Why Twister is a Dangerous Game for Dads

Twister is a dangerous, dangerous game. Don't let the bright colors, the fun spinny do-hickey and the smiles on your kids' faces deceive you. Don't let the fact that it doesn't ask you to do impossible tasks like draw pictures or spell words or add up all those confusing little dice dots make you think this is an easy game. Oh no sir. Twister is the type of game that gets the person who bought it for your kids banned from your house for 3 years (I'm looking at you, Jennifer Brogan).

What's that? You don't believe me? You're thinking to yourself, "But Twister is a game made for kids. How could it be dangerous?"

Let me tell you the tale of an incredibly handsome Dad who, despite having the flexibility of an aluminum softball bat, thought playing Twister with his daughters was a good idea.

It was a dark and stormy night and I had to find a way to keep the girls entertained. They were tired of sitting on the couch watching me watch SportsCenter—which I didn't understand because that sounds like a very fun thing to do. So I decided to check the hallway closet, which is filled with coloring books, sticker bags and a dust-covered metal structure that my wife commonly refers to as a "vacuum cleaner." The top shelf is dedicated to games and that's the only thing that had captured my girls' interest.

When they first asked me to play Twister, I thought, Sure! Sounds Fun! After all, my childhood memories of the game were positive. I remember a time when I was young and could reach right foot red, left foot blue, right hand yellow and left hand green. I'd twist myself into a pretzel and, after winning, I'd chug a purple-flavored Little Hug fruit barrel in celebration. It was spectacular.

Now I know it'd been a few years since I'd played, but I thought I was still qualified to compete based on this criteria:

Athletic?¹ Check!
Likes games? Check!
Knows the difference between my right hand and my left hand? Check and Check!

After explaining the rules, the girls and I were ready to play. We designated my wife as the official spinner and DJ. She appreciated this because, while she wouldn't say it, she was certainly afraid of losing to me. Or of me copping a feel. Or probably both.

"RIGHT FOOT YELLOW!"

Two of the three of us successfully placed our right feet on yellow. The other, and I'm not mentioning any names, decided to dance instead.²

"RIGHT HAND BLUE!"

My hand moved over to blue. Just like the good old days, I was proving my Twister dominance. This was easy.

"LEFT HAND YELLOW"

This would be the last call of the game. It may have had something to do with my knee making a loud popping sound. It may have had something to do with my wife checking Facebook on her phone and forgetting that she was the DJ. Though the real reason we stopped the game was because only one of us was still playing Twister. The other two were playing "Let's Ride Dad Like a Horse." This game, as I've learned, is a subset game of Twister where the kids kick, poke, strangle, elbow, claw and bite their way to the top of you and then demand you prance around the house and deliver them to other rooms. Now I don't remember this part of the game from my childhood, but my wife, who broke from her Facebook voyeurism to laugh at my pain, said it was "most definitely part of the rules." She also asked the girls to ride me into the kitchen and get her a sandwich.

And that, my friends, is why you need to stay away from Twister. Or at least come equipped with a saddle and kneepads. Otherwise you'll spend days limping around the office, having to explain to coworkers that you hurt yourself on the craziest sexcapade weekend of your life.³ Other Dads will limp over to you and give high fives in support. They will whisper to you.

"Twister?"
"Oh yeah. But it wasn't all bad."
"How so?"
"Well…I won."

Unfortunately I didn't have purple-flavored Little Hug fruit barrel to help me celebrate.⁴

Footnotes:
¹ I think being beer-league softball player qualifies me as "athletic." It also qualifies me as "awesome."
² Spontaneous dancing is a common side effect of playing games at Klems Manor. Other side effects include excessive rock-bumping and making animal noises.
³ No one will believe this, but most will at least admire your lie.
⁴ Are you crazy? I'm an adult now. I celebrate with double shots of Vodka. 


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The 7 Essentials of a Backyard Swim Club

Every summer our backyard transforms from "place we park our cars" into "Club Klems," an exclusive membership-only water park where dreams magically come true and cell phones unintentionally get waterlogged. The hours are very sporadic. Sometimes it's only open for 45 minutes. Sometimes the staff prepares it for an all-day weekend affair (excluding a short, 2-hour window in the afternoon where the Club shuts down for maintenance—and naptime). Club Klems gets rave reviews:

"It's almost as fun as going to the real pool," says Ella, Club member since 2007. 
"I love playing with the water toys at Klems Club. Is that what you wanted me to say Daddy?" says Anna, Club member since 2009.
"Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz … " says Mia, Club member since May.

Like most backyard swim clubs, Club Klems opens up on those hot, humid days just after you realize you cannot handle another episode of The Backyardigans and just before your wife suggests something silly like doing yard work. It's filled with all the essentials to make sure all have a great time. Here I'd like to share with you the 7 Important Elements of Making a Perfect Backyard Swim Club. Populate your yard with these items and the only thing bigger than the smiles on your kids' faces will be your water bill. 

1. Wading Pool
This is your first purchase. No swim club is complete without a pool for the kids to continually empty with buckets. You fill it up, it empties. You fill it up, it empties. You fill it up, sternly warn the members about your No-Dumping-Out-The-Water policy, and it empties. You'd leave the hose on, but no one adheres to the Don't-Take-The-Hose-Out-Of-The-Pool-And-Spray-Dad policy either.

2. Buckets
What else would the kids use to empty the pool?

3. Spray bottles/Watering Cans
Help them fill up any toy that sprays and they'll water your feet, your pants, your cell phone. They'll water anything in plain sight.  They'll even water your lunch. If you're lucky, they'll water the bird crap off your car.

4. Lifeguards
This position is unpaid, unappreciated and unprotected from getting sprayed in the face. It requires that you calmly resolve disputes, such as "She's had the Dora bucket for almost 7 seconds. SEVEN SECONDS! And she won't give it to me!" It also requires that you keep members from peeing in the pool.

5. Chairs
Whether you have a small butt (like our members) or a big butt (like unnamed people who tried to get me to do yard work), you must provide comfortable seats for everyone. This allows members to kick their feet up and relax. It also allows the lifeguard to put uncooperative members in timeout.

6. Water Table
This addition came to Club Klems in 2010 (thanks to a donation from aunt Jennie). I was skeptical at first, but it's become a fan favorite. Members splash, fill up cups, play with floating toy animals and more. It's a perfect place for those who prefer to play in the water without getting completely soaked. Plus, some members choose to occasionally drink out of it. I won't name names. Let's just say they've been members since 2007 and 2009.

7. Imagination
The truth is, you don't really need all of this stuff to have a good time. All you really need is a sprinkler, energy and street filled with kind neighbors who don't mind if you run shirtless across your yard in order to impress your daughters. (Note: I'll spare the Internet that photo).

It's memories like this that keep members renewing their membership year after year. It's also why Club Klems is my favorite part of the summer. I know one day the kids will trade in their swimmies and Dora buckets for water slides and wakeboards. But until that happens, I'll be appreciative of every hot, humid, soaked-lunch moment. We all will.

So thank you, Club Klems, for the memories. And thank you for getting me out of yard work.

ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR DADS):
Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl
(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters)

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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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The 12 Most Common Ways to Successfully Hold a Baby

Holding a baby in your arms is like embracing a fresh bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos. You don't want to squeeze it too hard, you don't want to hold it upside down, you don't want to drop it and, whatever you do, don't lick it.

Four years ago I knew absolutely nothing about holding a baby. I was terrified that somehow, someway I'd break our newborn child. After all, babies are wiggly and slippery. So I'd wrap those babies in bubble wrap, surround myself with couch cushions and then carefully ask my wife to stand under my arms with a pillow-filled laundry basket (just in case). It was tough at first, but after a few years of practice on my older daughters, my dropping percentage decreased by 72% —which was good because bubble wrap was getting expensive.

Now that I'm on baby No. 3, I'm a pro. I can hold babies with the best of them. I don't mean to brag, but if there were a baby-holding competition I'd be sure to receive a very lovely Participant ribbon. That's why I want to share my wisdom with you to make sure you know the names and positions of the 12 Most Common Ways Dads Can Successfully Hold a Baby. Many of you will know what I'm talking about. And for those who don't, prepare to put your learning cap on.

The "Rest Her On Your Beer Belly" Hold

The "Hide Your Beer Belly" Hold

The "Your Wife Is Going To Yell At You For Letting the Baby's Head Dangle" Hold

The "My Scoliosis is Finally Paying Off" Hold

The "I'm So Tired That I Accidentally Picked Up The Wrong Kid" Hold

The "My Other Kid Saw Me Accidentally Pick Up Her Sister
And Now Wants to Be Picked Up Too" Hold

 The "I Think She's a Football" Hold

The "Learning to Fly" Hold

The "Practicing Our Father-Daughter Wedding Dance" Hold

The "Oh My, Did She Just Crap in my Hand" Hold

The "We're Upset the Bullpen Blew It" Hold

The "Perfect" Hold

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Life Changes So Fast

My life has really changed over the last few weeks. My Dad died. I turned 32. I grew a beard. I shaved the beard. I ate a fresh Cheeto that I found on the kitchen floor only to find out that it wasn't fresh—and it wasn't a Cheeto. But the most profound, uplifting change I experienced happened on May 23.

It was 2:30 am. I was fast asleep having my usual "the Reds just called me up from the minors to take over at SS and I hit three home runs in my first game to help lead them to victory" dream, when my wife woke me up.

"I'm having contractions. I think this baby is coming."

"Can you wait a few minutes? I still have to hit my third homer."

"I'm going to hit something if you don't wake up now!"

Our baby was knocking on Brittany's uterus. We'd been through this routine twice before, which is why I was ready. Bags were packed. Doctor was on speed dial. We called our close friend—close because of her longtime friendship to us and her proximity to our house—to come over and watch as our big girls were still sleeping (and likely dreaming of playing for the Reds too). When we left the house at 3:40 a.m., I called our families.

"We're on our way to the hospital. Feel free to slowly start getting ready. I'll call you once we get checked into a room and we get a feel for how long this is going to take."

When we got to the hospital, they took my wife back to triage. I didn't joke around like I did the first time. I just stood in the waiting room patiently, like a box of tissues sitting on an end table waiting to be plucked when needed—so long as that box of tissues was also checking its fantasy baseball team on its Droid.

At about 4:00 a.m. my wife emerged from triage and was 4 centimeters dilated. She was shouting obscenities. Could have been because of the labor pains. Could have been because the Reds bullpen blew it that night. I like to think it was some combination of the two.

When we got to the delivery room, the doctor wasn't there yet and my wife was screaming louder than my 2-year-old does when I forget to give her M&Ms after she goes on the potty. So I offered my wife M&Ms, just in case that would help. It didn't. I took out the 5x7 high school photo of me for her to focus on. That didn't help either. The only thing my wife wanted was an epidural. But, apparently, there was not time for that.

"I feel like I have to push!"

"Just wait a few minutes," said the nurse. "The doctor will be here very soon. And besides you're only…well, look at that. You're 10 centimeters dilated and your water broke."

"I'M PUSHING!!!"

And just like that, a head was born. A head full of thick, dark hair. I couldn't believe it. Neither could the resident, who leapt across the room like a middle infielder diving to nab a sharp grounder.

"OH MY GOD ... Did I just poop on the table?"

"No. You just had a baby."

The rest of our third daughter's slender body slid out. She was beautiful and calm. She was amazing. She was delivered to us faster than we expected. She was the last piece to the Team Klems puzzle, completing our happy little family. I couldn't have been prouder.

Just then I got a text from my sister-in-law.

"We're getting ready & heading up to the hospital shortly. How much longer do they think it'll be until the baby is here?"

And that's the story of how Mia Marie Klems arrived into this world. People often use the word "surreal" to describe the moment their kids are born, but I won't—mainly because I don't know what that fancy word means. But I will say this: I most certainly, without a doubt, hit my third home run in what was a dream come true.

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Pictures of Mia Marie

If it were up to her sisters, she'd have been named Baby Bacon. Luckily, they aren't the decision makers in Klems Manor.