tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-386240842024-03-28T05:36:40.032-04:00The Life of DadBeing a father isn't always easy, but then again, neither is fantasy football.Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-3168793810796745252016-02-16T14:06:00.002-05:002016-02-17T09:30:32.232-05:00A Letter to Every Frustrated Parent (From the Future)<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dear Past Brian,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hey handsome! It’s me -- well, I mean it’s <i>you</i>, but from 25 years in the future. That’s right. I’m sitting here on my hoverchair, typing this letter on my iPad 13 (though it looks like a piece of paper and you can fold it up and carry it in your pocket). I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and wanted to tell you something important. But before I do, let me answer a few of the questions up front that I’m sure you’re dying to know:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>1. Yes, the Reds have won 3 World Series titles </b>-- and a Super Bowl! I know, right? I won’t tell you how; I don’t want to spoil it.</span> </blockquote>
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<b><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. Your favorite show in the future is </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saved by the Bell: The Retirement Years</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>.</b> Zach and Kelly are grandparents who help out at a school where all 18 of their grandchildren attend. Mischief ensues. It’s hilarious. </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>3. Anna got a perfect score on her 1st Grade Penguin project.</b> Plus, that Fun Fact she taught you about penguins holding their breath for 20 minutes saves your life. I can't tell you how, but it does. (And yes, Mia still loves photo-bombing.)</span></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmNf2MhXefPcSVAl_ncpLud26VjSoo8HmwqO_jxYNjkEcchlwwg_oaW-AZ14iFr3IuPBbHN25c_emJIiYc3lVOfGDlBrq8ju6HNFTA-kuIRbzfMwJv_kNvifAchXH5-_rojmY/s1600/TLOD-letter-to-frustrated-parents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnmNf2MhXefPcSVAl_ncpLud26VjSoo8HmwqO_jxYNjkEcchlwwg_oaW-AZ14iFr3IuPBbHN25c_emJIiYc3lVOfGDlBrq8ju6HNFTA-kuIRbzfMwJv_kNvifAchXH5-_rojmY/s400/TLOD-letter-to-frustrated-parents.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>4. You finally bite the bullet and start shaving your head with a razor</b>, many, many years after you should have.Those awesome sideburns were hard to part with, but it had to be done.</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>5. Grunge is back in style. </b>Unfortunately, you are now too buff and muscular to fit into any of your old clothes. Maddening, I know. </span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>6. After all that stressing of "when will I find the time," you finally paint the dining room </b>between soccer and volleyball season. It looks nice -- though the blue stain on the carpet does not.</span> </blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>7. Justin Timberlake is President of the United States. </b>Fallon is VP.<b> </b>Taxes are low, global warming is solved and dance lessons are free for all Americans. Plus, State of the Unions have never been more entertaining.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>But what I’m really writing to tell you is this: </b>I know you’re frustrated. I know the kids aren’t listening and are driving you crazy these days. I know you’re exhausted and you feel like you’ve lost all control. But what you don’t know is this: Eventually, in the future, you miss it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u><br /></u></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><u>A lot.</u> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know how you yell every morning before school because your daughters spend 45 minutes doing anything other than get ready -- this includes, but is not limited to: staring off into space, lying on the ground for no reason, making rainbow bracelets, checking the weather on your phone in case it changed from five minutes ago when they checked it on your phone, spilling things (MY GOD, SPILLING THINGS) and more? Well, that doesn’t happen any more because the girls are grown and have moved out. They spill things at their own places now. And guess what? You miss it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know how every doorknob in the house has empty hangers on it, obstructing its ability to close -- and how that drives you insane? Well, now all the doors close with ease. And you hate it. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know how all three kids sing Wrecking Ball at the top of their lungs over and over and over again, off-key and, if you are really lucky, not in unison, to make a sound that could only be described as </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">noise vomit</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">? Now you’re the only one singing and, trust me, it sounds worse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Remember that basement that overflowed with toys? Princess dresses draped over your desk? Legos laying everywhere causing you severe <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-i-got-forehead-hickey.html" target="_blank">Lego Limp</a>? Barbies who sneaked out of the basement and, magically, ended up in every other room in the house, including the bathroom? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miss it, miss it, miss it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, those princess dresses are tucked away in a tub somewhere collecting dust. Your feet haven’t stepped on anything other than soft carpet. The Barbies are now contained in storage, probably talking about the “good old days” when they ventured upstairs and caught you doing something you shouldn’t like picking your nose or, worse, dancing. And the basement has transformed from a toy room into a man cave with sports memorabilia, a big TV, Lazyboys and a bar. (<i>OK</i>, so that one isn’t so bad. But the rest? The rest is terrible.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know you’re tired of having to yell like a madman who is trying to convince a post-Apocalyptic swarm of Zombies to eat over their plates instead of dropping crumbs that, somehow, end up in your underwear drawer. I know you’ve exhausted the phrases “<b>Your coat doesn’t belong there!</b>” and “<b>Stop fighting me and just go to the bathroom!</b>” and “<b>Oh my god, you loved tacos last week when we had them, why in the world are you screaming in tears saying how much you hate them now?</b>” But those phrases have been retired for years and have been replaced by a depressing silence that you try to fill with reading, video games and annoying your wife, who simply doesn’t appreciate it as much as she should. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">While this all sucks, it’s important to know that things aren’t completely terrible. While you stressed about it every second of every day, you’ll be happy to know your kids grow up to be amazing people. (Sorry, I can’t give away the details. Watching it all unfold is part of the fun and I don’t want to take that away from us.) But it’s important that I tell you this because I want you to relax a little bit and soak it all up. Take it in. Know that these times will go by too fast. Know that your hoarse voice and sore feet will heal and that you’ll have plenty of time to paint the dining room after the kids leave. Know that you’ll be sitting here on your hoverchair, wishing that for just a few minutes you could go back in time and get one more off-key, out-of-sync rendition of Wrecking Ball again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Know that and relax. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your time of not yelling will come soon enough. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don't rush to get there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take care,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Future Brian</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">PS-Take that laundry basket sitting in the living room upstairs. If my memory serves me correctly, it’ll save you both an ankle sprain and a lecture from your wife. You're welcome. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS:</b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters)</a></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com71tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-22727440864691499132014-12-05T01:13:00.004-05:002014-12-05T14:57:54.336-05:00OMG, Stop Sniffling And Use a Tissue! (The Symphony of {Sniffs})<div style="text-align: right;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGy_a2oLuaH7HDS59uKPGVxnoQsxyPk2buRF-JbVak3jEgros0kMZgRdv3euDDjeryFYBFKiIs2ZXBgopdSiHvbd7TP6glmRjjebx3W56ZW2IDCWuociOXystAww_Pm7QN8ZGK/s1600/Sneeze_in_white_hankie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGy_a2oLuaH7HDS59uKPGVxnoQsxyPk2buRF-JbVak3jEgros0kMZgRdv3euDDjeryFYBFKiIs2ZXBgopdSiHvbd7TP6glmRjjebx3W56ZW2IDCWuociOXystAww_Pm7QN8ZGK/s1600/Sneeze_in_white_hankie.jpg" height="285" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">There
are many annoying sounds in this world—road construction at 7 in the morning,
most cell phone ringtones, Caillou—but none compare with the Symphony of {sniffs}
that overtakes our house every winter during flu season. The Symphony of {sniffs}
makes me wish I owned a chalkboard so I could drag my fingernails down it to
drown out the noise. Even then, though, the chalkboard would cover its own ears
and beg for mercy. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">Let
me be clear: I’m not talking about sneezes; sneezes I can handle. In fact, I
sneeze all the time. Sometimes I sneeze so hard that my headphones fly off my
head.<sup>1</sup> A good, loud, strong, well-crafted sneeze doesn’t
annoy me, it impresses me, the same way I’m impressed by a 104 MPH fastball and
Wendy’s Baconator. I can appreciate art. I’m talking about the constant and
repetitive sniffing up snot that all kids do. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">And all kids do it. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">When
snot runs out of an adult’s nose, the adult, who knows how to do smart things
like set up an in-home wireless network or Photoshop a picture of a dog dunking
a baseketball, will wipe that snot up with a tissue—unless, of course, there is
no tissue to be found. Then he (or she) will use the backside of his (or her)
sleeve.<sup>2</sup> We will go through tissue after tissue (or
sleeve after sleeve) to keep our upper lip free and clear. We will do this not
only because we’re mature and it’s the right thing to do, but also because it
may be Thursday night and you know what Thursday night means. <i>{wink wink}</i> <wink wink=""><sup>3</sup></wink></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">Kids,
on the other hand, understand the concept of using a tissue about as well as
they understand calculus. A box of tissues could be sitting on their lap with
the top tissue sitting up so high it’s practically touching their nose, and
instead of using it, they will go <i>{sniff}</i> and suck that mucus right back
up into their brain. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">{sniff}</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">{sniff} {sniff} {sniff}</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">That doesn’t seem so bad</span></i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">, you say. <i>I mean, how terrible can it be</i>,
you say. <i>After all, it’s all lowercase and lacks an exclamation point!
If it were serious it’d have an exclamation point!</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">That’s
what people without kids think. People with kids know better. They know that
the {sniff} doesn’t need any additional punctuation to drive you insane. They
know that the {sniff} wears you down and makes you want to hurl yourself out
the window!<sup>4</sup> They know that the {sniff} doesn’t come to
the party alone. The {sniff} brings {sniff} after {sniff} after {sniff}. Let me
give you a couple (of maddening) examples.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">Example
#1: You’re rocking out to your favorite band in the car. For argument’s sake,
let’s say it’s not the Imagination Movers. Let’s pretend it’s someone cool like
Rick Astley. You’re trying to sing along but, in the background, after every
4th word, you hear {sniff}.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">We’ve
known each other{sniff} for so long, your {sniff} heart’s been aching, but {sniff}
you’re too shy to {sniff} say (inaudible mumble while you headbob) … we know the {sniff}
game and we’re gonna {sniff} play it.</span></blockquote>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">See
how annoying it is—and you’re only reading it! I can assure you that no matter
how loud you turn up the volume, you will still, somehow, hear each and every {sniff}.
The real victim here, though, is Rick Astley. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">Example
#2: You’re on the phone with a friend and you’re <i>SO</i> close to solving
world hunger but you just can’t hear your friend’s ideas because all you can
hear is:</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">{sniff}
… {sniff} … {sniff} … {sniff} … {sniff}</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">It’s
like a slow drip from a leaky faucet, only you can’t stop the sound by calling
the plumber. Trust me, I’ve tried. No matter how much money you offer the
plumber, he (or she) will refuse to come to your house and stop the leaky nose.
Worse yet, your friend has now solved world hunger without you and doesn’t even
thank you when he (or she) appears on Ellen. What a jerk. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">Example
#3: It’s 3 A.M. in the morning and all you’ve heard for the last 4 hours (and
all you will hear for the next 4 hours) is: </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">{sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff} {sniff}
{sniff}<sup>5</sup></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">The
point is, parents have a lot of miserable things to deal with—The Symphony of {sniffs},
dirty diapers, bloody knees, homework assignments that are more work for the
parents than they are for the kids, Ebola—and yet we still find the strength
and willpower every day to wake up, brave the exhaustion that awaits, and care
for our kids. We do it because we love them. We do it because for every {sniff}
there is a hug and a smile. We do it because one day we will be old and we
don’t want them to stick us in the crappy nursing home that used to be a
run-down Howard Johnson (you know, the one with all the murders!). </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">But
mostly it’s for the hugs and smiles. </span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
---------------------------------</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><sup>1</sup>
This is 100% true. My co-workers will confirm this. <a href="https://twitter.com/BrianKlems/status/193048585938538496" target="_blank">So will Twitter</a>. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;"><sup>2</sup>
I included the pronoun “she” to indicate that I am not sexist and will not
adhere to the sexist rule of only using the pronoun “he” when a singular
pronoun is needed. I want to make sure that women are treated equally when
discussing wiping snot on their sleeves. (You are welcome women!)</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;"><sup>3</sup>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00F8FEI7S/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00F8FEI7S&linkCode=as2&tag=thliofda-20&linkId=N26ZYEHF2P4IDDDJ" target="_blank">Fake mustache night! </a></span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><sup style="font-family: Arial;">4</sup><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">
Did you know there’s a word for throwing something out a window? It’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">defenestrate.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;">
I hid it here in the footnotes, though, because it sounds dirty.</span></i></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11.5pt;"><i><sup>5</sup>
{sniff} </i></span></blockquote>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS: </b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
<b> </b><br />
<b>* Also, follow me on Twitter @<a href="http://www.twitter.com/brianklems" target="_blank">BrianKlems</a>. I promise to occasionally say funny things. </b><br />
<b> </b>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com143tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-58781078716077398362014-05-22T15:06:00.001-04:002014-05-22T15:54:23.420-04:00The Bite Report<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3tfGbVo2eTsbjIAAh9yGrMwMgpbE8aGrQWJdgUfDi7IaRD4Iv01JIhXV3qt6oYo58hWh9adVOL529JAcdbrc_5Jrs79qwwAaF7oWmGN30ptl5QvwIFLz2MgtF5AsZ9kzQzRO/s1600/TheBiteReport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3tfGbVo2eTsbjIAAh9yGrMwMgpbE8aGrQWJdgUfDi7IaRD4Iv01JIhXV3qt6oYo58hWh9adVOL529JAcdbrc_5Jrs79qwwAaF7oWmGN30ptl5QvwIFLz2MgtF5AsZ9kzQzRO/s1600/TheBiteReport.jpg" height="320" width="299" /></a></div>
As parents we send our kids off to many places—school, summer camp, grandma’s candy-filled house—where things happen. I mean, things happen everywhere, right? Or so, as parents, we would believe. Clearly this is faulty logic on our part, though, because when my kids return home from nearly anywhere and I ask, “What did you do today?” the answer is always “Nothing.” <br />
<br />
“What did you do at school today?”<br />
“Nothing.”<br />
<br />
“What did you do at grandma’s house?”<br />
“Nothing.”<br />
<br />
“Nothing? Are you sure? I mean, you spent the night there. And she took you out to dinner. And she took you to a festival. And she sent me photos of you at 10 PM last night still awake and eating chocolate-chip ice cream with sprinkles on top—which reminds me, I fired your grandmother and am looking for a replacement grandmother, but we can discuss that later. So think about it again. What did you do at grandma’s house?”<br />
<br />
Long pause.<br />
<br />
“Nothing.” <br />
<br />
This holds true for my oldest two daughters who, amazingly, have greatly improved their math skills, science skills, reading skills and monkey-bar swinging skills, all while doing “Nothing” during school hours and who nearly always come home with giant smiles on their faces after spending a day with their (former) grandparents doing “Nothing.” But not so much for my youngest daughter.<br />
<br />
Our youngest daughter is still a full-time member with our sitter. Most days, for approximately 8 hours, she molds Play-Doh, naps and asks our sitter to help her “find her baby” which she seems to lose on a regular basis. (NOTE: I would not recommend hiring our youngest to babysit your kids). But I look forward to picking her up from our wonderful sitter the most, not because she still runs and gives me a giant hug (which I love) or because she smells like Cheez-Its (which I also love). It’s because when I ask her, “What did you do today?” she doesn’t say “Nothing.” Instead, she gives me <i>The Bite Report</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>The Bite Report</i> is a daily record of who bit whom (and who didn’t bite whom) at the sitter’s house. She delivers it as if she were Secretary of State, standing on the floor of the Capitol building, recounting the key moments of the day that need to be logged into the national register. Here is an example of a typical <i>Bite Report</i>, though please keep in mind that the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and for my own personal amusement). <br />
<br />
“What’d did you do today?” I ask.<br />
“2Pac didn’t bite anyone today!” she says, as if this were my only concern in life.<br />
“Oh no?”<br />
“Nope. He didn’t.”<br />
“That’s great!”<br />
“Beyonce didn’t bite anyone either!”<br />
“That’s also excellent news!”<br />
“My baby doll <i>did</i> bite me, though, so I had to put her in timeout.”<br />
“Your baby doll bit you?”<br />
“Yes, but after timeout she didn’t anymore.”<br />
“Thank goodness.”<br />
<br />
Now before anyone gets all judgmental and says, “How could you send your kids to a place where kids are biting other kids?” I say to you with a very well thought-out and reasoned response: “Because it’s close to work.” Also all the kids are two-years-old and younger and very rarely does anyone actually bite anyone, but my daughter has committed to memory the handful of times it’s happened (though, like any good celebrity Tweet-Gone-Wrong cover-up, she manages to omit her own biting offenses from the record books). <br />
<br />
I used to find it a bit concerning that this was the No. 1 news story from her day, but thanks to the lack of activity—and reporting—from my older kids, I find <i>The Bite Report</i> to be as fascinating as <a href="http://www.tmz.com/" target="_blank">TMZ</a>. In fact, I’ve attempted to start an underground gambling ring with my wife based off <i>The Bite Report</i>. <br />
<br />
“I’ll bet you $5 that Shakira is the first biter today!”<br />
<br />
“I’m not gambling,” said my wife. “I’ve only ever gambled once and don’t want to do it again.”<br />
<br />
“What happened, did you lose?”<br />
<br />
She paused as she stared directly at me, taking in the fact that I was wearing cut-off jeans, hadn’t shaved for days and had spent the previous 30 minutes telling her all the fun facts I learned about the boy-band <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Direction" target="_blank">One Direction</a> on Wikipedia.<br />
<br />
“The jury is still out.”<br />
<br />
I know <i>The Bite Report</i> has a shelf life, as these kids grow and mature and do other things, like tackle each other. But in a world where big kids are too tired to tell you what’s happening in their lives, it’s still nice to know that every day I can count on one constant report that’s cute and sweet and will forever remind me that, once upon a time, my daughter liked to tell me about her day. <br />
<br />
Also, if you’d like to receive <i>The Bite Report</i>, please follow me <a href="https://twitter.com/BrianKlems" target="_blank">@BrianKlems</a>. And if you’re currently looking for a new gig and are of grandmotherly-age, I know of a family that’s hiring.<br />
<br />
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS: </b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
<b> </b><br />
<b>* Also, follow me on Twitter @<a href="http://www.twitter.com/brianklems" target="_blank">BrianKlems</a>. I promise to occasionally say funny things. </b><br />
<b> </b>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-68976058362210669362014-03-28T14:25:00.003-04:002014-03-28T14:43:20.337-04:00How I Met Your Mother - The Night of the Rose<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl28ogWPRM9edWNB4-mHyihztVw7-MgJ6YX075_aEw6K2tQsDMueDPnmrxSDE0A_33tJ_8pIfVyonzldPL4-MhbicDxIhBYfauotJKfOrKe7JXXQ0Iz-XgB9x5eFyHyPVNXHF1/s1600/TLOD-himym-kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl28ogWPRM9edWNB4-mHyihztVw7-MgJ6YX075_aEw6K2tQsDMueDPnmrxSDE0A_33tJ_8pIfVyonzldPL4-MhbicDxIhBYfauotJKfOrKe7JXXQ0Iz-XgB9x5eFyHyPVNXHF1/s1600/TLOD-himym-kids.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
Hey kids, have I ever told you the story of how I met your
mother? It's not the kind of fairytale you'd find in a Disney movie (and I
would know because we own <i>all</i> of them). There's not really a prince or a
princess or a witty talking crab named Sebastian (though, admittedly, that
would have been totally awesome). It isn't a story quite like that. But it is
the story of a boy who fell in love and it's one that, much like the final
episode of "Saved By The Bell," will always hold a special place in my heart.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The year was 1997. </b></span><br />
I stood there, my heart racing a mile a
minute. The anticipation of waiting for your mother to answer the door was
killing me. It was 11 p.m. and I was a young 18-year-old dude, about to leave
for senior trip with three of my closest buddies in the world. The car was
loaded with supplies that all 18-year-old boys pack for a senior trip to
Florida—snacks, swim trunks, cases of … Pepsi. They were parked at the end of
the driveway, hanging outside the car, waiting for me as I stood there all
alone with a rose in my hand.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
It could have been 30 seconds. It could have been two hours.
Time stood still for me from the moment I rang that doorbell until your
mother's door opened. Only it wasn't your mother, it was <i>her</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> mother (your Nonni).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
She stared at me, giving me the once over. It was hard to
tell what she was thinking. Was she wondering why I was ringing her bell so
late at night? Was she wondering why I was standing there holding a rose? Was
she wondering why one of my buddies was peeing in her neighbor's yard? </div>
<br />
I concentrated not to stumble over my words.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Is Brittany here?" I asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSZ0Q0EfvuNXu0FHSVUYRRRpqS-y2kHiOM8AxXDfDbDGkXKkcfgOGsKFkPp1aKspZgBRYAvLsNGJbzlIeCI6GnYoSfgTjcBoety3lt0DHzRS1rUeoW0grDsxMbR-XbULYiOGQ/s1600/TLOD-himym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSZ0Q0EfvuNXu0FHSVUYRRRpqS-y2kHiOM8AxXDfDbDGkXKkcfgOGsKFkPp1aKspZgBRYAvLsNGJbzlIeCI6GnYoSfgTjcBoety3lt0DHzRS1rUeoW0grDsxMbR-XbULYiOGQ/s1600/TLOD-himym.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a>Without much hesitation she smiled. While I'm not quite sure
what raced through her head at that moment, that smile indicated that she saw
me as her daughter's knight in shining armor (if you count 90s grunge-wear and
a chain wallet as shining armor), and that she'd been waiting for me to come
and sweep her daughter off her feet. This was the moment she had been waiting
for. It was the moment I had been waiting for. Destiny had finally arrived, and
she topped it off with three magical words:</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Are you Jeff?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well this suddenly got awkward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Your mother and I had actually met months before.</b></span><br />
You see I
had just split up with a girl at the beginning of senior year. She was nice and
sweet, but she liked Dave Matthews and I, like many young high school boys at
the time, pretended to like Dave Matthews. We ended on kind of a sour note and I
swore off girls. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a funny thing happens when you suddenly meet the girl of
your dreams—you can't stop yourself from falling in love. It just happens.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Your mother had been hanging out with one of my good
friends, Jennifer. They were eating dinner at a Perkins one night when I
stopped by with a friend.<sup>1</sup> I remember that night because
it was the first time I looked deep into your mother's eyes. They were
beautiful. It was also the night I realized how awesome I looked in sweater vests.
I didn't say anything, mainly because when you're young and in love you have no
clue know what to say. And if you do have the courage to speak, you usually say
something stupid like, "Did you know I'm in a band? We're super awesome
and totally going to make it." <sup>2</sup><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are a lot of other stories I could tell you—like the
night of my graduation party or the Ben Folds Five concert where we both
attended with friends and my friends, all of whom lived by the high school guy
commandment "When You Have A Chance to Embarrass Your Close Friend, You Do
It," did all they could to "help" me get close to your mother.
Or the party where our friends debated whether or not your mother would date me
(I don't think they were taking into consideration this newfound information
about me and sweater vests).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I don't want to ramble on for what will feel like nine
years. So I'll get back to the key story, the one where I stood on your Nonni and
Poppi's front porch in the middle of the night, with a single red rose in my
hand, just before leaving for Florida with my friends—who were now all peeing
in the neighbor's yard—trying to win over your mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>I had been called a lot of things in my life before, but I
had never been called "Jeff."</b></span><br />
I'd later find out from your mother
that "Jeff" was her friend's boyfriend<sup>3</sup>, but
for all I knew at the time, he was her boyfriend or worse, a Cubs fan. My
confidence shrank faster than a post-PED Barry Bonds head and it took
everything in me to muster up a response.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Uh, no."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Oh," your Nonni said. "Just wait right here
a minute while I get her."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could hear her call up to your mother's room. If there
were a time to bail, this was it. But like I said before, you can't stop
yourself from falling in love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When your mother arrived at the door, she looked like an
angel. And for the next 90 seconds I professed my love to her, telling her I
couldn't stop thinking about her and how I wanted to spend more time with her.
She didn't say much, but she didn't have to. I was wearing a sweater vest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With that I left for Florida with my friends. We had a lot
of fun, drank a lot of … Pepsis, narrowly avoided getting beat up (twice) and more. But
I couldn't get your mother out of my mind. And when we got home, she was one of
the first people I called. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that's the story of how I met your mother—or, at least,
the most important moment of when we met. I hope you girls have a
fun story to tell describing the amazing night when you meet your future spouse. Of course, this can't happen until you're 55. And
I'm dead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.880001068115234px;">-------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<sup>1</sup> When your mother tells this story
she claims I stopped by after a high school dance where I was someone else's
date. In truth, her memory is a little foggy because that night she had a
little too much … Pepsi.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<sup>2</sup> No bands ever make it. Though my
band, Optimus Prhyme, <i>totally</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> would have
made it. But we chose to step away from future glory to focus on something even
more important—our softball careers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<sup>3</sup> I'd like to think that he actually
spells his names with quote marks around it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS: </b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
<b> </b><br />
<b>* Also, follow me on Twitter @<a href="http://www.twitter.com/brianklems" target="_blank">BrianKlems</a>. I promise to occasionally say funny things. </b><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-69475455281710423962014-02-21T15:30:00.000-05:002014-02-21T15:47:07.527-05:00How The 100th Day of School Aged My Daughter 94 Years<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQ7KWOhbc4OfgpFxoy6udnXno_CQ6owFAes-3E-O3wF4xqj90WytPl548w6pm2MxCI0ikVBc95xFdz0E1NDKPVv8e8VYU19ny8wL4XEH_XUhIKHlmc-6BRFq8CWDk1D8RgQuT/s1600/TLOD-100th-day-of-school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQ7KWOhbc4OfgpFxoy6udnXno_CQ6owFAes-3E-O3wF4xqj90WytPl548w6pm2MxCI0ikVBc95xFdz0E1NDKPVv8e8VYU19ny8wL4XEH_XUhIKHlmc-6BRFq8CWDk1D8RgQuT/s1600/TLOD-100th-day-of-school.jpg" height="640" width="275" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is my wife’s birthday, which means, if my arithmetic
is correct, she’s turning one year older than she turned last year. Oddly
enough, both years she turned 29. And the year before that she turned 29 too.
She must use that new wave math that politicians use when creating budgets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, happy birthday to my beautiful wife, who is
smarter than I am, funnier than I am and looks almost as good in yoga pants as
I do.<sup>1</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is another significant day in our lives, as my eldest
daughter turns 100. (I know what you’re thinking: I look <i>super</i> young for having
a 100-year-old. I should really write a post about beauty tips.) That’s her in
the picture to the right.<br />
<br />
I promise that this is not a cruel joke we are
playing on my wife to make her feel old on her birthday, though that would have
been an awesome joke had we thought of it first! In fact, my daughter and her
classmates are celebrating their 100th day of school by dressing up as
100-year-olds. They are demanding that we parents turn down our loud music and
have dinner ready for them by 4 p.m. They are also requesting more bran in their diet and telling us stories about how they survived that one time in their youth when they had to watch a TV show on a non-HDTV. (Oh, how rough they once had it.)<br />
<br />
The scene at her school this morning
looked less like a group of elementary kids getting dropped off to learn and
enlighten their minds and more like a group of old-timers getting dropped off
to play bingo. The only things missing were <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00BI3QW3W/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00BI3QW3W&linkCode=as2&tag=thliofda-20" target="_blank">ink daubers</a> and good-luck troll
dolls. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When dressing my daughter up, my wife and I agreed that
there were five essential elements to looking like a 100-year-old. We found
them all (as you can see in the picture) and they are, as follows:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fancy hat? Check!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Curlers? Check!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bathrobe? Check!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Skinny glasses with string to keep around neck? Check!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carefully crafted wrapping paper cardboard-roll cane with tennis ball on the
end? Check!<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked my daughter if she and her friends planned to talk
like old people too? I’m not sure if she knew what I meant. The more I thought
about this, though, the more I realized that I am so old now that I’m probably
more likely to understand the antiquated language of a 100-year-old than I am
the hip language of a grade schooler. I have been listening closely to my
daughter and her friends so I can get a better understanding of their lingo
and, I’m happy to report, I have learned a few things, which is hard when
you’re as old as a dinosaur. I have learned that instead of saying “totally,”
they say “totes.” And instead of laughing they just say “LOL.” Apparently they
have no time to communicate in full words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let me give you an example of a conversation between first
graders and then give you the translated equivalent of the same conversation
between 100-year-olds so you also have a better understanding of the
generational differences between the two. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A first-grader conversation:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kid 1: Geez, LOL. Did you munch that new ep of Austin &
Ally? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kid 2: Totes. I rocked it on my iPad all day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kid 1: Totes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Same conversation held by 100-year-olds:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Old Person #1: Did you see that show about those young
whippersnappers who sing?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Old Person #2: No, I’m blind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Old Person #1: Me too!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in grade school we didn’t celebrate the 100th Day
of school. That wasn’t a thing, just like the Internet wasn’t a thing and
Justin Bieber wasn’t a thing (OK, so growing up eons ago wasn’t <i>all</i> bad). But
grade school is a lot more fun nowadays. My daughter has had crazy-hair day and
movie day and all sorts of other fun events that get woven in between the
wonderful education she’s getting at her grade school. As a parent, this is
kind of a glorious time to have kids in school. You really get to participate
and enjoy it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 100th Day of School “Dress Like You’re 100” Day will go
down in my books as one of my favorite days of grade school yet. Plus,
it’ll be a nice way for my wife to remember her fourth 29th birthday. <sup>2</sup><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Though I have to admit, I’m looking forward to my daughter
coming home and taking off the old lady garb. After all, she’s still my little
lady and I prefer to keep her that way as long as I can.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.880001068115234px;">-------------</span><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<sup>1</sup>You are now picturing me in yoga
pants, aren’t you? You’re welcome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<sup>2</sup>It’s not really her fourth 29th
birthday, but I value my life too much to tell you which one!</div>
<br />
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS: </b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
<b> </b><br />
<b>* Also, follow me on Twitter @<a href="http://www.twitter.com/brianklems" target="_blank">BrianKlems</a>. I promise to occasionally say funny things. </b><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-48021968523409586172014-01-31T10:54:00.002-05:002014-01-31T10:56:09.652-05:00Super Bowl Games for Young Kids: The Candy Bowl<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXArUc74A83I3oLh_j5Z2XXnXdqI_FjSnNhJNHkV3YBvtQoLL39gxErnQlHusZ8qqNk3Euf9IR6B4aQ0sim1-xr9aQmiJDuvbIaL049k7qV0sRpEg1P8RUqayVW6dOyZ5ytjE/s1600/the-candy-bowl-403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXArUc74A83I3oLh_j5Z2XXnXdqI_FjSnNhJNHkV3YBvtQoLL39gxErnQlHusZ8qqNk3Euf9IR6B4aQ0sim1-xr9aQmiJDuvbIaL049k7qV0sRpEg1P8RUqayVW6dOyZ5ytjE/s1600/the-candy-bowl-403.jpg" /></a></div>
Watching the Super Bowl with young kids is nearly impossible.<br />
<br />
There's yelling and screaming, and that's just from your wife who is trying to get the kids to stop standing on the coffee table.<sup>1</sup><br />
<br />
You miss the best plays of the game because you're cleaning up spilled Capri Suns off the carpet and you miss the best commercials because you're in the bathroom reading <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0671493205/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0671493205&linkCode=as2&tag=thliofda-20" target="_blank">Blue Hat, Green Hat</a></i> to your youngest who <i>thinks</i> she has to poop and refuses to get up until you've read the book at least 45 times. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was tired of not being able to watch the Super Bowl, the most popular thing in America, so last year I devised a strategy to get the kids involved by showing them the second most popular thing in America: Gambling. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I grabbed a piece of paper and a marker and created a Super Bowl Box Pool or, as we like to call it, The Candy Bowl. I altered the rules a little to make it kid-friendly and will share them with you (I've included an image of our Candy Bowl chart below to help.)<br /></div>
<div>
<h3>
The Super Bowl Box Pool for Kids <br />(aka The Candy Bowl)</h3>
</div>
<div>
<b>The Set Up</b></div>
<div>
1. Grab a sheet of paper and a pen.</div>
<div>
2. Draw horizontal lines and vertical lines until you create a giant square with 100 boxes inside.</div>
<div>
3. Tear a piece of paper into 10 small pieces and number each one zero through nine. </div>
<div>
4. Find a hat (or, in the case of a dad with three daughters, a Dora purse). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>The Rules</b></div>
<div>
1. Take turns putting initials in each box until the entire 100 squares are accounted for. </div>
<div>
2. Adults may play, but they are allowed only 1 box for every 2 boxes initialed by each child. </div>
<div>
3. Take four boxes and mark them as "Community Boxes." If the score hits on one of these boxes, everyone wins. (This gives everyone a few numbers to root for together.)</div>
<div>
4. Kids take turns pulling numbers out of the hat (Dora purse) to determine which number is associated with each row. Do this once for the horizontal rows and once for the vertical rows. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>The Prizes - Pick from the Candy Bowl</b></div>
<div>
1. End of the First Quarter: 1 piece of candy</div>
<div>
2. End of the Second Quarter: 1 piece of candy</div>
<div>
3. End of the Third Quarter: 1 piece of candy</div>
<div>
4. End of the Fourth Quarter: 2 pieces of candy<sup>2</sup> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLWZ-XnATpwHlAWQRnSrNSGjJXm_JbRPAPeDKepHuiBjeTOlb7N4a5woqnTJlaILdgCC_zmDTe_cWO1iYanidpN1zj4UR93up_2Vr3TfvpYNdqbq1a6izSf35loBMtgquVeEk/s1600/the-candy-bowl-squares.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLWZ-XnATpwHlAWQRnSrNSGjJXm_JbRPAPeDKepHuiBjeTOlb7N4a5woqnTJlaILdgCC_zmDTe_cWO1iYanidpN1zj4UR93up_2Vr3TfvpYNdqbq1a6izSf35loBMtgquVeEk/s1600/the-candy-bowl-squares.jpg" /></a></div>
This game, this simple game, kept my kids much quieter than in years past. Suddenly they were invested in the Super Bowl. Their eyes glued to the score, as if the score were an episode of "Sophia the First." The asked me relevant questions about the football, such as "How do the teams score points?" and "How long until someone wins candy?" instead of "Dad, why doesn't your head grow any hair?" They spent more time snuggling on the couch with me than standing on the coffee table<sup>3</sup>, and stayed focused long enough for us to enjoy the game together. Most amazingly, they spent the entire year asking me when we could do it again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So with this year's Super Bowl right around the corner, gather your paper, marker and Dora purse and get ready to go. It's time to start your annual tradition of The Candy Bowl. </div>
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<br /></div>
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-------------</div>
<div>
<sup>1</sup> In their defense, they were playing Lava Floor and if they touched the ground, they'd be melted by hot lava. </div>
<div>
<sup>2</sup> If you want to step it up, you could make little goodie bags of treats to give away. I would, but I usually am too busy reading <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0671493205/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0671493205&linkCode=as2&tag=thliofda-20" target="_blank">Blue Hat, Green Hat</a></i>.</div>
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<sup>3</sup> Though we did keep our feet up off the ground. I mean, the floor is made of lava for Christ's sake. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<b style="color: #6aa84f;">GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS: </b><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" height="200" width="130" /></a><b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com93tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-78690232944770407882014-01-27T13:31:00.001-05:002014-01-28T00:41:08.946-05:00Should You Thank Your Wife for Heating up a Frozen Pizza?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qDEIyMOflbHQk5UTY5G_ybjI4Mdzld4SdUtytr33tpYHha80TWc0mKwTPm57UOWo-YjjnLXg7jINhHxHvOW3s9g5Tlt6ggcNV9cKB49-yz8l-BGf-Bu2lgzr8SqjDQZphcpd/s1600/TLOD-pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qDEIyMOflbHQk5UTY5G_ybjI4Mdzld4SdUtytr33tpYHha80TWc0mKwTPm57UOWo-YjjnLXg7jINhHxHvOW3s9g5Tlt6ggcNV9cKB49-yz8l-BGf-Bu2lgzr8SqjDQZphcpd/s1600/TLOD-pizza.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
Question: Should you thank your wife for heating up frozen pizza for dinner? This was a hot topic at my house on a recent Friday night. Most evenings we’re like any other family when it comes to preparing dinner: We make seven-course meals with mostly fresh fruits and vegetables and other healthy dietary options while drinking organic Jamba Juice<sup>1</sup>, but on the occasional Friday night we take the cheap and easy way out.<br />
<br />
On this particular evening, I requested frozen pizza for dinner. My wife, who arrived home early and was in a good mood because she was only minutes away from seeing my handsome face<sup>2</sup>, heated up the oven and threw in two frozen pizza pies. My daughters and I arrived home. We sat around the table discussing the finer points of English language<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>namely when and where it’s appropriate to say the word “poop”<style><!--
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</style><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>when the oven dinged and my wife dished out the frozen pizza.<br />
<br />
Then there was an awkward moment. And an argument. A ridiculous argument
over whether or not the girls and I should say thank you to my wife for
heating up store-bought frozen pizza for dinner.<br />
<br />
To settle our dispute I did what any self-respecting adult would do in this situation: I asked Facebook. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYLRJZn2Ld03rwcvAMVC5SeoTRBJOZslotsSJDaf4Gsboj228Ut3S1fQMoz2x6-o4wgGLbGRF77_UQ_JWeHuaNnzw0UVSYDJNsw7pKdpeJoyflwuFRhd3kHVK1UUF-r0yDJi9/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYLRJZn2Ld03rwcvAMVC5SeoTRBJOZslotsSJDaf4Gsboj228Ut3S1fQMoz2x6-o4wgGLbGRF77_UQ_JWeHuaNnzw0UVSYDJNsw7pKdpeJoyflwuFRhd3kHVK1UUF-r0yDJi9/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Thirty-three people commented on the post. The answers ranged from this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfC9hofYqhACab1hzWpnMbB9i8y8qSHQptsgzcb1d2B8hIk6B5ECsuzJW9_MnqpUZYnMfQQ1UH571tvZP_SRfrbyv9y8Oqrx9iR6rW-RAfYh4Qoph3OuEMx1GJttdvcTDXWBTb/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-sharon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfC9hofYqhACab1hzWpnMbB9i8y8qSHQptsgzcb1d2B8hIk6B5ECsuzJW9_MnqpUZYnMfQQ1UH571tvZP_SRfrbyv9y8Oqrx9iR6rW-RAfYh4Qoph3OuEMx1GJttdvcTDXWBTb/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-sharon.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
To this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNMXheixHIAanYm_PiFqPFW3XHXodNQo57rQIxhN5tD5xIWXysnp8R-YruaYx9D4z2Fri5EYtOFN-2RxvRsUWI2T_ROoy4Lb52p1-27Ia0tdrxFNGEzJhv124dyadpFIMgpN7/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-jacquelyn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNMXheixHIAanYm_PiFqPFW3XHXodNQo57rQIxhN5tD5xIWXysnp8R-YruaYx9D4z2Fri5EYtOFN-2RxvRsUWI2T_ROoy4Lb52p1-27Ia0tdrxFNGEzJhv124dyadpFIMgpN7/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-jacquelyn.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
To this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqu4RiFaH4PrtNYTwPLkcoxbtoF2H_fqBw9WsCt3XlbBlVjlBVmn9YB84wAwozmJmRcNVeQVnkRjq7baY05e0pHQGK88JqIfZszJ_diKDyhw_OIBnvxkr79Oh850W4ksWwpDAD/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-evan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqu4RiFaH4PrtNYTwPLkcoxbtoF2H_fqBw9WsCt3XlbBlVjlBVmn9YB84wAwozmJmRcNVeQVnkRjq7baY05e0pHQGK88JqIfZszJ_diKDyhw_OIBnvxkr79Oh850W4ksWwpDAD/s1600/TLOD-scientific-pizz-poll-evan.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
In fact, by a landslide 31-1 vote,
the consensus (whatever that means) was that “Yes, you thank your wife
for making dinner, even if it’s just heating up frozen pizza in the
oven.” Many of the responses stuck it to me, with a “I can’t believe you
would even consider not thanking your wife. You’re dumber than a
slug!”<sup>3</sup><br />
<br />
One comment, though, wasn’t
a vote. It pointed out an oddity in the question: “I'm still trying to
figure out what science has to do with this.”<br />
<br />
While the scientific note was mostly a joke, it did serve a slightly grander purpose: <i>Everyone thought that I was arguing <b>NOT</b> to thank my wife.</i> That assumption was dead wrong. <br />
<br />
Every night when my wife makes dinner<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>whether it’s chicken parmesan, quesadillas, salmon and rice, macaroni and cheese, canned soup, or frozen pizza<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>I thank her. And I make sure all our kids thank her too. I do this because 1) I think it’s important to thank whoever put in the time (no matter how little time it takes) to prepare your dinner and 2) I want my kids to always show appreciation for their mom, someone who works tirelessly at a 40-plus hours-per-week job to help provide for them all while taking care of us (which is probably more exhausting than the 40-plus hours-per-week job). And just because on occasional Friday nights she’s too tired (and I’m too tired) to make a big meal, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be showing our gratitude for the meal she did make.<br />
<br />
So when the girls and I thanked her for making the frozen pizza, she<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>my beautiful, lovely, kind and generous wife<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">—</span>argued that we shouldn’t thank her for simply heating up pizza. I said that we should. She told me to stop. We actually fought about this for quite awhile. And, while I’m not proud of it, there was some name-calling:<br />
<br />
Me: “You’re so unreasonable! Just accept our gratitude you clown!”<br />
My Wife: “I’ll tell you where you can stick that thank you, you super-sexy piece of man meat!” <sup>4</sup><br />
<br />
The point is, my wife fluffs off a lot of things because she believes that's just what you do for the people you love. I want her to know that we appreciate her, even for the simplest of tasks. And, thanks to modern marvels like Facebook, I proved that I’m right.<br />
<br />
Which means that for the first time in the many years that we’ve been together and the many disagreements that we’ve had, I can finally utter the phrase, “I was right.” <sup>5</sup><br />
<br />
So I’m going to continue thanking my wife when she makes frozen pizza (and when she does other things to care for our family, no matter how big or how small). And I’m going to make our daughters do it too. I guess she's just going to have to live with it, just like she lives with this super-sexy piece of man meat. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<sup>1 </sup>This is a lie. We eat Burger King. <br />
<sup>2</sup> This is also a lie. She was happy to have a few quiet minutes to herself before I brought all our loud kids home (though I’m sure my handsome face helped too).<br />
<sup>3</sup> Except for those snooty, elitist Ivy League slugs. Thankfully none of them read this blog. <br />
<sup>4</sup> Well, that’s what I heard anyway. <br />
<sup>5</sup> This is a big lie. I’ve been right twice before: 1) Bacon is not gross, it’s delicious and 2) watching “Who’s Harry Crumb?” with me repeating every line IS fun! </blockquote>
<br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-80248613241067129232014-01-08T16:15:00.000-05:002014-01-13T14:10:15.036-05:0010 Things You Need to Do at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Going to Disney World is a right of passage that many
families go through. It’s a place where your dreams come true—if your dreams
include having your photo taken with Rapunzel and spending $14 on a box of four
tiny chicken nuggets. It’s also the happiest place on Earth, and here’s why.<br />
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Disney does everything right. They may take all of your
money (and the deed to both of your kidneys), but they take careful care and
consideration of the Disney Experience and really do give you an adventure that
you can’t get anywhere else. That’s why I’ve put together the 10 things I think
everyone needs to see or do or know about while at the Magic Kingdom. By doing these things, it's hard not to have a great time.<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">1. The Disney FastPass</span></h3>
Everyone who goes to Disney is eligible for a FastPass. FastPasses typically
work like this: Instead of standing in long lines, you can sign up at kiosks
around the park (and on your smartphone) and reserve a time to ride any ride
that is eligible for the FastPass. The program lets you know what times are
available to reserve (some rides book up quickly), and you get a limit of 3 per
day day—which is amazingly fair if you think about it. Basically you’re cutting
in line, but everyone is given the chance to cut in line a few times to make
sure that everyone is able to ride what’s most important to him or her (and
their family).<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">2. It’s a Small World </span></h3>
This classic Disney ride kind of encapsulates everything
about Disney—its all-inclusive nature and how we can all connect with love,
happiness and empty wallets. Seeing cultures represented from all over the
world in a calming boat ride is a nice way to start your trip and introduce you
to Disney. Also, I recommend only riding it once. The more you ride it and
listen to that song, the more you get the feeling that the animatronic
characters are going to murder you.</div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">3. Watch Mickey’s PhilharMagic (& Any Other 3D
Attraction)</span></h3>
We were blown away by how amazing the 3D technology is. In
fact, it is so well executed that my middle daughter got scared and refused to
wear the glasses because she was afraid Donald Duck was going to hit us with
his flying carpet. The PhilharMagic is a must-see (and so is the Muppet Show in
Disney’s Hollywood park).<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">4. Character Parade/Princess Parade</span></h3>
Officially called the “Move it! Shake it! Celebrate it!
Street Party” and the “Celebrate a Dream Come True Parade,” these parades
rotate throughout the day traveling up and down the main drag of the Magic
Kingdom (the one leading up to it’s iconic Cinderella Castle). You .. er, I’m
mean, the kids can dance with many of the Disney characters. So if you’ve ever
wanted to shake it with Cinderella or line dance with Jessie the Cowgirl,
this is your chance. I busted a move with Frozone from the Incredibles. It was
awesome.<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">5. Enchanted Tales with Belle</span></h3>
Also known as Storytime with Belle, this event is one of the
most impressive at the Magical Kingdom. Kids (and adults) get the opportunity
to play the roles of the Beauty and the Beast characters and perform an
(extremely) abbreviated version of the movie, and they get to interact with an
animatronic Wardrobe and the famous Lumiere (both of which blew my mind). I
offered to play The Beast, but apparently my acting skills were not up-to-snuff
so they cast some fresh-off-of-naptime 4 year old to play the role. (I mean come
on, that kid couldn’t even grow a mustache!) <br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">6. Monster’s Inc. Laugh Floor</span></h3>
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This is an animated show where characters from the Monster’s
Inc. movies provide stand-up comedy. They poke fun at audience members (yes: on
screen characters make jokes about people in the audience, whom they show on a
separate big screen). It’s pretty funny for kids and adults alike. Also, while
waiting in line, you can text jokes to the Monsters and a handful get used in
the live show. Though they didn’t use my, “A screwdriver walks into a bar. The
bartender says, ‘Hey, we have a drink named after you!’ The Screwdriver
responds, ‘You have a drink named Kevin?’"<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">7. Pirates of the Caribbean</span></h3>
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Disney has made billions of dollars on movies based on this
ride, so you really can’t go to the Magic Kingdom without exploring the pirate
life. Plus, if you pay attention, you can spot Johnny Depp, er, Jack Sparrow.</div>
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">8. Meet Mickey </span></h3>
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You can meet all the Disney princesses and characters that
you want—and our girls wanted to meet most of them—but none of them compare to
meeting Mickey. He’s really the star of the show. His mouth moves when he
talks, which endeared him to some of our kids and freaked out others, and you
get to meet him in an individual room, so don’t feel as rushed with him as you
do most of the other characters (where you can still see the line of impatient
kids waiting behind you). <br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">9. The Electrical Parade</span></h3>
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The Electrical Parade is an evening parade that takes place
a couple times a week, where they shut down the streets/paths of the Magic
Kingdom and have beautifully lit floats caravan throughout the park. It’s
almost like they’ve taken the most wonderfully decorated houses at Christmas
Time and put them on wheels. The parade has been around since I was a kid and
it’s just as mesmerizing now as it was then. <br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">10. The Castle Show</span></h3>
Shortly before the fireworks close down the park, music
starts to play and the iconic Cinderella Castle in the middle of the part
begins changing colors. It’s unbelievable. Images of characters float on the
walls, as if the castle is some kind of humungous plasma TV that has curve and
angles that display in high-def. Really, it feels like a Pixar movie is
happening right in front of your eyes and it’s breathtaking. We went back to
see it a second time and I was just as amazed as the first time. This show sums
up the entire Disney experience for me: Simply magical.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Editor's Note:</b> To clear up some confusion, I was not paid in any way by Disney to write this. I genuinely had an amazing time at the Magic Kingdom and thought this list of "musts" would benefit my audience and other parents, many of whom probably have a trip to Disney on their radar. </i><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-54347378347543203272013-12-31T22:28:00.001-05:002013-12-31T22:29:50.061-05:00Happy New Year 2014!<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Dsihsjsi5kU" width="480"></iframe><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-69342797155693012032013-12-20T13:11:00.003-05:002013-12-20T13:22:01.554-05:00Why Do Kids Scream in Pictures With Santa?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbx_vke3aXRgYl2hNrITY7EMsvJI5-zM-9t0267jAwCh2IfEoQcGRcZDFWU0gKbT1ktLg6_sbQieRfNVQUo8o96ULNQSD2AfsngMf2LPbyV6inn0biHOLnFYRVVi3uSEscEL_Y/s1600/TLOD-christmas-screaming-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbx_vke3aXRgYl2hNrITY7EMsvJI5-zM-9t0267jAwCh2IfEoQcGRcZDFWU0gKbT1ktLg6_sbQieRfNVQUo8o96ULNQSD2AfsngMf2LPbyV6inn0biHOLnFYRVVi3uSEscEL_Y/s1600/TLOD-christmas-screaming-2.jpg" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For 11 and a half months of the year our kids talk about
Santa Claus as if he’s their best friend. They draw pictures of him. They write
letters to him. They sing songs celebrating his arrival. They even discuss the
assortment of cookies they plan to leave for him on Christmas Eve, which is
hard to believe considering the only cookies they’ve ever left for me are
half-eaten ones that fell on the floor.<sup>1</sup> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it makes no sense to me as to why, when given the
opportunity to have their picture taken with Santa—a guy who leaves them
presents of dollhouses, ipods, video games and more (no questions asked)—they
cry and scream as if he murdered their puppy. (Which is odd because we don’t
even have a puppy!<sup>2</sup>)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every year we are fortunate to be invited to an event called
“Breakfast with Santa,” thanks to our good friends (and realtors) at <a href="http://www.cbws.com/Associate/TeamProfile.aspx?TeamID=35"><span style="color: windowtext;">Coldwell
Banker</span></a>. This Christmas celebration has three of my favorite things:
Donuts (awesome!), a magician (double awesome!) and a person who makes balloon
animals (it’s like I’m in heaven!). For two hours I load up on sugar and
entertainment, right alongside my kids, and hope that this glorious day never
ends. That’s when Santa finally makes his entrance and my wife utters those
same 14 words that always ruin my day:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“For the last time Brian, you cannot quit your job and
become a magician.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
From a distance, my daughters all seem to be pleased that
Santa has arrived. They clap like all the other kids. They even get in line to
see Santa, smiling and laughing and telling us what they plan to ask for. Then
it happens. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“OK, it’s our turn. Go sit on Santa’s lap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly they turn ghost white and look petrified, as if we
had asked them to walk away with an axe murderer or, worse, a Cubs fan. They
start screaming, <i>“No Daddy! No Mommy! I don’t want to sit on Santa’s lap!!!”</i>
They grip onto my legs tighter than a pair of spandex, hiding their heads in
the back of my knees and making it impossible for me to walk. I can only hope that, years from now, they have the same kind of reaction when boys ask them on dates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I try to pry them off, their grip only gets tighter. I
make a reasonable case to them as to why they should sit on Santa’s lap (“I
will give you all the candy you want!”) but that effort falls flat, mainly
because evil creatures also known as “grandparents” have already been sneaking
them candy all morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t like Ho Ho,” said my youngest, who only calls Santa
that when she’s scared of him. Terrified tears come racing out of her eyes to
match those of her 4-year-old sister, who isn’t a fan of the
up-close-and-personal Ho Ho either. My eldest wasn’t crying, but the idea of
sitting on some stranger’s lap didn’t really entice her either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I grabbed the kids and said, “HUDDLE UP!” I pulled them
together like a quarterback pulls together his team when motivating them to
push past their insecurities and help make the game-winning drive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Listen, your mom just wants one picture. ONE PICTURE! You
don’t have to look at Santa. You don’t have to say anything to Santa. You don’t
have to sit on his lap or even acknowledge the fact that came all the way from
the North Pole to Ohio, which I'm sure had at least two layovers, just for you to ignore him. All you have to do is stand
to the side of him and smile at the camera for ONE PICTURE. Can you guys do
that for me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After hearing how important this was to me and how reasonable deal this deal was, all three of
them nodded in agreement with a resounding, “NO!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whoever stands next to Santa and lets mom take a picture
gets to play Candy Crush on the iPad when we get home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s the story of how we finally got the girls to take
our annual photo with Ho Ho. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><i><br /></i>
<!--[endif]--><i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<sup>1</sup> And the answer to your question is
yes, I still ate them.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<sup>2</sup> Though if we did, I’d like to think
that we’d name him Zach Morris.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-62587516597275925442013-12-18T09:00:00.000-05:002013-12-20T13:05:55.561-05:00Everyone Needs an Aunt Ali<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5p8XC8vjtlN1ckatbNeYXpoxvAwX_DzlJkkLBa321Fk7x3w1jnNg1Vt1f-L8YFWz8f2oJQfGJxrcyQtJ6Ju_vN4qoqA4Ie-KbQ09qyr0OSU55tEits-Tr8Vbn8WUfQvan13q9/s1600/Ali-Ella-1-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5p8XC8vjtlN1ckatbNeYXpoxvAwX_DzlJkkLBa321Fk7x3w1jnNg1Vt1f-L8YFWz8f2oJQfGJxrcyQtJ6Ju_vN4qoqA4Ie-KbQ09qyr0OSU55tEits-Tr8Vbn8WUfQvan13q9/s320/Ali-Ella-1-web.jpg" width="240" /></a><i>With the amazing story of my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and niece/goddaughter showing up everywhere on the web recently (originating on the Today Show's <a href="http://www.today.com/news/moms-memory-lives-sweet-dad-daughter-photos-2D11741832" target="_blank">Mom's memory lives on in sweet dad, daughter photos</a> and being featured as a wonderful segment <a href="http://www.today.com/video/today/53881229#53881229" target="_blank">here</a>), I thought I'd re-share this tribute to her. I'm as proud of it as anything I've posted to TheLifeOfDad, as she told me it was her favorite column I'd ever written. (I tear up every time I reread it.) Thanks to Ben and Olivia for keeping her legacy of love alive. </i><br />
<br />
My daughters are incredibly lucky because they have three amazing aunts. They have my wife's youngest sister, Aunt Melanie, who is a professional photographer and is constantly taking great pictures of our kids. They have my sister, Aunt Jennie, who is a social worker and can explain to the kids exactly how awesome I have always been—oh, I was pretty awesome at 7 years old "flying" around our house in a <a href="http://thelifeofdad.martybeets.com/photos/GreatestAmericanHero-Katt_288x288.jpg" target="_blank"><b>Greatest American Hero cape</b></a>. (Wonder if they make those in adult sizes?) And they have my wife's middle sister, Aunt Ali, who is … well, Aunt Ali is lot of things. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is fun.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is funny.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is forgetful and will leave her phone at your house, even when the reason for her visit was to pick up the purse she left there the night before. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is the best at making cupcakes—especially ones that look like animals.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiud-GW-lLfZXK5Ul_Ap86hg2j3s6GXel2k8hnah0b5STjf_vgFllyyDScVlxgcMIB6o26j3LMNGdvwTr_WWYC_rf-BFBcIj2qQSzstP77ShfMH8SwBJ-4xhVYvYSnqD7aODHF9/s1600/Ali-Ella-2-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiud-GW-lLfZXK5Ul_Ap86hg2j3s6GXel2k8hnah0b5STjf_vgFllyyDScVlxgcMIB6o26j3LMNGdvwTr_WWYC_rf-BFBcIj2qQSzstP77ShfMH8SwBJ-4xhVYvYSnqD7aODHF9/s1600/Ali-Ella-2-web.jpg" /></a>Aunt Ali is a lover of cotton candy, and will sneak your kids some assuming she hasn't eaten it all on her drive over. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a magnificent manicurist, sculpting your daughters' dirty kid nails into beautiful little girl nails. A layer of Aunt Ali's polish later—purple for Ella, blue for Anna—and both girls feel grown up … and special. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a hilarious commenter on Facebook, making you laugh even when calling you "Uncle Creepo" (<a href="http://thelifeofdad.martybeets.com/photos/ali-funny-comment.png" target="_blank"><b>see here</b></a>). <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is silly. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a good cook—so much so that you will actually <i>want</i> to eat your vegetables.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2ChvVLFiTr53goC3XthaD80CuFNzFnr6tg5RknGmqImwveYPnL8MMgFXAPoYOCTSn5eybHGgl-EivSP_DZwuIdcCClxD_kj3WbRdC0eEI6OGI9_tIcr27RJpW4FdyHzEYDVj/s1600/ali-anna-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2ChvVLFiTr53goC3XthaD80CuFNzFnr6tg5RknGmqImwveYPnL8MMgFXAPoYOCTSn5eybHGgl-EivSP_DZwuIdcCClxD_kj3WbRdC0eEI6OGI9_tIcr27RJpW4FdyHzEYDVj/s320/ali-anna-web.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
Aunt Ali is a Michael Jackson fan and makes your kids want to learn to moonwalk just to impress her.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is an excellent housekeeper, helping you time and time again after each kid is born. She asks for nothing in return, save maybe a few minutes of holding your baby—and a few sugary treats. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is good at sharing and letting her sisters “shop” in her closet every time they are in dire need of something pink.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is almost always wearing pink. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is seriously almost always wearing pink.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is—wait, I don't think you understand. Roughly 98% of her wardrobe is pink. The other 2% are clothes she borrowed from <i>her</i> sisters and never gave back.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is nicknamed UB by your friends, which stands for "Ultra Babe."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-sgcEDgHTGdFwAvp1_S92jgnqilqfgE3V484hJDq2G5sek1k6YdImdi9CtRhl3EX82z70hnHGWUjVKzVLeXIcOu2EhXhzjLQ8Ibwmo2q3FpzkOWiC2BycbvtWrakqCHVxCVM/s1600/ali-nori-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-sgcEDgHTGdFwAvp1_S92jgnqilqfgE3V484hJDq2G5sek1k6YdImdi9CtRhl3EX82z70hnHGWUjVKzVLeXIcOu2EhXhzjLQ8Ibwmo2q3FpzkOWiC2BycbvtWrakqCHVxCVM/s320/ali-nori-web.jpg" width="246" /></a>Aunt Ali is a great finder of the best kids books (except for the time she found us the bathroom book <i>The Gas We Pass</i>, which I've only kind of forgiven her for).<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is an excellent reader, with the perfect arm-length-to-book ratio, allowing room for a couple of kids to cuddle on in. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a hell of a lot smarter than she often gets credit for.<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a great bargain shopper and can find deals on anything. EDITOR NOTE: This does not mean she actually spends less money (which her hubby would prefer), only that she buys more things (like terrible bathroom books for your kids).<br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is a wonderful mother. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiixhgx6tAD6nf9F69ALYymX6Qq7fejh_afk4vNd3a844mMmFtMFRFU5OX-QtwdwYcU6KHchtbUDfGMy8LO9JVe5d7e-ugIbKwbZ-mtuPs6YatjcZdowHlFO_ka4MEUM_jwPZ/s1600/ali-mia-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZiixhgx6tAD6nf9F69ALYymX6Qq7fejh_afk4vNd3a844mMmFtMFRFU5OX-QtwdwYcU6KHchtbUDfGMy8LO9JVe5d7e-ugIbKwbZ-mtuPs6YatjcZdowHlFO_ka4MEUM_jwPZ/s320/ali-mia-web.jpg" width="217" /></a>Aunt Ali is a fan of bows and headbands and will buy hundreds of thousands of them for your daughters. If you aren't careful, she'll buy one for you too, even if your name is "Dad."<br />
<br />
Most important, Aunt Ali is, and always will be, an important part of our lives.<br />
<br />
If you were lucky, you had an Aunt Ali growing up. If you are luckier, your kids will have one. She does nothing but put smiles on the faces of everyone she meets. Aunt Ali memories are the best of the best and remind you every day how much you should celebrate life and love the people around you—even if that means you have to moonwalk across the floor and hug them with sticky cotton candy fingers. <br />
<br />
Aunt Ali is an amazing person. That's why we all love our Aunt Ali so much. <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-54233806714613028702013-12-11T08:00:00.000-05:002013-12-11T09:28:54.084-05:008 Reasons to Build a Snowman With Your Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOgdEfbsZZCYLFuuPZcpKOntMZiAtr7v-lC_gOsTovP7ItT318dwVOgR3X5rYOEIhOq8vu66HlX8LSkQLDyujMtWVD304BtvvQji-M4u4Y3m4AkJGIlfAAfESuqu6pILVjfJc/s1600/bellbivdevoe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieOgdEfbsZZCYLFuuPZcpKOntMZiAtr7v-lC_gOsTovP7ItT318dwVOgR3X5rYOEIhOq8vu66HlX8LSkQLDyujMtWVD304BtvvQji-M4u4Y3m4AkJGIlfAAfESuqu6pILVjfJc/s320/bellbivdevoe.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">You should
never pass up an opportunity to build a snowman with your kids. Here’s why.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">1. The Mess
Stays Outside</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Play D’oh.
Bocks. Dollhouses. What do all of these items have in common (other than, at
one time or another, each has been licked by one of your kids)? They, along
with many other indoor activities, leave a giant mess inside the house that
needs to be cleaned up. When you are building a snowman it’s typically outside,
so you don’t have to clean up—it all just melts away. And if you are one of
those rare breeds that builds indoor snowmen, I ask that you stay away from me
and my family. You're what my daughters would call "cray-cray."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span>
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">2. It’s Hours
of Entertainment</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">No matter how
long you’ve been packing snow into the body of a snowman, there’s always more
snow you can add. <i>Is the base big enough? No way, we can make it BIGGER! Is
he tall enough? No way, we can make him TALLER! Is Dad’s right knee frozen
enough from kneeling down in the snow for the past 75 minutes? No way, we can
make it FROZEN-ER!</i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">3. It Keeps
Them From Trying to Eat the Snow</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">If your kids
are like mine, they will look at snow and immediately think “I wonder what that
tastes like?” without taking into consideration the germs that may be
manifesting. This also applies to pool water, <i>your</i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> toothbrush, and candy that’s fallen on
the floor (the accumulated fuzz on it is apparently not a deterrent). Now I’m all for catching snowflakes on
your tongue, but once it’s landed and set up shop in my yard, I consider it
about as sanitary as a clogged drainpipe. So the moment they attempt to grab that
first bite, yell, “Let’s make a snowman!” It's the only way to get them to pass on that snow sandwich other than bribing them with candy (fuzz optional). </span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">4. It Teaches
Teamwork</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">There’s no
such thing as “too many hands" patting snow at the same time. There is such a thing as too many people fighting over the bucket you’re using to transport the
snow from one end of the yard to the other. Teamwork allows all the kids to
carry the bucket at the same time without bickering or arguing. This will last
until one of them has to pee and inevitably wants to take the bucket with them. The only solution: All kids go to the bathroom together so they can continue to each keep one hand on the bucket.</span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">5. It
Encourages Creativity</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><i>For eyes,
should we use bottle caps or Connect Four piece? Should we give the snowman a
scarf or stick with the traditional three-button vest down the front? Should we
name him Frosty or Blizzard?</i> All these decisions require some thinking and some
discussion between you and your kids. The more you can teach kids to engage in
creativity, the more likely they will be to solve problems on their own as they
grow older. Also, it’s how you end up with a hat-wearing snowman named Bell Biv
Devoe. </span><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">6. It Keeps
Them Preoccupied So You Can Shovel the Driveway</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">My kids like
to help me, especially when I’m doing chores. This is particularly true when I’m
trying to quickly shovel snow off the driveway. But they either 1) want to use
my big, heavy shovel which they can barely lift, thus not allowing me to shovel
or 2) use their kid-sized shovel to lift snow and dump it right back in the
spots I just cleared. When they aren’t "helping," I can typically shovel the
driveway--and the sidewalks--in about 15 minutes. When they do help me, it
takes so long that I’d be better served just waiting until summer for the snow
to melt. By starting a snowman, the kids will continue to pack wads of snow
into his side and let you shovel the driveway in peace. </span><br />
<br />
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">7. It's Nearly Impossible to Listen to Justin Bieber When Building a Snowmen</span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">This is a big win for parents across the world. Except for maybe Justin Bieber's mom, who probably likes hearing her son sing. (I wonder if she also likes all the pelvic thrusting he does?)</span><br />
<br />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">8. It’s fun. </span></h3>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;">For most of
us, the opportunity to build a snowman is rare. Not every winter brings enough
snow and not every snow falls at a convenient time when you aren’t working or
driving the kids to dance lessons or engrossed in the most epic game of Candy Crush. You’ll create memories that you’ll discuss
later in the evening over warm cups of hot cocoa and later in life when they
are packing up to head back to college after Christmas break. And the big
payday will come years down the road, when your children have children of their own
and text you a photo of your grandkids building a snowman with the caption, “Look
who came to visit our house: Bell Biv Devoe.”</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"><br /></span></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-64404698648111756502013-11-26T10:50:00.000-05:002013-11-28T10:42:55.852-05:0012 Things I'm Thankful For <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijd5vtldg1RsUmhVkEpok8UIVb1mwZNX1cjSa1ftfkqMNYMXFzRZ1QpZx5s96-VgsVeV3UzJSUFU7TT6puyB5xrfgh2BAL7dWAm_TQ2cRvFuHo5Az0JDErXVcmOLUw1XE1DHbG/s1600/TLOD-thanksgiving.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijd5vtldg1RsUmhVkEpok8UIVb1mwZNX1cjSa1ftfkqMNYMXFzRZ1QpZx5s96-VgsVeV3UzJSUFU7TT6puyB5xrfgh2BAL7dWAm_TQ2cRvFuHo5Az0JDErXVcmOLUw1XE1DHbG/s320/TLOD-thanksgiving.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
With Thanksgiving here, I asked my daughters what they were
most thankful for. My eldest daughter said "Family," a wise decision
by someone who was plotting her way to negotiate a second piece of chocolate
from the after-dinner candy bowl. My middle daughter said "light,"
another good choice because without it we'd have to play on the iPad in the
dark—and that's just barbaric! And my youngest daughter, who is a mature 2 ½
years old, said she is most thankful for "Farts."
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Though I'm unclear if she meant her own or others'.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a lot to be thankful for this year. My wife and kids
are healthy. I had my first book published and it's selling amazingly
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rubbed elbows with Nick
Clooney, father of George Clooney, which means George and I are practically
BFFs now. I moved into a new wonderful house after <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2013/10/saying-goodbye-part-2-my-own-first-house.html" target="_blank">saying goodbye</a> to an old
wonderful house. Really, I'm not short on things to be thankful for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I've made a list. I want something to help me remember
all these wonderful things, that way the next time my daughters are in the car
screaming at each other at the top of their lungs over who gets to use the pink
Magna Doodle and who gets "stuck" with the brown one, I can reference
my list, smile and know that life is too good for me to pull over and leave
them on the side of the road. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpK1SS4WuASSPDHucasXDi0ODbDyG8seDYXDgZoYZ1eEENV3k_2iXYDOq4id0qnE2XqAGY_JpAcLRN_zPVaOD1OucmmJfxhserMjgL0N3h2WOPICZISe34NlJZsXpmFqrE2tW/s1600/TheLifeOfDad_Thanksgiving.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpK1SS4WuASSPDHucasXDi0ODbDyG8seDYXDgZoYZ1eEENV3k_2iXYDOq4id0qnE2XqAGY_JpAcLRN_zPVaOD1OucmmJfxhserMjgL0N3h2WOPICZISe34NlJZsXpmFqrE2tW/s320/TheLifeOfDad_Thanksgiving.gif" width="251" /></a></div>
<b>Here's what I'm thankful for:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm thankful for the "like" button on Facebook.
Without it, I'm unsure how I would ever be able to judge my self worth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for walk-in closets. They provide ample room
to camouflage this giant body during epic games of <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2011/04/why-dads-dont-like-hide-and-seek.html" target="_blank">hide and seek</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for Christmas music in August. How else would
I know that Christmas is only 4 months away! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for church. I mean, if God can't keep my kids
quiet for an hour, what hope do <i>I </i>have?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for eggnog breath. When my wife is out of
line, I have very few resources to punish her. But thanks to two glorious
months around the holidays, her unfathomable dislike of eggnog and three
daughters who absolutely <i>LOVE</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> eggnog, I
can keep her in check. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for having a first name that is easy to spell
correctly because, apparently, my last name is impossible to spell
correctly. It's true. Just ask anyone who's ever sent me junk mail. (And they
wonder why I never respond to their free-trails.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for naptime. This needs no explanation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for Movember. Prostate Cancer is a serious
thing and we need to find a cure. Also, it gives me <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxN7ECWHGhNig0QOpQOep8I59zNXvNOAV-MGKwwI6GQLsyt6Mxe6ppL6Wwf_gY1sMARsN9KMATcJWVZZvcSkuxnNrCHsEwayoV-kmLeaHAlUNuvDrnTDL6aoLL7memd4rEQVm7/s1600/TLOD-movember2013.jpg" target="_blank">an excuse to do this</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for Candy Crush. Without it, I'm not sure what
my wife would do with all her free time. (Perhaps she could learn to acquire a
taste for eggnog?)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am thankful for Advil, which helps relieve the back pain
from trying to hold kids over public restroom toilets without letting any part
of them actually touch public restroom toilets. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am thankful for my family and friends. From my wife to my
kids to my mom to my grandparents to my sister (and her family) to my in-laws
(and their families) to my aunts, uncles, cousins, friends from grade school,
high school, college, Chicago and more—you all left 5-Star reviews of my book
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl on Amazon</a>, right? <i>Right?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> If not, you're all dead to me. </span></div>
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And finally …</div>
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<br /></div>
I'm thankful for you, the reader, and the generous time you
spend reading my blog. Whether you're reading it at home, at work, or in the
bathroom, or if you just leave it open in your browser all the time to hide all
the porn from your spouse, know that I am forever grateful that you turn to
this site for a few laughs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy Thanksgiving. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="color: #6aa84f;">ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS): </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
<b>*****</b>*<b> </b><br />
<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-42096095599246149162013-11-12T12:15:00.000-05:002013-11-12T15:41:25.007-05:00Packing a Suitcase and the Car: A Dad’s Epic Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WaaHraV78l4SKiwbHJdsj709NPjBBdx4Qo8nXNYKObYG4wAaAN-rjp4karCELXRbtSrRX9pSjTsF6yf6Qg9g7WCjlMCsfGunDHHPFnBr8bJUxjhyphenhyphenjkEVaBTkXNI53HtoXpNS/s1600/TLOD-suitcase-disney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WaaHraV78l4SKiwbHJdsj709NPjBBdx4Qo8nXNYKObYG4wAaAN-rjp4karCELXRbtSrRX9pSjTsF6yf6Qg9g7WCjlMCsfGunDHHPFnBr8bJUxjhyphenhyphenjkEVaBTkXNI53HtoXpNS/s320/TLOD-suitcase-disney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When it comes to family vacations, Dads are only in charge of packing two things: their own suitcases and the car. Sure, we offer to pack for our wives—quite the kind gesture, if I do say so myself—though time and time again our wives politely decline, claiming that if we were allowed to pack for them they’d arrive at their vacation destination with nothing but lingerie and a box of Combos. They make this ill-advised assumption without taking into consideration the fact that Combos are delicious.
<br />
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Super delicious. </div>
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We also altruistically offer to pack for the kids, but that
gets shot down too. I’m unclear why this gets such an emphatic <i>NO! </i><span style="font-style: normal;">from our wives, but I can only assume it’s because
our wives are thoughtful and know how exhausted we are from a long day of
debating which wide receiver to pick up off the free agent wire in our fantasy
football league. I’m sure our wives are also confident that this is the year
our team, </span><i>Men at Twerk</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, will
break that streak of 17 consecutive losing seasons and, quite possibly, finish
at .500. (Talk about a Cinderella story!) </span></div>
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So, like all dads, when we recently started getting ready
for our trip to Disney, I focused all my non-fantasy football league energy
toward packing my suitcase and packing the car. With our trip only days away,
my wife gave me a deadline to have my bag packed and ready to go.</div>
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“No problem,” I said, as I meticulously piled undershirts,
underwear, socks, shirts and shorts on the bed in neat little rows—a long way
removed from my college days where I grabbed a pile of clothes from my (kind
of) clean laundry basket and shoved it in my bookbag, hoping that there were at
least one pair of boxers and one t-shirt (bonus points if it was my awesome
Blink-182 concert-Tee<sup>1</sup>).</div>
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I was taking this trip seriously, letting my wife know I was
grown up and could handle the responsibility of packing appropriate clothes for
our trip. I left my Reds jerseys behind in favor of stain-free shirts that
would not only be comfortable, but would look nice in family photos with
Mickey, Minnie and Donald. I scrapped the athletic shorts and opted for cargos,
allowing for enough pocket space to store tissues, sunscreen, Advil and all the
other necessities of a trip to Disney. I even packed two spare pairs of
undergarments “just in case.” That’s right, I’m now a prepared “just in case”
guy, ready to handle any spills or unexpected kid vomit tossed my way. I spent
at least two hours debating through clothes and packing what I believe most
would call <i>The Perfect Suitcase</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.<sup>2</sup>
And it was zipped up and ready to go, sitting right by the dresser with three
days to spare before our departure. </span></div>
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Next job was to pack up the car. Packing a car is an
underappreciated art-form, and only celebrated by Dads who recognize how
difficult it is to pack everything you own except for the microwave—and believe
me, when you have kids, your wife will pack everything you own except for the
microwave—into the trunk of a car. Thankfully I have the luxury of owning a
minivan, which means my wife also packs the microwave. </div>
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This is where all those years of playing Tetris (and your
arthritic Nintendo thumb) finally pay off, as you maneuver piece of luggage in
between piece of luggage, squeezing snack bags and DVD bags and potty seats all
around, piecing it all together until you can push down the trunk door and it
goes click. Ah, that sweet click. That sound signifies a masterful
accomplishment, one that you will revel in as you recall every teacher who ever
said “Frankly, Mr. Klems, video games are a complete waste of your time.” (Ah
Mr. Miller, how wrong you were.) </div>
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My wife, impressed for the first time in our 8-year
marriage, showed her heartfelt appreciation through her words: </div>
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“If you forgot something, you’re a dead man.”</div>
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“I love you too.” </div>
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For the 15-hour drive to Disney, I was proud of myself.
Sure, we didn’t pack as many Combos as I would have liked and <i>Men at Twerk</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> were on the verge of another mid-season meltdown, but my suitcase was packed and the car was skillfully loaded—all thanks to me.
With so much stress before any major trip, it’s important as a husband (and a Dad) to take care of everything your wife asks. If you can alleviate a little stress, even if it’s simply by taking care of yourself, then you should do it. And when you arrive at your destination, the stress will be over and the fun
part begins. </span></div>
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Unless, of course, you arrive at your destination that’s 15
hours away from home and realize something is missing in the trunk of your car.
And that something is this:</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHBPTKDBbXqIfqRT7Mfl9A0wVRXaHYEyboBeuFf9DjPj_ZFWq_nqrynbEB-if2irj2lR66HqvlrWfBnsHzen6YHEHPGuvrtz3LllDgnqfE08TVU66FaYiAXYS2Yi9PrlB2mdV/s1600/TLOD-suitcase-disney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHBPTKDBbXqIfqRT7Mfl9A0wVRXaHYEyboBeuFf9DjPj_ZFWq_nqrynbEB-if2irj2lR66HqvlrWfBnsHzen6YHEHPGuvrtz3LllDgnqfE08TVU66FaYiAXYS2Yi9PrlB2mdV/s320/TLOD-suitcase-disney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>The Perfect Suitcase</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Zipped up and ready to go. Sitting right by the dresser. <sup>3</sup></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"><b><i>[Like this post? <a href="http://clicktotweet.com/p8c9W" target="_blank">Tweet it!</a>]</i></b></span>
</div>
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<i><sup>1</sup> </i>Unless, of course, the road trip was
to see a Blink-182 concert. Rock-show etiquette clearly states that you can’t
wear a concert-Tee of the band that you are going to see. If you do, everyone
else there will consider you a <i>total</i> loser. EXCEPTION: Rick Springfield Tees at
Rick Springfield concerts. (If this is you, clearly being judged is the least
of your concerns.) </div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<i><sup>2</sup> </i>Oooooh … sounds like a potential
name of next year’s sub-.500 fantasy football team! </div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
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<i><sup>3</sup> </i>The Grant Street Target in Orlando is
now $150 richer. </div>
</blockquote>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="color: #6aa84f;">ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS): </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-brian-a-klems/1112926961" target="_blank">Barnes & Noble</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
<br />
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<b>* Subscribe to The Life of Dad via <a href="http://www.feedblitz.com/f/f.fbz?AddNewUserDirect">email</a> or <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/thelifeofdad">RSS feed</a>!</b>
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<b>* Also, follow me on Twitter @<a href="http://www.twitter.com/brianklems" target="_blank">BrianKlems</a>. I promise to occasionally say funny things. </b><br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-89611577757237820652013-10-30T14:30:00.000-04:002013-10-30T14:30:52.355-04:00So What Does the Most Awesome Dad Dress As For Halloween?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>Captain Handsome</i>, of course. (With my sidekick, Supergirl!) </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1zFCgdQoJKNeR7spYb34MepWSAwHFwa5AhKIJ5V_FHuSwd2yoCxrYwiwtA-WzSRN9buqxsRbiuEe04LkXllYGbJpRqEMqBRjxn7x4DqCCWj5HaIGbmnow7pa95ivON95IY8f/s1600/TLOD-halloween2013-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1zFCgdQoJKNeR7spYb34MepWSAwHFwa5AhKIJ5V_FHuSwd2yoCxrYwiwtA-WzSRN9buqxsRbiuEe04LkXllYGbJpRqEMqBRjxn7x4DqCCWj5HaIGbmnow7pa95ivON95IY8f/s1600/TLOD-halloween2013-50.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It's worth noting that my Supergirl sidekick made me search around the house for a blue shirt, red shorts, black tights (yes, I own a pair) and a black long-sleeve t-shirt just so we'd match. She knows a thing or two about looking good. Perhaps I'm actually her sidekick.<br />
<br />
Also, The Most Awesome Mom went as Mickey Mouse to complement our little Minnie. It's safe to say there is no cheese left in our house.<br />
<br />
Finally, our eldest daughter decided to buck the duo trend and go as a cheerleader. This marks the first year she's chosen to be anything other than a Disney princess, so I consider this a big win. Plus, the pompoms can double as a weapon (The U.S. government reports that pompoms are the #2 cause of eyeball-poke-related injuries, just after the Three Stooges Double-Finger Point). Only one member of our family has avoided the injury thus far. HINT: It's the person holding the pompoms.<br />
<br />
Happy Halloween everybody! Would love to know what you and your family are dressing as this holiday season. <br />
<br />Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-25037766561541981642013-10-18T12:00:00.000-04:002013-10-18T16:45:35.595-04:00How Handiwork Can Bring Dads and Daughters Closer Together<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw2whUAc267HCVHzA3vjl4ffFZmp-j3unSalj6oCshQSojr4NSLiwKDjS2MVDcj9bQe33r6vySn35s5kPUlF3xHaEImsTUr_Odf1DoGjcPSACAc-IMuAFJbFxWmQoUXUfO5CH/s1600/TLOD-When-Kids-Help.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdw2whUAc267HCVHzA3vjl4ffFZmp-j3unSalj6oCshQSojr4NSLiwKDjS2MVDcj9bQe33r6vySn35s5kPUlF3xHaEImsTUr_Odf1DoGjcPSACAc-IMuAFJbFxWmQoUXUfO5CH/s320/TLOD-When-Kids-Help.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was young, I used to help my dad fix everything.
Broken leg on the table? We fixed it. Cracked mortar in the wall? We fixed it.
Leaky hose in the back of the toilet tank? We made it worse and, after six
trips to Home Depot and lots of muffled swearing, we called a plumbing
professional who gave me a lollipop and gave my dad a bill that led to
unmuffled swearing. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look back on some of those wonderful memories all the
time. I remember being the greatest helper in the world and, if it weren’t for
me, I assume my dad would have never been able to fix anything on his own. I
was just that awesome. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty-some-odd-years later, as a Dad, I’m now in charge of
the fixes around my house. I also am lucky enough to employ several of my own
little helpers who are eager to lend a hand in any way they can, especially if
it involves hammering on my ankles. They are excited and ready to do anything I
ask. “Bring me the screwdriver,” I say. “Yes Dad!” they say, and within
seconds, one of them enthusiastically hands me a wrench.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I sat down to replace the bathroom faucet, it wasn’t
just me, it was me and my team. My HandyKlems Team. We were a team built on
determination, intelligence and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. We could tackle any
project at hand, so long as wasn’t during naptime. And, other than the
occasional pee break, we’d spend every minute working until the job was
complete (mainly because the iPad was out of battery). We were ready. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stared at that leaky faucet for awhile, trying to diagnose
the problem. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “I think the washer seal has gone bad. What do you
think?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helper #1: “I think I should hammer it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helper #2: “I think we should hit it with this thing.”
(Points to crowbar.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helper #3: “My favorite color is green.”<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After careful inspection, the vote was 4-1 in favor of
hitting it with something. Unfortunately our house is not a democracy, so my
wife’s vote overruled ours and we were forced to replace the faucet instead. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I climbed under sink, squeezing into a bathroom cabinet the
size of a football helmet, slowly unbolting everything that needed unbolting.
My team sat around me, one of them watching my every move, one of them trying
to squeeze in the cabinet with me and one of them standing on my legs as if they
were a step stool. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I help?” says the one squeezed into the cabinet with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not right now, sweetie. I promise I’ll let you help in a
minute.”<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She “helps” anyway by twisting the shut-off valve and
letting water spray all over us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Hey, why does <i>she</i> get to help?” asks Helper #2 who <i>was</i>
watching my every move but is now, for no particular reason, unrolling the
toilet paper and wrapping it around her arm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Turning on the water when the valve is unhooked is not helping.”<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just then, Helper #3 decides to jump, landing back on my
shins, ripping out every hair follicle on my legs with the rubbery sole of her
size 5 shoes. I scream. She screams. I hit my head in a pipe. Helper #1, now
leaning on my throat, manages to get her hand caught in one of the holes now
vacated by the faucet. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s believed that Winston Churchill coined the phrase, “I
have nothing to offer but blood, sweat and tears,” but this is not true. The
phrase was first uttered by a Dad who was trying to fix the bathroom
sink with his kids. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did we eventually fix the faucet? Sure. Were the kids
excited to use the new, fun, fancy faucet? Not really. They were too busy pretending
the tools were telephones. But after the struggle I went through and the battle
wounds I suffered, I felt mighty proud of that faucet. Team HandyKlems came
through in the clutch once again. My dad would have been proud.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know I want you to replace the other bathroom faucet
too, right?” my wife said. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unmuffled swearing commence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-79377625584629069492013-10-07T16:00:00.000-04:002013-10-08T12:44:31.121-04:00Saying Goodbye Part 2 - My Own First House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_js5nNoU7og2K5qXbia1Ey0J5H-DNvp2mf07vzxJZp6Ks63ylfCHWX_xmEoSojgxfV_jyccz4bcbO8yxvAkadT3o8hyphenhyphenbAGgGSeYxR-ingqGK3BYmF4NQuiZqydXTNM4Pr7ur/s1600/TLOD-Minmor-Sold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_js5nNoU7og2K5qXbia1Ey0J5H-DNvp2mf07vzxJZp6Ks63ylfCHWX_xmEoSojgxfV_jyccz4bcbO8yxvAkadT3o8hyphenhyphenbAGgGSeYxR-ingqGK3BYmF4NQuiZqydXTNM4Pr7ur/s320/TLOD-Minmor-Sold.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Recently <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2013/09/saying-goodbye-part-1-my-parents-house.html" target="_blank">I said goodbye to my parents’ house</a>. The same week I had to say goodbye to
the only other house I had ever called home—the first house my wife and I purchased
together. The Minmor House.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trying to buy a home with your wife is much like like naming
a baby with your wife. After careful discussion, consideration and reading
every book there is on the topic, you will, inevitably, lose your mind. She’ll
rule out every house you like because it “just doesn’t feel right” or “smells
funny” or “reminds her of that jerk she dated in high school.”
She’ll veto the house that you love without taking into consideration your
practical arguments like “it’s really cheap” and paternal instincts like “In
this house I could envision myself raising a finely groomed mustache.” <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when we stumbled upon our two-story house in St. Bernard,
we decided to buy it because—well, it depends who you ask. My wife will tell
you we bought it because she was tired of looking at houses and this one
“didn’t suck that bad.” If you asked me, I’d tell you we bought it because my
wife passed on a nicer house that, in her words, “lacked character,” which is
code for “looks like every other cookie-cutter house.” (Keep in mind it’s also
code for “has two-car garage,” which should always trump “character.”) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, it clearly wasn’t our dream house when we first
moved it. It needed fresh coats of paint. It lived behind overgrown bushes.
Only half the windows worked. It had one of those old, giant, metal antenna’s
sticking out from the roof like the mast of an old pirate ship. The electrical
outlets had only two-prongs, a metaphor for a house that didn’t want to adapt
to the 21st century. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moving in felt like taking over 0-16 football team and being
asked to mold it into a playoff contender. And we did just that. We ripped up
wallpaper and laid down carpet. We re-glazed tile and replaced all light
fixtures. We reseeded bald spots with grass and planted beautiful flowers in
order to fool our new neighbors into thinking that we were professional
horticulturalists (something they’d wise up to over the next eight years when
I’d routinely cut our grass two weeks later than I should). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Minmor House will forever be known to me as the home
where I started my family. <i>My</i> family. It is the first home our daughters ever
knew, as we brought each one of them home from the hospital and proceeded not
to sleep for the next 6 months. I can remember the spot where Ella crawled for
the very first time, determined to get the TV remote <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2008/02/indiana-klems-and-holy-remote.html">like she was
Indiana Jones</a> in pursuit of the grail. I remember the time I spent
hours with Anna looking under the dresser because she was convinced SpongeBob
was under there—<a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2010/09/searching-for-spongebob.html" target="_blank">and she was right</a>! I remember the exhaustion I felt trying to keep up with Mia,
chasing her around our circular first floor as <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2013/01/when-toddlers-develop-1000-hands.html">she knocked
over everything</a> in her way. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This didn’t start out as our dream house, but over time it
became the house that made all our dreams come true. And unlike my parents’
house where we were forced to say goodbye, we were choosing to say goodbye to
the Minmor House in an “It’s not you, it’s us” kind of a way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Dear Minmor House,</i><br />
<i><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It’s not you, it’s us. You’ve been loving and caring. You’ve
forgiven us for tracking softball field mud across your floors and shooting
baby vomit on your walls. You’ve worked hard to make this work, and I’m forever
grateful for that.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>But we’re to a point in our lives now where we need more. We
need another bedroom. We need a room where our toys can live freely and are
less likely to puncture our feet. We need two full bathrooms so that we (my
wife and daughters) don’t need four hours to get ready for events and can do it
in the reasonable time of “under two.” Most important, we need a house that has
kids on the street—and that’s just something you can’t fake, no matter how hard
you try.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>We will miss you dearly, but it’s time to move on. In the
words of the future Rock and Roll Hall of Fame rock legends Fall Out Boy, Thnks
Fr Th Mmrs. </i></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<blockquote>
<i>Team Klems</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK, so I didn’t actually leave a note (mainly because I had
already packed up all the pens into moving boxes), but I did walk around to
each room in the house and said goodbye. I had my middle daughter Anna with me
as we made our final trip moving stuff out of the house. I carried her around
from room to room, having trouble letting go—of the house, of her. I couldn’t
help but remember all the laughter and smiles we’d had in that house. And, for
some reason, that brought on tears. When Anna asked me why I was crying I said,
“I’m going to miss this place.” <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She leaned in and gave me a big hug. It was the best
farewell hug I could have ever imagined. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Dad?” <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes sweetheart,” I said as I wiped tears from my eyes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s time to go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And she was right. Nevermind that she was too young to
appreciate the moment. Nevermind that her mature comment had less to do with
her astute intuition and more with her need to pee really, really badly. It was
time for us to go and to start the next chapter in our lives, the two-car-garage
chapter in our lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
But I’ll always take the memories of the Minmor House with me, wherever I go.
After all, any house can be your dream house so long as it’s filled with people
you love. </div>
<br />
<br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-42728952105479512452013-09-18T13:30:00.000-04:002013-10-07T15:58:41.694-04:00Saying Goodbye Part 1 - My Parents' House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXbbJucpHBsgRr0UQ5vDBZ-Y4t6BbxkKht7GccEpP-AM-0F0pNh-IaLbS9oxpQ__V6UR_clR3Hut4QQ9Kt9y-YFkNrqI4cAop_XoemIGaoFCgWeGQL4koR5uhbAX1Wis53dbc/s1600/TLOD-quebechouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQXbbJucpHBsgRr0UQ5vDBZ-Y4t6BbxkKht7GccEpP-AM-0F0pNh-IaLbS9oxpQ__V6UR_clR3Hut4QQ9Kt9y-YFkNrqI4cAop_XoemIGaoFCgWeGQL4koR5uhbAX1Wis53dbc/s1600/TLOD-quebechouse.jpg" /></a></div>
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.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<h3>
Saying Goodbye to My Parents’ House</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <strike>terrified</strike> impressed.<br />
<br />
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). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <a href="http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/blog_post_349_width/2013/01/kris_kross.jpg" target="_blank">Totally Krossed Out</a> ... 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.<br />
<br />
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“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.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Here is <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2013/10/saying-goodbye-part-2-my-own-first-house.html" target="_blank">Saying Goodbye Part 2 - My Own First House.</a></i><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-41325155746672397862013-08-16T11:30:00.000-04:002013-08-16T13:24:18.689-04:00The Phone Bazinga: Why Kids Get Extra Loud When You’re On the Phone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9X785xME0frhLYVC7uKVlA5okHmgzqJ6UWwNiUJpXm-bl__rTAWs9razlgT2CmkfK1EMcJ-AnIa4opu-wXgIpB8mTb2xI4ogKdhtTbayyiWRP0ZO8ilan1HdJM5xSEF5NRoy/s1600/TLOD-phonebazinga-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv9X785xME0frhLYVC7uKVlA5okHmgzqJ6UWwNiUJpXm-bl__rTAWs9razlgT2CmkfK1EMcJ-AnIa4opu-wXgIpB8mTb2xI4ogKdhtTbayyiWRP0ZO8ilan1HdJM5xSEF5NRoy/s320/TLOD-phonebazinga-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mRlEqyoqKM4" target="_blank">talented off the field too</a>!
I could talk—just talk—for however long I wanted. And I could do it in peace
and quiet.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It. Was. Glorious. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’m a parent, those days are long gone thanks to a
wonder of the world known as <b>The Phone Bazinga</b>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>What’s that? Dad’s on the phone! We must yell at the top of
our lungs!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<i>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! </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
The 5 Principles of The Phone Bazinga:</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. It can happen at your house, in your car, at the
store—anywhere your kids can find you.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2010/11/how-growing-mustache-changed-my-life.html" target="_blank">grow back your mustache</a>
(because she doesn’t like things that are awesome).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
5. The more important the phone call, the
louder they get. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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!).<br />
<br />
<h3>
Can Phone Bazingas be Stopped? </h3>
</div>
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.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that, my friends, is why the phone companies invented
texting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="color: #6aa84f;">ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS): </b><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-28628673937318398452013-08-09T12:00:00.000-04:002013-08-09T12:39:05.268-04:00Dudes vs. Dads<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
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<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-60309820635940656942013-08-02T14:05:00.002-04:002013-08-02T14:05:45.005-04:00There’s No Place Like Macomb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAWthCIcBUiHfGuoW4PgOtIwTF0VEawlR_1sX2EDqvNSDmPY44wgtwbEUS675bld66sIEA1CNxXVyjyOVLYEgmP3bX1Ig5WOZcs-SUTJHDFpJ0Dz48A3r1JtBR3GvPAvBjMjS/s1600/macomb-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBAWthCIcBUiHfGuoW4PgOtIwTF0VEawlR_1sX2EDqvNSDmPY44wgtwbEUS675bld66sIEA1CNxXVyjyOVLYEgmP3bX1Ig5WOZcs-SUTJHDFpJ0Dz48A3r1JtBR3GvPAvBjMjS/s320/macomb-1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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 <i>Chicago</i>.
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a small place. A very small place. But it’s a place
that’s a <i>big</i> part of my life. <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
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<br /></div>
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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. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sKXO1rL2QocmBuXvMXo35ZyoWzIIvg8p3slw8mrvmqf0hv1JzG89fAoAQqU6FL1Ucxrz1MoQZRrk4aIylC01OhNr6ywXP5dLOcaOUAssWVZURwoHt1xE1KGI3mFvaWW5z_01/s1600/macomb-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sKXO1rL2QocmBuXvMXo35ZyoWzIIvg8p3slw8mrvmqf0hv1JzG89fAoAQqU6FL1Ucxrz1MoQZRrk4aIylC01OhNr6ywXP5dLOcaOUAssWVZURwoHt1xE1KGI3mFvaWW5z_01/s320/macomb-2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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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.” <br />
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She laughed. <br />
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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.” <i>Relaxation</i> isn’t in the <i>Merriam Webster’s
Dictionary for Parents</i>.<br />
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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-<i>filled</i> 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. </div>
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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.</div>
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This got me thinking: We get too caught up in fancy
(expensive) vacations like Disney, trying to give our kids great memories that
we <i>think</i> 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.<br />
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And when it comes to the best vacation memories to me,
there’s no place like Macomb. </div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="color: #6aa84f;">ORDER NOW (GREAT FOR PARENTS): </b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Oh Boy, You're Having a Girl</a></span></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">(A Dad's Survival Guide to Raising Daughters) </a></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.adamsmediastore.com/oh-boy-youre-having-a-girl-u0176" target="_blank">Adams Media</a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781440545450" target="_blank">IndieBound</a></span></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-90251696908721545282013-07-23T13:30:00.000-04:002013-07-23T13:30:00.592-04:00Raising 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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4aoPo7uCf1TNex_7vc2WCXlbjuCEq_MMY1TJoqyXtFLP9ZL1K64EUiaW7IhbQx1PxN7JyRc-li_dhVwkPzLWm7aOnnCjfCBo1QXYGDuLazR-qrg3RyLY5-iTvOcKzITC1AWE/s1600/The-Life-Of-Dad-daughters-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT4aoPo7uCf1TNex_7vc2WCXlbjuCEq_MMY1TJoqyXtFLP9ZL1K64EUiaW7IhbQx1PxN7JyRc-li_dhVwkPzLWm7aOnnCjfCBo1QXYGDuLazR-qrg3RyLY5-iTvOcKzITC1AWE/s400/The-Life-Of-Dad-daughters-01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<table 0="0" 300px="300px" width:=""><tbody>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-69352448741374845442013-07-15T09:03:00.000-04:002013-07-15T10:45:35.465-04:00The 5 Keys to Being a Good New Dad<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPS1BGpnLAxOy85dvD-CLrgEbPB-QY62SVp0axr9ihk16z0rcLu1wBreyzgkH8caHQAMZTBdrxYSaJjtLlPzazgiT1C7Um4Nk52FBcuK0aFi_ESZZcEY4w3czmjdkay6gjCCkK/s1600/TLOD-new-dads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPS1BGpnLAxOy85dvD-CLrgEbPB-QY62SVp0axr9ihk16z0rcLu1wBreyzgkH8caHQAMZTBdrxYSaJjtLlPzazgiT1C7Um4Nk52FBcuK0aFi_ESZZcEY4w3czmjdkay6gjCCkK/s1600/TLOD-new-dads.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
From the minute I walked out of that delivery room and my
own father patted me on the back and said, "Congratulations, <i>Dad</i><span style="font-style: normal;">" I realized that in the blink of an eye my life
had changed forever (and I was in WAY over my head). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">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. </span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b>1. HAND OFF THE CAMCORDER TO SOMEONE ELSE. </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">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. </span></div>
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<b>2. WAKE UP AT 4 A.M.</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
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.</span></div>
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<b>3. MAKE TIME FOR FUNNY FACES. </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
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.</span></div>
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<b>4. YOU'RE GOING TO SCREW UP. FORGIVE YOURSELF. </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> <br />
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). </span></div>
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<b>5. CELEBRATE YOUR VICTORIES. </b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
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 <i>still</i></span> dress my daughters in clothes that don't
match (seriously, I have no idea what color matches what color), but I <i>do</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> 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. </span></div>
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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.</div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1440545456/ref=as_li_qf_sp_asin_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=thliofda-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1440545456" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="none" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUaaDUDD4jZ3ScWsVw-CYM6okxUU3iMHuA2p9ZFdIrelB-Y0vBEyMCYQHoWICDbkiaI6nwUOlQrwWRRtj-Fg9XHbS3SK7FO0j5eM_AEjpmsjokw9bJPLpzLzbnceUe9Y_-k6Sk/s200/Oh-Boy-Youre-Having-A-Girl.jpg" width="130" /></a><b style="color: #6aa84f;">ORDER NOW (GREAT GIFT FOR PARENTS): </b><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-52655046062395793532013-06-21T12:02:00.000-04:002013-06-21T13:18:19.730-04:00Tips on Selling Your House When You Have Kids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xj2zik18FzZksV739PgWyNJD4tWsaHABMbRgzQX_HElhfHn_49W_qDjCzMwJ4riktafoMulWaFXhgLATAq5T0V8qY5B5w5Ww25h89BgyU0PyhywUNqEHzJT2YsaBtKb83-xu/s1600/TLOD-for-sale-sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9xj2zik18FzZksV739PgWyNJD4tWsaHABMbRgzQX_HElhfHn_49W_qDjCzMwJ4riktafoMulWaFXhgLATAq5T0V8qY5B5w5Ww25h89BgyU0PyhywUNqEHzJT2YsaBtKb83-xu/s320/TLOD-for-sale-sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When the coroner gets to "cause of death" on my
death certificate, I'm most certain he will put "tried to sell house while
kids lived there." <i>[Like this quote? <a href="http://clicktotweet.com/m9o69" target="_blank">Tweet it!</a>]</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
This is the first time I’ve ever tried to sell a house. I envisioned it to be a
fairly neat process: Spend a few weeks readying the house, put it on the market
and watch as potential buyers soak up the bright, sparkly gleam of the hardwood
floors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly, I am stupid. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Selling a house while kids live in it is one of the most difficult challenges
you will face as a parent, ranking right up there with Potty Training and
dealing with <a href="http://thelifeofdad.blogspot.com/2011/04/vomit-fairy.html">The Vomit Fairy</a>. Every day is a battle to keep the house tidy.
Kids see a clean room as a blank canvas, ripe for making an artistic mess of
toys, clothes, milk spills and Cheerio crumbs. They have a radar for vacuumed
rugs and break out the muddiest shoes to dance across them. And while it may
take you 20 minutes to scrub all the dried pasta sauce and fingerprints off
your glass dinning room table (I mean, seriously, how do they get hand marks
underneath the middle of the table?), it only takes them one second to apply a
sticker that’s impossible to remove. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Thanks to the misery of trying to sell our house with three kids under the age
of six roaming the halls, I’ve developed five tips to help make life easier on
all parents (with young kids) who are crazy enough to try and sell their house.
Here they are.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
1. Contain the kids in one room.</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kids are going to make a mess no matter where they are, so
it’s best to keep them all quarantined in one room—preferably at grandma’s
house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b>2. Have a bag of snacks prepared at all times.</b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most common hours people want to look at your house are
lunchtime, dinner time and naptime. If my kids aren’t fed and rested at their
normal times, they turn from adorable little angels into fire-breathing demons
who don’t listen, don’t behave and don’t want to listen to sports-talk radio
(UNTHINKABLE!). Having an emergency bag filled with pretzels, Pepperidge Farm
Goldfish and other tasty treats tends to go a long way in lulling the demons
into a mild roar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(And before someone in the crowd says, “Why don’t you just
go out to eat?” know that we tried that—but eating at a restaurant every time
someone wants to look at your house will cost you more than your next house.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
3. Keep the trunk of your minivan cleared out. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s no real rhyme or reason as to when someone will
schedule a showing. They could give you 24 hours notice. They could give you 2
hours. Once we received a notice of 15 minutes. FIFTEEN MINUTES! We can't even get the kids from the couch to the car in 15 minutes. It's impossible to sweep all your
mess under the bed (trust me, I’ve tried). The next best thing is to quickly
swoop everything up and throw it in the trunk of your car. If you look in our
van at any given time, you’ll find at least three laundry baskets, a bag of
unopened mail, a box of toys and a sand bucket and shovel (in case I ever
decide to take an impromptu trip to the beach). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
4. Make your kids help clean up the mess.</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take as much time as you need to laugh at that statement. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
5. Accept that your house isn’t going to be perfect. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you rush around in those final 15 minutes doing
everything you can to make the house immaculate (while still, somehow, finding
time to get yelled at by your wife for not giving your babysitter the bottle of
sunscreen that you were asked to give her 3 weeks ago), know that you will
probably forget something. It’s likely something small that no one will notice,
like a Lego on the bedroom floor or a sippy cup on the kitchen counter. Cut
yourself some slack. Trying to sell a house is hard. Trying to sell it while
children live there is near impossible. At least, that’s what I’ve learned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve also learned that children like to forget to flush the
toilet after pooping. Pray that’s not the “something” you forgot before rushing
out of your house. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com285tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38624084.post-22835557961495658152013-06-11T06:59:00.000-04:002013-06-11T15:39:25.022-04:00What Every Dad Wants for Father's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkkiWJZFeGhv3iBBfivGpa0Bq7-TfqGpVLcJRJQhr0e6cgpbFX2OPRnxWK9ohmAvhbqDweRLYUO_-9eSiS4XE1Xu-vx3njWFT9HTUifUGrsaMEzR7dPqb3hNVAJQJQU3QqJ5X/s1600/TLOD-FathersDay-Daughters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkkiWJZFeGhv3iBBfivGpa0Bq7-TfqGpVLcJRJQhr0e6cgpbFX2OPRnxWK9ohmAvhbqDweRLYUO_-9eSiS4XE1Xu-vx3njWFT9HTUifUGrsaMEzR7dPqb3hNVAJQJQU3QqJ5X/s1600/TLOD-FathersDay-Daughters.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
Every year my wife asks me what I want for Father’s Day. This is a courtesy question of course, much like “<i>Do you like this outfit?</i><sup>1</sup>” and “<i>Do you think you could stop leaving globs of toothpaste in the sink?</i> <sup>2</sup>.”
My answer doesn’t matter—Father’s Day has already been planned out
months in advance. Half the day is spent with my family, half the day
spent with my wife’s. So I generally give a generic answer like, “<i>Anything is fine by me</i>” or “<i>As long as we’re eating some kind of grilled meat today, I’m good</i>.”<br />
<br />
But let me tell all the wives out there a little secret: There is
something that dads want for Father’s Day. It’s not a “#1 Dad” mug <i>or</i>
the chance to sleep in <i>or</i> Diamond Club tickets to Great American
Ballpark (though we certainly wouldn’t turn any of those down). What dads really want for Father’s Day is recognition of how awesome we are. That’s all. It may sound silly, but it’s the truth.<br />
<br />
Now I know what you’re thinking: <i>How will I possibly get the kids
to do this in time for Father’s Day? I mean, it’s been nearly 6 months
and they still haven’t completed their Christmas thank-you cards!</i>
Have no fear, my motherly friends. To help you out I’ve taken the
liberty to write the letter for you. Just have the kids sign it and give
it to your husband. You’re welcome.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
Dear Dad,</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
Over the past year it has become
abundantly clear that you are, without a doubt, the coolest human being
we’ve ever known. You are even cooler than the iPad that we fight over
every second of every day. We were going to buy you a tie that plays
music to thank you for being our dad, but instead decided to save that
cash and deposit it into a Money Market account that gets prime plus
one. Pretty awesome, huh? We also wanted to take a moment to let you
know what we love about you.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
First and foremost, we love that you
enjoy snuggling with us on the couch and that you rarely complain when
we dig our elbows into your sternum in our efforts to get comfortable.
We recognize that this shifting can take up to 25 minutes, but once
the proper comfort-level is reached, we know you are just as happy as we
are—regardless of whether or not you can see the book that we’ve asked
you to read.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
We love that you show infinite patience
when we need it most, like when we accidentally got marker on the couch
and when we broke the remote control to the TV, leaving it permanently
stuck on Dora for the entire month of February. We promise to show
this same patience in the coming year by accepting your responses to
questions like “<i>Are we there yet</i>?” and “<i>Why can’t we eat at McDonalds every night</i>? ” instead of asking them 17 times per minute.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
We love that you bare superhero strength,
which we appreciate each time we fall asleep in the car and you carry
us up to bed. We’re not sure how you stay so strong, as your only source
of exercise (other than carrying us) seems to be lifting up the couch
so we can clear out all the toys that keep ending up under it. We’re
honestly unclear on how they get there in the first place, though we
suspect mom is to blame.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
We love how rational you are and, based
on all the useless facts you know, we are convinced that you must be the
smartest person alive not named Doc McStuffins. You prove this time and
time again as you can tell us the jersey number of every ballplayer who
ever played for your favorite baseball team, including Todd Benzinger
and Wily Mo Pena. (And yes, we know you know that the answers are #25
and #26, respectively) It’s this wisdom that we shall strive to emulate
in school, in life and, most important, in our future fantasy sports
leagues.</div>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
We appreciate how hard you work to
provide us with things, like a food, shelter and Disney on Ice tickets.
We also know how tired you are when you get home, so we promise to work a
little harder and clean up our stuff so your feet aren’t subjected
to landmines and Lego Limp. Most of all, though, we want you to know
that we appreciate how much you love us and take care of us. No matter
how busy or exhausted you are, you still make time to play with us and
read to us and sing to us at bedtime. Your special blend of hugs and
kiss magically heal everything from scraped knees to sadness, and you’re
calm composed manner always eases our worries. Also, we know that you
occasionally take a dive when playing Candy Land. Thanks for that.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
Finally, we love you so much that we
promise that, on this special day dedicated to dads, we will be on our
best behavior. We also promise to spend the day quoting your
favorite movies, like The Sandlot. For example: ”<i>For-ev-ver</i>” and “<i>Heroes get remembered, but Legends never die</i>.”</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
Dad, you are a hero and a legend. You are also tall.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
Love,<br />
Your Kids</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
Your husband will be so excited to get a letter like this that he
will forget about all the stressful things that went into Father’s Day.
He will also forget about this letter by Wednesday, so you can reuse it
year after year. That’s right, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. Of
course, if you already bought the Diamond Club tickets send them my
way. After all, no sense in letting them go to waste.<br />
<br />
<i><sup>1</sup> It doesn’t matter what you say, she’s going to change and make you late.</i><br />
<i> <sup>2</sup> Red alert: This isn’t a question, it’s most likely a
passive aggressive way to get you to stop leaving globs of toothpaste in
the sink. Whatever you do, don't pat her butt.</i> <br />
<br />
<b><i>* This post originally appeared on one of my favorite sites, <a href="http://familyfriendlycincinnati.com/2012/06/13/what-every-dad-wants-for-fathers-day/" target="_blank">Family Friendly Cincinnati.</a></i></b> <br />
<br />
<br />
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Brian Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11259971890941886109noreply@blogger.com4