Saying Goodbye Part 1 - My Parents' House

I’ve lived in many buildings over the course of my life. I set up shop in the Big Apple for one glorious summer and had a nice run in the Windy City (even won two softball championships there—go T-Hawks!). Before that, I spent four of the greatest years roaming the campus of Ohio University, where the marching band is more popular than the football team and Halloween is holier than Christmas.

But there are only two places I’ve ever really called home. And in the course of a week, I had to say goodbye to both.

Saying Goodbye to My Parents’ House

From the time I was an infant to the time I left for college, I only lived in one house—my parents’ house on Quebec Road. The house was small and didn’t have air conditioning, but it had a lot of heart (which is code for one bathroom). I can remember bringing my sister home from the hospital, a proud big brother wanting to hug and to love her. That's why I picked her up from her crib, set her on our couch and propped her up with a pillow 3 times her size. My parents were certainly terrified impressed.

Of course, she returned the favor years later when she drew along our stairwell wall with red crayon and, as our parents asked who was to blame, pointed the finger at me (forgetting that the red crayon was still in her other hand).

My parents' house is also where my grandparents babysat my sister and me all the time. We’d drive my grandma crazy because she’d put us to bed and say, “I don’t want to hear a peep!”—to which my sister and I would say “Peep!” (and giggle) for the next 10 minutes.

It's the house where I learned to ride a bike and where I started growing chest hair. It’s where I struggled to find my identity. It's where my style changed from wearing everything as a cape ... to jams and chucks ... to overalls with one strap undone and Air Jordans ... to wearing my clothes Totally Krossed Out ... to layering on the flannel and corduroy pants and growing my hair shaggy long ... to slapping on the punk-rock high waters, chain-wallet and dying my hair bright orange.

It’s where in grade school I sat on our porch every afternoon, waiting impatiently for my dad to make his way down the hill from the bus stop after work so I could greet him with a hug. It’s also where in high school my dad sat on the couch every weekend evening, waiting impatiently for me to get home by curfew to make sure I was safe.

That house is where my mom taught me how to read and write, and where she helped me write my first short story about a planet named Crouton in the Galaxy of Salad. It’s also where I showed her my tattoo for the first time and gave her a heart attack.

And it’s at that house where my wife Brittany and I announced that we were giving my parents what they always wanted: a grandchild (which gave my mom a second heart attack.) Honestly, I’ll never forget the sheer excitement of the scream that came from my mom that day. It may be the moment I miss the most from that home.

As I stood in my old bedroom for the last time, I teared up. I hadn’t lived there in 16 years, yet still it was incredibly hard to say goodbye. I met the family moving in—a family with two young daughters. Both excitedly bounced around “their” new room. Wiping my eyes, I told them how my sister and I used to surprise our parents and rearrange our furniture every once in awhile just for fun. I also pointed out where my cabbage patch doll, Ozzie, used to sleep. I couldn’t believe I was saying farewell, but I was so happy to know that new memories were about to be made.

“Treat this room with love and it will love you back,” I said. “Also, don’t draw on the walls with red crayon and blame each other.”

After two years of clearing out old memories, my parents house has become just that—a memory. But whenever I drive down Quebec Road, I’ll always slow down and wave (with love) as I pass by.

Here is Saying Goodbye Part 2 - My Own First House.

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The Phone Bazinga: Why Kids Get Extra Loud When You’re On the Phone

Before I was a parent, I talked on the phone without any problems at all. I could sit on the couch and quietly discuss with my wife the finer points of a romantic evening. I could pace around the house and talk with my friend Roger, trying to convince him that Cincinnati Reds starting pitcher Bronson Arroyo is not only a dynamite pitcher but is also quite talented off the field too! I could talk—just talk—for however long I wanted. And I could do it in peace and quiet.

It. Was. Glorious.

Now that I’m a parent, those days are long gone thanks to a wonder of the world known as The Phone Bazinga.

The Phone Bazinga is a phenomenon which states that no matter how quiet and calm they currently are, your kids will suddenly be in your face and, most likely, screaming, the moment you make a phone call. It’s 100% true. There’s a secret Bat-Signal that goes off the second you say “Hello,” activating a molecule in kid brains where they lose their minds. 

What’s that? Dad’s on the phone! We must yell at the top of our lungs!

I hear Mom is calling grandma! This is the perfect time to unload all those questions we’ve been saving up the past two hours and ask her right now!

The 5 Principles of The Phone Bazinga:

1. It can happen at your house, in your car, at the store—anywhere your kids can find you.

2. Age doesn’t matter. Whether they are 6 weeks old, 10 months old, 5 years old or in college, they will make noise once that phone is in your hand.

3. You can’t escape it. They follow you around, like a cruel game of Follow the Leader, tattling on “so-and-so” or complaining about “so-and-so” or asking why their mom (your wife) won’t let you grow back your mustache (because she doesn’t like things that are awesome).

4. It can happen at any time. Think you’ve outsmarted them by waiting until nighttime when they are sound asleep? You silly fool. They’ll just pick that time to sleep-fall out of bed or throw up all over the covers.

5. The more important the phone call, the louder they get.

Phone Bazingas make it nearly impossible for parents to communicate, which is why there’s always so much confusion around the house. My wife is always saying that she asked me “five times” to cut the grass. What she fails to mention is that each time she asked me, it was over the phone—likely during Level 3 Phone Bazingas. In fact, I’m most certain that all important “reminders” she gives me happen during Phone Bazingas. This would also explain why last Thursday I didn’t take out the trash and why I didn’t pick up the dry cleaning (though in my defense, I did set a new all-time high score in Mario Kart—YEAH ME!).

Can Phone Bazingas be Stopped?

Don’t waste your time trying to stop it. You can’t. I’ve tried everything—setting them in front of the television, letting them play with the iPad, gating them in their playroom and then going upstairs and crouching in the corner of the bathroom tub (this only makes them louder and generally ends with an injury or something valuable breaking). I even tried bribing them with candy one time when I was trying to make a work call. This just led to two sets of screaming: 1) when they landed me with a high-pitched Phone Bazinga and 2) when they were furious that I wouldn’t give them candy after they failed to remain quiet during my important call.

So forgive us friends and family when we don’t answer your calls and when you haven’t seen our number show up on your caller ID in years. It’s not because we don’t want to talk or because we’re mad at you (though if you were the one who drank the last beer in our house we are probably mad at you). It’s because, quite frankly, we can’t. At least, we can’t peacefully, all because of the Phone Bazinga.

And that, my friends, is why the phone companies invented texting. 

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Dudes vs. Dads

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There’s No Place Like Macomb

In the middle of nowhere Illinois lives a place. A place that holds scattered roads and a population that wouldn’t fill the lower deck of a baseball stadium. A place whose downtown is smaller than some people’s backyards. A place where traffic is defined as “waiting behind 2 cars at a stop sign” and the closest Starbucks isn’t around the corner, it’s in Chicago.  

It’s a small place. A very small place. But it’s a place that’s a big part of my life.

Before I was a Dad, I spent many summers in Macomb, Illinois, home of the Western Illinois University Leathernecks, Candy Lane and, most important, actor John Mahoney (you know, the dad from “Frasier”). Also, my aunt and uncle live there. We took family vacations to Macomb all the time—mostly because we loved spending time with family, but also because Disney World doesn’t let you sleep on it’s couch for free.

We played games, watched movies, had dessert after every meal. We swam in a round, over-sized horse trough that had been spending its twilight years moonlighting as a pool. We read books and shared stories—and I had extra time to bond with my cousin Carl, the only boy cousin in my life.

So I suggested to my wife that when our daughters were old enough to handle the long car ride (which means putting up with me singing Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” for 6 hours straight until I’ve reached vocal perfection), we’d take a vacation to visit Macomb. I told her, “Don’t worry, it’ll be relaxing.”

She laughed.

With three kids under the age of 6, nothing is relaxing—not vacation, not car rides, not even going to the bathroom. In fact, going to the bathroom may be the most stressful time of all. If you let the kids in, they sit on your lap and poke you in the face and, eventually, run off with the toilet paper. If you lock them out, you are safely protected by the door but you are also subjected to stressful screams, tears and noises that can only be described as “things shattering.” Relaxation isn’t in the Merriam Webster’s Dictionary for Parents.

Her laughter left me paranoid. What if it wasn't as amazing as I remembered it to be? What if the relaxing days of my youth in Macomb were actually stress-filled days for my parents (a club that now had me as member)? What if my kids were disappointed by the lack of Disney Princesses (I guess my uncle could have dressed up, but I think they would have his beard under the tiara.) What if the whole trip was a letdown? Thankfully, it wasn’t.

From the moment we arrived, we were greeted with helping hands and fancy cappuccino drinks.  We enjoyed free use of all the hammock swings, strategically placed to be shaded by trees for optimal book reading (which is vacation code for “napping”). Fresh fruit lined the kitchen counter while a hidden stash of liquor lined the “After The Kids Are In Bed” table. My wife got to sleep in each morning and I continually sneaked out for 4-mile runs. We watched movies and played music. We sang songs. We splashed around in our swimsuits and caught summer fireworks under a beautifully clear Macomb sky. It wasn’t just the kind of vacation I had hoped for; it was better. It was also one vacation my girls still talk about today.

This got me thinking: We get too caught up in fancy (expensive) vacations like Disney, trying to give our kids great memories that we think they want. But the truth is that great vacation memories can be created anywhere. Sometimes, in fact, the more relaxing ones—filled with water balloon fights and Chinese Checkers and bedtime stories read by vacation aunts and uncles—are the ones your kids will look back on and enjoy most. Heck, that’s what happened to me. And, hopefully, that’s what’s happening to my kids too.

There are thousands of Macombs out there—places where vacations are cheap but memories are plentiful. Could be visiting a family member who’s kind enough to let you stay at his or her house. Could be a campground that’s a short drive away. Could be a pitched tent in your backyard. It’s just a place where you spend time with the people you love just enjoying each other’s company.

And when it comes to the best vacation memories to me, there’s no place like Macomb.

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Raising Daughters is ...

I've decided to start a new segment on this blog called "Raising Daughters," which is basically my excuse to come up with short, (hopefully) amusing MEME-style images for folks to enjoy and share. Here's the first of many to come.

The 5 Keys to Being a Good New Dad

From the minute I walked out of that delivery room and my own father patted me on the back and said, "Congratulations, Dad" I realized that in the blink of an eye my life had changed forever (and I was in WAY over my head). 

I'd experienced other life changing moments before, like when I moved to Chicago and was banned from putting ketchup on my hotdogs, and when my wife, who obviously lost her mind, agreed to marry me (even if my proposal did involve a miniature bobblehead of myself). But these moments pale in comparison to becoming a dad, the most challenging life-changing moment any dude will experience. With three daughters and approximately 10,000 diaper changes under my belt, here's what I've learned about what it takes to be a good dad.

1. HAND OFF THE CAMCORDER TO SOMEONE ELSE. 
You can record a lot of things, like the birth of your child and the moment they walk for the first time. You can record the Super Bowl too, but nothing beats the live experience. I remember when my eldest daughter crawled for the first time. I raced around the house trying to find anything to record that moment. In the meantime, I was missing it. So I stopped, and instead of recording a video, I recorded a wonderful memory. I took in the surroundings and sounds, like how she let out these little puffs of air with each "step" and how she completely ignored the colorful toys around her as she determinedly set her sights on the TV remote that sat on the carpet across the room. Memories matter. Make sure you don't miss them.

2. WAKE UP AT 4 A.M.
Part of being a great dad is being there for the mother of your child, which means willingly getting up in the middle of the night to change a dirty diaper. Yes you will be tired. Yes you will get peed on. Yes you will put the diaper on backwards the first several times. But by taking an active role early on in the process, you not only will let your wife know that she's not alone in this but you'll also grow closer to your child. Plus, you'll have diaper explosion stories to tell your child's friends when she's older. This will teach her never to break curfew again.

3. MAKE TIME FOR FUNNY FACES.
The first 12 months of having a kid are the most difficult. Everyone's exhausted. The house is always a mess. The baby is figuring out her role in the family just as much as you're figuring out yours. Instead of getting caught up in panic and frustration, go out of your way to make funny faces at the baby. In the beginning it will elicit little response (other than the supermarket cashier who doesn't see the baby in your cart and thinks you're having a stroke), but one day, when you least expect it, the corners will bend and a smile will form between your sweet little baby's cheeks. Your heart will melt away—and so will any frustration you've had in adjusting to being a dad.

4. YOU'RE GOING TO SCREW UP. FORGIVE YOURSELF. 
I've never heard of anyone ever bowling a perfect game his first time out. It takes practice. The same goes for being a dad. You're going to forget the diaper bag from time to time. You're also going to go to work with spit up running down the front of your shirt. Don't beat yourself up over it. You'll get better at being a dad with each passing day as long as you care enough to practice and learn from your mistakes (and there will be plenty of mistakes to learn from, trust me).

5. CELEBRATE YOUR VICTORIES.
I used to always dress my daughters in clothes that didn't match, mostly because I didn't know any better. This would drive my wife crazy. Now I'm proud to say that I still dress my daughters in clothes that don't match (seriously, I have no idea what color matches what color), but I do dress them in weather appropriate clothes, which I never used to do. It was a big victory for me. You'll find your own big victories along the way. Good dads celebrate their accomplishments. They also hug their kids a lot. Do both.

The fact that you want to be a good dad is the first step. I never imagined I'd be able to survive having a kid, let alone three daughters. Now I am a total pro at painting nails and MC-ing fashion shows. All kids are different, but the keys of being a good dad are universal. Enjoy this life-changing experience and everything that comes along with it because, in the blink of an eye, your child will be out of diapers and having some guy pop the question with a bobblehead of his own. If you follow these rules above, your baby will always remember you as a good dad—even if you still choose to put ketchup on your hot dogs.

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Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl
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