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

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.

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.