Food for Thought ...

When a child reaches the age of four months she'll begin to drool uncontrollably. It's true. Ella, who has recently joined this coveted age group, is producing saliva so fast that you could ride a tiny surfboard down her chin. Of course, that's pretty absurd; after all, where would you find a surfboard this time of the year?

According to medical journals, world- renowned pediatricians and, better yet, BabyCenter.com, excessive drooling is the number one sign that it's time to start introducing solid foods into her diet. Now I know what you're thinking because I was thinking it too: Finally, we can get a sack of White Castles and those last two won't go to waste! But apparently when the doctor says "solids" he actually means "mushy- rice- cereal- that- isn't- solid- at- all- and- looks- more- like- watered- down- eggnog."

Sorry, Ella. We're just as disappointed as you are.

While on the surface this task looks like fun, it's not. Feeding your child solid food for the first time is much like riding a Slip 'N Slide: It seems like a good idea as you make that long run down the yard, but the minute liquid hits your face you know that you've made a giant mistake.

So on Saturday night, we made a dinner date with Ella. We set up her Bumbo chair and plopped her on the table. Several veterans of the parenting field informed us that the first couple of tries are messy, so we prepared ourselves. We wrapped the largest bib we owned around Ella's neck, laid a giant burp cloth over her lap and hung painter's tarps on the walls and over the floor. My wife braved the situation with nothing but her usual weekend wear. I, on the other hand, made sure to put on gloves, goggles and a poncho for good measure.

Brittany took the first stab at feeding her. She dipped the tiny spoon in the tiny bowl, waved it in front of Ella's face and explained what she was going to do: "Ella, this is big girl food. I'm going to place the spoon above your tongue and let you eat." To which Ella replied, "(confused look on my face)." Then Brittany placed the spoon on our babe's tongue and, without hesitation, Ella licked the spoon clean. There was no mess. No anything. It was as if she'd been eating solids her entire (though short) life.

Ecstatic about this turn of events, I took off my goggles and gloves. For the next five minutes I watched as Ella pleasantly took down the rice cereal. It was a tender moment for our family to share. I couldn't have been any prouder of my little angel.

About halfway through the bowl, my wife turned to me and asked if I'd like to give it a try. Me? I practically shed a tear. It was like bouncing around rookie ball for years and then suddenly getting called up to The Show. I promised myself I wouldn't let her down.

I took the bowl and buried the spoon in it, pulling out a small portion of food. I smiled at Ella. She smiled at me. And with one gentle swoop, I put the spoon in her mouth. For a special moment like this, there's only one word that can capture its sentimentality:

DISASTER!

Instead of eating it down like before, she blew bubbles in it, spitting all over her face and mine. I learned quickly that this wasn't mere coincidence. It was actually a cleverly designed deceptive move on her part so I'd let down my guard. As I wiped my face with my sleeve, she grabbed the spoon and flung what was left at her mom. With her free hand, she grabbed the bowl and poured it all over the table.

I'd like to say I was mad. I'd even like to say I was surprised. But I was neither. As I finished wiping off my face, I immediately saw my little girl give the biggest smile she's ever made. She was proud of what she did—not because she made a mess but because in her eyes she was helping. I turned to my wife who was also smiling. I couldn't help but follow suit.

So the three of us sat there, one happy, rice-covered family. I only hope that everyone can be so lucky.

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Two Godmothers Are Better Than One ...

Baptism is a right of passage that most Catholics bestow upon their children. According to the church, it cleanses newborns from Adam and Eve's original sin and asserts their belief in Christianity that, if memory serves me right, involves Jesus, a cross and a 1973 Oscar-nominated rock opera.

Man, I do love a good rock opera.

Now I'm not a big traditionalist, but I don't think my daughter should be punished for some dude and some chick eating an apple—which, if you think about it, must be the lamest sin in history. I can only imagine how that scene must have gone down:

Adam: "Hey Eve, wanna smoke this crack?"
Eve: "Hell no! I've got something much better than that."
Adam: "What is it?"
Eve: "An apple."
Adam: "SCORE!"

Aside from the fact that this poor excuse for a sin is the most touted and recognizable sin of all of time, it's still a church-approved offense that must be washed away. So after a few phone calls (and several weekly donations), we had a time and a place for Ella to join the church. Throw in a few more calls and we had a reception hall and caterer. Everything was falling into place. Only one detail left to be resolved: The Godparents.

Being named Godparent houses a lot of responsibility. You must guide the child spiritually. You must support them when they need support. You must buy them an extra gift every Christmas, and it must be something good. Not a sweater. Kids hate sweaters.

Brittany asked me my opinion, so I told her I would send out a call to all my Life of Dad readers requesting a resume, a list of references and a two-paragraph essay on why they deserve to be Ella's Godparent. After the submissions rolled in, I'd narrow the list down to 20 worthy candidates and send them a Godparent quiz. The quiz would include revealing questions like "If Ella came to you with a boy problem, what would you say to her?" and "What is the capital of Montana" (The correct answers here are "You punch that boy in the crotch and lock yourself in your parents' house until you're 32" and "Helena.") From there, we narrow it down to the top six contenders and hold live interviews. After a few weeks of careful deliberation, we could choose the two people who display the best qualities for this position.

"Or," said Brittany, "We could just make our sisters Godparents."

"Let's hope they know their state capitals."

Traditionally, you have two godparents—a godmother (female) and a godfather (male, Italian decent a plus). But again, I've never been much of a traditionalist. And in Church 2.0 the godparents don't have to be different genders. Plus, Brittany's argument for using her sister Allison and my sister Jennifer were strong: Both will love our child more than most anyone, both have a strong sense of right and wrong, and both are extremely aware of the "no sweaters as gifts" rule. While it wasn't exactly the selection process an HR department would approve, it was one I could comfortably and happily accept.

So this past Sunday, family and a few friends watched as Ella got dunked in that giant bowl and shed herself of original sin. They watched as Ali and Jennie confirmed that they'd help raise our daughter in the name of faith, love, humility and hope. They watched as my wife shed a tear and I mouthed to my buddy Will, "What time does the Bengals' game start?"

All in all, it was a pretty amazing event.

Trick and Treat ...

Like most women I know, Ella was incredibly indecisive on what costume to wear on this, her first Halloween. She tried on several outfits and dealt with the same fears that many young girls deal with: Does this make my butt look big? Will I be comfortable? If I drool on it, will it absorb quickly?

For the weeks leading up to the big day, it seemed pretty clear that she had made her choice. She planned to fly around the neighborhood as a beautiful butterfly, which was weird considering she doesn't even know how to walk. But, mobility aside, we dressed her up on Wednesday afternoon and got ready to trick-or-treat.

Like any busy parents, we started running down the list of items needed for the night. Candy? Check. Costumes? Check. Scary smell coming from Ella's diaper? Check. We had everything covered until my wife brought up one very important oversight on our part—we didn't have any Halloween decorations in front of the house. No ghouls, no goblins, not even a pumpkin.

Boo! (Think a little less Casper and a little more Bengals' Fan).

Some dads would panic, but not this one. I'm not only fun and good looking, but I'm also an excellent problem solver. I searched high and low, far and wide, near and far (again). I even checked the cleaning supply closet (an area of the house I'd never set foot in before) for an answer. Then, suddenly, the giant light bulb above my head lit up with only a brightness that dads could appreciate. I grabbed Ella, went upstairs and worked my magic.

Minutes later I returned downstairs with an Ella Pumpkin—that's right, an Ella Pumpkin—and set her on the front stoop. She would serve as our festive decoration for the rest of the night. Thankfully, she didn't mind and did an excellent job glowing for everyone who visited Klems Manor.

As the night and candy cauldron came to an end, we turned off the lights and headed back inside. Ella's first Halloween was over and it went off great. She may not remember being our little pumpkin, but she can smile knowing all the kids who visited us that fine night thought our pumpkin was the best.

Then, of course, we changed her back into her everyday outfit and went to bed.

"Goodnight, your highness."

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Our Little Halloweenie ...

Picking out a Halloween costume for a three-month-old child should be easier than listening to the radio and less irritating than The Song That Never Ends—just slap a ghoulish onesie on her bod and pumpkin hat on her head and you're set. Hell, the kid can't go trick-or-treating and the only memory she'll have of the event is an embarrassing picture dad took proving that mom considered dressing her up as an Oscar Mayer wiener.

(Editor's Note Posted On Advice From Libel Attorney: My wife did not, in any way, shape or form, suggest that we dress up our daughter as an Oscar Mayer wiener. She did, however, admit that she thinks Oxygen's "Tori and Dean Inn Love" is [quote] a good show [unquote].)

Needless to say that when my wife approached me about dressing up Ella in a costume, I wasn't exactly what you'd call "on board." Seemed like a waste of time, a waste of energy and a waste of what dads like to call "savings." But when I looked at my little girl and she gave me the dough eyes (or the I-Pooped Eyes, it's hard to tell the difference), I caved.

Now over the years I've been fairly reluctant to buy costumes from a store. To me, part of Halloween's sugar buzz is brainstorming and piecing together a clever outfit. I've had an array of success to show for it—Where's Waldo, Luke Duke, Catholic School Girl, and (my personal favorite) Dark Helmet from Spaceballs. There have also been several failures—Silent Bob (I'm not very silent), Punk Rock kid (just looked like 27-year-old loser) and giant Homer Simpson papier-maché head (which is really a push because it eventually became the mask for Dark Helmet).

With that in mind, I started to get excited about the idea. My brain clicked like clockwork and I began drawing up plans for some of the best and more adorable family costumes. My first idea involved us dressing up like characters from The Wizard of Oz. Ella could be Dorothy (red slippers and all), I would be the Tin Man and Brittany could be the Wicked Witch of the West. After two nights of sleeping on the couch, I decided that this idea wasn't good for my back.

Strike one.

Next on my list of ideas: The Flintstones. I figured with my loud mouth, I'd make a great Fred. Brittany has the red hair for Wilma. And Ella is the perfect size to make an adorable Pebbles. Unfortunately this plan hit a snag when it was brought to my attention that none of us know how to sew.

Strike two.

My sister-in-law (also a creative at heart) got into the mix and attempted to make this a giant family affair. She made her Chihuahua, Hula, a ladybug outfit and wanted Ella to be a flower. She also suggested Brittany dress as a watering can (because she helps the "flower" grow) and I go as a farmer. While I appreciate the thought, I had to shoot this down. Can you imagine how many people would try to water her? (That's right, I'm looking at you Grandpa T.)

Strike three, I'm out.

I wish I could tell you that I came up with a genius idea. I wish I could tell you that I came up with even an OK idea. I wish I could tell you that I came up with an idea that didn't cause my wife to look at me and ask, "Are you mentally challenged?" But I can't.

With Halloween right around the corner, I waived the white undershirt of defeat and bought a costume from Babies R Us. Sure it's cute and adorable, but it doesn't carry the same prestige and fun-spirit that a homemade costume would. And though I may not have succeeded this year, I vow to make the sweetest costume for her next year—or, at the very least, something much sweeter than an Oscar Mayer wiener.

What will Ella be for Halloween? Stop back next week to find out (I'll post a picture).

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

Questions to Ask Your Babysitter

Finding a babysitter is about as fun as getting your car repaired: You know you have to do it, it'll take way longer than you'd like and the bill will make you say things like, "We better start packing our lunches" and "How much do you think I can get for this kidney?"

On our quest to find Ella a sitter, we interviewed somewhere between 11 and 900 candidates because, according to Brittany, "no one is good enough to watch our little angel." This statement, of course, is currently true, but is subject to change the first time our "angel" runs around the house smearing poop on the wall.

The interview process is quite miserable. It's long, taxing on the brain and involves a list of 1,000 well-prepared (yet incredibly boring) questions that my wife found on BabyCenter.com. This includes snoozers like "What activities do you do with the children?" and "How do you calm them down?" and "How do you discipline the kids?"

While these questions are nice on a macro-level, what do they really tell you about a person? Not nearly enough. That's why I've developed a quiz of five very basic multiple-choice questions that I believe can tell you all you need to know about a potential babysitter:

Question 1: Which of these do you consider your weakest bar sport?

a. Foosball
b. Ping Pong
c. Billiards
d. Flip Cup

If she doesn't answer "billiards," head for the car. Babysitters must be quick, determined and adaptable. Billiards is a game of finesse (thanks to Benny "The Jet" Wagner for that piece of advice). It's slow and many people need a partner to play. Do you want to leave your child in the hands of someone who is dependant on others and doesn't have the reflexes necessary to catch your child as she falls from the refrigerator she just climbed? I don't think so.


Question 2: Which one of these books did you enjoy the most?

a. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain
b. Lord of the Flies, by William Golding
c. A Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley
d. The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger

Any of these answers are acceptable, as this proves your sitter can read. Scoff all you want, but this skill is a must. Sure, it'll come in handy when mom wants her to read Dr. Suess to your kid. But to dad, it's more important to know that she can read warning labels on all house-cleaning supplies and also the note you left telling her that under no circumstance is your mother or mother-in-law allowed to steal the baby. (Bonus Tip: You may also want to provide your sitter with mug shots).


Question 3: If you were stranded on an island with only one person, who would it be?

a. Your Husband
b. Your Children
c. My Children
d. I prefer to be there alone

Trick question. The correct answer here is Mr. T. He not only offers protection due to his badass-ed-ness, but also provides countless hours of entertainment. And while her children or your children may say something cute from time to time, none of them has a catch phrase as powerful as our favorite member of the A-Team: "I pity the fool who doesn't pass this babysitter quiz!"


Question 4: Can you beat me in arm-wrestling?

a. Yes
b. No
c. Probably
d. Maybe if you've been drinking

I don't care if I was drunk, injured or asleep, there's no way I'd lose any feats-of-strength competition to a babysitter—at least not a babysitter I'm willing to hire. Any daycare provider who thinks she can beat me in arm wrestling is either 1) delusional or 2) a dude. And I'm uncomfortable with both. Therefore, the only acceptable answer here is "No."


Question 5: Do you read this hilarious blog called "The Life Of Dad"?

a. Always
b. Most of the time
c. Never
d. Are you kidding? I have a poster of him on my wall!

Don't trust a sitter who answers "c." She's probably a communist.

(And, if you're wondering, we were lucky to find an awesome babysitter who answered all of these questions correctly—that's right, even the Mr. T. one.)

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian

No Longer King

Once upon a time I lived in a house where I was king. Friends came to visit, drink beers and reminisce about old times. Family came to play games and eat cheese coneys. In-laws came to tell me that my grass could use a good cutting, repeating it over and over until finally, after hours of this, the nagging would wear me out and I'd set down my Mt. Dew, get up off the couch and turn up the volume on the television.

Being king gives you great advantages.

All was fine and good at Klems Manor until the day we brought Ella home from the hospital. In a blink of an eye, the paradigm shifted. There were no more beers. No more games. My throne had been passed along and I suddenly found myself removed from the glorious crown and demoted to lowly role of court jester.

To quote Fozzie Bear, "Wocka Wocka Wocka."

It's a little known fact that new fathers suffer from a severe post-partum affliction called "Dadpression," or a feeling of being completely ignored by all who pass through the door. It's true. Dadpression is not only a serious ailment, but is also extremely common after first babies—particularly if those babies have extra-squishy cheeks.

The key cause of Dadpression is quite simple: Once baby arrives, no one cares about dad anymore. In fact, in the long line of importance, he's lucky to even be on the list. As any dad will tell you, the greater hierarchy goes as follows:

Baby
Mom
Grandparents
Aunts/Uncles
Other Family Members
Friends
Neighbors
People You Don't Know
Raccoons
Dad

When people walk through our door, the first thing they do is grab the baby and give her a hug. Next, they turn to mom and say, "I can't believe how skinny you are! You don't even look like you had a baby!" After that, they wave to Steven, my HDTV, and look for Glenn, his strictly hetero life partner (and remote control). The only time anyone even acknowledges that I'm in the room is when they need something to drink or need something to eat or need me to "stop watching Uncle Buck…seriously we've seen it like 500 times…I mean it, change channels…no, giant pancakes are not that funny."

Now I'm not necessarily complaining about this. Sure, falling so far so quickly is a pretty jagged pill to swallow. But thankfully the pill falls to dad, who not only can accept this fate in a reasonable timeframe but can also embrace it. Honestly, we dads look at this Budweiser as half-full and find ways to use the invisibility of Dadpression to our advantage. Don't believe me? Ask yourself this:

Why do dads always walk around in their underwear?

Dadpression. If no one is going to notice us, why not be comfortable. This invisibility opens us up to a whole new world of possibilities that disappeared the day we got married.

There are other common symptoms of Dadpression, too, including (but not limited to) beer bellies, stinky feet, unruly nose hairs, holey underwear (and not the good kind), receding hairlines, trails of Dorito crumbs leading to dad's chair and, most of all, toxic gas.

I may not be the center of attention ever again, but as you can see I'm completely OK with it. I'd rather everyone fawn over my daughter, showering her with love and making her the highest form of royalty in our family. And while I'm sure I'll miss being king from time to time, I certainly plan to take full advantage of my life as a jester and embrace my Dadpression—and all of its symptoms. I'm sure my wife will be happy to hear that.

"Wocka Wocka Wocka."

The Life of Dad is updated most Fridays (barring the call of family duties). Thanks for stopping by and following my attempts to be a good dad, husband and co-ed softball player. I hope you visit again. -- Brian