17 Rules Every Dad Must Know When Dressing His Daughter

Dressing a 2-year old girl shouldn't be that difficult, after all, I've been successfully dressing myself for three decades (give or take the few years my mom and dad took charge). With my choice in color, style and overall look, I think it's safe to say I have the fashion sense of blind manatee. And even then, that may be an insult to manatees.

When I'm charged with the task of dressing either of my daughters, I abide by the two rules every guy uses to dress himself: one article must have a neck-hole and the other must cover the crotch. These rules are simple, easy to remember and will keep you from violating any state laws.

My wife, on the other hand, has 17 rules for dressing our daughters. They are complicated, confusing and intimidating. (They are also endorsed by the League of Female Manatee.) These rules were not pulled out of a hat—though, to any normal human being, they might look that way. The basics were crafted centuries ago and have been adapted by each generation of wife/mother. While slight details may change from household to household, the essence of each rule is in tact.

But let's be honest: 17 rules are too many for any dad to remember; after all, dads' minds are only programmed to retain things like baseball statistics, what-beats-what in poker and which flavor of snow cone is the best (lemon lime). Even Einstein couldn't remember his wife's set of rules for dressing their daughter. And if he—father of e=mc2—couldn't do it, how could women expect us regular dads—who don't even know what e=mc2 means—to cope with so many rules.

In order to avoid future problems, I wrote the rules down on a little cheat sheet that I keep hidden in the top drawer of each daughter's bedroom. I reference it every morning. Since I started doing this, my wife and I stopped fighting about clothing, which has opened up some valuable free time that we now dedicate to fighting about societal value of the "I'm So Excited" episode of "Saved by the Bell." (And yes, there totally is some.)

So, without further ado, the 17 rules for dressing my daughters are as follows:

1. Clothes need to match—in color and style, not in "type of animal on them."
2. Diapers must go on under tights, not over.
3. A shirt with a ketchup stain does not "have red in it."
4. No matter how you dice it, vertical stripes on a shirt do not match horizontal stripes on pants.
5. Shorts are not a year-round option.
6. No socks with sandals (this rule also applies to dressing dad).
7. Bowls are not hats.
8. Pants are not hats.
9. Underwear are not…you get the picture.
10. Adam committed original sin when he ate the apple. His second sin was dressing his daughter in white after Labor Day.
11. Daughters in matching outfits are cute. Dad and daughters in matching Megadeth tees are not.
12. Changing from PJs into another set of PJs is not "dressing her."
13. Wristbands are not "part of an outfit."
14. If she wears her Jay Bruce Reds baseball jersey on Monday, she can't wear it again for at least 10 business days.
15. She also can't wear the other 11 Reds jerseys you bought her.
16. Grunge is dead. So are you if you dress my baby in it.
17. And finally... if you have to sniff it, it's off limits.

There you have it. The list of rules every father must have. Print it out. Tuck it away under the mattress. Hang it from the ceiling. Stuff it down your shorts. But most important, keep a copy in every room.

You'll find it more useful than e=mc2.

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

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

In the Klems family we sing. And not in the fake, underwear-clad Tom Cruise lip-syncing-in-Risky-Business sort of way, but more in the loud, boisterous and (usually) off-key sort of way. We do it everywhere: in the shower, in the car, on the softball field when we're down by several runs and need to get pumped up (Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" is perfect for this, no matter how much your teammates may disagree).

It's not uncommon to be hanging out with my Klems' side of the family and, in the middle of dinner or a board game, hear them break out in song. It's a tradition that's predated me. In fact, it's predated my dad, my dad's dad and probably another dad or two beyond that. It's built into our DNA, much like good looks, high IQs and the ability to grow enviable mustaches in less than 3.5 hours.

But with each generation, there's an introduction of new DNA (our spouse's) that may have its own set of rules. The new DNA will often have great qualities—beautiful smile, wonderful laugh, amazing pair of voluptuous … eyes. The new DNA will also have broken strands that fight against your favorite things, like playing video games or licking the Dorito cheese off your fingers (no matter how good they know it tastes).

From the moment I started dating my wife I knew her DNA had one major, major flaw: No singing. Not in the morning. Not in the evening. Not in the shower. Not in the car. Not in front of anyone, living, dead or deaf. I learned this our first Christmas Eve together. We joined my family and, in Klems' tradition, sat around the tinsel-laced tree and sang carols for a mere 120 minutes (that's 2 hours for the non-math majors in the crowd). My wife didn't open her mouth once—not once. No Hark the Herald Angels. No Winter Wonderland. No Fas. No La La La Las.

I would have ended it right there and then if it weren't for a piece of advice a wise friend once gave me: "Never dump a girl who's smoking hot."

So when Ella was born, I was terrified she wouldn't want to sing. I could live with her if she had an extra toe or a tail or something, but if she didn't have the desire to sing—well, I just didn't know what I'd do. But around 4 months of life, Ella began to coo. Then the coos turned to noise. The noise turned to gibberish. And, eventually, the gibberish turned into the Itsy-Bitsy Spider. It was the second most glorious moment of my life.

The first happened on one fun car ride home from our sitter's house, when it was just the two of us. As I said, I'm always singing in the car and, often have a preference for TV theme show songs—Who's the Boss, Perfect Strangers, Silver Spoons, etc. My favorite is, of course, the theme to Cheers. It's welcoming, catchy and universally known, so it'd get the most turns in my singing rotation. So much so that Ella started to call it "Dad's Song."

On this particular car ride in late April, Ella requested "Dad's Song," so I obliged. About two lines of lyrics in I heard a soft voice coming from the back seat. I quieted down and the voice continued, "where everybody knows name … and they are glad you came." It was the sweetest, most unexpected gift she had ever given me—and she didn't even realize it. I'd never purposely taught her the song, she just learned it from listening to me. It was amazing. So I joined back in with a giant smile and a teary eye … and we sang it fourteen more times, or approximately the distance between our sitter's house and ours.

To my wife's credit she's never discouraged Ella. In fact, there's been a dynamic shift in my wife's DNA that's allowed her to (gulp) start singing (and she sings really well!). Maybe it's Ella's sweet voice. Maybe my family harmonized a little better last Christmas. Or maybe she realized just how special it is to be a part of something I love. Whatever the reason, I don't care; I'm just glad she's one of us now (even if it is still in moderation).

So my worries were for naught and all is right in the world. Ella sings. My wife's a convert. And just when I thought it couldn't get any better, it does.

Anna has started to coo. (I love my family.)

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

Two Are Better Than One …

April 3rd, 2009 started out like any other day with my morning ritual. Woke up. Got out of bed. Peed. Washed hands. Winked at self in mirror. "If there were a lotto for handsomeness, you'd hold the winning ticket, Klems," I said as I gave myself the double-finger gun-point. Waited for wife to laugh in the I-Can't-Believe-I-Married-This-Guy laugh that all married men know oh-too-well.

But there was no laugh. Not even a groan. In fact, I was so wrapped up in my handsomeness that I didn't even notice that she wasn't in bed when I got up.

So I made my way downstairs to find her on the computer, undoubtedly looking at porn.

Me: "What'cha doing down here?"

My Wife: "I'm in labor." And, just like that, my day changed…sort of.

Me: "I'll grab the bags."

My Wife: "No, don't do that. I think I'm going to go to work. I have some stuff I want to finish up before the baby comes."

Are you kidding me?

For those of you who know my wife, what she lacks in common sense (like labor = hospital) she makes up for in amazing organizational skills and calmness. Note: What I lack in calmness and organizational skills, I make up for with handsomeness.

Rather than drag out an argument, I decided to go along with her and head to work like a normal day—got showered, dressed and fed Ella. (But I put the bag in the car for good measure.) We hopped in our Toyota Matrix and cruised to work.

By lunchtime we were in the delivery room at Good Samaritan Hospital. By dinnertime we had our second beautiful baby girl.

Now I need to put some of this in context: With the first delivery, we were in the hospital for 8 hours, Brittany pushed for about two and a half of them and my arms were ready to fall off from holding her legs. This time we were in the hospital for about 3 hours, Brittany pushed for all of 10 minutes and my arms were filled with enough life to celebrate the birth with several hearty fist pumps.

What followed was kind of a blur. People were coming in and going out. Everyone was hugging. Folks were snapping pictures left and right. Brittany finally got to drink a Pepsi—something she was really craving. And the new baby brought her big sis a little present: Sylvia the Cabbage Patch Kid. Needless to say, big sis immediately fell in love with her baby sis.

This new baby was smooth, squishy and soft—and had great timing: My wife's entire family was in town for her sister's wedding shower. The only one who doesn't have great timing is the baby's father, who has taken four months to write about her.

Without further ado, I'd like to officially announce my daughter Anna Jo Klems to my Life of Dad readers:

Now that I'm settled in, I'm ready to share more stories (and there are plenty of them). So welcome to The Life of Dad 2.0. Hope the past four months have been as wonderful for you as they have been for me—minus the hundreds of dirty diapers.

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

29 Things I've Learned as a Parent …

A wise man once said, "Another year older, another year wiser." That man obviously had a baby. In honor of my 29th birthday (if you haven't sent that birthday card, you better get on it because it was back in May), I'd like to present you with a list of the 29 things I've learned in my first year-plus of parenthood. Some may be obvious, some a little less. But, most important, all of these lessons come from experience.

1. There is no snooze button on a baby.
2. "Stinky" and "Booger" are terms of endearment.
3. A dirty diaper smells bad. Baby formula smells worse.
4. The remote control is just an overly expensive teething ring.
5. Babies don't stay little. Neither does their poop.
6. Dangly Earrings + Holding Baby Close To Dangly Earrings = Very Bad Idea
7. Obscenities are limited to "darn," "shucks" and "great ooglie googily."
8. Crawling is a baby's first step to independence. It's also the end of yours.
9. "Don't touch that" loosely translates in to "Touch it right now—and more often."
10. Everything is a phone. Phones are phones. Shoes are phones. Potatoes are … you get the idea.
11. Drool can be annoying. It can also be used to seal envelopes.
12. No DVR? Don't even bother turning on the TV.
13. Gyms don't build muscle; 20lb babies in 25lb car seats do.
14. Embarrassing moments make for great memories—and even better photos.
15. You can never take too many photos.
16. It takes a great deal of restraint not to body slam people who pluralize non-pluralizable words. (e.g., "Did you go pees?," "Is it time for sleepies?" "Are you dumbs?")
17. Ear infections come and go, then doctor bills come and money goes.
18. Standing isn't a skill, it's just a way to knock things off the coffee table.
19. "America's Funniest Home Videos" is dead wrong—getting kicked in the crotch by a child is not funny.
20. Vegetables are eaten for dinner. Baby feet are eaten for dessert.
21. If you kiss a baby on the lips one of two things will happen: 1. She'll smile or 2. She'll sneeze in your mouth.
22. Don't let a baby sneeze in your mouth.
23. Seriously, it sucks.
24. Scrabble and Boggle are put aside for much more entertaining games like "Peek-a-Boo," "Chase Me Around the Table" and, my personal favorite, "Who Farted?"
25. Clothes for a baby should always be laid out the night before—by Mom.
26. There is nothing to fear but fear itself … and sharp objects.
27. A little poop on your hand never hurt anybody.
28. The universe doesn't revolve around you; It revolves around Dora the Explorer and Bob the Builder. (Note: If the two had a love child, would she be a Rita the Realtor?)

And finally, the most important lesson I've learned as a parent:
29. Baby laughter cures everything.

Is there wisdom I missed? If you have any to add please do so in the comments section below so everyone can enjoy them or shoot me an e-mail at fozzie007@yahoo.com. I love hearing from others about their own experiences.

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