The Vomit Fairy

When you're a parent you look forward to visits from all the friendly holiday heroes who bring your kids goodies, like Santa, the Easter Bunny and the one with the red bow-and-arrow who is a little too forgetful for your wife's liking—and is a little too naked for yours. These guys are so popular that Hollywood has made thousands of movies in their honor. Heck, we own 75% of them.

But you know who Hollywood doesn't tell you about? The Vomit Fairy.

The evil, evil Vomit Fairy.

The Vomit Fairy isn't your friend. He doesn't leave money or bow-wrapped presents. He barges into your house unannounced in the middle of the night and ruins your kids' pillowcases, sheets, clothes, carpets and Joey Votto Bobblehead doll (who was supposed to ward off such a villain but instead just bobbled his head in disbelief). He turns a perfectly good night of sleep into an after-hours rave, highlighted by the bands Washing Out The Stains and Gonna Be Tired In The Morning. He's so scary that even the Closet Monster, who usually peeks out and (somehow) removes my daughters' socks from their feet while they sleep, hides in my closet for dear life.

I had never experienced the full wrath of the Vomit Fairy until last week, when my youngest daughter was attacked around 10 p.m. I was downstairs doing work (and by "doing work" I mean "clicking 'like' on Facebook status updates") when I heard the Vomit Fairy lurking. He's quiet as can be until the moment he strikes—but when he strikes he's loud.

I came running up the steps only to find my wife already in the kids' bedroom, with this panicked look on her face.

"Is everything OK?"

"ANNA THREW UP EVERYWHERE!"

Vomit Fairy 1, Team Klems 0.

I began the clean-up process, which starts with bathing my half-asleep 2-year-old in the bathroom sink. My wife, doing her best not to let the Vomit Fairy's stench strike her too, removed all the sheets and piled them up for me to wash in the basement. We scrubbed and we scrubbed until our scrubbers were sore, and dressed Anna's bed in a new set of sheets. We laid her back down and kissed her goodnight. And she thanked us for all our hard work by vomiting all over everything again.

Vomit Fairy 2, Team Klems 0.

Over the next two days, the Vomit Fairy struck every member of my family. He got my wife. He got my oldest daughter. He even infected Steven, my HDTV, and Sylvia, our Cabbage Patch Kid, who, for whatever reason, had been standing in Timeout for days (I think my girls forgot about her). I cared for every one of them, making sure they had all the blankets and hugs and puke-pots they needed. I read books. I snuggled. I let them scare me with the Jack-in-the-Box just so they'd crack a smile and forget about how awful they felt, if even for a moment.

I did all this because that's what Dads do when the Vomit Fairy strikes (especially when our tag-team partner, Mom, is out of commission). We get stronger and braver. We make sacrifices (like no sleep and letting Facebook status updates go unliked). We care for our families and do our best to make them well again. We knock that Vomit Fairy down for attacking our family and tell it to never bring its ugly face around our house again.¹ Then we pound our chests.

Of course, that last part never works and the Vomit Fairy strikes one final blow. The next day, after everyone healed up, I got sick. It was awful and terrible. But thankfully I didn't have to battle alone anymore. And, if you're as lucky as I am, that family you loved and cared for will turn around and care for you.²

Maybe Hollywood should make a movie about that.

¹ While I've never actually seen the Vomit Fairy, I'm pretty confident he looks something like this. 

² Though if any of them pulls a fork out of their doctor bag and you ask, "Hey what's that for?" and they respond "Don't you worry about it, now bend over," then trust me: The last thing you are going to feel is better.

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Dyeing Easter Eggs is Tough on Dads

Dyeing Easter eggs is the worst. There, I said it. Carving pumpkins is fun. Decorating the Christmas tree is a jolly good time. Watching 4th of July fireworks light up the sky is something I could do every night, especially when two go off next to each other and look like giant boobs.

But dyeing Easter eggs is beyond awful. It was invented by grandparents who looked at their own kids and said, "Now that you are parents, how can we really stick it to you? I know! We'll make you sit through an incredibly boring activity that will likely stain your carpet and, to top it off, will leave you with about 47 dozen hard-boiled eggs to stink up your fridge! Oh, and in the coming week we'll load your kids up with massive amounts of candy! Enjoy!"

Of course, a simple "Thank you for giving me the gift of grandkids" would have sufficed.

Anyway, dyeing Easter eggs isn't even the worst part of dying Easter eggs. The worst part is that it's a terrible reminder that my wife is superior to me. (I can't believe I actually put that in writing.) Sure, I'm better at a lot of fun things like scrabble, balancing 401ks and peeing standing up. But she dominates me in the Egg Dyeing Department. Turns out, coloring eggs requires a certain skill-set that I don't have and, no matter how hard I try, will never be able to gain—much like dunking a basketball or asking for directions when lost. These skills include:

1. Patience
Dyeing Easter eggs is a slow, painful process where you put an egg in a cup and just let it sit there. And you wait. And wait. And wait some more. You take it out to check it and it's turned a slight shade pink. Only 2 more hours and it'll be red. You know how there's the saying "A watched pot never boils"? We'll there's a similar saying for this occasion: "A watched egg kills your will to live."

2. Nose Control
One of the key ingredients in the dye is vinegar, which smells about as pleasant as a dirty diaper.  Even better, that smell lingers for hours after you dye the eggs. It's the one time of the year I'm actually rooting for a sinus infection.

3. Spill Control
Your kids have elbows, right? So do mine. And their elbows suffer from Spontaneous Wild Elbow Syndrome. It's a condition recognized by the American Medical Association where a kid's usually restful elbows detect something spillable nearby and immediately start to swing uncontrollably. Common elements that trigger Spontaneous Wild Elbow Syndrome include uncovered 2-liters, bowls of spaghetti, yogurt containers, laptops sitting anywhere other than out-of-reach and (especially) cups with colored dye in them. To combat this while egg dying, you must be swift with a paper towel. I don't even know what a paper towel is. Epic fail.

4. Egg Control.
You'd think hard-boiled eggs wouldn't crack. You'd also think that you look good in jorts. On both fronts, you couldn't be more wrong. (I know—I was shocked too!) Egg-dying kits come with tiny, microscopic metal-wire holders designed by professional engineers to drop your eggs over and over again. No matter how hard you try, you will crack 74% of the eggs in the process, causing you to buy—and hard boil—a lot more eggs. I'm convinced there's a conspiracy going on and the United Egg Producers of America are behind it. Either way, my hands aren't soft and I'm clumsy.

5. More patience.
I've never been one to have patience of any kind. I get angry when my Internet takes more than 0.2 sections to load. I get upset when my wife takes 35 minutes to decide what we are going to make for dinner. I can't even text people because if they don't respond immediately I start to freak out (of course, my sister will point out it takes me nearly 5 hours to respond to a text, but she fails to recognize that I'm not concerned with her patience).  The point is, as a Dad you must force yourself to develop patience for your kids and for the activities that they love—including the 1% of activities that are practically unbearable.

I may not like dyeing Easter eggs, but I love the smiles and memories it creates for my kids. I love that they look forward to it every year. I also love that my wife is good at it (thanks to her possessing all five skills mentioned above). But mostly I love that even dull activities like this one become amazing memories that I'll cherish for the rest of my life.

Much like I cherish boob fireworks.


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Why Dads Don't Like Hide and Seek

Dads are agreeable people. We want to have fun, so we agree to most games the kids want to play. But when it comes to "Hide and Seek," most Dads would rather eat boogers than participate. Why? I've decided to explain this through pictures to better illustrate my point.

First we decide who counts and who hides.

Then the girls start counting to 10.

Dad looks for a solid place to hide.

Dad hides and, we must say, it is quite a clever hiding spot.

Girls come out and look for Dad, but they can't find him. "Where is he?" they say.

So they give up and watch Dora.

And that is why Dads don't like hide and seek.

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My First Parent/Teacher Conference - Did I Pass?

While parent/teacher conferences are about the child, you can’t help but feel like, as the parent, you’re the one getting reviewed. After all, this is your kid. She talks like you. She plays games like you. She dances like you (poor thing). She claims that her favorite musician is Elvis Costello to impress everyone (like you) but, in all actuality, it's really Rick Astley (like you). She shares your DNA, your genes, your love of bacon. And she most certainly has mastered your ability to always close her eyes in photos.

I hope there isn't a grade for that.

For weeks I had been dreading this day, but it finally arrived. This was my first ever parent/teacher conference and it showed. Sweat poured off my face forming pools of nervousness on my collar. My leg bounced fast and repeatedly, shaking the floor and rattling everything around me, including my wife. When Ella's teacher called us back, I contemplated faking a heart attack. But three dads from morning conferences had already pulled this trick, so there was no room left on the floor.

I had really prepared myself for the worst. She talks too much. She doesn't wait her turn. She forgets to say "Excuse me" after she passes gas. I had considered every possible negative that the teacher could throw our way. Thanks to my skills as a writer, I was able to come up with a scripted retort that was not only smart and insightful, but also could apply unilaterally to every one of them.

"It's all my wife's fault!"

The conference hadn't started yet and I was already throwing my wife under the wheels on the bus that go round and round. Round and round. I couldn't decide if this plan was genius or super genius. I did decide that I wanted Taco Bell for lunch. That was definitely super genius.

"Let's talk about your daughter," said the teacher, reaching into a stack of files. Her desk was cluttered like all great, experienced teachers' desks are. Books and projects hung onto the edges for dear life, while a picture of her own daughters occupied prime real estate and served as the centerpiece to not only the desk, but the entire room. It was all I could focus on until she pulled Ella's file from her stack.

"Your daughter is special," she said to us. "She's gifted and kind. I don't know what you're doing, but you're doing something right so keep it up."

And there it was. In a matter of three sentences my fears were erased. Someone other than family and friends—people who, by law, are legally bound to say nice things about your kids—said our daughter was gifted. She said Ella was kind. She said that we, my wife and I, were doing something right. Something right!

It had been at least 10 years since I'd received a grade on anything, but for the next 30 minutes I listened as Ella's teacher gave me (and my wife) an A+. I had a lot of A's during my school days, but none ever meant as much to me as the one I received that day. My first parent/teacher conference was a success.

When I got home that night I hugged both my girls. While there are countless moments where I soak in just how lucky I am, I rarely step back and realize how lucky our kids are. They have a Mom who works hard every day to give them discipline, values and love. They have extended families who take the time to be a part of their lives. They have teachers—at school and at daycare—who guide them to be their best. And they have an A+ Dad who works hard every day to be the best Dad that he can—even if he can't keep his eyes open in photos.

Thankfully Ella's teacher didn't lower my grade for that.


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Baby Name Bracketology: How to Pick a Baby Name

For my wife and I, picking a baby name is a lot like the NCAA March Madness basketball tournament. We are members of the selection committee who, after months and months of reading baby name books, studying the statistics and checking to see which names lend themselves to the worst nicknames (Art the Fart, Lydia Chlamydia, Liberty the Stripper), assemble a list of names vying to win over our hearts and become our baby's name.

The discussion is often spirited and filled with useful, constructive comments like "That is the dumbest name suggestion I've ever heard in my life." We rule out names of grade school bullies, ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, Hollywood socialites, names your parents have suggested, dogs and, reluctantly, video game characters. (Sorry Luigi and Zelda; I made plays for both of you.) After a full season of debate, we finally settle on a mix of 64 names (32 male, 32 female) that both of us are willing to consider.

Like March Madness, there are perennial powerhouses that make it into the bracket year after year—like William, Joseph, Eric and Michael for boys, and Elizabeth, Sarah, Mary and Jessica for girls. These names carry prestige, have reputable histories and, most likely, are also the name of one of your family members whom will believe you when you say, "Of course we named the kid after you because we love you so much." Though, in all likelihood, you probably named the kid after Jessica Alba.

The new millennium added a few newcomers to the brackets that now show up every year, like Aiden and Jacob and Madison and Emma. These names get points for being trendy and, somehow, lose points for being trendy. I actually don't understand the math in this equation. My wife tries to explain it, but my brain explodes. All I know is that the algorithm she uses seems to only rule out names that I like.

Stupid math.

Next are bubble names, ones that have decent stats and just enough magic to crack the tournament, like Doug, Timothy, Lynn and Melissa. These names held popularity for decades, but thanks to some recruiting violations and your mom having too many friends with these names, they're unlikely to make it past the Sweet 16.

Finally, you have your Cinderella stories—names that your wife never would have allowed into the bracket, but sneaked in via automatic bid because you asked her while she was half asleep. This is also known as "winning the conference tournament." It includes names you've always loved like Marshall and Violet and Bacon and Chiquita. Names you heavily root for that, occasionally, will make a deep run in the bracket. But rarely do these Cinderella teams win the whole thing because, well, your wife eventually wakes up. Still, it's good that they make the tournament because one day when your 17-year-old hates your guts because you won't let her see her favorite band, Rhymes With Truck, in concert, you can look her straight in they eye and say, "Your life could be worse. Your Mom tried to name you Chiquita."

This, as most parents know, is where the real excitement begins. The names are divided in half (by gender) and seeded. Over the course of weeks, names will beat names and winners will come forth. Some will be buzzer beaters while others will be lopsided victories. Names you expect to go far will lose, and names that barely had a chance at first will make their way into the Elite 8. And by the time you make your way to the delivery room, you'll be down to the Final Four. Finally, as you kick people out so your wife can deliver your baby, one winner will emerge from each side of the bracket—one boy name and one girl name—and the championship rests on the gender of the baby.

Then the beautiful baby is born and, to your surprise, doesn't look like either of the names you've picked.

That, my friends, is called a bracket buster.

OK, so maybe this isn't the best way to pick baby names. But this bracket gives me hope that, one day, my wife and I might actually agree on a name for our child (which hasn't happened yet). With so many outside influences and opinions, it's hard not to get annoyed with nearly every name that has ever existed. The best you can hope for is that when the baby pops out of your wife, it can tell you what name suits it best. Even if it's just in the baby's smile.

Though, let's just hope the smile doesn't say "Art the Fart."


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Naptime: Why I Don't Trust Baby Dolls

Our family naptimes usually go down like clockwork. All it takes is a couple of soft songs, tucks of the blanket and a few pats on the butt—and I am out like a light. If I'm lucky, the kids fall asleep too. Sometimes I'm not so lucky.

A typical naptime involves lying down with my youngest daughter, who will fall asleep within minutes of me pretending to be asleep. Once she's out cold, I switch beds to join my oldest daughter, who will spend an hour asking me why her baby doll's eyes won't close. After a 20-minute discussion about how dolls aren't actually people and why the Cincinnati Bearcats deserve a 5-seed in the upcoming NCAA March Madness tournament, she'll roll over and doze off without, for some reason, making a compelling argument as to why they shouldn't be a 5-seed.

This weekend was different, though. For weeks both girls had been pleading with me to let us all nap together in one bed, much like the "Whos" do in the cartoon version of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." On paper this sounded like a nice idea: all cuddled up together; blanket on; some of us (the girls) drifting off to dream about princesses; others of us (me) drifting off to dream about Winnie Cooper. And like most parents who are dumb enough to think that this plan might actually work, I agreed to try it.

"Now, you're both going to go to sleep, right?" I asked, while handing both girls their baby dolls to hold and giving them kisses on the forehead.

"Yes, Daddy!" they said in unison.

"You're going to shut your eyes right now?"

"Yes Daddy!"

"You guys aren't going to make any peeps?"

"No Daddy! We only do that in the toilet."

With that, I closed my eyes. I've found that if you can get the kids to be quiet for exactly 48.3 consecutive seconds, they will fall asleep. Anyone with kids will tell you that that is much, much harder than it sounds, because it's typically interrupted with chatter like But I'm not tired and I don't want to sleep and I think my baby doll is farting.

Internally, all parents start the naptime clock the second after the last word has been said, so I was counting. One, two, three ... 32, 33, 34 ... We were getting there. Then I heard a THUMP followed by two little, giggling voices. I opened my eyes. There were my girls, head-butting their baby dolls together. They did it again and giggled louder. So I uttered the six-word sentence I never imagined I'd have to say:

"No more baby-doll head-butting."

I re-tucked them in and closed my eyes. Once again, the silence cracked around second 42 by another round of giggles, though there was no accompanying THUMP. I tried to ignore it, but the giggling persisted. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw two little girls, with big smiles on their faces—and baby doll fingers up their noses. So I uttered the nine–word sentence I never imagined I'd have to say:

"Get your baby doll fingers our of your noses!"

They laughed awhile longer. This forced me to lay down the law. No more talking. No more laughing. No more baby doll fingers in your noses. No more doing anything other than closing your eyes and falling asleep. I tucked them in one final time—tightly—putting my arm over them for safe measure and, once again, closed my eyes.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The countdown clock was at full speed this time, inching up to the magic number. I counted each second in my head like a New Year's countdown crowd at Time's Square. I hit 46, 47, 48, 48.3, 49 … and all was still quiet. It finally worked. The nap had finally arrived. I don't know why I doubted it. I'm too awesome of a Dad for it not to work.

And then I felt it. Two tiny, little baby doll fingers quietly being shoved up each one of my nostrils.

They. Had. Won.

I opened my eyes to two giant smiling faces, ready to burst with laughter. I could have been mad. I could have yelled and screamed and hollered. I could have handed out punishments so menacing that they would have made Timeout seem like a birthday party. But I didn't. There aren't many moments in life where your children get the best of you, and yet my kids got me—good. The weird part is that I was actually proud of them. The even weirder part is that several minutes had passed and the dolls' hands were still up my nose. So I uttered the only five-word sentence that I could think of that fit this situation:

"I really love you guys."

From there the countdown clock started and never stopped. We drifted off to sleep, carrying images of princesses (them) and Winnie Cooper (me) in our heads. And while I'm not sure what the princesses told my girls, I did take to heart to the four-word sentence Winnie told me:

"They had it coming."

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