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

My 28 Reasons ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

16. On Sundays, pants are optional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smarter Than a 5th Grader …

When I was real little, I remember thinking that my folks were the smartest people in the world. They could read. They could write. They were potty trained. It was everything I aspired to be. Of course, I abandoned this theory in high school and adopted one that made much more sense: I am the smartest person in the world.

Jeff Foxworthy seems to disagree.

Last night I was channel surfing and landed on this new FOX show, “Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?” (hosted by Mr. Foxworthy). The brilliant premise: Contestants (adults) must correctly answer questions taken directly from the textbooks of first-through-fifth graders to win money. If that’s not enough, a group of 5th graders openly mock the contestant for wrong answers. And, if you walk away with less than the $1 million grand prize, you must say, “I am not smarter than a 5th grader.”

God I love television.

After my initial euphoria, I realized how embarrassing it would be to get outsmarted by kids—especially ones who have celebrated fewer birthdays than my driver’s license. I’ve always felt bad for tykes whose parents’ were morons, but luckily for BK3 I’m brilliant. Or am I? What if I’m not as smart as I advertise? What if I had been kidding myself? What if my child has a stupid parent? BK3’s entire future rests in my hands, so I must find out.

Enter Mr. Foxworthy and my new favorite game show. I figure it should take only five questions. If I get them all correct, there’s nothing to worry about. If I miss even one, BK3 should prepare for a budding career as 40-year-old who lives with his parents.

Game on.

First question: When you mix equal amounts of red and yellow paint, what color do you get?

That’s an easy one. Orange.

Survey says: Brian the Brain 1, Brian the Bozo 0

Second question: What country has the longest border with the U.S.?

Now they’re lobbing them up there, and I’m swinging for the fences. Canada.

Survey says: Brian the Brain 2, Brian the Bozo 0 (Note: Contestant says Mexico. Contestant may not be smarter than Play-Doh—the jury is still out.)

Third question: In astronomy, what star is closest to Earth?

I know what you’re thinking—George Clooney, right? Well you would be wrong, my friend, as the star closest to Earth is The Sun.

Survey says: Brian the Brain 3, Brian the Bozo 0 (BOOYAH!)

Fourth question: True or False: Fiction books are not assigned numbers in the Dewey Decimal system.

The Dewey Decimal system still exists? I bet Brittany’s librarian sister Allison knows this. Of course, she probably wouldn’t help me after the whole “You’re the second favorite aunt” debacle of ‘06. I think both use numbers, so I’m going to say False.

Survey says: Brian the Brain 4, Brian the Bozo 0

Fifth, and final, Question: How many sides are there on a trapezoid?

A trapezoid? What the hell is a trapezoid? The fate of my child rests on a shape? Take a deep breath. Let’s examine what we do know: An octagon has eight sides. A hexagon has six sides. Four sides is called a square. Wait a minute! What’s the funny looking square that’s shaped like a hat? It’s a trapezoid! Two parallel, two nonparallel. It’s Four, the correct answer is Four!

Survey says: Brian the Brain 5, Brian the Bozo 0

Turns out I am a genius—at least, a genius on a 5th-grade level. Every dad hopes to teach his child everything he knows to help him (or her) build a better life. That’s exactly what I intend to—teach BK3 about the lessons of life, the value of love and, most important, the dimensions of a trapezoid.

My Own Family ...

There are nearly 18 million people between the ages of 25-44 who are married with children, and I’m angry with all of them. Why? Not one has asked congress to issue the very important warning label: Children may be hazardous to your softball career.

That’s right, my wife and I are pregnant. (Well, I’m not technically pregnant, though I do have to pee more frequently and I’ve begun to appreciate the stylishness of maternity pants.) It was “an act of God” according to some. It was “about time” according to others. But to us, it was a calculated decision based on maturity, intelligence and love. And, of course, two bottles of Merlot.

Now I know a lot of people are afraid of parenting, but I’m not; I’m only afraid of the big three—heights, snakes and Michael Jackson's nose. I’m pretty confident I’d make a great father. After all, how hard can it be? My parents didn’t know anything and yet they raised a perfect child (no, sister, I’m not talking about you). My close friend had a little girl—a gender neither of us know anything about—and yet he’s been an amazing father. And if there was any doubt to my skills, may I remind you that I’ve seen every Chevy Chase “Vacation” movie at least twice.

The idea of me raising a kid seems crazy at first, but, after you think about it for awhile, you’ll realize it makes perfect sense. I have all the qualities of a responsible adult—I’m 27 years old, have a lovely wife, own a cozy three-bedroom house and work a job I actually enjoy. I brush my teeth regularly and have a clean bill of health. And, if that’s not enough, my head is suffering from another key fatherhood quality—I’m going bald. Can’t get much more dad-like than that.

Now, I know there are doubters out there. Some will say, “How can he raise a kid if he can’t even operate the VCR?” Others will shake their heads and say, “Knowing him, all he’ll feed the baby is nacho cheese Doritos.” And a few will point out that I foolishly spent my entire life savings on a television the size of New Hampshire, but they will do so behind my back because they want me to host this year’s Super Bowl party.

I can’t promise that I’ll be the greatest dad in the world. I can’t even promise that I’ll be the 9^th greatest dad in the world. But, so help me, I sure as heck am going to try. (Note: Language toned down for baby purposes.) I’m thumb-deep in five different Be-A-Good-Father books, I’m learning to like veggies and I’m even growing a mustache—yeah, I know, it doesn’t improve my parenting skills but it just looks cool.

Anyway, I plan to chronicle my journey and I hope many of you will join me; after all, I can’t do it alone. This column will follow my experiences of dealing with pregnancy, becoming a father, becoming the husband of a mother, dealing with the newly anointed grandparents and, most important, doing my best not to screw up the child’s life. That’s right, this is the life of dad. So buckle up—it’s going to be crazier than Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.