The Eve of Distraction

Twas the night before Christmas.

When all through my house.

There are some damn excited kids.

Ok, that’s not exactly how the poem goes.

But that’s how it goes in my house.

Three kids.

At three very different stages in their young lives.

All looking forward to Christmas morning.

When they wake up to a house full of presents.

For my 14-year-old daughter.

She is somewhere between High School.

And Med School.

She’s always been sharper than her age.

If you look close enough, you can actually see her wheels turning when you ask her a question.

And if you wait four or five seconds, she’ll usually respond with the right answer.

This Christmas is a new one for her.

Probably a confusing one.

I think she’s trying to figure out how old she really is.

When it comes to presents, she’s still all kid.

But when it comes to everything else, she’s all grown up.

High school can do that to you.

My son is two years younger.

And he too is growing up.

Way too quickly.

But he usually acts the age of the people around him.

In school, he’s a 7th grader.

Around me, he’s a lot more polished.

But put him with his eight-year-old sister.

And let the games begin.

He’s definitely a candidate to work at NASA.

Because when it comes to getting under her skin, he knows all of the right buttons to push.

The eight-year-old is our last piece of innocence.

The last one who actually wants a hug.

The last one who does what we tell her.

And the first one to express herself.

At our Christmas Eve dinner, she decided to perform the National Anthem.

Oh, not sing it.

That happens in the morning.

At dinner, she decided to pit fart the National Anthem.

Talented, that kid is.

When that was over, she started singing the words to "Santa Claus is coming to Town".


He sees you when you're sleeping.   He knows when you're awake.

Then suddenly she stopped.

"Santa kinda sounds like a stalker," she quietly mumbled.

"But he's a nice stalker," with a big smile on her face.

I asked her what she wanted Santa to bring her this year.

“Three things,” she said.

Without any hesitation.

“A baby brother.”

“A little dog, like a chihuahua.”

“And a magic wand.”

Well if I were her, I’d ask for the wand first.

That’s her best shot at getting the other two.

I love that little girl.

Love her sense of humor.

Love her kindness.

Love her innocence.

I love looking into her eyes.

As much now as I did the first time.

Eight years, two months and two weeks ago.

She is something special.

And she’s not afraid to show it.

Tonight before bedtime, there were six of us hanging out in my son’s room.

Me, the three kids and a pair of books.

A pair of Christmas books.

What else.

One of those books was “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

But reading the book wasn’t good enough for her.

She had to perform it.

From the first line, through the last.

She was living on her own center stage.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

She did that one from memory, not once taking even a glance at the book.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

She tapped her fingers on the wood door, as quickly as possible, to provide her own version of a clattering noise.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf

She tried to inflate her frame as big as possible.  But sixty pounds only go so far.

Now Dasher!

Pause.

now, Dancer! 

Longer pause.

now, Prancer

Drama Building.

and Vixen!

Silence.

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!

Those she flew right through.

Picking up the pace to recapture the energy of the story.

She flipped each page, like it was the script of a play.

Each line more theatrical than the one before.

Finally closing with...

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

And with that came a bow.

A bow she held for seconds, but felt like minutes.

A bow that signaled the end of Christmas Eve.

And the beginning of the longest night of the year.

Waiting for hours.

That feel like days.

For morning to arrive.

When we all learn what Santa delivered.

I'm hoping for the Chihuahua.

The Parent Trap

It’s not everyday I get to help my third grade daughter with her spelling.

But it is every week.

She has a vocabulary test on Fridays.

And that means Thursday night we get to study.

Together.

Now I realized way before I could spell Foxworthy that I am no longer smarter than a fifth grader.

Third Grade spelling, that's different.

Breeng it on!

Eleven of the 15 words on my daughter’s list this week had four letters or less.

And I’m excellent with four letter words.

Her words were SO easy this week, I decided to bring a little extra challenge to this party.

I asked her to spell CROP, which was on her list.

Then I asked her to spell CRAP, which was not.

I asked her to spell SOCK.

On the list.

Then SUCK.

Not on the list.

I asked her to spell SHOT.

Then I .... stopped.

We both smiled.

That’s always the goal.

But the bottom line is my seven year-old got every word right.

Even the bad ones.

Child Services, line 4.

Hey, I learned a long time ago that the parenting handbook comes in many different shapes.

And sizes.

And languages.

There are no rules.

Except the ones you make.

What I do in my house.

May not work in yours.

And what you do in your house.

Oh, puh-lease.

The goal I have as a parent is to always be there for my kids.

Thankfully unemployment helped me get a whole lot closer to that goal.

But the bottom line is you only get one chance at being a parent.

Or in the case of Octomom, 14 chances.

Hey, who am I to judge?

I can say without any doubt, I am a way better parent today than I was when this ride began.

14+ years ago.

It’s funny what a little age.

And a little Tequila.

Can do for you.

I have mellowed out quite a bit since becoming a dad.

Well, since becoming a seasoned dad.

The first few years were Rough.

With a capital R.

But now I have a plan.

I really try hard not to yell at the kids.

Believe it or not, they don’t like it.

I really try hard to be their friend.

Even though all the books tell you not to.

And I really try hard to make sure they know how I feel about them.

Every day.

I love all three of my kids equally.

Even though I tell each one of them that THEY are my favorite.

There is nothing better in this world than spending a day with the kids.

A baseball game.

A trip to McDonalds.

A night by the TV.

It doesn’t really matter.

It’s always special.

Very special.

Like last Sunday night.

I was watching the Raiders game with my 12-year old son.

Unfortunately I passed along my passion for the Silver and Black to my boy.

Now we are both miserable.

Midway through the first quarter, my seven year-old daughter came down to join us.

And she sat on my lap.

Special.

“Aargh me mateys” she said. “Where’s my pot of gold?”

“That’s my pirate mixed with a leprechaun.”

“I call it a Pirachaun.”

Special.

Not sure where that one came from.

Maybe it was the Raiders eye patch.

But something attracted her to the game.

Perhaps the 4-3 defense.

Or the wildcat formation.

Or maybe it was just sitting on dad’s lap.

No matter the reason.

She stayed for the rest of the first half.

Which is more of the Raiders than I can usually handle.

We talked about the game.

The teams.

And some of the players.

It was a great moment to be a parent.

But just when I thought I had made her a true fan, she fired this one at me.

“Why aren’t they playing flag football?”

“Violence is never the answer.”

Good point.

I said.

Realizing there was still a lot more work to be done.

Sweet Child O' Mine

Michael King.

One of the most important figures of our lifetime.

Well, you may know him as Martin.

Martin Luther King.

Jr.

In 1935, King’s father changed his name and his son’s name from Michael.

To Martin Luther.

In honor of the 16th Century German Protestant Reformer.

I learned this last week.

From my seven-year old daughter.

My seven-year old daughter who skipped first grade earlier this school year.

Yes, I probably should’ve known this about Mr. King before last week.

But they somehow forgot to teach us that information.

At my Hebrew Day School.

This morning she told me that the Statue of Liberty was modeled after the sculptor’s mother.

What kind of school is she going to?

What happened to extended recess?

My daughter is in a great time in her life.

Sure, she bickers with her older brother.

And sometimes with her older sister.

But at age 7, almost everything is perfect.

Oh to be seven again.

Tomorrow is a big day in her little life.

Maybe the biggest so far.

Maybe the biggest day of the 2,746 she has spent on this earth.

Tomorrow will begin like any other.

With a smile.

That’s how she begins every morning.

But that’s where the similarities end.

Sometime around Noon she’ll be on the steps of our State Capitol building.

Reading an essay.

An essay she wrote.

An essay voted the best in our state.

From anyone in her grade.

When I got the call a couple of weeks ago, you would’ve thought it was Ed McMahon on the phone.

With one of those giant checks.

I was so excited someone I had something to do with was so special.

Of course, I didn’t need the phone call to tell me that.

But it was a nice reminder.

This girl is truly something special.

And I am lucky enough to live it up close and personal every day.

She loves singing and soccer and school.

She even loves things that don’t begin with the letter S.

Like softball....

Um, swimming.

Let’s move on.

The point is, she loves life.

And I love watching her love life.

Sure, there are many days I’m home, wishing I wasn’t.

But there is never a day that I don’t want to be with her.

Or her brother.

Or her sister.

And that’s a gift Mr. McMahon couldn’t touch.

Now for most humans, including myself, a trip to the State Capitol would be the day’s headline.

But tomorrow, that’s just the beginning for her.

When we are done there, we are heading back to her school.

For the annual talent show.

As a second grader, she had to go through an audition process.

I’m guessing Simon Cowell wasn’t there.

But I know they didn’t let just anyone in.

My daughter has a lot of talents she could’ve brought to the table.

But she chose to sing.

And why not.

She’s been participating in a local choir for the last year.

But singing a song in English...

...that would’ve been too easy.

Instead, she chose a Spanish song.

Except she doesn’t speak Spanish.

But something attracted her to Cielito Lindo.

The legendary Mariachi song.

You know it.

Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Canta y no llores......

You know it.

Trust me.

And I know it too.

Well I knew it before the talent show.

But I  r e a l  l y  know it now.

She’s been singing it around the house non-stop for the last few weeks.

Who knew I had the words wrong all this time.

Let there be no doubt, I’m very proud of all of my kids.

That’s my job.

(My only job.)

And I truly celebrate every one of their accomplishments.

But there is something very special about tomorrow.

Now it shouldn’t come as any surprise that my kids are talented.

I won things too.

Um...

Like...

...In 12th grade.

In 12th grade I stuffed more marshmallows in my mouth than anyone else in high school.

34.

That’s a talent.

Right?

The Parent Trap

Friday night was date night in my part of the world.

It started off with a little dinner.

Carls Jr.

Then we moved across the parking lot to the movie theater.

Tangled.

And that was followed up by some dessert.

Dairy Queen.

During the movie we held hands.

Exchanged a kiss or two.

On the cheek, of course.

What kind of weirdo do you think I am?

And I held her drink whenever she was thirsty.

It was a perfect night for dad and daughter.

The seven-year old.

With my son at a sleepover and my wife and oldest daughter at a dance recital, this was the opening I was looking for.

My youngest and I have a great relationship, but it’s not everyday that we get to hang out.

As a couple.

There’s a lot of love between us, but it doesn’t take very long to see that she’s a momma’s girl.

And I have no problem with that.

My daughter confirmed the other day that I am not at the top of her list.

But it wasn’t my wife who was taking the prize.

“I love God more than I love you,” she told me.

“Well, I love you, but in a different way,” she added.

Considering our touristy trip to the St. Patrick’s Cathedral was her first footstep inside a church.

And she can’t remember the last time she was in a synagogue.

And she thinks a mosque is the way a New Englander pronounces what you wear on your face on Halloween.

I’m really not sure where this sudden burst of religion came from.

My wife and I contemplated having another child.

If contemplated meant trying without success.

We tried for quite a while, but unfortunately it didn’t work out.

So the little one is our final chance to get this right.

We are so thankful for what we have.

A 13-year old girl.

An 11-year old boy.

And that seven-year old gift.

All healthy.

All amazing.

All the reason I need to get up in the morning.

I can remember being a dad for the first time and having absolutely no clue.

And I can remember being a little better the second time around.

But it was the third time that I was expecting perfection.

From me.

And guess what, I didn’t get it.

All-in-all, I would say I’m a pretty good dad.

Sometimes spectacular.

But perfect, I am not.

I really try hard to be patient.

I really try hard to be loving.

I really try hard to be... perfect.

But there is rarely an hour that goes by with the kids that I don’t say to myself -- “why in the world did you just do that?”

Take this morning for example.

My son was pushing my buttons like it was a game of Battleship.

And unfortunately for him -- and unfortunately for me -- he hit the wrong button.

As a 43-year old man, I’m pretty sure I was once an 11-year old boy.

And I’m guessing when I was 11-year old boy I was NO different than this 11-year old boy.

So I would be The Time Magazine Hypocritical Man of the Year to say that my 11-year old should act different than I did when I was his age.

But somehow all of that analysis didn’t amount to anything when I lost my temper.

Sure, I can blame my lack of patience on a wide variety of stressful ingredients in my pantry of life.

But the bottom line is I should know better.

And I should’ve acted better.

But I didn’t.

And it ruined a good portion of my day.

And it ruined a good portion of his day too.

Being a parent is the toughest job I’ve ever held.

But unlike my last two real jobs, I’m hoping my kids won’t ever tell me that my services are no longer needed.

The nice thing about my kids -- probably most kids -- is that tomorrow is a brand new day.

If I can have a bowl of Cocoa Krispies waiting for them when they get up, we’ll be off and running.

Like Paul and John, I believe in yesterday.

But that’s only so I can make tomorrow a little better.