Disney on Ice: A Rite of Passage

Several weeks back, my sister mentioned she was taking her family to "Disney on Ice" and asked if I wanted tickets for Team Klems. I replied with an enthusiastic: ARE YOU INSANE? I'd rather be forked with pickaxe.

This, of course, was a complete lie.

I desperately wanted to go to "Disney on Ice." In fact, had Brittany and the girls not been interested, I still would have gone. The only real question would have been whether my parents preferred to take me to an evening show or a matinee.

Disney on Ice is a rite of passage for all parents. We buy the tickets. We load up the car. We dress our sons, daughters, dogs and pet rocks in mouse ears. And we make our way down to the arena, singing songs from any one of the Disney classics. We also spend $20 on parking, $27 on a small cup of lemonade and $35 on a glow-stick.

Rites of passage have gotten expensive.

When we entered the arena, I was struck by a familiar scene—one that drifted me back 20-plus years to my first "Disney on Ice" experience. My dad had secured tickets in his company's highly coveted, very swanky private suite (either he carried some weight around the office or carried a dossier of blackmail photos to use for just an occasion). My sister and I were certainly impressed. There were more potato chips, drinks and TVs in this room than in any room we'd ever seen. And that was only the backdrop to the show that awaited us.

The lights dimmed. The music started. The Disney cast skated its way to center ice. Mickey. Minnie. Donald. Goofy. Our favorite cartoon characters brought to life. Telling stories we loved. For the next 2 hours, we were mesmerized.

Brittany, Ella, Anna and I made our way to seats. Once again, my sister was in tow—this time with her husband and son (and a few of their friends). We weren't in a suite, but our seats were so close we could feel the heat from the Zamboni as it melted the top layer of ice. Then the lights dimmed. The music started. The Disney cast skated its way to center ice. Mickey. Minnie. Donald. Goofy. They were ready to entertain, and they introduced their friends Aladdin, Apu the Monkey and the Robin Williams-inspired Genie.

Seven-Year-Old Brian was in heaven.

I turned to Ella, thinking about how long I had waited to share a moment like this with my own kids. "How cool is this?"

In the softest, sweetest voice, Ella replied: "Daddy, I don't like the genie."

Huh?

I looked at her face and she wasn't mesmerized; she was petrified. Tears flowed down her cheeks like a quiet river. Her little lower lip quivered ever so fast. It was the saddest, most heartbreaking thing I had ever seen.

And then 30 more Genies came skating out onto the ice. And then the shark from Finding Nemo. And then Beauty's Beast.

I felt so helpless. I hadn't seen it coming. What I expected to be a memorable moment for the rest of her life would be—but not for the reasons I had hoped. I had quite possibly scarred her forever.

In retrospect, maybe I should have taken my parents.

But as she nuzzled her head into my chest, wiping her tears on my sleeve, I looked to my left and saw Anna (my 5-month-old) smiling away, enjoying the show, cooing as the Beast left the floor and the princesses arrived. THEY ARRIVED! And, though others may claim I made this up, I swear to you Anna reached out to her big sister as if to comfort her and tell her, "Don't worry, the princesses are here!"

Suddenly everything changed. Ella cracked a smile, matching the grins of Anna and my nephew Chris. They all started clapping. They all started dancing. They all started enjoying each other's company, happy to share this experience with each other. Happy to share this experience with me.

So the memory of "Disney on Ice" was saved. As Mickey and crew took a bow, we all applauded, kids and parents alike, thanking them for creating a memory we will all savor for years to come.

M-I-C.
K-E-Y.
M-O-U-S-E.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Here We Go Again ...

"A baby is God's opinion that the world should go on."—Carl Sandburg

Time is a tricky beast. At work it moves too slow. On weekends it moves too fast. It crawls to a stop when you can't sleep at night, but magically speeds up when you hit snooze in the morning. Before you blink, your baby's most interesting skill is burping. After you blink, she's running around the kitchen, taking off her clothes and outsmarting your child-proofed cabinets (money well spent, indeed).

In a short, yet somehow long period of time, I've learned that being a father is my favorite thing in the world. It beats out video games. It beats out bacon. It even beats out softball (I can see 70% of you are shaking heads in disbelief). But it's true; I can't imagine my life any other way.

Why do I love being a father so much? I'm surprisingly good at it—and not "good at it" like I'm good at pretending to listen to my wife when I'm actually trying to remember the lyrics to the "Silver Spoons" theme song, but actually good at it. I've grown to be more understanding. I've developed patience. And I don't mean to brag here, but if they handed out awards for Ring Around the Rosy, I'd place top 5 in the city. Maybe top 2 if I'd perfect my falling down.

The point is, of course, that Ella is ridiculously lucky that I'm so awesome. (That's right, I'm not afraid to say it.) She also recognizes how awesome I am without me having to tell her over and over and over again—like I do with my wife. In fact, not long ago Ella said to me, "Ba boo, da bibbity boo," which my Gibberish-to-English dictionary translates to, "Dad, it'd be unfair for me to hog all your awesomeness to myself. You should have another baby."

Holy Bon Jovi, she was right! When you're given a gift, you don't ignore it—you capitalize on it. So I turned to Brittany and said, "I think it's time to have another baby." She responded like any caring, loving wife and mother of a toddler would:

"Leave me alone, I'm watching TV."

But I was determined. There was no giving-up in my fight. After further discussion, complete with pie charts, bar graphs and PowerPoint slides showcasing my awesomeness in full detail, she changed her tune to a confident:

"I'm going to pee. When I return, either you better be quieter or the TV better be louder."

Then, three glasses of wine later … Ella became a big sister.

Some folks will argue that having kids a mere 21 months apart is insane and it doesn't allow you enough time to adjust between babies. In fact, I'm one of those people. Or, at least, I used to be. Though as I get older with each passing day, and as time moves faster with each passing snooze, I don't want to put off experiences that will enhance the awesomeness that is my life. I'm already surrounded by a great group of family and friends (and Life of Dad blog readers), so why not add to it as soon as possible? I'm ready. No doubt there. Hell, I have the PowerPoint presentation to prove it.

So come April, BK4 will join our family. I can only hope that he or she will feel as loved and as lucky as I do. The same goes for Ella. I hope we can cherish the time we get together no matter how fast it flies by, developing that special bond all fathers share with their children—even the one where we all pretend to listen to Brittany but, in actuality, we're all really thinking:

"Here we are, face to face, a couple of Silver Spoons … "

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

The Irony of Parenting

It's normal to occasionally question your parenting skills—like when you realize that in the brief 4 seconds you glanced at the TV for the sports scores, your little darling has disappeared into the bathroom and is splashing toilet water everywhere. Or when you're leaving for work and, as you pull out onto the street, you see your babe comfortably sitting in her car seat … waving to you from the porch.

I'm usually confident that I'm good dad, but lately I've been doubting myself. It was easy to raise an infant. There were books that told you exactly how much they should sleep, how much they should eat and how much money you should prepare to spend on sleepwear, formula and books guiding you on how much they should sleep and eat. But once that baby hits nine months, everything changes. The books are less specific and more general. Three naps turn into 1-to-2 naps—or five naps. Gates are needed to block the stairs. You can introduce solid foods into her diet, like bananas, cottage cheese and Chipotle, but not eggs. It's a whole new ballgame.
So I asked the doctor, "How much regular food should we give her?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable with."

Whatever I feel comfortable with? What does that mean? I feel comfortable with a well-educated doctor telling me precisely what to do. But after 8 years of medical school and $100,000-plus in student loans, the doctor would prefer to leave it up to me, the guy who took one half-semester of health class in high school. Sure I got an "A," and if you need statistics on what percentage of high schoolers used steroids between 1988 and 1993, I'm your guy. But we certainly didn't cover topics like What To Feed Your Baby At Nine Months.

I know what you're thinking: You must have turned to your parents and in-laws for advice, right? My answer to you, of course, is ARE YOU CRAZY? Parents of new parents are knowledgeable about a lot of things, like how long you should bake a potato or how to get projectile vomit stains out of your carpet. They are also helpful in the early stages by bringing you food and watching the baby while you get a few minutes of sleep. They are also … well … if we followed their ways, we would be feeding Ella gallons of apple juice and letting her roll around in the back of our station wagon with nothing strapping her in. And before you shake your head, remember that your parents probably did both too—and likely much worse.

The irony in all this is: While I'm constantly questioning my skills as a parent, the newly anointed grandparents (like all newly anointed grandparents) are 100% confident in theirs. They seem to "know" what to do at all corners. They can "advise" on anything. They don't "appreciate" your use of quote marks. Why? Because they raised wonderful children. And when the facts are laid down like that, it's hard to argue.

But the real fact is that times have changed. There's more information available today than there was a decade ago. Kids need car seats. Sugary apple juice is not good for them. Kids' growth could be stunted by secondhand smoke, alcohol and the song "It's Raining Men."
When it comes down to it, we love our parents for raising us to the best of their abilities—and are thankful we survived. You can't fault them for the now-outrageous parental guidelines they abided by years ago; they used the best information available at the time to do the best that they could. Now my wife and I are doing the same. Ultimately, we're all parents-in-training and that's OK. It's how we're supposed to be.

I guess it's that thought that has rekindled my self-confidence as a parent. What's good for our kids is always evolving. Several decades from now, when Ella has children of her own, I'm sure she's going to look at how we raised her and say things like:

I can't believe they fed me cottage cheese that early! (and)
Car Seats? How did we survive without Fully-Padded Car Bubbles? (and)
They let me splash around in toilet water!—you think I want THEIR "advice"?

I just hope that when she has her kids, she'll be able to forgive us like we've forgiven our folks. And when she does something that differs from what I did to her, I hope I can remember these five key words: Whatever you feel comfortable with. I guess those 8 years of medical school were valuable after all.

Oh, and the answer is three. Three percent of high schoolers have tried steroids.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

If You Want To View Paradise ...

Once upon a time there was a living room filled with nothing but a comfortable couch, a coffee table, a few pieces of artwork and a large TV. These days, though, that couch is covered in toys. And that coffee table is covered in toys. And those pieces of artwork are covered in toys. And that TV is covered in—well, you get the picture (but I don't because it's covered in toys).

At 9 months old, Ella has effectively collected nearly 7 billion plastic playthings. Some of them were gifts. Some of them were hand-me-downs. Some of them, my wife says, "Must have appeared out of thin air"—though a drawer full of Toys R Us receipts begs to differ. I'm pretty sure that if we liquidated Ella's Fischer Price collection we could retire, move somewhere on the Pacific Coast and still have enough cash leftover to support an unhealthy gambling problem.

NO WHAMMY NO WHAMMY NO WHAMMY STOP!

The chief issue here isn't even that our baby has too many toys (though she does); it's that she doesn't care about them. She ignores them. Slinky? Pass. Building blocks? No thanks. Spinning Wheel that Makes Animal Noises? Ba-humbug. It's as if she'd already outgrown them all.
So what does she want? I'll tell you, but you better sit down and brace yourself for this shocking revelation:

She wants to be picked up and placed inside a $5.99 blue Rubbermaid tub. And no, I am not making this up.

When my folks first told me about the phenomenon, I laughed. It had to be a joke. They'd watched her for a couple of hours one night and placed her in the tub for "funnzies," and, according to one independent observer (my mom), she took to it like my wife took to Rico the Snoogle. But my parents, like any set of parents who have been promoted to grandparents, can be goofy sometimes, so I chalked up Ella's initial enjoyment to just playing with grandma and grandpa. Yet two mornings later I found my wife on the floor and Ella back in the tub.

"What can I say, she wanted in," Brittany said. "She's been squatting and slowly raising her head, playing peek-a-boo with me all morning. It may be the cutest thing I've ever seen." (And that says a lot, as my wife sees about 17 cute things a day.)

Over the next two weeks we spent a majority of our time at home playing in the Rubbermaid tub, exiting only for feedings, diaper changes, baths and drool mop-ups. Ella'd disappear for minutes at a time, then suddenly peek two eyes over the rim. We'd occasionally throw toys in the tub for her, but she'd lean down, pick them up and remove them like a taxi driver cleaning out his cab.

I didn't know what all the hubbub was about, so I figured there was only one way to find out: I got in the bin. It was a tight squeeze, sure, but after 20 minutes of bending, folding and dislocating parts of my body, I made it. I also learned a valuable lesson: Always pee before entering a Rubbermaid tub.

So I got out, peed, and got back in again. As I sat there surrounded in a sea of blue walls, I tried to envision why Ella enjoyed this so much. Maybe she loves the tub because it feels like her own little kingdom. Maybe it allows her privacy that's tough to come by when you're 9 months old. Maybe she's preparing for life in a cubicle. Who knows? Or maybe, just maybe, it gives her imagination a chance to run wild—and each time she enters there's a new adventure to be had.

Whatever the reason, this experiment made me realize something that Ella has already learned in her young life: You don't need fancy toys to have a good time. You don't need to spend ungodly amounts of money. You don't even need to leave the house. All you need is a little imagination.

And maybe a $5.99 blue Rubbermaid tub.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

How to Ready Your Kids for Opening Day: The 7 Spring Training Drills They Need to Learn

How we trained Ella to understand and successfully participate in Opening Day.

With Opening Day around the corner, I decided it was time to prepare my daughter for her first baseball game. Sure, she'd seen about 60 on television last year, but this is the first time she'd get the full, live experience: the fresh smell of grass filling the stadium, the wind blowing against her skin, the sound of the drunk behind her shouting at the opponent's right fielder because his name rhymes with "smelly."

So Ella, Brittany and I indulged in our very own Klems Spring Training. If the players need two months to get in shape, certainly it's not unreasonable for fans to dedicate one week of preparation for the season ahead. We owe it to the team. With that, we practiced the seven drills that all Reds fans should work on before attending their first game (especially if it's a Cincinnati Reds Opening Day).

Drill #1
Dress Like a Fan
The most important rule of going to a Reds game is to wear something that's red or says "Reds" on it. If you're dressed in the other team's colors you'll likely get booed, and if you're wearing a Bengals' hat you're obviously drunk.

Ella and I scoured her closet and found exactly 6.4% of her outfits are acceptable (a low percentage, by my estimates). This number skyrockets to 100% if she wears her Reds hat—which, to me, should be worn at all times anyway. We tried on each outfit and stretched them out so they will be loose and ready to go.
Check it off the list.

Drill #2
How to Properly Eat Peanuts
Eating a peanut at a baseball game is an art form. Some people crack them open with their fingers, some with their teeth. Others soak them in their beer until the shell practically falls off. My preference is to eat off the salt and then crack the shell using the left back-row of my teeth.

This was Ella's favorite drill, of course, as she practiced with everything she could find: spoon, shoe, remote, notepad, photo album, baby monitor, squeaky toy that had been missing under the couch for weeks. By the end of practice, she was a pro. I consider this her greatest asset as a fan.
Check it off the list.

Drill #3
Chant "Let's Go, Reds, Let's Go (clap, clap)"
There are numerous cheers at the Reds games ("Clap Your Hands, Stomp Your Feet," "Walks will Haunt" and my personal favorite, "(dun dun) GO!"), but to master any cheer you must start with the basics: "Let's Go, Reds, Let's Go (clap, clap)."

Ella can say a few words like "mumuma" and "daaaaa" and "pbbbbt," but her grasp of the language is limited. We decided that squealing was an acceptable alternative. My wife worked with her on clapping, doing it in rhythm each time I did the cheer. This became increasingly difficult because my wife is the worst practicer of all-time, losing her concentration and replacing "clapping" with "tickling in the belly." Years from now, when Ella is at a Reds game with friends and they start this chant ... well, let's just say she'll learn a valuable lesson: Listen to dad, not mom.
Check it off the list.

Drill #4
Picking the Winner in the Great Reds Race
For those of you unfamiliar with this, the Reds have a video race on the scoreboard called "The Great Reds Race." It features three challengers: Mr. Red (the baseball head), Rosie Red (the girl baseball head) and Mr. Red Leg (the baseball head with a curly mustache). They race around the diamond and the winner stands high on an Olympic-looking podium to celebrate.

Choosing a Red is like choosing a tattoo: Once you pick one, you're stuck with that Red for life. I grew up in an era of young Mr. Red, so he's mine. My wife always pulls for women, so she's a Rosie supporter. Ella currently has a clean slate, so I gave her the background information on all the Reds mascots so she could form her own opinion and make her choice without bias:

"Ella, here's all you have to know:
Mr. Red Leg is old, crusty and has dirty bugs crawling out of his 'stache.
Rosie Red, well, she kicks puppies.
Mr. Red, on the other hand, is a kind, loving soul who works at homeless shelters and helps feed the poor."
We'll see whom she picks on Opening Day.
Check it off the list.

Drill #5
How to Sneak Down to a Better Seat
No matter what part of the park you're located in, there are always better seats. Always. And around the 5th inning, many of those seats become available.

In our living room, I placed an empty chair that sat closer to the TV and lower than our couch. We sat on the couch watching "Wire-to-Wire: The Story of the 1990 Cincinnati Reds Championship Season." About an hour into the game (video), I made Ella practice making a mad dash to the open chair. (How she ended up in her mother's shoes, I have no idea.) After several days, she'd race to the chair without me prompting her.
Check it off the list.

Drill #6
Do the Wave
A vital element to any baseball game is the wave. With six long off-season months, it's understandable that you may fall out of practice—your legs are stiff, arms glued to your keyboard, can't remember how long you should stand in waving position (3.1 seconds). I find that practicing at work is helpful. In fact, start doing it once every five minutes and see if everyone else slowly joins in. If so, you can add "Started Wave" to your resume.

Ella can't actually stand from a sitting position yet, but she can wave at herself in the mirror. We spent one full Saturday in front of the dining room mirror waving. It may not be perfect (and may look less like a crowd-wave and more like a hello-wave), but for an 8-month-old who still thinks it's OK to poop through an outfit, it'll do.
Check it off the list.

And Finally …
Drill #7
Falling Asleep on Dad's Shoulder As You Exit the Game
It's a dad's most important role on game day. I've spent all off-season lifting heavy toys, walking with bags of salt on my shoulder and bumping into coffee-table corners without falling over in preparation. I've even had a few test runs at family parties and the results are promising.

Ella has held up her end of the bargain, and has even practiced falling asleep on my shoulder with her Reds hat on, in order to find the most comfortable position—for her, of course, not dad.
Check it off the list.

While I know all of this sounds silly, it's important to me—less as a baseball fan and more as a dad. I know that one day she'll look back at pictures and say, "I don't remember that." And that's OK, because I will. Baseball has always been an important part of my life, falling somewhere just after family but above, well ... everything else. I grew up watching Opening Days at home with my Mom and Dad, and they were all special moments for me. Now, years later, I get to share that special moment with my family. And I'm looking forward to every inning of it.

Play ball.The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Indiana Klems and the Holy Remote

It was a brisk eve in Klems Manor. The wind rattled against the shutters, whistling like a person who doesn't know how to whistle. An off-white lampshade dimmed the glow of the 60-watt light, slowing the pace of our shadows but brightening the screen of the television. Our eyes fixated on one program and one program alone. After moments of silence, the sound of my wife's voice drummed through the air and sparked some heated, though thought-bending debate:

"No doubt in my mind, the guy getting hit in the do-dads by his daughter deserves to win."

"Are you crazy?" I said. "The woman bouncing off the trampoline and onto the picnic table was way funnier. But yours will win. The lame one always wins."

Ella (inner monologue): "I don't know what they're talking about or why they're watching 'America's Funniest Home Videos,' but they left that remote completely unguarded. If only I could find a way to get over there without their help. What if …"

And then it happened.

***
The remote control has been Ella's Holy Grail since birth. She'll drop any toy, doll or bottle if it's within reach. We're not really sure why. I like to think it's because of its brightly colored buttons and ergonomic shape, but Brittany has a completely different (and much more likely) theory: "The minute we walk through the door, the first thing she sees her father reach for is the remote, so in her mind it must be magical."

And it is magical. (Am I right fellas?)

Now I've worked hard to keep the remote out of Ella's reach, but she's crafty. One time I left it unguarded on my lap and she grabbed it, gnawed on it like a teething ring and then successfully found a mystery button that made our TV volume-less for 3 days (Thank you, Will, for fixing that). This time the remote was across the room, well out of her reach. Or so we thought.
***

First a right knee, then a left knee. Then both arms moved forward. Suddenly the pale look of doubt vanished as a confident smile washed over her face. She knew this was a special moment. She accomplished what she'd never accomplished before. And in just a few more steps she'd have the prize, the Grail.

Obstacles were no match for this crawler. She climbed over her rings. She used her butt to knock Freddie the Firefly out of the way. She stumbled but once, falling head first into the carpet—though only for a moment, as she waved off discouragement and trudged forward.

Finally, she was there. It was within reach. Lunge, lunge, lunge. An arm stretched like an 8-month-old in a 7-month-old's body, landing not one, not two, but three full fingers on the prize. Her grasp firmed and she gave it one swift tug. The remote glided under her body. It was hers. The Grail was hers.

***
"OH MY GOD, SHE'S CRAWLING! LOOK, BRIAN! SHE'S CRAWLING!"

"OH MY, YOU'RE RIGHT!"

"WHAT DO WE DO?"

"LOOKS LIKE SHE WANTED THE REMOTE. LET'S MOVE IT OVER HERE AND SEE IF SHE FOLLOWS IT!"

Ella (inner monologue): "Mother#)%*@"
***

With that, the Grail was moved to the other side of the room offering a new set of obstacles to overcome. Ella may never fully remember her first quest for the Grail, or the whistling wind that breezed past the brick of our house, or that her mom was right—guy getting hit in the do-dads always wins "America's Funniest Home Videos." But she will remember the confidence she gained by finding her independence.

And that's more magical than a remote.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Home Remedies ...

Some days you wake up walking on sunshine, while other days you wake up fit to be tied. And some days you wake up with your child's snot crusted to your face.

A number of weeks ago, Ella came down with a cold—the first cold of her life. It was endearing in so many ways. She had a cute little cough, teeny tiny eye boogers and a small drip running from her nose. Her sneezes were as soft as her cheeks, and when you tried to wipe the remnants away she'd wiggle like a bobblehead. And, throughout it all, she never once stopped smiling.

Then early one morning, after letting her sleep on my chest, I woke up and noticed her entire face was covered in snot. Worse yet, so was mine. And like any logical, well-educated dad would do, I handed her off to her mother and tried to keep the calm by uttering this combination of words:

"Oh my God, what's wrong with her? Infection? Pneumonia? It's West Nile, isn't it!?!"

"Calm down," said my wife. "It's just the congestion escaping from her… What are you doing?"

"Seven, Six, two … Wait, what's our doctor's number again?"

Brittany gracefully took the phone out of my hands and shoved the receiver where receivers shouldn't be shoved. And it hurt. She then calmly explained why the doctor wouldn't appreciate a call at 5:30 in the morning over the sniffles. If it got worse, she said, we'd call and schedule an appointment during business hours. Until then, we'll try all the home remedies that we know.

I hate it when she makes sense.

So we tried each home remedy to help our suffering babe feel better. We sat her in the bathroom with the hot shower running. We laid her in an upright position when she napped. We even put on back-to-back-to-back reruns of "Saved by the Bell" (always made me feel better when I was sick). Unfortunately none of those seemed to work, so we scheduled an appointment with the doc.

Turned out she not only had a cold, but was also suffering from a double ear infection, which I'm told is about as painful as an angry wife on Valentine's Day. To get Ella back on the healthy horse, the doctor prescribed medicine, rest and more "Saved by the Bell" (who knew?). He also told us that it's very common for children under the age of one to get colds and earaches throughout the winter, and we should be thankful our kid takes it in stride with a grin. And we are thankful.

Meeting with the doctor helped calm my nerves a bit. I still plan to overreact to all future sicknesses, but I plan to overreact in smaller doses. It's just what parents do. I've forgiven my folks. You've probably forgiven yours. Hopefully Ella will be able to forgive me as she grows up. If she's like her father, she certainly will.

But if she's like her mother, I'm going to have to remove all phones from the house.

The Life of Dad is updated every other Friday (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Diaper Dad

On the Things-That-Are-Difficult food chain, changing a diaper falls somewhere between wrestling a bear in Boston and convincing that bear to wear an "I *heart* the Yankees" t-shirt. It's something no man attempts until his wife, in what can only be described as a total lapse in judgment, leaves for the supermarket and puts him in charge. And women should know that men should never (ever) be put in charge.

According to my wife, changing a diaper is easy. It involves five steps that, if followed properly, will take a total of no more than one minute to complete. The steps are as follows:

1. Open diaper
2. Wipe baby parts
3. Remove diaper while simultaneously sliding new diaper under baby
4. Secure new diaper
5. Throw dirty diaper away.

She says that anyone with half a brain can do this and that she's pretty sure I do, in fact, have half a brain. But, after eight-plus weeks of changing Ella's diaper, I think it's safe to say that I've completely and unequivocally proved her wrong.

Just like any man, my brain doesn't operate like that. It's filled with important information, like who won the 1986 World Series and how many times you can wear a t-shirt before it needs to be washed (if you said "less than 12," you'd be wrong). There's no space in there for unimportant knowledge like birthdays, anniversaries, color coordination and diaper-changing instructions. Even if there were, I don't believe in using instructions. No man does. We like to follow gut instinct.

Of course, a typical diaper change under "gut instinct" goes something like this:

1. Open diaper.
2. Baby screams uncontrollably.
3. Panic.
4. Take two shots of Jack.
5. Start to wipe baby parts. Also wipe baby foot after baby dips foot into dirty diaper that you haphazardly left laying wide open.
6. Slide new diaper under baby, though can't figure out how to work the adhesives that hold it together.
7. Wipe own elbow after dipping it in the dirty diaper that's STILL laying wide open.
8. Go to secure diaper, notice hand is all wet. Look up and see a fresh load in new diaper.
9. Repeat steps 1-7.
10. Secure new diaper with duct tape, take two more shots of Jack, call wife and beg her to come home immediately.

Now, for a few unfortunate dads, the fun stops here. Luckily in my household there's a bonus Step 11: Get yelled at by wife for 1) not throwing the dirty diaper away, 2) putting the clean diaper on backwards and 3) not cutting the grass—hey, when she's on a roll …

I'll probably never master the art of a successful diaper change, and I don't expect to. It's not in my blood. If you're looking for someone to squash a bug or paint a deck or win you a fantasy baseball championship, I'm your guy. But if your baby needs a changin', you're better off calling an aunt or grandma or the creepy lady next door who has no kids but owns 17 cats and calls them her "babies." Each is more qualified to fulfill your diaper-changing needs.

And if you ever think about asking me to change a baby, just remember one thing: it'll cost you three times as many diapers and six times as many wipes. But don't worry, it's not all bad— I do come equipped with my own roll of duct tape.

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Swing Into Action ...

According to Bible, God built the entire universe in less than seven days. By my count, five of them were spent assembling a baby swing.

The Graco® Lovin Hug Swing (Bermuda style) is cute, convenient and easy-to-carry—and was obviously designed by a woman who hated her husband. It comes in 4,000 pieces, most of which aren't pictured in the instruction manual. The booklet is the size of War and Peace and written in four different languages, not one of them being English. And, while there isn't a warning against it, I'm going to give you some very sound advice: Don't sit on the floor without looking first. Trust me, it can be very, very painful.

After several hours of studying the directions, I was finally able to complete step one. I opened the box. Laugh all you want, but that sucker had nearly 18 layers of tape keeping it shut. My wife suggested cutting through it with a knife, but after the CD Rack Assembly Incident of '01 that cost me close to a pint of blood, I think it'd be safer to burn the tape off with a lighter.

(Note: A little advice for future dads out there—don't throw the box away. You'll need something to punch much later in the process, and I found that cardboard is fairly soft on the fist.)

The next step is to pull the seat cover over this intricate web of metal rods and snap it into place. Simple enough, right? I'd like to see you delicately pull a banana peel over, say, the Batmobile, and seal it shut. And do it without Batman kicking your ass.

So, the next 45 minutes went something like this:

Pull.

Tug.

Curse.

Knock over beer.

Curse again.

Tug.

Stub toe on chair.

Curse some more.

Apologize to Steven, my 50-inch HDTV, for cursing—some of which, I promise you, were used in context.

Snap pieces into place, chug beer, throw chair out window.

Moments later, I began work on assembling the legs. This part was not nearly as easy as the seat cover. It came with four long curved polls, two straight rods, some brackety-things, a pile of screws and an Allen wrench. It also came with a bottle of Advil. After several hours of attaching, detaching, reattaching, kicking and smashing against the hardwood floor, Brittany came over to calm me down. I think it worked:

"Take a deep breath," she said.

You suck!

"See, it's simple. All you have to do is stick piece A into slot B."

I'll tell you where you can stick piece A …

"And voilà! The leg is together."

I hope you stub your toe.

I'd like to say that I was able to finish the project that night. I'd also like to say that Brittany let me find out the gender of the baby, but alas, neither of these was true. I did eventually get the swing together, and only had four pieces leftover. Not bad, by Klems' standards.

After conquering the swing, I finally had a chance to sit down and enjoy the moment. I was proud of myself. I usually leave projects unfinished, but I stuck by this one because I'll do anything for my child-to-be. It even brought a tear to my eye—not for sentimental reasons, but because Brittany handed me a box:

"Now put this bouncy seat together."

The Envelope Please …

There are a lot of things I don't understand in this world. I don't understand why scaring someone cures the hiccups. I don't get why beer tastes bad when it's warm. And I certainly have no idea why my wife makes me shower after softball, even if I didn't slide. But I'm perplexed most in this world by people who claim to "see" or "predict" the future, also known as psychics.

Let me state for the record right now that just because I don't believe in psychics doesn't mean that you shouldn't or that they don't exist. It just means that I think you're crazy. After all, if psychics exist, then why don't you see newspaper headlines like "Psychic Wins Lottery" or "Psychic Stops Steve Bartman From Ruining Cubs' Playoffs." I believe in cold, hard facts and nothing could really change that—except for a cold, hard fact disproving it.

Why am I talking about psychics, you ask? Well, three days ago Brittany handed me an envelope.

"What's this?"

"A coworker asked her psychic whether we were having a boy or a girl. She wrote the answer down and put it in an envelope. While I don't want to know what it says, I thought you might."

Now, for the record, I've met this coworker before and she is anything but crazy. She's kind, smart and funny. She once told Brittany that I was a very handsome husband—that's proof of smart, not funny (you jerks). Getting her psychic to project the sex of our baby because I desperately want to know is also a very, very kind thing to do.

Now, this puts me in a bit of a predicament—which my wife loves. If I open the envelope, I'm essentially saying that there may be teensy, weentsy chance that I actually believe in said "magical" powers. In my mind, this is as miserable as admitting to my softball buddies that I believe in the designated hitter (which I do NOT!). If I stick to my guns and don't open the envelope, I'll prove that I don't believe in this hocus pocus once and for all.

So, using my best judgment, I left it on the coffee table—unopened—and went up to bed, resisting temptation and sticking by my principles. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Of course, the minute Brittany fell asleep I was back downstairs, envelope in hand, trying to steam the seal open—which, by the way, does not work nearly as well as it does in the movies.

I couldn't bring myself to do it, though. And now, three days later, I'm still agonizing over it. Why do I care what some psychic thinks? I didn't care when the doctor told us he thought we were having a girl. I also didn't care when, three months later, the same doctor said that he thought we were having a boy (This way, as he sees it, he can't be wrong). Just like the doctor, my sister, Brittany's sister, Brittany's mom, my mom and anyone else who cares to take a stab, the psychic has got the same 50/50 shot as anyone.

The truth of the matter is, while I don't actually believe the psychic has insider info, I am curious of her opinion. Maybe it's so when the baby is born I can say, "A-HA! See, no one can predict the future." Maybe it's because if she's right, I need time to prepare my "What a lucky guess" speech. Either way, I think one thing is evident: I'm going to open this envelope.

So, as I sit here typing, I start to tear through the flap. I made sure no one is looking, looking both ways as if I was crossing the street. It's finally open. I see a piece of paper. I unfold it. And, according to the psychic, we're having a …

Hmmm…that's interesting. I guess we'll just have to wait and see if she's right.

The Pregnancy Stupids …

Men and women have brains that function differently. I know, this isn't exactly late-breaking news, but it's still worth mentioning. After all, men look at that original statement and see, "Men and women have brains that function differently." Women look at that statement and read, "Men are stupid."

I've always been able to admire women and their ability to multitask. Sure, I can handle a few jobs simultaneously, like watch baseball and eating a bag of Doritos. But Brittany's able to do seven things at once, all while talking on the phone, listening to me and reading Entertainment Weekly.

Of course, this was before she came down with a bad case of the Pregnancy Stupids.

I'm not sure if you ever realized this, but every woman who bears a child loses 70% of her brain functionality. It's true. Through thorough scientific research (watching Brittany on more than one occasion), I've proved that woman have 10 multitasking slots that can be used for anything—from chores around the house to handling finances to driving while putting on makeup. When a woman becomes pregnant, seven of these slots become permanently filled with pregnancy thoughts and responsibilities. And, unfortunately, she'll never get them back.

Ever since Brittany became pregnant back in October, she's become messy. She's stopped cleaning up after herself. She spills food on her shirts and leave crumbs on the floor. If that's not enough, she'll watch television while completely ignoring everyone around her, including her spouse. The more I think about it, the more I realize that pregnancy has turned her into a smaller version of me.

This is really bad news.

I knew we had taken a turn for the worse a few weeks ago when I walked in the bedroom and she sat there, remote in hand, yelling uncontrollably.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The TV won't turn off. I've been pressing the off button for 10 minutes and nothing. Zilch. Maybe the batteries are dead?"

I walked over to the bed. After a few minutes of examination, I realized the problem.

"The batteries aren't dead. You're hitting the stop button for the VCR."

So, as I lay there in the guest bedroom, I began to contemplate how these Pregnancy Stupids were going to affect our home life. It's bad enough we had one lazy mooch in the house, now we had two. Throw in the baby who was living in my wife's uterus rent free, and you have three.

The Pregnancy Stupids aren't strictly for those with X chromosomes. Males can suffer from it too. It's true. Very rarely do I do anything stupid (stop laughing), but this week I really topped myself. I went to lunch with two very lucky coworkers, Robin (scrapbooker and pop culture extraordinaire) and Maria (my fun-loving work wife—don't worry, Brittany is cool with it). We took my car, a first for 2007, mainly because most don't like the mixed scent of softball and White Castles. As we returned to the office, we were in deep conversation and on the verge of solving world peace when I stepped out my Honda Civic, locking and shut the door. My work wife, who's always looking out for my best interest, turns to me and says, "Aren't you going to turn off your car?"

There I was, standing on the outside of my car, staring at my keys still jingling from the ignition. It took several seconds for me to put two and two together (hey, I'm an English guy, not a Mathematician). The second it hit me, I saw both Robin and Maria shut their doors. The whole thing happened in seconds, but felt like a slow motion montage in a movie—click, click.

"NO!!!!!!!"

In my 12 years of driving, I had never locked my keys in my car. On Wednesday, I did it with the motor running.

A few phone calls to Progressive Roadside assistance and 35 minutes later, I had my keys in hand. I'd like to say I was embarrassed, but, honestly, I wasn't. If I do stupid things and make silly mistakes in life all because I'm saving my best decisions for parenting, I'm OK with it. I'd rather save my wisdom and guidance for BK3, raising her (or him) to be independent, self-reliant and, essentially, not to need me. If I have to suffer through a few speed bumps along the way (and $7.64 in wasted gas), then so be it.

At least I know how to turn off the TV.

My Father's Son ...

My mom likes to tell the story of when I was born, but I think it's important to hear it from my point of view. Most of it is true; though the names have been changed to protect their innocence.

It was the most beautiful day that there ever was. OK, OK. It wasn't "the most beautiful" but it was a nice day. She was sitting at home, watching soap operas—I mean, doing something smart like The New York Times Crossword and reciting her state capitals—when all of a sudden I started to kick.

"Oh #*$@, I think those are contractions!"

She called my dad, who worked 20 minutes away, and, in an extremely calm and pleasant voice, said, "If you don't get home in less than five minutes and drive me to the hospital I swear I'll name this kid Garfunkel." Four minutes later, he was unlocking the door and grabbing her overnight bag.

The ride to the hospital took even less time. Stop signs were ignored. Speed limits didn't exist. Pedestrians did not have the right of way. They pulled up to the front of the hospital and rushed inside. After only a few minutes of waiting, they got upstairs and into the birthing room.

Now my mom has her opinion on how long and painful the experience was, but she obviously was drugged and delusional. I like to think that the labor was as comfortable as a weeklong massage, as smooth as a Ken Griffey Jr. swing and as exciting as a Donnie Osmond solo. It may have been the second greatest moment in history, just after the invention of the Pop Tart.

As I made my way down the water slide known as the birth canal, I said goodbye to my neighbors, Keith the Kidney and Belinda the Bladder. "World, here I come!" When my head popped out, I winked at the doctor letting him know that I was ready. Moments later, I was born.

They cut my umbilical cord (or umbiblical cord, as I apparently have been calling it for years) and handed me to my mom. I had a round head, a full noggin of hair and a face that would make your average Gerber baby jealous. Both my mom and dad stared at me with tears in their eyes, proud as could be. I responded the only way I knew how—by farting.

"Definitely his father's son."

The next day, plenty of people visited me in the hospital. So many new faces. So many people holding me. So many fingers pinching my cheeks—both facial and non-facial! My features quickly began to change. My eyes became darker, my smile brighter and my hair began falling out (a trend that would make a revival later in my life). Some folks thought I looked like an angel. My mom, on the other hand, thought I looked like Ed Asner.

I was getting acclimated to the new world as much as the new world was getting acclimated to me. At the time, I didn't know what my life would hold. I didn't know that my parents would raise me to be a smart and loving adult. I didn't know that I'd have a sister who'd idolize me (oh yes, Jennie, you do). I didn't know I'd have friends that would pick me up when I was down. I didn't know that I'd meet the most amazing girl in the world, marry her and then get her to carry my baby.

I just didn't know how wonderful my life would be.

And, as I sit here at my keyboard, contemplating the life-altering event that's less than eight weeks away, I thank my lucky stars. Not so much because my life is wonderful, but more because I wasn't named Garfunkel.

My 28 Reasons ...

Once every 365 days something amazing happens. And no, I'm not talking about something stupid like April Fools Day or Sweetest Day or my anniversary. I'm talking about the one day each year that reminds everyone of when God gave his greatest gift to this Earth—my birthday—which happens to be today.

That's right! When that calendar rolled over to May 18th, I was anointed 28 years young. I know this officially places me in an elite group called "The Upper 20s," but I'm proud to be a part of it. It's a club that, at one time or another, has been occupied by many brilliant minds, including Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison and Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy's.

What's special about this birthday is it's the last one I'll be celebrating pre-fatherhood. Not that all future birthdays won't be special, but this birthday signals a graduation of sorts into full-blown adulthood. Therefore, it's time to cut out the funny business and reflect on everything I learned through experience, education and reruns of "Family Ties" to run my household in the best way I know how.

In honor of my 28th birthday, I'd like to present my future child (and you) with the 28 reasons that I'm going to be the greatest dad in the world:

1. I don't believe in making the bed. You're just going to mess it up again before the day is over.

2. Stains don't ruin clothes, they give them character.

3. When I'm in charge of dinner, we'll eat only three things: bacon pizza, pepperoni pizza and bacon-pepperoni pizza.

4. No matter how big you get, there will always be a minimum of one TV bigger than you in my house.

5. For family holidays, your mom is going to try and dress you up in fancy, uncomfortable clothes, but I'll take the heat off of you by wearing athletic shorts, sandals and my "Make 7 Up Yours" t-shirt.

6. I'll be happy to drive you where ever you want as long as it involves on of these three words: baseball, softball or foosball.

7. When I go to the store, I come home with only two things: Mt. Dew and Doritos.

8. Mom is the disciplinarian, as I don't believe in grounding or timeouts. My punishments—if you'd call them that—involve you, me, a couch and endless hours of Broadway musicals.

9. When the latest video game you want hits store shelves, chances are I already own it.

10. Reading time will be held every night. The curriculum includes Dr. Suess (which we can read together), some hot chocolate and matching Spider-man (or Spider-woman) pajamas.

11. You will not be allowed to go to school on Opening Day. As far as I'm concerned, it's more important than Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter combined.

12. Singing in the shower is not only common but encouraged, though there are only two types of acceptable songs—TV sitcom theme songs and anything that will annoy your mother.

14. Bobblehead, in my house, is a term of endearment.

15. I don't care if you learn silly subjects like science and math. They are inconsequential in life. I want to teach you more practical studies, which is why I won't settle for anything less than hard work, practice and perfection of The Chicken Dance.

16. On Sundays, pants are optional.

17. I will gladly teach you to play guitar as long as you're content playing nothing but Green Day and that song by Ozzie Osborne that goes "Duh. Duh. Duh Duh Duh. Duhduhduhduhduhduhda.Duh Duh Duh Duh."

18. There will never be a short supply of sweater vests in the house.

19. Disneyland is a place for suckers, which is why we'll only vacation to historical/educational destinations and Indiana Beach (oh yes, there is such a place and … It. Is. Heavenly.).

20. I have accumulated several thousand hugs over the years and am fully prepared to give them all to you, one at a time.

21. I own the entire John Candy movie collection, including Cool Runnings and Who's Harry Crumb? And I plan to give them to you, too.

22. Wrestling is allowed, though elbows to the groin are banned, no matter how funny your mom may think it is.

23. Always buy toilet paper. I know this isn't really a reason that I'm going to be a great dad, but I still think it's pretty solid advice.

24. In true Klems fashion, I will call and sing happy birthday to you on your birthday every year until the day that I die. I can't promise it will be in tune, but I can promise it will be from the heart. And loud.

25. I teach a free grass-cutting seminar to all children over the age of 10. Pass, and you get a bonus hedge-trimming tutorial.

26. I will keep you far, far away from the evil John Stamos. You'll thank me when you're older.

27. You'll get to go on tour with your dad when his band, Optimus Prime, reunites for a reunion and plays their hit song, "Why Do People Hate Us? 'Cause We're So Good Looking."

28. And finally, the four words that every child dreams of hearing his or her father say: Saturday Night Boggle Tournament.

Oh man, I'm going to make one great dad.

Back to School …

Last weekend started off great. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The air was crisp and delightful. And I completely ignored all of it to watch our newly installed cable. I spent exactly three years, six months and four days with nothing but (gasp) network television and, somehow, lived to tell this story. Might as well have tied animal hide around my waist, stuck a club in my hand and called me a caveman.

I had planned to spend all day Saturday sitting on the couch, unshowered in my Homer boxers, flipping from station to station, pretending to watch the History channel but actually watching VH1's Celebrity Fit Club. (Forget about Cinco De Mayo—Marcia Brady is trying to lose some weight and needs my help!) I had been dreaming about this day ever since I placed the call to Time Warner. Then Brittany, like any loving and caring wife, ripped the dream out from under my nose by reminding me that we already had exciting plans: Birthing Class.

Now I've taken several classes in my life—economics, calculus, figure skating—and not one of them scared me as much as Birthing Class. For starters, none of them required my attendance on a Saturday morning, nor did their syllabi include such lectures as "Proper Nutrition for Newborns" or "How Babies Are Born—The Video." The class was an all-day event and cost us 100 smackaroos. For those of you unfamiliar, that's a lot of smackaroos!

We showed up at the hospital at the unreasonable hour of "before noon" and made our way to the classroom. There were 15 other couples joining us on the journey, and each one looked exactly the same: hair in a ponytail and pregnant for the wives, unshaven and "Oh- My- God- Is- That- Doctor- In- That- Poster- On- The- Wall- Going- To- Cut- Off- The- Tip- Of- That- Baby's- Penis" facial expression for the husbands. Each husband (including me) was carrying two pillows and a blanket—the required materials for the class. At first I thought they were for comfort, but upon further review I realized that their real purpose was for smothering the first woman who asked, "Can you repeat that part about the enema?"

During the first hour and a half of Birthing Class, a registered dietician explained the importance of finding good deals on diapers, knowing the difference in bottle nipples and how not-breastfeeding your child will make him Kevin Federline-stupid. This news terrified me, so I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and took my first note of the class:

Brittany shall breastfeed until the kid is 20.

Next came The Video. It started off kind of slow with the dad-to-be sitting on a sofa, timing his wife's contractions. The next 25 minutes of the video were equally dull—call doctor, arrive at hospital, sit in room while mom-to-be writhes in pain. In fact, it was super boring. I'm no director, but if it was my video I'd change the setting to a cab or an airplane or a hockey game and have the wife screaming something silly like, "Are these leather seats waterproof?" Then, instead of reaching the hospital she'd somehow get trapped in an elevator with her husband who passes out and an incompetent teenager who rises to the occasion and delivers the baby.

Note number 2: Get car seats waterproofed.

Skip ahead to the actual birth. Her legs are behind her head, her gown is wide open and her fun zone has a baby's head exploding out of it. It wasn't the most pleasant thing to watch, but wasn't nearly as bad as I expected. If that's all it takes to have a baby, Brittany and I will be fine.

Moments later, everything changed.

I had survived breastfeeding talk. I had survived the birth. I had even survived the body odor of the guy sitting next to me. But then, the camera flashed back and this big bloody blob fell out of the mom.

"Did that woman's brain just fall out of her vagina?"

"It's her placenta," Brittany says. "It unites the fetus and the uterus and it's natural for it to fall out after birth."

With this little piece of information, I got up, went into the bathroom, threw up, washed my face, threw up again and tried to escape through the window. Unfortunately this must be a common reaction of husbands because there were breath mints on the sink counter and bars on the windows.

After that visual I don't remember much about the rest of the day. In fact, I spent most of my nights this week huddled in the corner of our bedroom, shaking and mumbling in incoherent sentence fragments, trying to get that image out of my head. It wasn't until I sat down to write this column that I finally snapped out of my funk and came to terms with the birthing process. Sure, it won't be easy to see my wife in so much pain, nor will it be easy for me to watch her push out a baby (among other things). But I want to be there for her and for the baby because, no matter how disgusting it seems, the end result is worth it.

Or, if I'm really lucky, I'll just pass out.

Everybody Loves Brian …

After reading nearly seven books on parenting, two on baby names and a weekly newsletter devoted to everything pregnancy, I can safely say that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. Sure, I know better than to name the kid Saddam or let him drink alcohol before he's smart enough to get a fake ID, but I'm not sure I know what to do in the ever-important emergency situation.

And I mean REAL emergency situations.

Any doctor can tell you what to do if you child is running a fever, but he can't save you from leaving the pumpkin seat on top of the car—with the child in it! He can tell you how to properly bandage up a scraped knee, but can't tell you how to cover up the incident (grocery cart race) that caused the scraped knee. And, don't even think about asking him what to do if you leave the kid at the casino.

Seriously, what do we pay doctors for, anyway?

That's why I've decided to turn to the experts in this field: TV Dads. While I know this may sound a bit unorthodox, it's not as absurd as you'd think. "Everybody Loves Raymond," "According to Jim," "Homer"—these guys wrote the book on parenting for the real emergencies that fathers face. So I started studying them all in-depth, learning the ways of the absent-minded father. I took notes. I highlighted those notes. I sniffed the highlighter for several minutes.

Wow, I really am going to make a great dad.

Brittany wasn't nearly as convinced, so she asked if she could put me through a rigorous quiz. I agreed because 1) I like quizzes and 2) I had no idea what "rigorous" meant. We decided that she would present me with three tough scenarios to put my TV Dad skills to the test. How did I fare? I'll let you judge for yourself:

Scenario #1: You're enjoying a pleasant afternoon with your child, lounging around the house, doodling in a Spider-man coloring book. You turn your head for two seconds (OK, more like the entire 5th inning) and, when you look back, your child has conveniently shoved a red crayon up his nose. What do you do?

Answer: This is no time to panic. Take another crayon, say the green one, and stick it up the other nostril. Grab two straws and shove them up your nostrils. When your wife returns, tell her that the two of you were pretending to be walruses. This will not only come off as cute, but also will score you bonus points as it will make for an excellent Christmas card.

Scenario #2: Your buddy Roger buys your little girl a permanent marker as a joke. The joke will obviously wear off when your wife, who is taking a nap, eventually wakes up with a wall full of squiggly lines—and a mustache. What do you do?

Answer: Find every empty beer can in the house and strategically place them all around your sleeping wife. If you have to, chug a few cold ones to make sure you have enough. Draw a mustache on yourself then place the marker in her hand. When all the pieces are in place, fake a police siren to wake her up. When she gets up and asks you what happened, just shake your head in disgust and tell her that you can forgive her for drawing on the walls, but it'll take awhile for you to get over her "Mustache Party." [Also, remember this when Roger becomes a parent: "Hey kids, who wants a bucket of paint?"]

Scenario #3: The baby has dumped a load on the carpet because you (dad) were too busy using his diaper as a beer coozie. What do you do?

Answer: Quickly buy a dog, give it to your wife as a present when she gets home from work, and let her hug and kiss you for the generosity of finally giving her the dog she's been begging you to get for years. Moments later, pretend to notice the mess on the floor, scream at the dog, announce that you will not tolerate such behavior and immediately return it to the pet store.

I must have really aced that quiz, because when we finished Brittany was speechless. In fact, she even put a sticker on my shirt that said "I'm special." It was a really proud moment for me.

In retrospect, I'm not sure if shows like "Everybody Loves Raymond" offer the best parenting advice. The dad is always doing something stupid, and I don't want to be a stupid father. I want to raise the bar for dads everywhere. And I promise that I will.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got more highlighters to sniff.

Will They Or Won't They ...

There comes a point in every pregnancy (around 20 weeks or so) where the parents-to-be have to make one very important decision: Will they or won’t they find out the sex of the baby? Everyone wants to know. In fact, it’s the second most common question I receive after “How on Earth did you convince her to marry you?” and it’s one Brittany and I have struggled with for months. This is partly due to our over-analyzing of all decisions before committing to them, but mostly it’s due to the fact that, deep down, Brittany loves it when I’m miserable.

Recently, the debate on this has heated up. Next week hails Sonogram Monday—our first (and only) opportunity before the child is born to find out if we’re having a little slugger or a little ballerina—and Brittany and I are split right down the middle on what to do. Obviously there are two schools of thought on this, and I’d like to present both to you without bias so you can develop an informed opinion of what we should do.

School #1: We Should Find Out. This school of thought helps you plan accordingly with names, clothes, softball positions, etc. You’re no longer hand-tied to greens and yellows, and can build a baby room based on cool themes like trucks or dragonflies instead of decorating it in fruit. As a mother, it helps you feel more connected to the child. As a father, it lets you know whether you’ll need a baseball bat to teach your son how to hit homers or a cheerleading baton to mercilessly beat any boy that so much as winks at your little princess.

The only con to this argument is that people may be over aggressive in their purchases, leaving you no neutral clothes for any future children you may have. Then again, all your children may be the same gender, so it wouldn’t really matter. Which bring us to …

School #2: We Should Keep It A Surprise. This school thought, of course, has the very important element of being THE DUMBEST SCHOOL OF THOUGHT I’VE EVER HEARD!

By now you’ve probably guessed which side of the fence I fall on—the logical, sensible side where you learn the sex of your baby—and which one Brittany falls on—the wrong side. I really don’t understand why anyone would wait nine months for an answer to a question that’s attainable at four. To put this in perspective, I like to think of it in these terms: Sure, you could wait until Christmas to ask for “Gilmore Girls” Season 1 on DVD, but why would you when, with a quick trip to Target, you could be watching it this Saturday night?

This argument seems to be ringing hallow around my house, though. For some insane reason, Brittany thinks that her opinion is more important than mine. She brings up senseless points like she is carrying the baby and she is dealing with constant back pain and she is going to have to push the baby out of her fun zone. She says all of this without taking into consideration that she is driving me crazy.

So I spent a few days doing some soul searching and trying to find a middle ground. I offered to have the doctor tell me only, so she would still be surprised. This was met with a welcoming “No way, Mr. Blabbermouth.” I even offered to do laundry for a year, though that deal fell through when I, not knowing what the washing machine looked like, attempted to shove our clothes into the hot-water heater.

That slick move officially lowered my voting power to 49%, just shy of what is needed to win a decision in our house.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that, even though I don’t agree, she does have a point. While a dad’s role is important, it’s not nearly as vital as mom’s. So far, Brittany has had to do all the hard work. She’s sacrificed many things—her energy, her figure, her dream of becoming a pole dancer—all while keeping up with her job and home life. And I admire that.

If this gift is something that means that much to her, I can suck it up for the next 4 months. Sure, it’ll be tough, but I can do it. After all, I love her. And, when the big day comes and Brittany’s ready to push, I hope the doctor looks up at both of us and relays the news I’ve been dying to hear since we passed on finding out the gender the first time:

“Oh my god, this baby has a giant head!”

Payback is hell, love. Payback is hell.

Stuffed Animals ...

Lately I’ve been in a funk. Why? Brittany and I used to be partiers. On any given night we’d paint the town Cincinnati Red. We’d stay up to all hours, hanging out with friends, talking philosophically and trying to answer the one question that’s perplexed man since the beginning of eternity: Why is your sergeant toe bigger than your captain?

Recently, though, I’ve come to the realization that our reckless lifestyle has come to an end. No more late nights. No more excessive drinking. No more Bringing Sexy Back with Justin Timberlake. Everything bad for us must go.

When did that happen?

While our wild sides have been dying slow, painful deaths for years, they didn’t become fully extinct until this past Saturday when, at precisely 11:45 p.m., we left Lily Shoemaker’s very first birthday party and saw our future. Now, make no mistake, we had a great time. In fact, it was probably the best party we’ve been to in the past year. But that’s exactly my point: When was the last time you walked away happy from a party where the guest of honor had a bedtime and a load in her pants?

It’s a scientific fact that everyone eventually transitions from fun-loving, bar-hopping party animal to boring, early-rising, mortgage-paying adult. This decline typically starts when you’re on the wrong side of 25 and, if my data is correct, only gets worse as time moves on. You trade in your backwards ball cap for a comb over. You tell your good buddy Captain Crunch that he’s no longer welcome in your house, and bring in your new life-ling partner, Raisin Bran. If that’s not enough, you have to listen to the neighborhood kids call you “sir.” SIR!

There’s not much more humbling than that.

When we got home on Saturday night I felt less like a party animal and more like a stuffed animal. I was tired and sleepy. I sat there on my bed, lifelessly staring at the blank television screen. All I really wanted was for Brittany to come in, give me a hug and tell me that, no matter how old we get, we’ll still be the life of the party. Instead, she plopped into bed, complained that I was “on her side” and told me to get my “pickle breath” out of her face. I love her so much.

The next morning I got to thinking: Why does becoming old and boring have to be a bad thing? Every change in my life thus far has been a success—going away to college, getting married, switching from the high-five to the rock-bump. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I actually enjoy parties at friends’ houses where there’s no loud music and plenty of seating. I like having a chance to just sit back and chat with my friends. I like coming home and not smelling like bar—that nice combination of beer, smoke, sweat and urine. I like getting to bed early, turning on “Saturday Night Live,” then immediately coming to my senses and flipping the channel to anything but “Saturday Night Live.” Most important, I like not feeling bad about any of this.

The part of my brain that used to focus on all-night keggers and late night trips to White Castle blew a fuse. The replacement parts include kids—my kids—sitting in their beanbag chairs, reaching into that family-size bowl of popcorn, chuckling while their mother complains that we’ve rented Uncle Buck for the 20th time. (Though, if she was really counting, she’d know it was the 21st).

It may not be everyone’s dream, but it’s my dream. Excluding Uncle Buck, it’s Brittany’s dream, too. If it takes us losing our edge and becoming boring, so be it. I’ve accepted it. Brittany has accepted it too.

Now, if I could only get her to accept my pickle breath …

Snoogle Up ...

Everyone suffers from one form of fear or another. Some are afraid of bears. Others are afraid of ghosts. I, myself, am terrified of this photo of David Hasselhoff (click here). But even more terrifying than any of those is the idea of being replaced.

Earlier this week, I was replaced.

After many weeks of Brittany complaining about discomfort and pain in some imaginary body part she calls her “sciatic” nerve, I finally cracked and bought her a Snoogle. If you’re unfamiliar with this product, no need to worry—your wife still loves you. If you do know what it is, you’re welcome to join my newly created support group called Fathers Against The Advancement of SnoogleS, or F.A.T.A.S.S. for short.

We meet on Tuesdays.

The Snoogle is a giant pillow, but not just any ordinary giant pillow. It’s the Rolls Royce of bedroom attire. Designed especially for (crazy) pregnant women, the Snoogle is nearly 8 feet in length with curves at both ends. It conforms around the body, offering head, neck, back and leg support. If that’s not enough, it’s softer on your skin than a roll of Charmin toilet paper.

While I don’t have the precise numbers in front of me, I think it’s safe to assume that the Snoogle is the number one cause of divorce in this country. Not that long ago, Brittany used to dote on me. A kiss here, a hug there. We’d hold hands for no real reason and spend hours laying in bed, embracing each other. Now, I’m lucky if she burps in my general direction.

Her love of this pillow is kind of creepy, if you ask me. She treats “Rico”—that’s right, she named it—like he’s part of the family. She bought him a holiday sweater, wrote him a poem and, before she left for work yesterday morning, I could swear she gave him a kiss goodbye. To make matters worse, my side of the bed has been reduced to about a quarter of an inch.

I’m generally not an insecure person, but when your wife has you run out because “Rico” had a hankering for Taco Bell, you begin to feel a little undervalued. It’s understandable that she prefers not to have alcohol around the house since she can’t drink. I can also accept that the hair on her legs is currently long enough to braid. But I draw the line at getting dinner for pillow boyfriends.

If there’s one saving grace to having this monstrosity in the bed, it’s this: Brittany went from tossing and turning and groaning and whining throughout the night to sleeping soundly without a peep. It was great for her because she no longer lay in pain. It was great for me because I didn’t have to smother her with a pillow.

In the end, I guess it’s a small price to pay for the woman I love. I don’t mind cutting her some slack; after all, she is carrying my baby. If a Snoogle makes her happy, then it makes me happy too. Plus, I figure I can parlay this into getting something I desperately want, even if she’s been against it since day one.

Hasselhoff Klems … has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Our Tiny Dancer …

Last time we visited the doctor (week 15), he told us that Brittany could start feeling movement at any time. It’s exciting news to hear, considering up until this point the baby has essentially been about as active as a thumbtack. But once you get this type of information you spend every waking second wondering when and where the baby is going to strike.

So like any self-respecting, good-hearted, good-looking father-to-be would, I began poking Brittany’s belly. Not hard, but just hard enough to let the baby know that we’re here and waiting. After all, this freeloader has already cost us several hundred dollars in doctor bills, forced us to keep weird combinations of food around the house and increased the level of whining of one of the two people who live at Casa De Klems (I won’t name names).

Two weeks of this poking passed and nothing. Zilch. Nada. Now I don’t remember much about being a fetus, but I’m 99-percent positive that I spent the majority of that time eating, growing and chicken dancing. In fact, I think my mom has pictures.

But this little booger hadn’t even been born yet and was already disobeying my every command. I said, “kick,” but no kick. I said “wiggle,” but no wiggle. I said, “O-H,” but no “I-O.” This kid’s greatest trait to date was the ability to stay still, be lazy and irritate me. Obviously he (or she) got those genes from his mother.

When we weren’t getting the results we wanted, we thought maybe Brittany didn’t know what a kick felt like. I mean, it’s not like it’s ever happened before. So she called a few friends who had gone through the process. Most folks said the first few times feel like butterflies swirling around in your belly, which was interesting. (Note to self: Brittany needs to find new friends who don’t eat butterflies.) Everyone else gave us the typical, “Oh, you’ll know” response, which was about as useful as a foot fungus.

I was beginning to think that our kid was never going to move. Then, one fateful Wednesday afternoon while I was at work, I received an important e-mail that would brighten my mood and alter the rest of my day:

“Hey dude, did you know there are donuts in the break room?—Chuck.”

What? I really like donuts.

Anyway, later that night, when I got home, I received a call from Brittany.

“I feel the baby kicking! I feel the baby kicking!”

It turns out that on her drive home from work, she casually flipped on the radio and WHAM—the baby started dancing. How did she know? For three reasons: 1) She had never felt anything like it before; 2) the movement was constant and 3) the band was Green Day—and any child of mine would choose Green Day as its first dance. Now it wasn’t all roses, as Brittany feared that they baby was moshing into her organs. In fact, she claims to have heard her typically polite spleen yell out, “Hey kid, watch those elbows.”

For days I stuck to Brittany like glue with my hand on her belly, but I couldn’t feel anything. I accompanied her everywhere—the grocery store, the library, the bathroom—and there was no movement. Finally, one morning as we laid in bed, the baby got restless. I placed my hand just below my wife’s belly button and there it was: a kick. It was faint and quick, but it was there. With that, fatherhood seemed less like idea and more like a reality.

I was grateful I got to share in that moment. I was also grateful that this excitement caused Brittany to overlook the fact that her shirt was wide open. Not many mornings start out that perfect. If the baby could talk, I’m sure he would agree.

He’d also be saying “I-O.”