First Day of School Traditions

I have Opening Day traditions and Christmas traditions and Softball traditions (like enjoying the sweet, sweet taste of a Strikeout Beer ¹), but I've never really had a "First Day of School" tradition. Both of my parents were scrambling to get me and my sister up, showered, dressed, fed and off to school is roughly 9.7 seconds, so there was no time. The closest thing I had to a First Day of School Tradition was a morning filled with anxiety and panic—Will my teacher like me? Will the kids remember who I am? Will anyone notice that I used my Tooth Fairy money to buy this awesome Swatch Watch?

Honestly, the idea of First Day of School Traditions never dawned on me until I saw my friend Tari post this on Facebook:

"I remembered at midnight last night, that my twin girls have school this morning. Glad I had that second glass of wine. "

If that wasn't tradition enough, she also posted this:

"Starting the day with a Family tradition: Eating breakfast out on the first day of school!"

This got me thinking, should I start some traditions with my girls? So far the past two years all I've done is taken Ella's picture in front of her school and, immediately upon picking her up from school, asked her "How on Earth did you get that blue stain on your shirt?"

So I posed this question to my FB friends:

"Anyone have any first-day-of-school traditions? Would love to hear them."

The answers ranged from the practical ...

Erin: I take a photo of my kids in front of the tree in front yard. Have every year since Kindergarten. 

Judy: We also took a picture on the first day and had them hold up so many fingers to match the grade they were in.

Mary: Send a cloth hankie belonging to mom/dad that fits in their pockets to touch and know you'll be back at 3:00.

Becky: Back to school time means new undies and socks. Gotta stay fresh, and I'm all about tradition. ;)

To the delicious …

Melissa: When my friend was growing up, her mom would make her homemade chocolate chip cookies after school.

Jennifer: I always cook my kids a spaghetti dinner.

Krista: We always went out for ice cream on the first and last day of school with my parents.

To the Keep-Them-Away-From-My-Daughters:

Ray: In college I found the hot girls in my class and then sat next to them and asked for their numbers...is that what you meant? ;) 

Kevin M.: I wake up early and throw rocks at the school buses when they drive by. I love traditions. 

Kevin A.: I would be so drunk...

To my sentimental favorites ...

Kristin: A note for each of them in their lunch boxes, telling them I love them and to have a great year. I do it when they're not looking so it'll be a surprise. 

Ben: My dad made us take a picture in front of the house every first day of school. I used to hate it, but when I graduated high school he gave me an album that had all of them in it. Every year. One of my most cherished possessions. 

When I was young, I thought traditions were generally stupid. It wasn't until I became a parent that I realized how much I cherish those annual memories—and how much my own parents must have enjoyed them too. I'm not sure what traditions I'm going to do next year, but I'm definitely going to do something.

One thing is for certain: I know I'm going to start the night before with two healthy glasses of wine. (Thanks for the suggestion, Tari!).

¹ A "Strikeout Beer" is a free beer brought to the ballpark by a fellow teammate who spent the previous week embarrassing himself by striking out in slow-pitch softball. That's right: Slow. Pitch. Softball. Required: At least one beer for every member of the team. Not required: Beer that costs more than an average batting glove and tastes better than feet. (In fact, it's recently become a challenge on our team to find the cheapest, worst-tasting beer available in the Queen City. As a teammate who appreciates a good Strikeout Beer, I hate this challenge.) 

Thanks to everyone for their thoughts. If you have a "First Day of School Tradition" definitely share it in the comments section. I would love to hear them (as I'm sure everyone would love good ideas to be shared). 

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The 4 Lessons Preschool Teaches Dads (and Moms)

You've witnessed a lot of firsts in your child's life—the first time she walked, the first time she talked, the first time she sneezed in your mouth. Your heart melted the morning when she first said "I love you," and you cried the first afternoon that she accidentally head-butted you in the crotch. But these milestones will all culminate on the day you send her off into the world to be part of a 3-year-old society, best known to us regular folks as Preschool.

And nothing prepares you for your child's first day of school.

The truth is, you're not prepared for it because ... well, it's your first day of school, too. Sure, you've already learned your ABCs and 123s and how to successfully predict your future spouse, car and kids with a game of MASH; but now you're a parent, and parents have new lessons to learn. So I've decided to share them with you. Here are the 4 Lessons Preschool Teaches Dads (and Moms):

Lesson #1: You are a giant.
Our first day of Preschool didn't start on Tuesday; it started months ago when we visited the school. Everything—the furniture, the lockers, the hallway—was very, very little. Freakishly little. The coat hangers were so close to the ground, I threw out my back just looking at them. The desks were so small I could wear them as shoes. And the toilet was so tiny that I'm pretty sure even Barbie would have a tough time squeezing her cheeks on it. If it weren't for the warmth of the teaching staff and the reminder from my wife that I was "like a thousand times larger than the kids that would use this stuff" (thank you, wife), Ella would be at home where the desks are big enough to hold kegs and the toilets are big enough to hold butts.

Lesson #2: School is more interesting than Dad.
When I told Ella about preschool, I couldn't believe how excited she was. Anytime I mentioned it, her face lit up like a sparkler. All summer long our conversations eventually turned to "School this" and "School that" and "When does it start?"—to which my wife would reply, "Too soon ... Oh too soon." I once asked Ella if she loved me, to which she replied, "I love school!" When you lay out the facts (I've loved, cared and hugged her every day of her wonderful life vs. school, a place she's visited the same number of times she's driven the car, which is zero), you can see why she'd pick school over me. Score: School = 1, Dad = Same number of times Ella has driven the car (still zero).

Lesson #3: Her day of firsts is also your day of firsts.
It's your first day of dropping her off. It's your first day of picking her up. It's your first day of running late because you can't find her Dora bookbag—even though you've done nothing but trip over it on the living room floor for the past two weeks. It's your first time signing up for the snack sheet. It's your first time embarrassingly e-mailing the teacher to tell her you already forgot what dates you signed up for. It's your first time dropping off her younger sister at the sitter's house all by herself (and younger sister gives you the very sad Why-Are-You-Guys-Leaving-Me-All-By-Myself puppy dog eyes). And it's your first day realizing that you are going to have to do this twice a week for the next 9 months.

Lesson #4: Let her go.
Funny thing about kids: From the minute our children are born, we can't wait to watch them grow up and see what kind of upstanding members of society they will be. Then the minute they're ready to test the waters of society in school, we desperately want to shrink them back up into babies again—with big squishy cheeks, toothless smiles and complete and utter dependence on us. These emotions torment and scare me much like the Reds bullpen, but deep down I know I need to show a little faith and just let her go.

So I'd just like to wish my little girl good luck. I'd also like to wish all the parents out there good luck too. We want to think about our kids learning their ABCs and 123s and finding out their future through a game of MASH (in case you were wondering about my results, I will marry Winnie Cooper, have 2 kids, settle down in an apartment in Guam, drive a Green BMW and will become a Genie), but we don't want to think about what that means to us—losing a grip on our sweet little babies. I guess we can chalk that up as another first.

Thankfully I'll have Winnie Cooper to comfort me.

The Life of Dad is updated every Tuesday. Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

(Note: This post is dedicated to the loving memory of Matt Donnelly. You'll be missed.)

Note to Dads Who Have Daughters: Get Used to Fashion Shows

Dads have a lot of responsibilities. We set examples. We squash bugs. We coach third. We check the closets for monsters every night and assure our kids that it's safe to go to bed. These duties earn us love, admiration and respect around the house. They also earn us bonus points with our wives who are afraid of bugs—especially furry ones with dozens of legs and a face like this.

When you have girls, though, your responsibilities shift a little bit. Sure, you still coach third and check for monsters. But you also sit patiently while your daughters file your cuticles. You let them spend hours brushing your face with make-believe makeup and put bows in the few hairs you have left atop your head.

Basically, you let them make you look pretty.

Some days you aren't up for the physical demands of Beauty Parlor (if you've ever let a little kid brush your face with anything, you know what I mean), so you offer up the eight words that make every little girl's face light up brighter than an iPad: "Why don't you put on a fashion show?"

"FASHION SHOW!"

The other night my wife went to the New Kids on The Block concert (and by "other night," I do not mean "1989") and I was home alone with my two eldest daughters. I mentioned those eight magical words and, before I knew it, the girls had torn through the closet and found their bag of costumes. Tiaras, dresses and monkey hats now blanketed the room. Cinderella-slipper landmines hid under articles of clothing, quietly plotting to puncture my feet. They politely asked me to leave the "backstage area" because I wasn't allowed to watch as they chose their outfits (though I was summoned occasionally to help button and zip things). So I sat patiently in the "showroom," which also moonlighted as my bedroom. This was convenient because the Reds were playing on the TV in the "showroom," which gave me something to do while I waited. 

After 20 minutes, I finally heard a little voice come from the hallway.

"We need music Dad!"

I leaned over and hit our CD-playing clock radio and the CD started to play the song that had doubled as our alarm-clock-wake-up-song for the past 3 months.

"A-wee-muh-way, a--wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way, a-wee-muh-way."

The girls made their way into the "showroom," dressed in a lovely mishmash of princess outfits, dainty hats and their mom's flip flops. I had to announce each one of them as they walked in, like models on a runway—which, admittedly, was difficult to do with one eye watching the Reds blow the lead.

"How do we look?" they asked.

"I've never seen anything more beautiful in my—OH MY GOD, THEY ARE BRINGING IN THAT GUY? THAT GUY?! HE STINKS! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR DIAPER YOU STUPID STUPID MANAGER!" Then I paused. Why was I wasting my time watching these bozos on TV when I had two little girls smiling, clamoring for my approval and attention? I quickly turned off the game and grabbed my camera, snapping glamour shot after glamour shot.

"You two girls look great. Why don't you change again and I'll snap more photos and then send them to your Mom. I know she'll love seeing them too."

For the next half hour they changed outfit after outfit, matching doctor scrubs with mouse ears, purses with baseball jerseys, fancy shoes with mermaid attire, and more. I captured all of them on my phone, documenting the event. The show finally came to a close and we all sat in the bed to look at the pictures.

"Want me to send these to Mom?"

"YES!!!!!!!!!!!!" they said. And yes, it did last for exactly twelve exclamation points. I hit a few buttons on my complicated phone, yelled at it and, after a few swears, the pictures finally sent.

"Do you think Mom will like them?" they asked.

"I think Mom will love them," I said.

My phone buzzed. My wife had responded, not with words, but with a picture of her own. And, telling from the smiles on my girls' faces, they loved it more than any response.

Apparently, 100 miles away at the New Kids concert, my wife and her sisters were also playing Fashion Show.

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Why Twister is a Dangerous Game for Dads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"RIGHT FOOT YELLOW!"

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

"RIGHT HAND BLUE!"

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

"LEFT HAND YELLOW"

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

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

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

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

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


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The 7 Essentials of a Backyard Swim Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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When Your Baby is No Longer a Baby

This weekend my eldest daughter turns 4. Capital F.O.U.R. This means she's been a part of my life just as long as I was in high school. Just as long as I was in college. Just as long as Joey Votto has worn a Reds hat (which may explain why he's her favorite player). Just as long as—according to my wife—it takes me to clean the bathroom.

Four years is a long time.

When I first met Ella, all she did was eat, sleep, cry and poop—in softball terms this is known as a 4-Tool Player. Her bald little head and bowling ball-sized cheeks made everyone say, "Wow, she looks just like her Dad. Or the Mailman. Do you guys have a bald, big-cheeked Mailman?" And trust me, that joke never gets old.¹

For months she remained a 4-tool player. She'd just lie there, looking at the sky. Occasionally she'd flash a muscle-twitch-induced smile that didn't signify her happiness, but it did ours. Her favorite activity was to sit in a bouncy seat and fall asleep. Though if they made a Dad-sized bouncy seat, it'd be my favorite activity too.

But those months are gone. She's no longer a bald little baby—she's a kid. A big kid. A big kid who writes her own name and takes swim lessons and goes to the beauty shop with her Mom to get her hair "styled." She understands complex things like addition and subtraction, our remote control, and how to change the wallpaper on my smart phone (which effectively makes her smarter than me).  Her summersaults are now over the top instead of sideways. She has two beautiful sisters. She even has a boyfriend named Sammy (don't get me started).

The other day I was sitting with Ella and her 2-year-old sister, Anna, at the breakfast table. They had oatmeal; I had cereal. We were discussing the hot button issues that plagued today's world, like "Whose turn is it to use the newer princess placemat and who gets stuck with the older one, even though the older one looks identical to the newer one?" This discussion always lasts much longer than it should, and the only thing they can agree on is that it's never Dad's turn. The twist came when I got up and grabbed the bag of white-powered donuts and brought them back to the table.

"What are you doing?" asked Ella.
"I'm going to have a donut."
"You can't have a donut," she said.
"Why can't I have a donut?"
"You have to finish your breakfast before you are allowed to have a donut. Those are the rules."

I couldn't believe she was old enough to drop rules on me. My little baby, no longer a baby. As I closed the donut bag I wasn't sure whether to be proud of her for showing how grown up she's become or depressed because I really wanted that donut. So I did the mature thing that all Dads would do in this type of situation. I smiled at Ella and declared:

"Anna gets the new princess placemat today. End of story."²

Four years is a long time. But really, it's not.

In high school four years seems like an eternity; in parenthood it seems like an extended eye-blink. I guess that's why some of us have more kids, so we can relive the magical moments over again—even if only for a short time. And that's why our parents so desperately want grandkids, so they can relive those moments too—only this time they do it with cupboards full of sugary treats.

So while my eldest daughter can't read this yet, it won't be long before she can. When that day comes I hope she realizes how much I love her. I hope she knows that when I write about her and her sisters, I do it because it's the only way I can express how much I care about them. I hope that as she continues to grow and "Sammys" come and go, on each birthday she'll take a moment to remember that once upon a time I was her number 1 guy.

Unless Joey Votto is still a Cincinnati Red. Then I'll settle for number 2.

¹ This is a lie. That joke is so old, it has mold on it.
² I really, really wanted that donut.

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