
Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!
Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!

The music was loud. You could just hear the actual West vocals of the song. The young singers overpowered him.

"Hello my name is regret ...," the first soloist began. "I’m pretty sure we have met .... Every single day of your life ... I’m the whisper inside .... That won’t let you forget."

Then came the next soloist, who sang the second refrain. Then all joined in loudly for the chorus (Kids love a good chorus). I was sitting in the front row, camera recording. The third refrain was my sweetie's big moment. Here it comes! 

She stepped closer to the mic. A split second of hesitation. Then she sang.

I am no longer defined .....
By all the wreckage behind ...
The ...
*pause*
one .. who ...
*pause**pause*

She stopped. Her eyebrows shot together, then just as quickly darted apart. She shyly smiled and murmured into the mic. "I forgot the rest."

The teacher up front did quick circles with her right arm, the universal sign of "keep going." So my daughter just stood there ...  smiling. All the kids just stood there ... smiling. The audience just sat there ... smiling. The music continued ... unaccompanied. Two years later finally the chorus hit again. The kids sprung back to life.

"HELLO MY NAME IS CHILD OF THE ONE TRUE KING! ....."

I felt pangs of empathy. But my girl seemed to quickly recover. When the song ended they all took bows. The event was done and people rose to leave. My daughter left the stage, and ran to me pleading.

"Let's leave. Now."

As we departed, a couple of people saw her and attempted to tell her what a great job she did. She refused to look at them, much less acknowledge their words. When we were alone outside she let loose the pain.

"I'm a laughing stock!" she said, somewhat dramatically. "I'm the laughing stock of the whole church!"

"No no no no. No you're not," I said. "Sure, you made a mistake, but the point is you were on the stage to begin with. You were doing something to make people happy. No one laughed at you. They appreciated you being there. Heck, most of those people wouldn't be brave enough to just stand on that stage, much less sing. You were great!"

She remained inconsolable. I worked hard to be the caring, understanding dad. We continued talking about it in the car on the way home. She detailed her pain. I consoled her. Eventually she relaxed. Drama remained, but it was now bearable .....

..... until I could resist no longer.

This was too good an opportunity. Some things just had to be said. I could not pass this up. I had the perfect setup.

So I waited a couple minutes. There was silence. Then I pounced.

"So sweetie, I have something to say, but you won't like it" I said, as kindly as I could.

"What?" she asked gently.

"I guess now .... *pause* ... ♪♪ your name is ... re-gret! ♪♪."

I laughed. She's sworn revenge.

- Rob

Poisoned Coins

My daughter, the budding playwright, decided she needed us to truly get into character for her latest script.  She's writing a play about a wicked woman who wants to give a fairy princess a set of poisoned coins to kill her(Snow White, anyone?).  So that we could get the underlying story, she made a simple statement.

"Okay, I need you guys to imagine, like, if I died.  What kind of tombstone would you get me?"

My wife's face went white and I nearly fell out of my chair.  Imagining your child dead isn't what one would call the most pleasurable of pastimes.  We tried explaining to her that parents don't like imagining their little girls in the process of decay, but she just didn't get it.

"But it's just a play," she protested.  "I'm not really going to die."

On an intellectual level, I understand.  On an emotional one, I say "no way in Hell."

This made me think back to a time my own brother and I were playing around in my mom's car during a trip somewhere.  We were saying our wishes, and I said something to the effect of, "I wish you were dead."  I thought my mom would explode.

It took me 30 years to understand the reaction.  It's amazing how those little moments make you question your own sanity, as well as your commitment to staying intellectual.  I could have rationally explained it to her or played along, for it is just a play, and I don't want to dampen her creative spirit.  However, the dad in me came out.

"Don't ever say such a thing again," I said.  "Now go read Green Eggs and Ham."

Not my most shining moment, but how many parents would have reacted differently?

Russ

My Daughter NOT the tree!

     I begin this blog knowing in advance that I will probably upset some people.  Please cut my hypocrisy some slack and understand I am a heartbroken mom who can't stand by for another fifth year to witness her daughter's heart broken.  Jerry Seinfeld's mom's heart was probably broken when she listened to him try and sell light-bulbs over the phone.  Or Brad Pitt dancing in a chicken mascot costume at a restaurant?  My heart would break too.  Whoopi Goldberg worked in a mortuary.  Julia Roberts sold shoes at an Athletic Foot Store.  Madonna worked at Dunkin Donuts.. So on and so on.

      Getting your first start in acting is rough. But it shouldn't be.  It just shouldn't be.

      My oldest daughter Susanna is 10 years old.  She is in the fifth grade and in her last year of elementary school.  OK.  My Susanna is amazing.  Really.  She is.  She is beautiful, smart, funny, happy, and honestly one of the sweetest people I have ever known. 

Truly. She is.

     Every school year since kindergarten beginning in August, Susanna begins looking forward to the start of the Drama Club.  She practices her expressions and accents; for weeks she acts out every commercial she watches on television.

Then, the lines for tryouts are given out.

     Every year she has practiced and practiced.  Right up until the last minute of the beginning of the first try out.
 
     Then she auditions.  We wait days anxiously and then.........she does NOT make the play!

     So for five years she has NOT made the drama club!  WHAT?

     Here is where my hypocrisy comes in.  I am the mom that always thinks it is annoying that on field day either nobody or everybody gets a ribbon.  I feel like if you are faster and you win, you should actually win.  I think it is so annoying that the school system doesn't want there to be a winner and loser because life is filled with winners and losers.  Our kids need to know how to work hard for something and the thrill of the win.

     This leaves me in a yucky position because according to my usual beliefs Susanna should not get into the drama club if she isn't as good as some of the others.  The problem is that she is my kid and she has tried so hard for soooo long and shouldn't that count for something?

     I know this is a double standard but.....well I guess but nothing.  So here is the letter I wrote to the school in response to her fifth denial in her fifth year:

Dear Drama Club Leaders,
     My name is Jennifer.  I know that you have no idea who I am because in the past five years my daughter has never made it past tryouts, so the opportunity for us to meet has never presented itself.  I am a firm believer that those who are the best should be the ones that are rewarded.  However I also believe that the hard work and determination my daughter has exemplified in the past five years should count for something.  I totally understand I am not the mother to the next "Drew Barrymore".  I totally understand that you need to choose the best for the play but honestly after five years and numerous attempts by my daughter could you really not just out of the goodness of your heart have made her a tree? A shrub? A sun?  Anything?  I think that at the very least you could have let her help decorate or hand out pamphlets on the night of the play!  My daughter being the person she is will of course be a good sport and continue to show support of the play and the chosen children.  Honestly that is how she is!  I on the other hand hope your play really sucks!  In case you ever get curious as to who I am please just look out your window on field day......I will be the mom handing out ribbons to the winners.
                                                        Thanks for all your support,
                                                                                         Jennifer

   You know what?  I hope my Susanna continues to persevere.  I hope that she never, ever lets go of her dreams of one day being in the Drama Club; because if Jerry, Brad, Whoopi, Julia and Madonna gave up on their dreams, the movie screen would be void of some pretty amazing talent.
             
   -Jen

Shame goes good with Chinese

Recently my kids became aware of the process by which one neuters a male dog. I was ignorant of their new knowledge until lunch this past Sunday. 

My wife, two kids and I were seated at a booth talking about whatever it is our family tends to talk about. Mom and daughter were on one side, me and the 6-year-old boy facing them on the other. Somehow the topic of babies came up, and my 8-year-old daughter started picking on mom.

“You need to have another baby, mom!” she said, as brother egged her on. “Have another baby! You need to!”

Mom just smiled a sneaky smile, throwing a sly glance my way. “I’m not going to have any more babies. We can’t have anymore.”

“What?” said my daughter, a mixture of wry amusement and shock. “Were you fixed!? Have you been fixed mom!?”

Brother joined in. “Yeah mom, have you been fixed?”

Mom just grinned. “Nope. Not me.”

Suddenly both siblings turned their heads my way. They then questioned me with a two-word phrase as silly as it is cringe worthy. 

“Dad? Have you been fixed,” they started to ask, before reiterating at a slightly higher volume. “DID YOU HAVE YOUR WIENER BALLS CUT OFF??”

They exploded in merriment. My wife joined them. I said nothing. I just looked at each in turn, then looked down at my plate, chin almost to chest, with my best sad face. I wasn't so much acting as emoting.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA … YOU DON’T HAVE ANY WIENER BALLS NOW DAD? .. HAHAHAHAHAHA … YOU REALLY HAD YOUR WIENER BALLS CUT OUT??”

I folded my arms on the table, then buried my head in an elbow.

"DAD DON'T HAVE HIS WIENER BALLS! DAD DON'T HAVE HIS WIENER BALLS!"

As they sang I slowly slid my nestled pillow of crossed arms off the table to the side, and dropped it down to the seat. Dave Chappelle couldn’t get a better reaction.

I didn’t mind the laughter. It was the repeated use of the phrase “wiener balls” that hurt. Not as bad as the actual procedure to which they crudely referred, but still … not pleasant.

As the giggling finally died down and I returned to an upright position, my son asked if he could have some ice cream from the dessert buffet. Mom said for him to ask dad to get it. So I rose with him to retrieve his sweets. As I passed my wife I whispered, “As least I’m still good for something.” She just winked. 

Wiener balls ….. ugh.

- Rob

Wall Prints

I did something I never imagined I'd do the other night - I washed footprints off the wall.

Now these weren't little decals or dirty prints close to the ground.  No, these were full on foot prints at eye level.  When I saw them for the first time, I did what any rational parent would do.  I screamed for my daughter.

"RACHEL!"

"Yes, daddy?" she says as she comes around the corner, her eyes wide and innocent.  Of course, a puma's eyes are wide and innocent just before they leap.

Over the next several minutes, I begin to piece together a picture of what she did.  It seems that the gap in between the couch and the wall is perfect for my child to leap up, use the wall as a springboard, and flip onto the couch's armrest.  And since Rachel usually goes barefoot, those dirty little feet leave quite the impression.

It only occurred to me in retrospect to have her scrub the wall, just like most of my parental ideas almost always occur after I or my wife have taken care of the problem(admittedly, she's much better than I am).  I'm the one who will flush the toilet rather than call for her(I need to pee right then), or I'm the one who will turn off the light(because I'm an OCD anal retentive fool).  Rachel would've likely learned a better lesson if she's scrubbed the black feet off the wall.  Oh well...there's always next time.

Because if there's one thing certain in a life with this little girl, it's that there will be a next time.

Russ

Rennovations......

     Sorry for my absence, but we have been in the process of renovating the entire downstairs.  I would love to say that we have decided to upgrade everything and get that new stove that heats water in six seconds, but that is not the case.  We had a FLOOD!  Our kitchen sink exploded one night last June and left some serious damage behind.  Let the good times roll.........
           So there were some interesting events that occurred during the construction. Finley my one year old somehow stepped in the wood glue while the men were working and laying down the new hardwoods.  It didn't really seem like a big deal so I was like "whatever" when the man started yelling at me in Spanish.  However as Finley took a few more steps the glue on her foot stuck to everything.  Her poor little one year old foot had so much debris stuck to the bottom.  I started to scrub and Finley started to cry. Hmmmm this could be a little more serious than soap and water.  Not sure what to do at this point  I debated calling the 1800 number on the back of the glue container but what could I say?  "Hello i am the mother of a one year old and clearly I suck, so could you please help me to find a way to remove this glue from my one year old daughters foot"?  Not ever gonna happen!  So i did what every good mother does, I made my husband call.  Nobody ever thinks it is a big deal when dad screws up.  Unfortunately there was no safe remedy so we soaked and cleaned and soaked and cleaned for a couple of days.  By now there are just a couple pieces of dust that may or may not become part of her foot permanently.
   I think pictures speak much louder than words sometimes.  I will not go into detail just please know this picture was taken when the toilet was in the middle of the hallway so the bathroom could be worked on.

   I just love those crazy children, they really do make life interesting and fun, also a little messy!
-jen
      

Top three moments when I felt I was failing as a father

No. 3 - I don’t love my kid’s birthday enough.

My wife and I have organized birthday parties for our children. Originally they consisted of invites, a few hand-blown balloons, some cake, ice cream and (maybe) potato chips at a park or the house. That was it.

And then came the Joneses.

When my daughter was three she received her first reciprocated invite. It was for a friend from daycare, turning 3. It was held at a family barn, which was refurbished as a dance hall. And it … was … fabulous. And intricate.

• The party had a theme, with matching streamers, plates, napkins, cups, party hats, posters, noisemakers, crayons and helium balloons.
• Every kid got a map for a scavenger hunt to find novelty items hidden outside around the barn.
• There was a near banquet quantity of food, including vegetables, fruit, chips, burgers, hot dogs, sodas, juices and water.
• The cake was adorned with theme-appropriate color and decour, and could feed a village.
• Upon leaving every kid was given a goody bag – customized to theme – full of candy and trinkets.

Goody bag? Theme? That shindig was Outback Restaurant. The parties I had planned were In and Out Burger, as taken through the drive-thru in the rain paying with coinage and discovering too late the damn cashier forgot our fries.

No. 2 - When my son sounded like he was being brutally stabbed in public.

The kids and I are regulars at several local parks. We know all the equipment. And I know their routine – sandbox, slides, see-saws, then swings. I'm only needed for the swings. (Push me dad! Push me up to the moon!)

One day we went to one particular park and I was bushed. It was late in the day and a bit too warm for my comfort. I parked and told the kids, then 5 and 7, I would stay in the truck for a couple minutes. Be good. They exited. I lowered the windows for breeze and audible supervision. Then dropped the seat back and closed my eyes.

20 seconds. All the peace I got was about 20 seconds. Then.

DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDD! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDD!

It was my son. I could hear tears. I popped up and looked out the window. They were about 30 feet away, on the other side of the chain link fence. They had broken the routine of sandbox first to sprint to one of the toddler slides, one that was a short curvy tube. My daughter had jumped up on top of the tube just above the slide's launch. My son attempted to follow, but couldn’t quite pull himself up. Instead he dangled, his feet roughly 3 inches off the platform but, to a 5-year-old whose chin was sandwiched by two arms precariously perched for dear life, it may as well have been 103.

My daughter was adding to the theatrics by yelling, “I’ll help you! I’ll help you!” She was grabbing his legs to try and lower him down. Her impact was to make him scream louder. It sounded like a mugging.

So before an audience of helicopter parents and properly supervised children, the nominee for Inattentive Dad of the Year left his nap spot, ran to the gate, opened it, and hustled to the slide. Screaming persisted throughout the duration of my grossly delayed reaction, both from my son ("Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!") and me ("Leave your brother alone! I'm coming!")

When I finally arrived, I easily picked my son up and placed him down on his feet. I then turned and let them both know in unflattering terms we were leaving the park RIGHT. NOW. I couldn't bear the eyes of judgement. (Though I am grateful I was somehow denied a nomination for Scary Violent Dad of the Year. Tough competition, that).

It was weeks before I could bring myself to return to that park.

No. 1 - My 6-year-old son’s favorite movie right now is Disney Teen Beach movie.

I *have* failed. :(

- Rob

Senses of Humor

Sometimes I forget that my daughter might have a sense of humor, but it's not a cruel one.

While sitting at my computer today, she came over and wiped a baby wipe on my arm.  When I asked what it was, she told me that her mom had just used it to wipe my new daughter's ass, and then she broke into hysterical giggles.  I almost exploded - my face turned red and tension came to my voice when I said, "WHAT?!?!"

Rachel then giggled again and said, "Relax, daddy - it was clean.  You just got practical joked!"

It took a few seconds for this to register, and I understood I should've known better.  Rachel's sense of humor might not be as developed as yours or mine, but I also know she would never do something intentionally cruel or gross like that.  Sometimes, I forget who my own daughter is and put her in the frame of one of my college buddies.

I've gotta be careful, since too many incidents of daddy overreacting could lead to a child less willing to be silly.  It would help if I just remembered she wasn't Ashton Kutcher.
Russ

The World Does Not Belong To Your Kids

Okay, this post might be a little but different than most of what this blog is used for, but I saw something that sent me over the edge.  This story about a family getting kicked out of Applebee's kicked off everything.

In short, a husband and wife brought their one and three year olds into an Applebee's in Texas.  Nothing amiss so far.  After all, it's a family style restaurant, so bringing in families is encouraged, right?

During the dinner, the kids got out of control and several patrons complained.  According to reports, the manager asked them to leave, at which point the family refused.  The manager then called police to have them evicted, and the dad called police because he says he "felt threatened."  The parents say their kids are "a handful," but he feels their behavior is no different than that of other "active" kids.  Pardon me for saying that this bullshit is a big part of what's wrong with society.

As parents, our world may revolve around our kids, but that doesn't mean other people's do.  Just because we have kids, that doesn't mean we have the right to expect everyone to cater to us, nor does it give us the right to disrupt everyone else around us for the sake of our precious children.  There is nothing in this world that infuriates me more than a parent who thinks that just because they have kids, the world is obliged to give way.

First of all, it's our responsibility to control our children, especially in public.  The story says the three year old girl "got away" from the parents and started wandering around.  Sure, the dad grabbed her, but could any of you imagine your toddler even having that chance?  What did her hands touch and how many other patrons' meals did she disrupt before the dad got to her?

Second, if our children misbehave, and our corrections have no effect, then it is incumbent on us, not others around us, to fix things by leaving.  Only the arrogant presumption of today's spoiled parents lets them think, "Well, I need a night out, so everyone else bend to me."  WRONG!  Leave - don't question, don't think you're more important than the dozen of people around you, don't get pissed because the world doesn't change for you...just go.  Use it as a teaching moment for your kids about the consequences of misbehaving.  Yes, your evening will be inconvenienced.  Guess what?  You have kids, many more evenings will be inconvenienced...and they should be.  You are no longer just looking out for you - you have the responsibility to teach and correct and follow through when necessary.  If that puts you out, then don't have kids.

It was the reaction on Your World With Neil Cavuto that set me off.  Both guests were adamant that it was Applebee's that screwed up.  They kept yammering about it being a "family style restaurant" and how this is expected at places like this.  That's a load of crap.  I may not expect Sardi's in New York, but I don't expect a bunch of screaming and scampering kids to ruin my night out with my family.  We've tolerated this garbage for far too long, and it pisses me off to no end to think some folks expect us to expect this behavior.  Why should those of us who practice control have to have our nights ruined by those among us who think this free-wheeling nonsense is okay?

One of the anchors said it was a bad PR move for Applebee's.  I disagree!  Were I near this Applebee's, I'd give them my business now and thank the manager for standing up to parent bullies like this.  The backlash against this stuff has started, with more and more businesses saying "no kids allowed."  The rest of us are being sanctioned because of folks who have no concept of what it means to be a good parent, and I'm tired of it.  Until the rest of us stand up and say "ENOUGH!", this shit will continue because we allow it to continue.  It's time we stand up to fools like this and their children, and we let it be known across the land that this will no longer be tolerated.  Maybe if we let the bad parents in our midst know this is unacceptable, maybe we can reassure the rest of the world that we can regain control, but we definitely aren't doing it now, and the world is reacting.

Of course, that means we have to control and follow through as well, or we're just part of the problem.  My two cents, and now I feel better.

Russ

Latest additions to the Oxford Parental English Dictionary

The Oxford Parental English Dictionary is pleased to announce the latest additions to its 2014 edition, scheduled to appear in bookstores never. All were submitted as part of this year’s Little One Lexicon contest, in which new words or phrases were solicited from parents across the United States. The following 8 entries were selected from 54 qualifying entries.  (Approximately 234,650 were discarded due to vulgarities and/or violent content).

The 2014 additions include:

Meanieac (n) – A person obsessed with being mean. Give me back my blanket! Stop being such a meanieac!

Damn (n, v, adv, adj) – Word used by child to express anger with no knowledge of actual definition of word. Also used to irritate adults who insist child not use that word.  [From Belgian, with Hanna-Barbera roots.] I’m gonna damn you in the damn for being a damn.

Blowout (n) – Severely oversaturated diaper, generally due to explosive fluid flow from rear of a child. A lowlight of the flight was furiously cleaning up after the blowout while in the plane's cramped lavatory as the pilot insisted everyone immediately get seated and buckled for landing.

Nite-nite (n) – Moment parents need a break and child is forced to go to sleep, regardless of time of day. They're about to kick-off, time for nite-nite!

Dad’s special drink (n) – Beverages in dark colored bottles which children ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TOUCH! YOU HEAR ME? Mom, why are there so many empty bottles of dad’s special drink in the living room?

Pee-pee (n) – The private area of a young daughter. Used by fathers too uncomfortable to say the “v-word.” [Antonym for wiener.]

Chicken (n) – All meat products prepared for picky children who love chicken but insist they hate all other meat. “Mom, what’s in the spaghetti?” “It’s chicken honey.”

Because I asked you politely (phr.) – Evergreen answer to query “why?” Can be used in almost any situation. “Why do we have to go to church?” “Why do I have to go nite-nite now?” “Why do I have to wear underwear to baseball practice?” “Because I asked you politely.”

- Rob

Distutrbing Trends From TV

We know, of course, that we can't protect our kids from the assault of messages they get from everywhere nowadays.  Friends has become off-limits in my house if Rachel or Amelia is in the TV room(never knew, until I paid attention, just how many sex references there are), and The Big Bang Theory is now carefully monitored(and quickly changed if Leonard and Penny end up in bed).  Yes, I realize I sound like a Ward Cleaver square who will one day be yelling at "those damn kids" to get off my lawn, but making sure not to hypersexualize our kids at so young an age is one of my jobs.  This stuff is good when they reach high school(maybe), but not so much when they're 7.

I thought I was doing a good job until a few months ago when I heard a bizarre sound coming from upstairs.  My daughter was taking a shower, and the noise soon became apparent.  If you've ever seen this Herbal Essences commercial, you'll quickly know what sound I mean.

Rachel has absolutely no idea what the commercial is alluding to, but I was horrified.  We thought we were doing a good job at keeping TV to a minimum and changing it when something inappropriate came on, but we can't monitor all the time.  One would think that bathroom breaks during commercials for things like The Nanny or George Lopez, you'd be safe.  Even the few times I caught it - I rarely pay attention to commercials - I caught the tail end and shrugged it off.  Little did I know just how much little Miss Copy-Cat was taking in.

I took my wife's advice and decided not to make a big deal out of it, lest we make it worse.  And, fortunately, this little ode to what shampoo can do has tapered off in the last couple of weeks.  Still, it has made me hyper-sensitive to what else is going on around us.  There's nothing like hearing something no father should ever hear from his child to do that.

Has anyone else ever had something like this happen?  I hope the answer is YES YES YES!

Russ

Our Sneaky Son

Our older son, Harrison, was a “hider” throughout much of his early childhood. It started with his pacifiers.  He would hide them in places around the house, and dig them out whenever he needed one. Granted, they would usually be a bit gritty, but that didn’t stop him. He couldn’t stand having dirt on his hands, but dirt in his mouth? No problem!
 
As soon as he was old enough to know what candy was, he started hiding it as well. He had a great love of Jolly Ranchers, and we would find them hidden under his mattress, in between the couch cushions, and in his underwear drawer. Some of the pieces were half-chewed, others were a bit fuzzy, and some had been unwrapped and re-wrapped. They were everywhere.
 
By the time Harrison started Kindergarten, he seemed to believe himself to be an expert at hiding things, so he graduated from Jolly Ranchers to homework.  If you’re a parent of a school-age child, you know the drill – teachers put worksheets in your child’s folder, and they bring that folder home.  Well, we were starting to wonder why Harrison never seemed to have any homework, and at about the same time we starting wondering, his teacher started wondering why Harrison was never turning-in any homework.
 
The mystery was solved when Kari got it into her head to rearrange the furniture one evening.  For those who don’t know my wife, she gets strange urges (usually at about 10:30 or 11:00 PM, whenever I’ve had a long, exhausting, and mentally trying day) to move the furniture around, just to see if it looks and works better in another configuration.  Anyway, we (meaning I, the pack-mule) started moving the furniture, and lo and behold, what did we find? Homework sheets - lots of them! They were stuffed behind bookshelves, under tables, tucked inside the TV stand, and wedged in between boxes in the office/storeroom.
 
So up to this point, our precious little five-year old had been insisting that his teacher had not been giving him any homework, and seemed certain that she was, in fact, mistaken when she contacted us about why he hadn’t been turning in his assignments.  He stuck to his story up until the very moment when we (and by we, I mean Kari) confronted him with the evidence of his crime.  He then proceeded to the classic child’s defense when he was asked why he was hiding his homework.
 
“I don't know.”
 
And thus was the beginning of the Age of Grounding and Age of Privileges Taken-Away.
 
Things did not get better for our young n’er-do-well as soon as you might expect.  He had also decided that, since he forgot to return a library book on time, that the better thing to do was hide it somewhere in the house.  So, the school started pestering us to return the book, which he of course told us he returned.  Eventually, we paid the fine (which was more than enough to pay for the book three times over) and chalked it up to him losing the book somewhere (probably at school).  Little did we know that three years later, when we moved out of the house we would find a carefully stashed, well-overdue library book in his closet.

 

Since those days, Harrison has learned that we (okay, mostly Mom) are watching him carefully, and he has either stopped hiding things from us, or has gotten much sneakier.  I suppose if you can’t be completely honest, the next best thing is to be clever enough not to get caught.

Cullen

The worst angry dad moment one could imagine

The first 2013 home football game at Appalachian State didn’t end well.

I’m not referring to the game, a huge upset loss to visiting NC A&T. That was bad. But this was worse. I had to fuss my eight-year-old daughter out. And I did it as only I could – as terribly nerdy as possible.

“Thanks for ruining what was a fun night!” I snapped at her, as we walking through the low-lit stadium parking lot. We were alone. Fireworks exploded behind us as part of a special post-game show. “We’re not seeing fireworks. We’re not on the field. We’re going home, thanks to you!”

She never responded. She just cried. We were halfway to my truck.

It all started as the game ended. Soon after players and coaches exit to locker rooms, ASU allows fans access to the field. They can pose for photos, play catch, or run around as obnoxiously as possible until officials decide it’s time to close up shop.

We always hit the field. The kids love it. It’s a highlight of the game experience.

As the clock ticked down, my 6-year-old son was psyched. He had his football and his kickoff tee. He was ready to attack the field goal posts. He loves kicking on the field. It’s his kidnip.

My eight-year-old daughter?  She wants to meet cheerleaders and do cartwheels. Right now she’s …. um ... uh .. where is she? … she was, uh, she was just right here.

 “Honey, do you see your daughter anywhere? Where did she go?”

She wasn’t with us. It took three minutes of scanning the crowd below to find her. She had, on her own, left our seats near the top of the stands and headed into the student section. She was alone standing by the gate to the field, waiting for her cue to ski-doo.

Before I could react the wife marched off. A couple of minutes later mom and daughter return. Mom looked angry. Daughter looked vindictive. Son was oblivious. He was too busy in mental la-la-land, a huge smile on his face.

As she returned to our seats, my daughter angrily grabbed for the iPad she had been playing with earlier. One problem - brother was sitting in her way. So she reached behind him and, with her elbow, shoved him off the bleacher.

One knee hit concrete. The other slammed into the steel bracketing of the bleacher back in front of us. He screamed.  So did I.

“We’re leaving! Now!”

My daughter jumped at the order. I pointed “go.” She started crying. I didn’t care. “Go!” My anger was incited by the unexpected pain inflicted on an unsuspecting brother by an unjustly angry sister.

My wife and I had driven separate vehicles. I said I would see her at home. Off I marched my daughter. And I mean marched. Out of the stands, out of the stadium, through the parking lot, up a flight of steps, and across campus to my truck.

I exploded at her thrice. Once to let her know we were missing fireworks. Again when I heard the A&T band playing its postgame show (I was missing the Machine!)

The third time was right as we were approaching my truck. And, in retrospect, it was the worst angry dad moment one could imagine.

“Do you remember when we talked about cost-benefit analysis? Do you?” I expelled. My seminar was just warming up. “Everything you do has a cost you weigh against benefits! Next time you want to do something stupid like leave us to get lost in a crowd, then hurt your brother because you’re mad, think about what that’s going to cost you! What are you gaining to suffer those costs?”

Am I proud of these words? No. No father should be. Behavioral economics is best presented in the aisles of Wal-Mart, calmly contrasting allowance with that can of silly string she HAS to have. Teaching effectiveness is diminished under street lights, surrounded by traffic on one side and dark woods on the other.

But nonetheless class continued.  I delivered every line as if I was Walter White. “I AM the danger!”

“We were all going to go down on the field, but you wanted to get there faster. You thought it was no big deal to let us know so you could benefit by getting there faster. Did you not think the cost would be angering mom and I because we have no idea where you were? Where was the benefit in that? And what was gained by hurting your brother? What!?!”

My daughter never responded. She just cried.

We got in the truck. I drove for 10 minutes before saying anything else. I calmed down. Angry dad left. Time for reconciliation dad.

“I love you, sweetie. But what you did was wrong. You need to ask permission before you run off, okay? And don’t hurt your brother just because you’re mad mom’s mad at you. If you want to talk about it, we can. I’m not mad anymore. If you don’t, that’s fine too. I won’t bring it up again. It just wasn’t a good way to end the day.”

Again she never responded. She just cried.

Economics hurts.

- Rob

Cussing For Kids

Quick story - be careful what you say around your kids, even when you don't have anything resembling a cuss word in mind.  I was being silly daddy and put two pairs of glasses on, telling Rachel that it was my own unique set of bifocals.

She looked at me with a serious face and asked, "What are bi-fuckels?"

Parenthood is Tricky

Parenthood Is Tricky

Parenthood is tricky.  It is difficult to see inside the minds of our little ones.  Every once in a while I get a glimpse of my children and the way they think.  Sometimes that’s a good thing; sometimes it can be a little SCARY!
   
There are the days that I think I am a great mom!  Most days, though, I think I kind of suck!  There are nights, after the kids go to bed, I sit in a daze and wonder "what the hell just happened today?  How did things get so out of control with the raising of our kids?   I try and figure out at exactly what point in the day I lost control and went from trying to be “super mom” to being just “getting through the day until bedtime mom”.

For example, I worry when my daughter comes down in short shorts shaking her little hips, and I think “please lord, don't let her be a stripper”!  I worry about my son being so lazy, is he going to be living off of us when he is thirty like those people on Dr. Phil?

I think, as does every mom, that at the end of the day, all I want is for my children to be good and loving people who will contribute to society.  I want them to know that with every ounce of my being I love them – unconditionally – through the swinging hips and lazy couch days!

So here’s where my kids stump me.   Here’s where I get an actual glimpse of my child and some positive proof that I’m actually doing something right.  The other day my son London was having a medical procedure. Of course even the smallest medical procedure is scary as hell for a parent; you’re placing your most prized possession in the hands of a stranger. Needless to say, I was stressed watching my baby boy lay in a stretcher knowing they would take him away from me soon.  Well, soon enough came soon enough.  It was time for him to go back.   I leaned over, kissed him a hundred times and told him I would be right there when he woke up. I sat in the waiting room losing my mind until I could see him again.  It was a quick procedure and even though it felt like hours, in just a little while they were calling his name. My husband and I spoke to the doctor and then were allowed to go to recovery to see London.

     There, in the big stretcher, was my beautiful little boy, wide awake and smiling at me. I walked in and hugged and kissed him with such relief. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a Sprite AND a Coke can both sitting on the counter. The nurse must have seen me looking at the drinks and told me there was a story behind it.
     She said she had asked London what he wanted to drink. The nurse listed off the drinks they had and he asked for a Sprite. He then asked the nurse if it was possible, to get a coke for his mommy because his mommy loved coke and she seemed a little upset earlier; thinking it might make her feel better.  Wait.  What?        
 I wanted to cry. My son who had been through so much was worried about ME and thought about ME!      What?   Wait.    

What a glimpse!
Today, for just a little while, I was a super mom!

Today, being a mom was not so tricky after all.


-Jen

The night my son sang with his supper

The almost 3-year-old boy began to sing.

Trick or treat ... Smell my feet .... Give me sumthin' good to eat.
If you don’t, I don’t care. I’ll pull down your UN-der-WEAR.

His over-emphasized finish was greeted with genuine “Ain’t he cute” laughter from our friends. We were having dinner at a BBQ restaurant, my wife and I and another couple. We had four young kids with us (two apiece). At one point during our conversations my son felt the need to share the newest song in his limited musical repertoire.

As our laughter faded, I heard a voice from behind me. “What’s that I hear?” I turned to see an elderly couple at a table behind us. It was an acquaintance of mine, one I hadn’t seen in a few years. I explained my son was performing dinner theater. The old man and his wife said it sounded adorable, and would appreciate their own special performance.

My son, who’s attraction to attention is spurred only by acts of absurdity, gleefully left our booth and walked to their table. He then began his encore.

Trick or treat ... Smell my feet .... Give me sumthin' good to eat.
If you don’t, I don’t care. I’ll pull down your UN-der-WEAR.

The old folks laughed. My son stood still with a grin, soaking in the appreciation. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar. He handed it to my son. “That was a mighty fine performance young man. Mighty fine. It was worth a dollar,” he said.

My son took the bill. He stared at it with awe. He knew what money was. He loved money; was obsessed over it. And he knew it wasn’t easy to come by. I can only imagine how his young brain processed the moment.

Singing + table of strangers = MONEY!

Before we could corral him back to our table, he quickly headed to another. It was surrounded by four college girls, all deeply engulfed in college girl conversation. None noticed the young toddler who approached. He began to sing, and was a couple of notes into his song before the girls each flinched to silence, turning their heads to face their balladeer.

Trick or treat ... Smell my feet .... Give me sumthin' good to eat.
If you don’t, I don’t care. I’ll pull down your UN-der-WEAR.

The college girls reacted much as one would assume college girls would – erupting in a mixture of “aw”s and “ha”s to the cutest event in the world.

One of them asked my son, “Who taught you that?”

“My daddy,” he said.

As if in practiced unison, all four college girls turned in my direction, looked at me and together cooed in a mock accusatory tone, “Daaaaaaaaaaaddy.”

My son didn’t get another dollar, but I had four college girls simultaneously call me “Daddy.” I consider that an epic producer’s credit.

- Rob

Phrases I Thought I'd Never Hear

I'm sure this will be a continuing theme, but here are some things I never thought I'd hear when I became a parent:

1.  Where are your panties?

2.  Go scratch your butt someplace else.

3.  Where exactly outside did you poop?

4.  The dog doesn't want to wear a bridal veil.

Heart Shaped Lockets

A single incident prompted me to start this blog.  Several weeks ago, just after my second daughter was born, my first daughter had me do something I never envisioned when I had dreams of becoming a dad.  I was in my TV room watching some mindless program when I hear Rachel yell, "Daddy, I need your help - I just dropped my locket in the toilet!"

This was my daughter's favorite locket - silver, heart shaped, and attached to a chain.  I looked into that pouty face and decided I had to be the hero to go in and get it.  So, after suppressing a sigh, I walked into the bathroom and was greeted with something she left out of the initial statement.

She'd just taken a dump...and it was still filling the bowl.

(Not the best jewelry box)

Imagine my horror.  I'd committed to this, but I had no idea how she did it.  Apparently she was fiddling with it while trying to do what she needed to do, and it slipped.  Now I love my daughter more than life itself, but I had serious doubts about going in after this thing.  Finally, I had an idea - I could create a scoop of some kind.  I found a stick in the back yard and a plastic spoon, along with some duct tape from my garage.  A few minutes later, the locket was safe and now under several ounces of bleach.


I posted that story to my Facebook page, along with the caption, "Years ago, when I envisioned becoming a father, none of those visions included me fishing around for a locket in a turd filled toilet with a spoon taped to the end of a stick."  Everyone loved it, as I knew they would.

My good buddy Pete - one of the co-authors on this blog - mentioned to me that we could fill a book with all the stuff we never thought we'd see but now do since we're parents.  That got the wheels turning, and this blog is the result.  For any parent who has ever found gummy worms on the inside of the freezer door, who has ever found their six year old perched on top of a doorway and ready to jump on you like Spiderman, and for any parent  who has ever wondered where the knob to the front door went, this blog is for you.  Being able to laugh about this stuff is sometimes our only defense.

There are seven of us, one for each day of the week.  Each of us has children at different ages, but we all love them and find humor in the crazy stuff they do.  In the end, this blog is for them.

After all, I know that I plan to share each of these embarrassing stories with my daughter's boyfriends when she least expects it.