When Your Baby is No Longer a Baby

This weekend my eldest daughter turns 4. Capital F.O.U.R. This means she's been a part of my life just as long as I was in high school. Just as long as I was in college. Just as long as Joey Votto has worn a Reds hat (which may explain why he's her favorite player). Just as long as—according to my wife—it takes me to clean the bathroom.

Four years is a long time.

When I first met Ella, all she did was eat, sleep, cry and poop—in softball terms this is known as a 4-Tool Player. Her bald little head and bowling ball-sized cheeks made everyone say, "Wow, she looks just like her Dad. Or the Mailman. Do you guys have a bald, big-cheeked Mailman?" And trust me, that joke never gets old.¹

For months she remained a 4-tool player. She'd just lie there, looking at the sky. Occasionally she'd flash a muscle-twitch-induced smile that didn't signify her happiness, but it did ours. Her favorite activity was to sit in a bouncy seat and fall asleep. Though if they made a Dad-sized bouncy seat, it'd be my favorite activity too.

But those months are gone. She's no longer a bald little baby—she's a kid. A big kid. A big kid who writes her own name and takes swim lessons and goes to the beauty shop with her Mom to get her hair "styled." She understands complex things like addition and subtraction, our remote control, and how to change the wallpaper on my smart phone (which effectively makes her smarter than me).  Her summersaults are now over the top instead of sideways. She has two beautiful sisters. She even has a boyfriend named Sammy (don't get me started).

The other day I was sitting with Ella and her 2-year-old sister, Anna, at the breakfast table. They had oatmeal; I had cereal. We were discussing the hot button issues that plagued today's world, like "Whose turn is it to use the newer princess placemat and who gets stuck with the older one, even though the older one looks identical to the newer one?" This discussion always lasts much longer than it should, and the only thing they can agree on is that it's never Dad's turn. The twist came when I got up and grabbed the bag of white-powered donuts and brought them back to the table.

"What are you doing?" asked Ella.
"I'm going to have a donut."
"You can't have a donut," she said.
"Why can't I have a donut?"
"You have to finish your breakfast before you are allowed to have a donut. Those are the rules."

I couldn't believe she was old enough to drop rules on me. My little baby, no longer a baby. As I closed the donut bag I wasn't sure whether to be proud of her for showing how grown up she's become or depressed because I really wanted that donut. So I did the mature thing that all Dads would do in this type of situation. I smiled at Ella and declared:

"Anna gets the new princess placemat today. End of story."²

Four years is a long time. But really, it's not.

In high school four years seems like an eternity; in parenthood it seems like an extended eye-blink. I guess that's why some of us have more kids, so we can relive the magical moments over again—even if only for a short time. And that's why our parents so desperately want grandkids, so they can relive those moments too—only this time they do it with cupboards full of sugary treats.

So while my eldest daughter can't read this yet, it won't be long before she can. When that day comes I hope she realizes how much I love her. I hope she knows that when I write about her and her sisters, I do it because it's the only way I can express how much I care about them. I hope that as she continues to grow and "Sammys" come and go, on each birthday she'll take a moment to remember that once upon a time I was her number 1 guy.

Unless Joey Votto is still a Cincinnati Red. Then I'll settle for number 2.

¹ This is a lie. That joke is so old, it has mold on it.
² I really, really wanted that donut.

*****
* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via email or RSS feed!
* Also, follow me on Twitter @BrianKlems. I promise to occasionally say funny things.

Why Dads (and Moms) Love Christmas Trees

When it comes to decorating for Christmas, a Dad has three major jobs: Put up the tree, string up the lights and make sure the fridge is always stocked with an ample amount of eggnog. It's the only honeydew list my wife assembles that I look forward to. I mean it. A typical, non-Christmas honeydew list at Klems Manor looks something like this:

Dear Brian,
Please do the things on this list ASAP.
Seriously,
Your Wife

To-Dos:
—Cut the grass
—Take out the garbage
—Water the flowers (peeing on them does not count)
—Wrap up the hose when you're finished (I can't believe I have to remind you of this)
—Cut the grass (Yes I put this on here again. I know you skipped over it the first time)
—Sweep the floor
—Change the light bulbs
—Move your folded clothes from the laundry basket into your dresser (and "dresser" is not code for "floor")
—Clean the toilet
—Cut the grass (Trust me, by the time you actually finish this list, it'll need it again)

Christmas is different. Aside from the occasional bulb not working causing the entire strand to go out and getting the evil eye from neighbors because my strands are blinking at different speeds, I love hanging up the lights. And eggnog? Hell, I stare longingly at our supermarket's freezer section all year, counting down the days until the eggnog returns. The taste reminds me of sitting at my grandma's kitchen table, explaining to her why I was especially good that year so Santa would bring me Super Mario 3 (which he did!) and an elephant (which, unfortunately, he didn't).

Putting up the Christmas tree, though—well, that's my favorite holiday tradition of all. The moment it comes out of the box, the season of Christmas is finally launched. I stand it up straight and lock it into its base. The limbs hang bare momentarily, as I bend and fluff them. I wrap it in a skirt, which is unfortunate because our tree's name is Clint. Then I assemble the troops—my two daughters, whose ages combined I can count on one hand, and my wife, whose age I won't mention—and grab the boxes of ornaments that will soon bring our tree to life.

Now to understand our tree you must understand what each of us brings to the table. My wife has a box full of beautiful, handcrafted (and highly breakable) porcelain ornaments she's received every year of her life to commemorate each Christmas. A smiling angel from 1984. A Santa sleigh from 1997. A pastel reindeer from 2006. I, on the other hand, contribute a box of memories filled with Popsicle-stick stars, dried Play-Doh blobs, and a pipe-cleaner wreath, that's held together (poorly) by what I can only assume was once a piece of chewed gum. I know they sound silly, but each of these items commemorates particular Christmases of my life and is every bit as important to me as my wife's are to her. So we hang them all, allowing our tree to host a friendly mix of ornaments that have little in common. We may not have the fanciest tree or the most do-it-yourself tree, but we have a family tree—the way it should be.

Back to decorating the tree: Once the troops (my kids) are aligned and the ornaments have escaped their off-season home in our basement, we begin to unwrap and hang. This used to be a systematic process. We'd pop Home Alone in the DVD player. My wife would remove items from the box and hand them off. I'd find homes for each one. And just as big brother Buzz yells "KEVIN! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM!" I hang the last decoration—an ornament of Homer Simpson wearing a Santa hat. But now my kids were no longer interested in sitting patiently on the sidelines. They demanded playing time. They were helper elves ready to shine. So we let them.

They hung nearly everything. They hung the fancy ornaments. They hung the Popsicle-stick ornaments. Then hung Homer. They'd bolt back and forth from their Mom to the tree, tripping over each other's feet, carrying ornaments—as well as smiles—on every trip. They hung each memory with care and finished before Kevin's parents even realized they'd left him home alone.

They stepped away from the tree. Ella looked it up and down, grinning widely, impressed with her and her sister's work. Anna nodded in agreement.

"It's looks pretty!" said Ella.

"Pretty!" said Anna.

They were proud. So were we. And as my wife and I stepped away to take a look at our children's work, we put our arms around each other and smiled at our beautifully decorated Christmas tree—that only had decorations on the bottom 1/3rd of it.

*****
* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via email or RSS feed!
* Also, follow me on Twitter @BrianKlems. I promise to occasionally say funny things.

The 10 Rules of Cheering on Dad as He Makes Breakfast

Breakfast is a Dad's meal. We eat it. We love it. If our wives would let us, we'd name our children after it. It's the most important meal of the day according to physicians, medical consultants and the sales department at IHOP. So when it comes to crafting a tasty, mouthwatering spread of bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, French toast, fruit (and by "fruit" I mean more bacon) and orange juice (and by "orange juice" I mean more "fruit"), there's only one person in each household who will give it the kind of love, care and dedication it needs.

Relax Mom, Dad's got this one covered. 

Just like we are hardwired to squish bugs and make poor fashion decisions, we are hardwired to cook the most awesome breakfasts. That's right! In fact, we cook it in such a scrumptious way that our taste buds go back in time and forgive college-us for feeding college-taste-buds nothing but Ramen Noodles. (Note: Taste buds still unwilling to forgive college-us for drinking Natty Lite).

Now I've never claimed to be good at much¹, but breakfast is one frontier I've conquered. I come from a long line of gourmet breakfast Chefs. From my great-great-great-great grandpappy Klems, who I've heard invented the donut, all the way to Roger "My Dad" Klems, who has been credited with inventing heartburn, a fine strand of DNA has been passed along to me—one that makes weekend mornings delicious.

Unfortunately, one thing I've noticed in today's kids is that they don't know how to appreciate Dad when he's making breakfast. They don't realize the precious art form they're witnessing. Instead of fawning over you like the Breakfast Picasso that you are, they sit there like lumps on the couch, watching TV and sneezing in your drink when you aren't looking.

To remedy that, I've come up with The 10 Rules of Cheering on Dad as He Makes Breakfast:

Rule 1: Never ask Dad what he's making for breakfast. Doesn't matter what he's cooking—it will be awesome.   

Rule 2: Use magnetic letters on the fridge to spell out "Dad is my Hero." (If you have to, use upside "p" for second "d" in Dad). 

Rule 3: Applaud each time Dad flips the pancakes.  

Rule 4: If you have "I *heart* Dad" T-shirts, wear them. If not, skip to Rule 6. 

Rule 5: SECRET NOTE TO THOSE WHO HAVE "I *HEART* DAD" T-SHIRTS: Dad loves you more than his other kids.  

Rule 6: No Foam Fingers. Non-negotiable. None of us want to relive the We-Almost-Caught-Our-Kitchen-On-Fire incident of 2008.  

Rule 7: If a sausage link starts to roll off the fryer and Dad saves it with his spatula, yell "WEB GEM!" and then sing the SportsCenter "Da da da ... da da da."  

Rule 8: Argue over who loves Dad the most. This will often net you two extra pieces of bacon.  

Rule 9: As Dad shuffles the eggs onto the plates, start chanting "MVP! MVP!" Then do the wave.  

Rule 10: After Dad turns off the stove, ask him to do it again, but this time in slow motion so you can "savor the moment."

Read these rules carefully. Memorize them. Pass them along to your children. I know they may sound silly, but I also know that Dad will appreciate his family appreciating him. And if you're not willing to thank him for making a good breakfast, at least thank him for not naming you Bacon³.

¹That's a lie. I claim to be good at everything—except for predicting the future².
²That is also a lie. I can predict the future.
³This is not a joke. He really wanted to name you Bacon. 

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

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

The Importance of Family Vacations

Family vacation means a lot of things to a lot of people. To Mom it means a chance to sleep in, wear less makeup and take an obscene amount of photos—none of which she'll be in, mind you, because she's wearing less makeup. To the Kids it means swimming in the hotel pool, getting cookie crumbs in a giant hotel bed and showering with funny little bottles of shampoo that are just their size. To the Hotel Staff it means more towels to wash. And to Dad it means … well ... after my first full family vacation as a Dad, I learned that it has one very specific, important meaning: Plenty of free ice.

Let me explain.

Family vacations are expensive. Plain and simple. Hotels cost money. Food costs money. Events cost money. Even money costs money (damn travelers checks).

It's important to understand that before I was the patriarch of Team Klems, I'd grown accustomed to a certain frugal vacation lifestyle. Back then vacations weren't "vacations," they were "road trips." They'd involve 7 guys crammed into one $40 room ($6 a person) at a hotel that was so disgusting it offended the one-star hotels around it. Lunch and dinner consisted of happy hour Miller Lites, while breakfast was a continental smorgasbord of Tums, Advil and water (which we brought from home). If it weren't cheap, we wouldn't buy it. If it weren't free, we didn't do it.

So when we started planning the family vacation, my wallet started to cry. With each mounting expense—like booking the hotel, filling up the minivan with gas the night before the trip, getting "vacation clothes" for the girls—tears rolled down its leather exterior. When we arrived at the hotel I tried to comfort my wallet the best I could: It'll be OK, my friend. I promise. I'll order water for breakfast, just like old times. You'll see. But he wouldn't listen. He was too busy shaking in fear as he watched both my girls touch, poke and jump on everything in the hotel room, daring something to break.

It was with that I had to take action. So I turned to my girls and, with as much excitement as I could mount, dangled the question: "Who wants to go to the ice machine and get some ice?"

They stopped touching. They stopped poking. They stopped jumping on everything in the room (except for my feet) as they hurried to the room's door. My wife nodded as we exited, giving me her Thanks-For-Taking-The-Girls-And-Letting-Me-Get-Settled-For-A-Moment look. It's a look that will pay off later, when she's thinks twice before giving me the I-Can't-Believe-You-Didn't-Put-The-Plastic-Bag-In-The-Ice-Bucket-Before-You-Filled-It-Up-You-Dirtball look.

As we made our way down to the ice machine, my wallet sighed in relief. My eldest daughter, Ella, pressed the button and sprayed ice everywhere. My youngest daughter, Anna, watched in amusement. My ice bucket, Ms. Ice Bucket, made inappropriate passes at my wallet. All three of these items concerned me.

This moment didn't seem that particularly important or impressive to me at the time. In fact, we hit the ice machine for about two dozen more fills with similar results. So it wasn't until the day we returned home from vacation that I realized how deeply I'd been touched by the free ice moments. And not just because they paid tribute to my "road trip" days, but because ...

... Every time I think of the ice machine, I remember carrying the bucket back to the hotel room—where my wife, my girls and I put on our PJs, ate Twizzlers in bed and read Curious George Goes to the Ice Cream Shop until we fell asleep in each others' arms.

... Every time I think of the ice machine, I remember passing it on the way to the elevator—which would lead us toward the Children's Museum where Ella built sailboats to float in the lagoon … and the Zoo where Anna waved to the giraffes as if they'd been long lost friends … and to dinner, where we ordered cheese stick appetizers, smilie-face-shaped French fries and milk to toast.

... Every time I think of the ice machine, I remember filling up the cooler with drinks and snacks for the car ride home—where we sang songs, asked each other what our favorite parts of vacation were and smiled (a lot).

And every time I think of the overall cost of the vacation and all the money we spent, I remember the magical ice machine, the piles of free ice it shared with us, all the memories, all the moments, I start to smile. Then I turn to my wallet and say:

My friend, I think we got a hell of a deal.

To which my wallet replies, "That ice bucket was a real pervert."

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

10 Things Dads Want to Avoid on Father's Day

Most days of the year I'm required to do the backbreaking work that all dads are required to do, the kind of work that really wears us out—like mow the lawn, scrub the toilets, lift the heavy things, pee standing up. But there's one day—one glorious, magnificent, brilliant day—that I, along with every other dad on the planet, look forward to more than any other day of the year:

National Donut Day, which, as my wife and daughters completely forgot, is celebrated on the first Friday of June. Because they missed the boat on this important holiday—trust me, there were no glazed donuts to be found when glazed donuts were needed—I will have to settle for a little extra celebration on the second best day of the year: Father's Day.

It's worth noting that this is only my third official Father's Day where I've been on the receiving end, so by most standards I'm still a rookie. But like most dads, I didn't need too many under my belt before I understood the true meaning of it. Father's Day isn't about getting what you want; it's about avoiding things—things that wear on your psyche the other 364 days of the year.

So I'm taking a preemptive stand for dads from coast to coast to make sure we get the Father's Day we need. Instead of allowing our wives and kids to sit around, deciding our day for us, I've developed a list of guidelines for our loved ones to follow to make this day the special day that it should be. Here are the Top 10 Things Dads Want to Avoid on Father's Day.

#1 We want to avoid: The morning aroma of anything other than crisp, flavor-filled, fresh-from-the-oven bacon strips. We would like it to be on our breakfast plates, in our juice and used in sentimental gifts from the kids. (Also not opposed to bacon lingerie.)

#2 We want to avoid: Accidental head-butts to the groin.

#3 We want to avoid: Intentional head-butts to the groin.

#4 We want to avoid: Anything on TV that doesn't involve sports, World War II or the musically-delightful high school series "Glee." (Seriously, "Glee" is pretty awesome.)

#5 We want to avoid: Having to wear anything other than our favorite t-shirt/shorts combo, even if its current cleanliness status is unclear.

#6 We want to avoid: Getting yelled at for farting in public. We should be granted a one-day Father's Day exemption. We should also be allowed to high-five others when we do it.

#7 We want to avoid: Mentions of Justin Beiber.

#8 We want to avoid: Gossip. And before someone says it, I better clear this up now: MajorLeagueBaseball.com confirms that trade rumors are classified as "discussion" not "gossip." So I recommend coming to lunch equipped with at least three for "discussion."

#9 We want to avoid: Being interrupted from our Father's Day nap.

#10 We want to avoid: Spending money. You want to put a permanent smile on our faces? Show us a bank account that's higher than it was the day before. This is the gift that keeps on giving (interest).

There you have it—a simple guide to delivering your dad a great Father's Day. If you love him, you'll abide by this list. And if you really love him, you won't forget a dozen glazed on the first Friday of June next year.

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 9 Stages Dads Go Through When Buying a Minivan

In high school, most Dudes plan to grow up to be Independent Men. That's why we all take the Man's Hippocratic Oath: To ethically and responsibly uphold the laws of manhood throughout our lives. We pledge to live by certain principles, which are mainly a list of things we will never do, including buy a house in the suburbs, take ballet, use the phrase "Oh No You Didn't" and watch a Sandra Bullock movie.

As important as those rules are, none of them hold a candle to the Mac-daddy of all rules that are true and holy in the Man's Hippocratic Oath:

Never own a minivan.

It's so sacred of a rule, that we bold it. We underline it. We give it it's own paragraph. We also spell check it. Even in Catholic school we learned that though Judas betrayed Jesus and sold him to Roman authorities, Jesus forgave him because he knew Judas would never be caught dead in a minivan. So, as you can see, it's pretty serious.

There are many repercussions for buying a minivan. First, you will be stripped of your man identification card. Immediately. Your friends—who remember the day you took your oath—will treat you as if you've contracted some fast-spreading, contagious disease, and will avoid sitting at the same softball field as you. You will also become an instant target for Zima jokes.

It's a cruel world we live in.

Now I'm not going to be naïve and think that all Dudes will be able to stay true to the Man's Hippocratic Oath, especially Dudes who become Dads. In fact, I must confess that, after endless debates, fights and one hotly contested rock-paper-scissors match with my wife, I, Brian A. Klems, have caved and am now the pathetic proud owner of a minvan.

Here's my man identification card. Have fun setting it on fire.

But I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to help prepare the millions of other Dads who will inevitably fall victim (rock) to a wife who wants a minivan (paper), and explain to them the 9 stages that all Dads go through when buying a minivan. Each stage is real and must be taken seriously. I've included examples to help you understand what to expect. Just by reading on, you will be able to handle the transition better than most. Without further ado, I present to you the 9 Stages that Dads Go Through When Buying a Minivan:

1. Denial.
"I don't care what my wife says, we aren't getting a minivan. I know that the previous five Google searches on my computer were 'How to buy a minivan,' 'Where to buy a minivan,' 'When to buy a minivan,' 'How much does a minivan cost,' and 'Minivan Minivan Minivan,' but that's just a coincidence."

2. Uncontrollable Weeping.
Self-explanatory.

3. Lying.
"I think minivans are pretty sweet. Way better than your Ford Mustang and your Dodge Viper. In fact, I once read that chicks dig guys who drive minivans. Seriously. Wait, why are you laughing?"

4. Bargaining.
"OK wife, if we get the minivan, I'm buying a motorcycle! No? Well, I'm buying a TV the size of our house! No to that too? Hmm…well, I'm only going to shower three times a week. And fart louder."

5. Depression.
"What happened to me? I used to be cool. I used to party, wear awesome concert t-shirts and hurl myself at others in mosh pits, leaving welts on my hip the size of Montana! Now what am I going to have to brag about? Sore knees from having to step up so high to get in the car?"

6. Hysteria
"I can't be seen around town in this behemoth. What will others think? I know exactly what they'll think: What a Loser! Wonder if it'd help if I painted it to look like The Mystery Machine?"

7. Commiserating.
"So you own a minivan too, eh? Nice to find someone else to talk to about it. How have you survived … What's that? Can't talk? On your way to the store to get your wife tampons? Well that's just excellent …"

8. Overcompensating.
"Hey wife, I bought us tickets to the Motley Crüe, Metallica and Lynard Skynard concert. Plus I found my old chain wallet and "UP YOURS!" t-shirt with the middle finger on it—and they still (sort of) fit! Also, and this is just something I'm toying with, what's you gut reaction to neck tattoos?"

9. Acceptance.
"Man, these automatic doors and this massive cargo space are awesome! Plus, the kids' feet no longer reach the back of my chair. Maybe I miss-judged this thing. In fact, I love it! Let's celebrate. Wife, go grab me a Zima!"

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

Potty Training ...

Moms are proud of their toddlers for many reasons: learning their ABCs, recognizing family members in photos, not eating things found under the couch (of course, Moms never take into consideration how fresh the Cheeto may look). Dads are proud of these accomplishments too (more Cheetos for us), but we really get excited when our kids start performing useful talents.

Specifically, tinkling in the toilet.

Two months ago, my daughter decided to try this out. It came as a quite a shock to me, as I thought potty training was still years away. But she started asking. So we'd hold her up over the toilet and, what'da ya know—she'd pee! No prompting. No asking. She'd just sit her tooshie down and do her business. It was unbelievably easy.

Now I'm not one to overly dramatize such situations, but a euphoric sense of freedom overcame me. Happy thoughts dashed through my head, like a pack of Olympic sprinters on Red Bull. Goodbye Huggies and take care. So long Pampers, your services are no longer needed here. See you later diaper bag, don't let the door hit your handle on the way out.

And that is how we potty trained Ella.

"AS IF!" yelled Wayne and Garth (that's right, I just hit you with a Wayne's World reference—you're welcome).

All of that really did happen, and I earnestly thought we were close to a diaper-free daughter. But two short months later, our peeing process has changed, and it's not as neat and compact as it once was. Let me walk you through a typical trip to the bathroom with my darling Ella:

I ask, "Do you need to go potty?"
Ella responds, "Hokey Pokey?"
I say, "No, the potty."

Then she puts her right arm in. Then her right arm out. Then her right arm in. (You get the picture.)

I smoothly transition her from the Hokey Pokey to our potty dance, which may or may not look something like this: Potty Dance Video. When our Congo line reaches the bathroom, I quickly take off her diaper and put her Dora the Explorer potty seat on the toilet. She promptly turns the seat sideways, but gives me a condescending look as if to say, Why does this bozo always put my seat on wrong?

She finally sits on the toilet but makes me sit down on the floor right next to her—which is not nearly as appealing as you may believe. In the next four seconds, she manages to (in no particular order) unravel the roll of toilet paper, grab the plunger, flush the toilet, knock over the candle sitting on the toilet, pull down the hand towels, unravel the toilet paper more and fart.

After regrouping, calming her down and hiding everything within a six-mile radius, I start the negotiation process. I don't mean to brag, but I've always been a good negotiator. I bought my car below market value. I persuaded my wife—who's way out of my league, mind you—to marry me. I even convinced myself to like broccoli … BROCCOLI! Compared to those, this negotiation should be a piece of pie:

"If you pee, you wipe with grownup toilet paper."
"Wipe?"
"And you'll get some M&Ms."
"Ms?"
"Yes, Ms."

A big grin comes over her face. So I turn my ear toward her and give her the I'm-Listening-Closely-For-The-Sweet-Sound-Of-Pee face. At this point, one of two scenarios play out:

1. She pees, I clap and cheer, we wipe, wash hands, then I shower her with "Ms"; or
2. She sticks her finger deep in my ear and effectively punctures my brain.

So I guess potty training isn't nearly as easy as I'd hoped it would be. Sometimes there are flashes of brilliance and this process takes less than a minute, while other times I'm just hoping that my little angel doesn't stick her hand down her crack and sniff it. I know eventually she'll get it down; after all, she's amazingly smart and incredibly young to be potty training in the first place. But until then, I'm going to have to make amends with a few key players.

Well Pampers, Huggies and diaper bag—I know we all said some things we regret, and we'd take them back if we could but we can't. For Ella's sake, let's act like adults. We're going to be friends for a bit longer. I'm willing to offer an olive branch to show my sincerest apologies. Want a Cheeto?

I'd love to hear about your potty training experiences. What worked? What didn't? Did you survive? Drop a note in the comments section below or e-mail me at fozzie007atYahoo.com.

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

You're On Notice, Mr. Gall Bladder …

There are three extremely important characteristics that all dads must have: strength, health and the ability to slide around a tag at home plate. Without these attributes, you may as well trade in your DadCard (and complementary stained white t-shirt) for a bucket of Jim Belushi DVDs (and yes, I meant Jim). Luckily, I've been fortunate enough to be blessed with all three gifts. But then came Monday.

I hate Mondays.

It was four days prior to Ella's official birthday. My wife and I were planning a big birthday of fun—a trip to the zoo, a trip to the pool, then back home for a candle-lit cupcake celebration and harmonized version of Happy Birthday, which we'd been practicing for weeks. From the minute I set foot into my work cube, it was all I could think about—until Chuck, a coworker, friend and rock star, called about lunch.

"Dude. Mall. Now. I'm starving."

"It's 9:45 a.m."

"You're a buzz kill."

When I hung up the phone, I noticed an unusual pain in my side. I'd felt it twice before but had written it off to cramps, gas or residual effects from Brittany's middle-of-the-night elbow jabs. But this time was different. The pain was constant and more severe. I'd never felt a pain like it before, unless you count listening to this. The mall was out. The hospital was in.

After eight hours of waiting rooms, x-rays, ultrasounds, poking and prodding, morphine and an unusually friendly nurse who told me to take off my clothes but didn't give me a hospital gown, the doctor finally came in.

"Well, we can't find anything conclusive, but we have a strong feeling it's your gall bladder. Nothing really to worry about. We'll run a few more tests in the morning and then probably take it out."

"Take it out? Are you sure? I guess you're the doctor, doctor. That sounds funny. On a side note, that nurse in the hallway forgot to bring me a gown."

"That person doesn't work here."

(Long pause)

"Please up my morphine."

While this was a simple and common procedure, it did worry me some. I'd never had major surgery before. In fact, the closest I'd come was having a cyst removed from my wrist. And trust me, that doesn't impress the ladies nearly as much as you'd think it would. I also worried that I wouldn't be out in time to celebrate Ella's birthday. But the sooner they fixed the problem, the sooner I could go home. After careful consideration, I sent my gall bladder a pink slip. The letter went something like this:

Dear Gall Bladder,

First of all, I'd like to thank you for the 29 years of service you've provided me and the rest of the team. As you are aware, we are all suffering from the current economic downturn and, unfortunately, the hard times have hit KlemsCo. Our resources are limited and budgets are tight. It is with a heavy heart that we have to let you go. I wish I could say it wasn't performance based, but after checking past reviews it's come to my attention that no one in the company knows exactly what you do. In fact, several members of the team thought you'd retired several years ago while others just thought you were lazy. And it wasn't until recently when you began causing a stir that we realized you were still on the payroll.

Anyway, we wish you the best in all future endeavors.

Sincerely,
Brian A. Klems
CEO and President, KlemsCo.

The next morning, I rolled in and out of exam rooms. I spoke with physicians. I spoke with surgeons. I watched an episode of "Saved by the Bell" where Zach needed surgery to repair his knee and, like me, he was scared of going under the knife. (Thankfully he got over his fear and survived to go onto "Saved by the Bell: The College Years.") When the final test results came back, my prognosis changed.

"All the tests came back negative so it doesn't look like there's anything wrong with you. We aren't going to take your gall bladder. We'll just monitor you for another night and, if all goes well, send you home in the morning."

I believe that was just a polite way of calling me a faker.

I could have stayed and pushed the issue (after all, I was still in pain), but I was ready to go—not to mention that my gall bladder was threatening a wrongful termination suit. So I left the hospital—body intact—and made it home. My side may still hurt, but it's much less painful than the idea of missing my CinderElla's first birthday.

… but seriously, Brittany, quit elbow-jabbing me in the middle of the night. It hurts.

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

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

Only The Essentials …

Today marks the 10-year anniversary of the day I asked Brittany, my squishy pride and joy, to be my girlfriend. It was a magical day that would change my life forever. She used to be a timid girl, wearing baggy clothes and an eyebrow ring. Now she's not so timid, her clothes fit (sort of) and the ring has migrated from her brow to her finger—picking up some diamonds along the way. But one thing certainly hasn't changed: She still finds new and exciting ways to ignore me.

For the past 4 months I've been nagging Brittany to pack her bag for the hospital, and for the past 4 months it's laid on the floor empty. She says that she wants to use a suitcase, as if she's going on a trip. But women on TV and the movies don't take a suitcase, they take a duffle bag. They always take a duffle bag. It's essential to the baby delivery process.

"You're taking the duffle!"

The only duffle we owned was an artifact from our years of soccer. It was old and showcased two holes surrounded by a pocket of used tissues. The zipper had a dirty sock dangling from it, much like a tree-shaped air-freshener hangs from a rear-view mirror. And, unlike my favorite softball jersey, it was only covered in a thin layer of Dorito crumbs. It was perfect.

"I'm not taking the duffle," she said.

"Why not!?"

"I can only handle one smelly thing while I'm delivering this baby."

Hmm…I think that was a shot at me.

"That was a shot at you."

After an intense battle of rock, paper, scissors, we compromised and agreed to get a new duffle that was devoid of soccer stink. We also agreed that there's no way in the world that paper beats rock. Nothing should beat rock, except for maybe a gavel. Gavel could definitely beat rock.

The days passed and the duffle still sat in the baby's room. Empty. It drove me crazy. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't watch Will & Grace (though that really had nothing to do with the empty duffle). I couldn't stand not being prepared when the baby could pop out at any minute, so I decided to pack the bag for her.

I rummaged through the house grabbing all the essentials. An item here, an item there. I was careful and meticulous, packing only what I thought she might need in the hospital. Nothing more, nothing less. The duffle was filled to the brim.

I set it on the bed and called Brittany into the room. With a smile, I told her what I had done—how I had helped her prepare for the moment; how it was one thing less that she'd have to do. The look on her face said it all. And what it didn't say, she said out loud:

"Where are my clothes? Where are my toiletries?"

Clothes? Toiletries.

"I only packed your essentials."

"Essentials, eh?" She rummaged through the bag. "Why in the hell do I need a bathing suit, a pound of bologna and a picture of Rod Stewart?"

See fellas, women don't know anything.

She tossed out everything. From bologna to Rod to "Scrubs" season 5. Nothing I packed was suitable. She replaced it with pajamas and underwear and a pouch full of bathroom products, including a toothbush, toothpaste and comb. She explained why these items were far more important than the "junk" I piled into her bag.

With that, she zipped up the duffle and set it next to the bed. It was finally packed and ready to go. I couldn't have asked for a better anniversary present.

Other than maybe a gavel. It definitely beats rock.

(Happy anniversary, love.)

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.