The 10 Rules of Cheering on Dad as He Makes Breakfast

Breakfast is a Dad's meal. We eat it. We love it. If our wives would let us, we'd name our children after it. It's the most important meal of the day according to physicians, medical consultants and the sales department at IHOP. So when it comes to crafting a tasty, mouthwatering spread of bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, French toast, fruit (and by "fruit" I mean more bacon) and orange juice (and by "orange juice" I mean more "fruit"), there's only one person in each household who will give it the kind of love, care and dedication it needs.

Relax Mom, Dad's got this one covered. 

Just like we are hardwired to squish bugs and make poor fashion decisions, we are hardwired to cook the most awesome breakfasts. That's right! In fact, we cook it in such a scrumptious way that our taste buds go back in time and forgive college-us for feeding college-taste-buds nothing but Ramen Noodles. (Note: Taste buds still unwilling to forgive college-us for drinking Natty Lite).

Now I've never claimed to be good at much¹, but breakfast is one frontier I've conquered. I come from a long line of gourmet breakfast Chefs. From my great-great-great-great grandpappy Klems, who I've heard invented the donut, all the way to Roger "My Dad" Klems, who has been credited with inventing heartburn, a fine strand of DNA has been passed along to me—one that makes weekend mornings delicious.

Unfortunately, one thing I've noticed in today's kids is that they don't know how to appreciate Dad when he's making breakfast. They don't realize the precious art form they're witnessing. Instead of fawning over you like the Breakfast Picasso that you are, they sit there like lumps on the couch, watching TV and sneezing in your drink when you aren't looking.

To remedy that, I've come up with The 10 Rules of Cheering on Dad as He Makes Breakfast:

Rule 1: Never ask Dad what he's making for breakfast. Doesn't matter what he's cooking—it will be awesome.   

Rule 2: Use magnetic letters on the fridge to spell out "Dad is my Hero." (If you have to, use upside "p" for second "d" in Dad). 

Rule 3: Applaud each time Dad flips the pancakes.  

Rule 4: If you have "I *heart* Dad" T-shirts, wear them. If not, skip to Rule 6. 

Rule 5: SECRET NOTE TO THOSE WHO HAVE "I *HEART* DAD" T-SHIRTS: Dad loves you more than his other kids.  

Rule 6: No Foam Fingers. Non-negotiable. None of us want to relive the We-Almost-Caught-Our-Kitchen-On-Fire incident of 2008.  

Rule 7: If a sausage link starts to roll off the fryer and Dad saves it with his spatula, yell "WEB GEM!" and then sing the SportsCenter "Da da da ... da da da."  

Rule 8: Argue over who loves Dad the most. This will often net you two extra pieces of bacon.  

Rule 9: As Dad shuffles the eggs onto the plates, start chanting "MVP! MVP!" Then do the wave.  

Rule 10: After Dad turns off the stove, ask him to do it again, but this time in slow motion so you can "savor the moment."

Read these rules carefully. Memorize them. Pass them along to your children. I know they may sound silly, but I also know that Dad will appreciate his family appreciating him. And if you're not willing to thank him for making a good breakfast, at least thank him for not naming you Bacon³.

¹That's a lie. I claim to be good at everything—except for predicting the future².
²That is also a lie. I can predict the future.
³This is not a joke. He really wanted to name you Bacon. 

The Life of Dad is updated every Tuesday. 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

Why Listening to Your Kids is a Real Treat

Sometimes your role as a Dad is just to listen. Listen to sounds, music, those amazingly annoying Wonder Pets, whose voices are the real reason God invented Advil. It's a role that at times can make you cringe and at other times make you upset, but most of the time it makes you thankful that you have a good sense of humor.

Ring, ring, ring.

My 3-year-old daughter simply loves the phone. She loves to dial numbers and to answer it when it rings. She loves to hold it hands-free, between her head and her shoulder just like her mom does. She'll keep that phone squeezed tightly to her ear as she walks around the first floor of our house like a bubbly teenager having deep discussions with her best friend about who is cuter, Justin Bieber or Justin Timberlake. (NOTE: The correct answer is neither. Your dad will give them both black eyes if they come within a 10-mile radius of you.)

What she loves to do most with the phone, of course, is to make phone calls. She'll call her Grandma and Grandpa. She'll call her Nonni and Poppi. She'll call the mysterious voice who says, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try that number again." But the person she wants to call most often is her cousin Chris, who is three months her younger and, according to my daughter, "doesn't have enough dresses around his house to play fashion show."

Now what I love about phone conversations with Chris is that if he's talking to you on the phone about one of his new toys, he'll set down the phone—while you are mid-sentence—get the toy and bring it back to "show you." You applaud and tell him how much you love it, even though for all you know he's standing on the other end of the phone holding a butcher knife or, worse yet, Season 3 of the Wonder Pets.

On one particular evening, my daughter Ella told me she has something "very important" to tell her cousin and "it couldn't wait." Like any good dad, I immediately used that as leverage to make her finish her broccoli.  After that, I made the call.

Listening to a phone conversation between two 3 year olds may be the most entertaining thing any parent gets to witness. It starts out with simple pleasantries, but quickly takes a turn into uncharted territories. No conversation is ever simple and none is ever the same. When Ella called Chris this particular time (when she had something "very important" to tell him), I'm certain that to them, the conversation sounded something like this:

Ella: "Hi Chris. Lovely day we are having, isn't it?"
Chris: "Oh yes, Ella. Simply gorgeous out. Have you seen that the Dow Jones is up several bill-fold?"
Ella: "My Google stock is through the roof. But what I'm even more happy to see is that they've solved world hunger."
Chris: "About time. I had given Green Peace the answer six months ago."
Ella: "Indeed."

Of course, as a Dad who is afraid that "very important" means "I'm running off with Justin Beiber," I couldn't help but listen in and hear the actual conversation—which went more like this (and no, I'm not making this up):

Ella: "Hey Chris, remember that one time I was over your house and you pooped on the potty and then I pooped on the potty?"
Chris: "Yeah!"
Ella: "No wait, remember I pooped on the potty first then you pooped on the potty?"
Chris: "Yeah!"
Ella: "No wait, remember I pooped and peed on the potty, and then you pooped on the potty?"
Chris: "Yeah!"
Ella: "Remember, I pooped and peed on the potty and then you pooped on the potty, and then we all had popsicles?"
Chris: "Popsicles, yeah!"
Ella: "That was awesome."
Chris: "Hold on Ella, I'll get one and show it to you."

I guess solving world hunger will have to wait for another day. Though if you keep listening closely to your kids, maybe one day you'll hear the answer. In the meantime, I've learned it's just best to smile and enjoy what they have to offer now. And, if you're lucky, when they do solve the problems with the world, you'll be there to help them celebrate with popsicles.

The Life of Dad is updated every Tuesday. 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

Baby Gates: A Love/Hate Relationship

If I ever try to climb Mt. Everest, I will consider it the second greatest challenge in my life--the first being opening our baby gate. This $60 piece of plastic that separates our living room from our stairs not only keeps our 1-year-old daughter from escaping, but also keeps me from ... well ... escaping. I tug, kick, yell, scream, give it the stink eye—you name it, I've tried it. And yet the gate remains unopened, taunting me. If I ever grow a grizzly beard, it's not because I'm trying to look even more handsome than I already do (though that's a nice side benefit); it's because I can't reach my shaving cream and razor, as they occupy valuable real estate on the other side of that impenetrable gate.

Ah, to be on the other side. If only.

Having a baby gate in the house makes me feel like I'm in prison—not the kind with gang fights and stabbings, but the more dangerous kind with Disney Tea Cups and Tea Party accessories. I stand alongside my 1-year-old daughter, trapped, looking through those plastic bars, both of us hoping that someone, somewhere will come and rescue us. In the meantime, we commiserate and plot detailed schemes to escape our cell over a hot pot of imaginary Disney tea.

When my wife finally strolls down the stairs, she knows what awaits: two desperate prisoners who will do anything to get out of jail. Anna, my 1-year-old, is amazingly smart and uses a combination of the lip-quiver and puppy dog eyes to tug at my wife's soft heart. Brilliant move, my dear, brilliant move! I don't mean to brag, but she got that lip-quiver from me. It's practically a Klems family heirloom.

It worked like a charm. My wife lets her out. Game. Set. Match.

Without hesitation, I turn to my wife and, being the pro that I am, go for the more traditional husbandly act that all husbands use when they want to persuade their wives into helping them out: I flash her my junk. And just like that, my wife put an additional lock on the gate. And put up an additional gate.

The warden has spoken.

My wife claims that opening the gate is easy. You just unhook, lean, lift and violà! It's open. Simple as that. Easy peasy. It's a claim that belongs in the Hall of Fame of Ridiculousness, with its jersey hanging right between "by spending money we are actually saving money" and "New Kids on the Block are a fun, talented band."

I really should be able to figure it out. After all, I'm a college graduate for God's sake. I'm a critical thinker. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. Hell, I put the gate up! Of course, had I known how difficult it would be to open it I would have put it up while standing on the other side.

It's times like these I realize how much my 1-year-old daughter Anna and I have in common. We're both trapped by circumstances that are beyond our control. She's pinned in by a gate for her own safety. I'm pinned in by the comfort that the gate provides me in knowing my daughter is safe. Neither of us really wants the gate, but both of us need the gate. The reasons are somehow different and the same all in one.

Even though the gate may be irritating and frustrating and surprisingly resistant to the stink eye, I'm glad it's there. I'm glad it's protecting Anna from a dangerous situation. I'm glad it forces me to pause—if even for a moment—and share time with my daughter, sipping imaginary tea and enjoying this short period of her life where she needs me to protect her. The gate is proof of my love and if that means I'm stuck, then so be it.

As I contemplate that thought, my 3-year-old daughter gets up off the couch and walks over to me.

"Hey Dad," she says. "Where's Mommy?"

"Upstairs," I say.

She smiles and gives me a warm hug. Then she turns, lifts the gate open and walks on through. "Click," goes the gate as it closes behind her.

"WHAT? Son of a ... "

The Life of Dad is updated every Tuesday. 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

Planning a Kid's Birthday Party

Planning a 3-year-old's birthday party is similar to playing a game of Tetris. It starts out simple--pieces moving slowly all around you, fitting into place with ease, keeping your stress level to a minimum. But before you know it … BAM! It's moving at mach-5 speed and drops a square block on you when you're in desperate need of a skinny guy. And if you survive that ... BAM! You get hit with a squiggly. And then BAM! …

Game over.

Of course, it's important to note that if your wife hadn't forced you to kick that "nasty" Tetris addiction years ago—you know, the one that caused you to forget her birthday (twice)—you'd have been more prepared for this situation. Wives, huh? Never thinking ahead.

With only two young daughters under my belt (Anna, 1, and Ella, almost 3), my experience with birthday-party planning has been limited. But I've learned enough to know that Dads don't do any of the planning; we are designated "runners." We run to get everything. We run to store to get cake mix and icing. We run to the post office to pick up stamps for the invitations. We run to the bank to ask about the availability of "Birthday-Party Loans" with low, variable interest rates, because—and trust me on this—the event will cost double the GDP of Texas. In other words, we run until our feet are sore, our wallets are empty and our wives are happy.

These are also known as Wedding Vows.

I used to do birthday runs haphazardly, making mistakes and causing headaches for all the parties involved (namely, my wife). Now I abide by these five rules to ensure all goes right:

1. Get a list with instructions on what your wife wants. Without this, I'd be lost. And, like most men, I will never stop and ask for directions.

2. Make sure those instructions are specific—down to brand, color, aisle it's in, cost per ounce, and whether you should use paper or plastic bags. If my wife's list isn't detailed beyond a reasonable doubt about what she wants for the party, I'll undoubtedly get the wrong thing. Case in point: If she asks for 12 extra-large Mylars, there will either be 1) an extremely embarrassing moment for me at the pharmaceutical counter where the pharmacist laughs and points me to the balloon counter or 2) a birthday party filled with oddly shaped "balloons" and extremely uncomfortable in-laws.

3. Take the kids with you. I've found this has the dual benefit of getting in your wife's good graces by giving her some alone time to put finishing touches on the party while also giving you an excuse in case you forget something. Well Dear I had it in my hand ready to buy, but then Anna knocked several bags of Doritos into the shopping cart and I must have accidentally set it down. Note: This will also explain why you purchased seven bags of Doritos.

4. Ask what time you need to be home. It's best to know your ETA before you leave. If you take too long, your bonus points from taking the kids with you will disappear. If you come home too early, you may have to do something senseless like mow the lawn. Knowing when to be home allows you to pace yourself—and to (sometimes) stop off with the kids for ice cream before heading back.

5. Buy extra toilet paper. This has nothing to do with a birthday party run, but it's still good advice that generations of Klems have sworn by.

I'd like to tell you that after the running around is finished, you can kick up your feet, relax and catch up on "Days of Our Lives," but you can't. That's not what good Dads do. Good Dads also put things in perspective. Like when your wife is worried there won't be enough chairs, you offer to un-invite her mother (which is a joke, sort of). When your daughter, the birthday girl, panics that there won't be enough "Dora the Explorer" stuff to go around—even though she's surrounded by Dora invitations, Dora napkins, Dora plates, Dora balloons, Dora placemats, Dora fruit snacks and a Dora cake—you point to the two cans of Dora Spaghetti O's in your cupboard and share one with her. And when your one-year-old is terrified that she's getting left out, you let her eat your half.

While the number one role of a Dad during birthday-party planning is to be a runner, the number one role of a Dad during life is to keep everyone grounded. It's our role to ease concerns, crack jokes and tell our families that all will be OK. It's important to remind everyone that even if we're a couple of chairs short or we forget the Dora windshield wipers or we get a squiggly piece when we need a skinny guy, we'll be fine. The party will be a success. Good times will be had.

And if it all goes wrong, at least we'll have seven bags of Doritos to comfort us.

The Life of Dad is updated every 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

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

10 Things Dads Want to Avoid on Father's Day

Most days of the year I'm required to do the backbreaking work that all dads are required to do, the kind of work that really wears us out—like mow the lawn, scrub the toilets, lift the heavy things, pee standing up. But there's one day—one glorious, magnificent, brilliant day—that I, along with every other dad on the planet, look forward to more than any other day of the year:

National Donut Day, which, as my wife and daughters completely forgot, is celebrated on the first Friday of June. Because they missed the boat on this important holiday—trust me, there were no glazed donuts to be found when glazed donuts were needed—I will have to settle for a little extra celebration on the second best day of the year: Father's Day.

It's worth noting that this is only my third official Father's Day where I've been on the receiving end, so by most standards I'm still a rookie. But like most dads, I didn't need too many under my belt before I understood the true meaning of it. Father's Day isn't about getting what you want; it's about avoiding things—things that wear on your psyche the other 364 days of the year.

So I'm taking a preemptive stand for dads from coast to coast to make sure we get the Father's Day we need. Instead of allowing our wives and kids to sit around, deciding our day for us, I've developed a list of guidelines for our loved ones to follow to make this day the special day that it should be. Here are the Top 10 Things Dads Want to Avoid on Father's Day.

#1 We want to avoid: The morning aroma of anything other than crisp, flavor-filled, fresh-from-the-oven bacon strips. We would like it to be on our breakfast plates, in our juice and used in sentimental gifts from the kids. (Also not opposed to bacon lingerie.)

#2 We want to avoid: Accidental head-butts to the groin.

#3 We want to avoid: Intentional head-butts to the groin.

#4 We want to avoid: Anything on TV that doesn't involve sports, World War II or the musically-delightful high school series "Glee." (Seriously, "Glee" is pretty awesome.)

#5 We want to avoid: Having to wear anything other than our favorite t-shirt/shorts combo, even if its current cleanliness status is unclear.

#6 We want to avoid: Getting yelled at for farting in public. We should be granted a one-day Father's Day exemption. We should also be allowed to high-five others when we do it.

#7 We want to avoid: Mentions of Justin Beiber.

#8 We want to avoid: Gossip. And before someone says it, I better clear this up now: MajorLeagueBaseball.com confirms that trade rumors are classified as "discussion" not "gossip." So I recommend coming to lunch equipped with at least three for "discussion."

#9 We want to avoid: Being interrupted from our Father's Day nap.

#10 We want to avoid: Spending money. You want to put a permanent smile on our faces? Show us a bank account that's higher than it was the day before. This is the gift that keeps on giving (interest).

There you have it—a simple guide to delivering your dad a great Father's Day. If you love him, you'll abide by this list. And if you really love him, you won't forget a dozen glazed on the first Friday of June next year.

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