Diary of a Half-Marathon Dad

I started running for the same reason everyone starts running: I wanted to be able to wear super short shorts in public. Once that dream was realized, I had to set loftier goals. That’s why, as part of my Year of Amazing resolutions, I set out to conquer a half marathon. 

I know what you’re thinking: Is a “half marathon” the name of a new bacon-covered Burger King burger? It’s not—though, if it were, I surely wouldn’t need any training to conquer that. The half marathon I trained for was a 13.1 run that spanned the beautiful city streets of Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky. It’s called The Flying Pig marathon, named after the official bird of Cincinnati. (Ironically, it’s named after the official pig of Cincinnati too).

The route included the street behind the sports stadiums, two bridges, the monstrous hill through Eden Park and a volcano. Well, maybe not a volcano. That may have been me hallucinating around Mile 7. But I had been training for months, running mile after mile, uphill both ways, in the snow and with permanent blisters the size of Nevada.

I had never been a runner before, nor had I ever even thought about running as a sport I could invest myself in. In the past I cracked jokes about people who ran for fun. But with my body starting to take the shape of a flying pig, I figured it was time for me to take my health a little more seriously. Or, at the very least, burn enough calories to eat large quantities of Doritos Locos Tacos.

During the half-marathon I kept an inner journal of the race that I’d like to share with you here. I must warn you, though, there are no more references to Doritos Locos Tacos. (I know, I’m bummed too). Here it goes. 

The Starting Line: My nerves were shaking as I stood there at the starting line, next to one of my closest friends who not only supported me so much throughout my training, but was also running that day. We waited for our moment. The gun sounded. We crossed the start line and wished each other luck. Then he took off like Doc Brown’s Delorean, blazing off at an unprecedented speed and disappearing into what I can only assume was the future. I, on the other hand, trotted along at a pace envied only by Snuffleupagus. 

Mile #1: Only a few steps in I see crowds of people clapping and waving signs, saying things like “Good luck runners!” and “You can do it!” and “Worst Parade Ever!” Feeling very motivated. Ready to conquer the world. 

Mile #2: Still feeling good, but the motivation is starting to dip. Bridge is ahead. That should create for a fun run and beautiful view of the city. 

Mile #3: Bridge was a BIG mistake. Completely uphill. Did not realize Northern Kentucky was built on a mountain. Make promise to self to only vote for political candidates who are pro downhill bridges. 

Mile #4: OMG, I’m only on mile 4!?! Feels like I’ve been running for a week. Sweat has already soaked through my shirt. And my shorts. And my brain. And it’s not even 7 a.m. yet. 

Mile #5: OK, settle down Brian. Five is your lucky number. It’s the number that carried you to stardom in little league and a championship in the inaugural Bar Game Olympics of 2004. It’s also the number of blisters you can feel forming on the inside of your feet. 

Mile #6: Grabbed a water from a water stand and feel refreshed. Not sure what to do with cup. Everyone is throwing them on the ground, but that’s littering. I don’t litter. Briefly consider eating it. 

Mile #7: I see a volcano. Everyone is running toward it and jumping in the hole at the top. They are being applauded by unicorns. I think I have lost it. My will to finish isn’t strong enough. I can’t go on. This magical moment of my life is over. I’m crushed and so mad at myself. Loser. Loser. Loser. 

Mile #8: Then, as I rounded the corner into Mile 8, I saw this:

And this:

And this:

And this and this and this:

These weren’t just any fans, they were my fans. My super fans. My daughters. My wife. My sister and nephew. My close friends. They were there to support me. I couldn’t let them down. What kind of example would I be setting if I gave up? I need to finish. I will finish. And for each remaining mile, I’ll keep them in mind. So I reminded myself that ... 

Mile #9: I’m doing this mile for Ella. She starts kindergarten soon and needs to know that any challenge is conquerable if you put your heart and soul into it. There will be times you feel like it’s too hard, but it’s the hard that makes the accomplishment great. 

Mile #10: I’m doing this mile for Anna. She starts preschool in the fall and needs to know that you can’t fear trying new things, even when your big sister isn’t there to guide you. It’s the act of trying that will make your life experiences even better--and you’ll be happier for it. Trust me. 

Mile #11: I’m doing this mile for Mia. She can’t really talk much yet but when she does, I want her first full sentence to be “I’m going to be awesome like my dad.” (I’ll also accept “My dad is my hero” and “I’m voting for Dad for President of the House.”) Being awesome means ignoring the moments of self-doubt that inevitably creep their way into any amazing journey. Stay positive and reach your dreams. 

Mile #12: I’m doing this mile for my wife, family and friends who have supported me throughout this quest of mine to become a runner. Without your support, I wouldn’t be super awesome. I’d probably be only kind-of awesome. 

Mile #13: I’m doing this last one for me. This past year has been hard. Really hard. There isn’t a day that goes by that my heart doesn’t ache a little. It’s been a long road with unexpected challenges, new experiences and moments of self-doubt. But I’ve worked tirelessly to make it through. More tirelessly than most will ever know. And it feels good to know that I’ve survived, just like I’ve survived these past 13 miles.

I looked directly up at the Finish Line banner as I passed under it. For the first time in a long time I allowed myself to stop and take in the moment. I teared up. It was nice.  

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My Littlest 1 Year Old

Happy birthday to my little Ms. Mia Tortilla. It seems like only yesterday I introduced you to the world (and The Life of Dad universe) and dished out your stats. But an entire year has passed, leaving me amazed at how much you've grown. You've accomplished a lot during your first year as a pivotal member of Team Klems, including:

• Sitting up
• Standing
• Walking
• Grabbing your diaper out from under you when we're trying to change you
• Saying "Dad" when you're talking to Dad
• Saying "Mom" when you're talking to Dad
• Sleeping through the night
• Eating solid(ish) foods
• Talking on the phone to your BFFs, who also happen to be your sisters (and thankfully for us, we have 17-hundred play phones around the house, so you are able to take their calls no matter where you are.)
• Giving hugs and kisses
• Waving
• And, most important, smiling and laughing (Your laughs are contagious and one of my favorite parts of every day).

While I'm on a quest to accomplish a Year of Amazing things, nothing will ever top the breathtaking amazement you (and your sisters) brought into my life¹. If this first year is any indication of years to come, you're on a road to a life of Life of Amazing. That makes me smile.

Year two starts now. I can't wait to watch you grow and see what you accomplish next. Just promise me two things: 1) You'll continue our crusade to eliminate the designated hitter from baseball and 2) You won't grow up too fast.

¹And I've met Barry Larkin in person, so that's saying a lot. 

*****  
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Letter from a Dad to a Daughter

There is a meme going around on Facebook called "Letter from a Mother to a Daughter" that caught my attention (if you haven't read it yet, you can read it here). I see so many moms reposting this, pleading with their daughters to have patience with them. Well, I believe that dads require some patience too, so I've drafted up a Letter from a Dad to a Daughter that addresses it. Here it goes.

Letter from a Dad to a Daughter: "My dear girl, the day you see I’m getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I’m going through. If when we talk, I repeat the same thing a thousand times, it's because I know you weren't listening the first thousand times. If you had been, I wouldn't have had to repeat it over and over again. And when you say, “You said the same thing a minute ago” I know you are lying about hearing it because your princess crown is still on the floor, not put away like I asked. PUT IT AWAY! Remember the times when you were little and I would read the same story night after night until you would fall asleep? You Do? I'm shocked, considering how poorly you listen to me.  When I don’t want to take a bath, don’t be mad at me. Your mom is making me take it. Apparently getting into bed after a 7-inning softball game in 100-degree heat is frowned upon. Remember when I had to run after you making excuses and trying to get you to take a shower when you were just a girl? That wasn't my call, that was your mom's. I preferred to let you stink in order to keep the boys away. When you see how ignorant I am when it comes to new technology, give me the time to learn and don’t look at me that way... be patient with me. Remember, I've only had this iPad for about 20 minutes and, once I get all my apps downloaded and I unblock cookies, I'll be able to do fun things like post photos of me on Facebook wearing only jorts and Tweet all your friends to tell them when you are in the bathroom tinkling. If anything, you should be patiently rooting for me to learn more slowly, like I patiently rooted for you to do many things like eat your breakfast faster so I wasn't late for work.  The day you see I’m getting old, I ask you to please be patient, but most of all, try to understand what I’m going through. If I occasionally lose track of what you’re talking about, it's because it doesn’t make any sense.  You talk in code with OMGs and TTYLs and C3POs that come off as gibberish. Give me the time to remember the original point of our conversation, and, if I can’t, don’t be nervous, impatient or arrogant—that's my job! Just know in your heart that the most important thing for me is to be with you—at all times, even on dates with boys. Especially on dates with boys. And when my old, tired legs don’t let me move as quickly as before, give me your hand the same way that I offered mine to you when you first walked. Otherwise I will carry my shotgun in my wheelchair. When those days come, don’t feel sad ... just be with me, and understand me while I get to the end of my life with love (and promise that if you must get married, it's to a guy exactly like me). I’ll cherish and thank you for the gift of time and joy—I'll also thank you for the gift you helped me make your Mom for Mother's Day so she doesn't give us the stink-eye. With a big smile and the huge love I’ve always had for you, I just want to say, your crown is STILL on the floor! PUT IT AWAY! I love you... my darling daughter. Be extra nice to your mom on Mother's Day or else more photos like this will become public."

Love,
Dad

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Why One-On-One Time Matters: A Father-Daughter Date

My favorite children’s book of all-time is Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax. I’d always ask my dad if it were possible to get a Truffula seed and plant one of those colorful trees in our backyard, to which my dad would reply, “Brian, it’s 4 in the morning, go back to sleep.” And I would, but I’d dream of those beautiful Truffula tufts. I’d also dream of Rice Krispie treats because I really, really loved Rice Krispie treats.

Ah, The Lorax. I've read the book to my kids a total of 200 bajillion times. They love it. Or, to be more precise, they love all the pages they can sit through before being distracted by the mounds of toys that are helping our living room furniture play an epic game of hide-and-go seek. To be fair, Dr. Seuss books are long and kid attention spans are not.

So when an ad for a full-length theatrical version of The Lorax raced across Steven, my HDTV, I excitedly told my wife, “I know you really want to make out, but I have to tell you of this idea I have first. I wanted to take our daughters to the movie with me." My wife pointed out that our 10-month-old was probably too young for a movie and that our oldest was seeing the movie with her BFF.

That meant only one thing: A Father-Daughter Date with my middle daughter, Anna. I was so excited. It's not often that Anna and I get to do things just the two of us. When you have several kids you find they usually come as a package deal. You can't just take one to the park. They ALL want to go to the park. You can't just take one to get ice cream. They ALL want to get ice cream. You can't just take one to the potty. They ALL have to go to the potty … at the same time … in the smallest of grossest public restrooms where, after awkwardly holding each one so no part of them actually touches the awful toilet seat, you realize that it probably would have been more sanitary to just let them pee in the car.

This rare one-on-one occasion had me pumped. I shaved. I traded my typical attire of cargo pants and a Cincinnati Reds t-shirt jersey for some slacks and a collared shirt. I cleaned out all the Cheerios and softball equipment from the car, and sprayed it with Febreze. I even put her favorite CD in the CD player. I wanted everything to be nicer than usual—after all, this was a date!

We exited our house and made it to the theater. The lines were long, but that didn't bother us much. That just meant more time for her to weave in and out of the movie-line ropes and more time for me to complain about ticket prices. With passes in hand, we ordered some food from the concessions. I wanted Anna's first movie-going experience to be authentic, and, as I'm sure you know, all movie-going experiences should include popcorn, lemonade and choosing the line that moves the slowest, causing you to miss the word jumble¹ and previews². Check, check and check.

As we entered our theater, the giant movie screen and stadium seating overtook Anna. She was in awe. I can't even imagine how overpowering it must have seemed to her. After testing out about 14 different seats, she settled on a pair about six rows from the back. We got comfortable, balancing our snacks on our laps, and watched as the movie started. Anna couldn't keep her eyes off the movie. I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. As desperately as I wanted to watch the adaptation of my favorite children's book, I just couldn't. There I was, with my middle daughter, my baby, all grown up in the blink of an eye, laughing at jokes that only kids 3-and-up would laugh at. Sure, she still had her short-attention-span moments where she'd get up and play with the arm rests. And she'd ask me to "pause" the movie so she could share her popcorn with me and I could share mine with her (which I happily did, because the "small" bag of popcorn I ordered was roughly the size of a couch).

I can't tell you too many details about the actual movie (thankfully I know the book by heart). But I can tell you that Anna and I snuggled in the seats for much of the movie. And I can tell you than Anna moved her drink back and forth between cup-holders about 75 times, amazed that both armrests had them. And I can tell you that we put our fingers under our noses and pretended they were Lorax mustaches. And I can tell you by the end of the movie, I knew this was the best date I'd ever been on.³

As we gathered up our belongings and headed out, Anna looked up at me. The smile on her face stretched from ear to ear. She didn't say "thank you," but she didn't have to. I knew she had a great time. How couldn't she? I pumped her so full of popcorn that if I pushed her belly button she'd be liable to dispense some. 

Truffula seeds are all around us. If you nurture them and love them, they will grow into beautiful Truffula trees who share their love with you too. The Lorax taught me that.

The Lorax also taught me and my daughter that finger mustaches are funny. 

¹ Trust me, the answer is always Sandra Bullock.

² Where seven of the 10 of them involve Sandra Bullock.

³ I wanted to make a joke here about a time when my wife and I saw a Sandra Bullock movie, but I would never admit to seeing a Sandra Bullock movie. Except for Speed. Speed was awesome. You should rent it.

What Joey Votto Means to Dads Who Love Baseball

Joey Votto and I have a lot in common. He plays baseball. I play baseball (er, softball). He’s tall, dark and handsome. I’m tall, dark and handsome. He made $5.5 million dollars last year. I fear my daughters’ weddings will cost $5.5 million dollars.

We are practically the same person.

Joey Votto is my girls’ favorite player. Has been ever since their great aunt Dale (who may just be #19’s biggest fan) bought them all Votto jerseys. When the Reds are on TV, Ella, Anna and (now) Mia generally ignore most of the game, and instead play with hair bands and build forts out of our couch cushions. But when Joey Votto steps to the plate, they all stop. They turn toward the TV and start to cheer, just as if they were at the game and the PA system sounded the horn.

Da da da dun da daaaaaaa!

“CHARGE!”

They all shout. They all scream. They all ask why I’m frantically pacing in the background behind them, making it clear that they are not nearly as concerned about other unimportant things like “the score.” They clap and clap and clap until the end of every Votto at bat. No matter what the outcome, they still cheer as if he’d just won game seven of the World Series. Then they return to their regularly scheduled fort-building mission.

For the past two years I’ve been dreading one day. The day Joey Votto would leave. Growing up a Cincinnati Reds fan, I was spoiled. My childhood hero, Barry Larkin, was a Red for life. He played his entire career here. I watched him from day one to retirement, donning that Wishbone C above the rim of his cap. I played shortstop for my little league team because I was determined to be like him. If my mom had let me, I’d probably have worn my #11 jersey in the shower.

But players today, especially superstar players like Joey Votto, rarely stay with the same teams their entire career. And they never stay with small market teams like the Cincinnati Reds. So my baseball fandom had been clouded by a storm, ready to strike the day Joey Votto left, when I’d have to explain to my girls why. They wouldn’t be old enough to understand. They’d barely be old enough to drink from cups without sippy lids. But they’d definitely be old enough to be heartbroken.

That all changed this week. When the news broke that Joey Votto had signed a contract extension with the Reds worth nearly as much as it cost to build the Reds’ stadium, I nearly passed out. I didn’t think about the implications that contract may have on the future of the team or their chances of winning. I didn’t even think about bacon (and I ALWAYS think about bacon). All I could think about were my girls, and how they’d be able to watch their childhood hero play for their hometown team for the rest of his career. They’d be able to wear their #19 jerseys (which their great aunt Dale will continue to buy them) well into their grade school years. And we’d all be able to cheer him on together.

As a Dad, I want my kids to have heroes. Teachers, doctors, scientists, military members, firefighters, their mom, etc. In fact, I hope I even make that list one day. But there’s something special about growing up with a sports hero, someone who lets fathers and daughters and sons (and mothers) connect with each other--and with an entire city. They allow you to bring back fun memories of moments shared, which I did with my dad (and my mom, too).

And while no player will ever replace the spot in my heart that I have for Barry Larkin, it looks like Joey Votto will be carving out a brand new one that I can share with my daughters. It’s one that I will value forever and will last me a lifetime.

It will also make it easier to explain to my girls why I spent all their wedding funds on Reds tickets.

I kid … maybe.

Go Reds!

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Why Opening Day in Cincinnati is the Best Day of the Year

If you live in Cincinnati, Opening Day is special. It's the one day of every year that dads, moms, kids, firefighters, politicians, grocery story clerks, insurance salesmen and every other fine person in the Queen City come together and simultaneously play hooky. Everyone is excited. Everyone is doused in red. Cincinnati Red.

As a lifelong fan and a father who believes that it's never too early to brainwash your children into loving baseball, I've been preparing my two young daughters for months. We practice all the cheers. We do the wave around the dinner table. We recite batting statistics over pretend tea parties. We go through our Spring Training routine. Ask my girls to name their favorite player and they'll both yell "JOEY VOTTO!" Ask them who their second favorite player is and they'll yell "DADDY!" To be fair, I did finish 4th in my softball team's MVP voting—though that had less to do with on-the-field performance and more to do with paying my league fees on time.

I've made such a big deal about it that the girls can't sleep. They lie awake at night chatting, chanting: Opening Day! Opening day! We can hear it through the monitor.

"Do you think we'll get pretzels?" one asks.

"Do you think we'll get ice cream?" the other asks.

"Do you think those kids will ever fall asleep?" my wife asks. I'd respond, but I'm too busy reading the latest Reds insider update from John Fay on my smart phone—in bed. I like to keep myself informed so I can be the first one to second-guess Dusty Baker's line-up. Of course, my closest friend beats me to the punch and drops me a text.

I have missed baseball so badly.

The big day finally arrives. Doesn't matter if outside it's cold or overcast or still dark out because excitement overtakes you and you wake up at 5 a.m. (a solid two hours before your alarm is set to blast "Centerfield" by John Fogerty); what matters is that inside it's warm and sunny and rounding-third-and-heading-for-home weather. It's like this in every Cincinnati home. Except maybe Mike Brown's.

The kids wake up and put on their baseball garb.
Jerseys? Check!
Red wristbands? Check!
Reds hats? Check!
Good-Luck-Socks-That-Have-Not-Been-Washed-Since-We-Clinched-A-Playoff-Birth-Last-Year?

"Not on your life," says your wife.

With an extra skip in their step, the kids come downstairs and devour a bowl of red-only Fruit Loops (that hour spent sorting out colors the night before was totally worth it). They drink cups of red milk, thanks to a little food coloring. They eat better and faster than usual. The glow from their smiles carries all the way to the car. And, just like that, our family is ready to go.

An entire winter has come and gone and we are Play-Doh'ed out. That's why the car ride to Great American Ballpark takes an eternity. We sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" over and over until the parking attendant takes our money. Within minutes, we're in the stadium listening to the "Star-Spangled Banner" and introduction of the ballplayers. My wife and I recall how the announcer used to roll his Rs when he'd say, "Jose Rijo." Finally the first pitch is thrown and my kids high-five everyone me, my wife, and everyone else whom they can reach with their tiny little arms. It's finally arrived.

Why do we get so excited about Opening Day in Cincinnati? It reminds us of tradition. It reminds us of when we were kids. It gives us a wealth of memories that we can share with each other and others around the city (say Jose Rijo's name and half the people in the room will roll the R in his name). But, most important, we love Opening Day because it gives us hope. Hope that this year will be better than the last—not just in sports, but in life. Hope that we'll get a chance to see something magical—on the field, off the field, on the Jumbotron. And hope that for just one day we can put everything else behind us and just enjoy life. We need it.

Welcome back, baseball. My family and I (and the entire city) have missed you.

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