Note to Dads Who Have Daughters: Get Used to Fashion Shows

Dads have a lot of responsibilities. We set examples. We squash bugs. We coach third. We check the closets for monsters every night and assure our kids that it's safe to go to bed. These duties earn us love, admiration and respect around the house. They also earn us bonus points with our wives who are afraid of bugs—especially furry ones with dozens of legs and a face like this.

When you have girls, though, your responsibilities shift a little bit. Sure, you still coach third and check for monsters. But you also sit patiently while your daughters file your cuticles. You let them spend hours brushing your face with make-believe makeup and put bows in the few hairs you have left atop your head.

Basically, you let them make you look pretty.

Some days you aren't up for the physical demands of Beauty Parlor (if you've ever let a little kid brush your face with anything, you know what I mean), so you offer up the eight words that make every little girl's face light up brighter than an iPad: "Why don't you put on a fashion show?"

"FASHION SHOW!"

The other night my wife went to the New Kids on The Block concert (and by "other night," I do not mean "1989") and I was home alone with my two eldest daughters. I mentioned those eight magical words and, before I knew it, the girls had torn through the closet and found their bag of costumes. Tiaras, dresses and monkey hats now blanketed the room. Cinderella-slipper landmines hid under articles of clothing, quietly plotting to puncture my feet. They politely asked me to leave the "backstage area" because I wasn't allowed to watch as they chose their outfits (though I was summoned occasionally to help button and zip things). So I sat patiently in the "showroom," which also moonlighted as my bedroom. This was convenient because the Reds were playing on the TV in the "showroom," which gave me something to do while I waited. 

After 20 minutes, I finally heard a little voice come from the hallway.

"We need music Dad!"

I leaned over and hit our CD-playing clock radio and the CD started to play the song that had doubled as our alarm-clock-wake-up-song for the past 3 months.

"A-wee-muh-way, a--wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way."

The girls made their way into the "showroom," dressed in a lovely mishmash of princess outfits, dainty hats and their mom's flip flops. I had to announce each one of them as they walked in, like models on a runway—which, admittedly, was difficult to do with one eye watching the Reds blow the lead.

"How do we look?" they asked.

"I've never seen anything more beautiful in my—OH MY GOD, THEY ARE BRINGING IN THAT GUY? THAT GUY?! HE STINKS! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR DIAPER YOU STUPID STUPID MANAGER!" Then I paused. Why was I wasting my time watching these bozos on TV when I had two little girls smiling, clamoring for my approval and attention? I quickly turned off the game and grabbed my camera, snapping glamour shot after glamour shot.

"You two girls look great. Why don't you change again and I'll snap more photos and then send them to your Mom. I know she'll love seeing them too."

For the next half hour they changed outfit after outfit, matching doctor scrubs with mouse ears, purses with baseball jerseys, fancy shoes with mermaid attire, and more. I captured all of them on my phone, documenting the event. The show finally came to a close and we all sat in the bed to look at the pictures.

"Want me to send these to Mom?"

"YES!!!!!!!!!!!!" they said. And yes, it did last for exactly twelve exclamation points. I hit a few buttons on my complicated phone, yelled at it and, after a few swears, the pictures finally sent.

"Do you think Mom will like them?" they asked.

"I think Mom will love them," I said.

My phone buzzed. My wife had responded, not with words, but with a picture of her own. And, telling from the smiles on my girls' faces, they loved it more than any response.

Apparently, 100 miles away at the New Kids concert, my wife and her sisters were also playing Fashion Show.

*****
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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.

*****
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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

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.)

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.

No Cone-Heads Here ...

BabyCenter.com offers a lot of helpful advice, like which over-the-counter drugs are safe, how to choose a durable car seat and why you shouldn't strangle your wife no matter how much she nags you. But I couldn't help noticing a link toward the bottom of this week's e-mail update that fell right between "10 tips for labor coaches" and "Got the pregnancy blahs? Let us help." It said the following:

Funny-Looking Newborns: Watch Here.

I made the click and sat through a video of silly-looking babies. Most had disproportionate cone-heads, patches of fur and a body covered in what looked like cheese. Not one of them was more than a week old. It was pretty funny until they pulled the camera away and showed the parents, all fairly good-looking and well-groomed. I immediately ran to a mirror.

After several hours of staring intently of my reflection, I couldn't help but point out the obvious problem: I'm good-looking and well-groomed! Does that mean I'm going to have a goofy-looking baby?

From day one of the pregnancy I always had assumed my baby would be the most gorgeous thing to grace this Earth. He wouldn't come out slimy or bloody or with a tail, but wearing a suit and tie, hair parted to the left, smoking a bubble-pipe. She wouldn't be covered in cheese, but sporting a sun dress, pigtails and wearing one of those Lance Armstrong bracelet thingies because, after all, she cares about cancer. For the first time I actually considered the notion that my baby may look like Alf. Or worse, Steve Buscemi.

Like any good parent, I immediately started to hyperventilate and freak out. Nobody wants an ugly kid. Sure, I expect any child of mine to have extremely hairy legs and a giant head, but smooth hairy legs and a perfectly round giant head. I also naturally planned for the kid to have cheeks so squeezable that they make ketchup bottles around the world jealous. I envisioned all the cute traits, not thinking about the looks that would have both my wife and I using the phrase, "Well, the baby gets that from my spouse's side of the family."

Determined to avoid any type of awkward looks, I decided to be proactive. Reaching deep in the think tank, I remembered back to the one time I went to the gym. There were plenty of pretty people all over the place lifting weights, doing sit-ups, bouncing on that extremely large ball—all trying to improve their physique. When in the cardio room, I noticed a young girl on a treadmill staring at a fitness magazine with a model on the cover for motivation.

That's it!

I raced home and started flipping through magazines. Within minutes I had exactly what I needed. As Brittany dozed on the couch, I slowly worked my magic. A few snips here. A little tape there. And VOILA! I successfully taped a picture of George Clooney to the right side of her belly and Scarlett Johansson to her left, both facing in toward the baby. Now BK3—whether a boy or a girl—had some motivation, something to shoot for. I couldn't expect the kid to come out good-looking if he or she wasn't educated on the subject.

This plan was imaginative and brilliant and would have worked if there hadn't been one major flaw: Brittany doesn't like pictures taped to her belly, especially ones based on what she calls "probably the dumbest idea you've ever had, even worse than the time I was sleeping and you shoved that Rubbermaid tub between my legs 'just in case the baby fell out.'" She ripped the pictures off, letting George and Scarlett fall to the floor. It was a sad day for me—and for Hollywood.

With a lot of rational thought, logical reasoning and the threat of sleeping in the guest room for the next month, Brittany finally convinced me that no matter what I did it wouldn't change the looks of the baby. And, more important, I shouldn't want to. The baby would blend our best qualities and come out looking exactly as he (or she) is meant to; and, to us, BK3 will be the most beautiful baby we'll have ever seen—round head or not.

It's scary to think that your child won't be perfect, but it's something you have to accept as a parent. My sister wasn't perfect. Brittany wasn't perfect. I wasn't per…we'll, I'm the exception to the rule. But no matter how hard you try, your kid is always going to have some flaws—and that's OK. It's what makes them interesting. It's what makes them who they are. It's what makes them yours.

Just hope they don't show up on a Funny-Looking Newborns video.

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.