Baby Gates: A Love/Hate Relationship

If I ever try to climb Mt. Everest, I will consider it the second greatest challenge in my life--the first being opening our baby gate. This $60 piece of plastic that separates our living room from our stairs not only keeps our 1-year-old daughter from escaping, but also keeps me from ... well ... escaping. I tug, kick, yell, scream, give it the stink eye—you name it, I've tried it. And yet the gate remains unopened, taunting me. If I ever grow a grizzly beard, it's not because I'm trying to look even more handsome than I already do (though that's a nice side benefit); it's because I can't reach my shaving cream and razor, as they occupy valuable real estate on the other side of that impenetrable gate.

Ah, to be on the other side. If only.

Having a baby gate in the house makes me feel like I'm in prison—not the kind with gang fights and stabbings, but the more dangerous kind with Disney Tea Cups and Tea Party accessories. I stand alongside my 1-year-old daughter, trapped, looking through those plastic bars, both of us hoping that someone, somewhere will come and rescue us. In the meantime, we commiserate and plot detailed schemes to escape our cell over a hot pot of imaginary Disney tea.

When my wife finally strolls down the stairs, she knows what awaits: two desperate prisoners who will do anything to get out of jail. Anna, my 1-year-old, is amazingly smart and uses a combination of the lip-quiver and puppy dog eyes to tug at my wife's soft heart. Brilliant move, my dear, brilliant move! I don't mean to brag, but she got that lip-quiver from me. It's practically a Klems family heirloom.

It worked like a charm. My wife lets her out. Game. Set. Match.

Without hesitation, I turn to my wife and, being the pro that I am, go for the more traditional husbandly act that all husbands use when they want to persuade their wives into helping them out: I flash her my junk. And just like that, my wife put an additional lock on the gate. And put up an additional gate.

The warden has spoken.

My wife claims that opening the gate is easy. You just unhook, lean, lift and violà! It's open. Simple as that. Easy peasy. It's a claim that belongs in the Hall of Fame of Ridiculousness, with its jersey hanging right between "by spending money we are actually saving money" and "New Kids on the Block are a fun, talented band."

I really should be able to figure it out. After all, I'm a college graduate for God's sake. I'm a critical thinker. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. Hell, I put the gate up! Of course, had I known how difficult it would be to open it I would have put it up while standing on the other side.

It's times like these I realize how much my 1-year-old daughter Anna and I have in common. We're both trapped by circumstances that are beyond our control. She's pinned in by a gate for her own safety. I'm pinned in by the comfort that the gate provides me in knowing my daughter is safe. Neither of us really wants the gate, but both of us need the gate. The reasons are somehow different and the same all in one.

Even though the gate may be irritating and frustrating and surprisingly resistant to the stink eye, I'm glad it's there. I'm glad it's protecting Anna from a dangerous situation. I'm glad it forces me to pause—if even for a moment—and share time with my daughter, sipping imaginary tea and enjoying this short period of her life where she needs me to protect her. The gate is proof of my love and if that means I'm stuck, then so be it.

As I contemplate that thought, my 3-year-old daughter gets up off the couch and walks over to me.

"Hey Dad," she says. "Where's Mommy?"

"Upstairs," I say.

She smiles and gives me a warm hug. Then she turns, lifts the gate open and walks on through. "Click," goes the gate as it closes behind her.

"WHAT? Son of a ... "

The Life of Dad is updated every Tuesday. 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

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