My Daughter Enriches Her Vocabulary

How vocabulary expansion lessons go at our house:

Eight-year-old: "Dad, what's a 'hunch'?"

Me: "A feeling or a guess about something."

Eight-year-old: "I have a hunch that you are going to lose all your hair. You are going to be bald by the time you turn fifty."

Sigh

Using Duct Tape, I Become a Highly Skilled Auto Body Mechanic

My birthday began in an unusual manner when I went grocery shopping early yesterday morning. After loading the groceries into the car, I pushed the cart (aka 'shopping trolley') to the cart return. On the way, I accidentally tapped the cart against the car's rear bumper. And the bumper fell off! Picking it off the ground, I shoved the bumper back in place, hoping it would make the three-mile trek home okay. When I arrived home, I checked on the bumper. It had fallen off again, with the driver's-side end hanging by a fiberglass thread.

Luckily for me I am a highly skilled auto body mechanic and was able to repair the car entirely to my satisfaction. :)

A Star Wars Themed Birthday Cake

This is the birthday cake my wife Katie made for me. She asked the girls what kind of cake they thought she should decorate. My eight-year-old suggested a Star Wars-themed cake. And, after a brief discussion, the Committee of Three Daughters told Katie that she should create R2D2.

The eight-year-old later said this was the best cake her mother has ever made, which is a pretty bold statement from her considering the chessboard cake that Katie made for L's last birthday. I, of course, absolutely love it. It totally fits my personality, and is truly a work of art.

Three Daughters Freak Out In The Wake of My New Haircut

Over the period of a week, my daughters fixated upon my hair, or lack of same. It all started when I got a badly needed haircut.

September 26:

I got my hair cut. When I walked in the house that evening . . . 

Six y/o: "Did you get your hair cut?! You don't look like yourself. I wanted you to look the same! You look so different now. I don't like it." Later, to a sister: "I really like his other hairdo."

Nine y/o: "Daddy, you don't look like my daddy anymore. Your new haircut looks dumb. It looks really bad. I wanted you to keep your hair!"

Me: "Okay, I'll try to grow it back."

Nine y/o: "Oh good! And your beard, too?"

Nope. Not growing that out. Sorry kid.

September 29:

Scene: I am sitting on the couch. L., age 8, and S., age 9, are in the room with me.

L. <running her fingers through my hair>: "Dad, why does your hair feel stiff and crunchy?"

Me: "Because it has gel in it."

L.: "You should always wear gel in your hair, dad. You look so much better that way."

S.: "No he doesn't. He looks terrible that way!"

You don't have to sugarcoat it, S.

September 30:

Eight y/o: "Dad, you just have a big bald head, don't you?"

Uh, can I plead the Fifth Amendment?

October 2:

Eight y/o: "Dad, you look so manly with gel in your hair. You just really look manly."

Wow, I didn't even have to lose weight or lift weights to look "manly." A little gel goes a long way, apparently.

My Daughters Are Becoming Territorial

My six-year-old daughter wrote this sign for her bedroom door, since her big sisters put a "please knock" sign on theirs. C's sign says, "Please knock if you are my sisters."

The instructions on this sign leave me completely bewildered. I am C's father. What am I supposed to do? Kick the door? Head-butt the door? Why can't I simply knock as well?

When the Boys Come Courting My Daughters

Eight y/o: "Dad, when boys come over to see us, you are going to ask them if they use correct grammar."

Nine y/o: "Yeah, you're going to put grammar questions on their tests."

Wait, what? I will be using written examinations to screen my daughters' potential suitors? I thought I was just going to be conducting oral interviews with them while ever so casually swinging a very large baseball bat back and forth. Boy, this is going to be more complicated than I imagined.

Of Toddlers and Toilets

On September 22nd, my wife wrote:

A. is quite the determined little climber and very very busy. Here she is playing in the toilet with her bath toys. This is how crazy my day has been all day long with no letup. How was yours?

September 27:

Scene: it's quiet at home -- too quiet.

Katie: "Where's Amelia? I hope the bathroom door is shut."

I checked. It wasn't.

Yesterday . . .

After I left for work this morning, Katie had a delightful start to her day. Amelia climbed into the toilet at 6:30 a.m.


 Today, I offered a different perspective on my 15-month-old daughter:

Usually you hear about A. the Difficult. Allow me to tell you about A. the Adorable.

This evening, I walked over to the front door, locked the deadbolt, then turned back into the living room. A. came running up to me with her arms raised. Either she was refereeing a football game and someone had just scored a touchdown, or she wanted me to pick her up. So I picked her up.

She immediately turned to her mother and blew her kiss after kiss after kiss. I realized then that A. thought she was going bye-bye with her daddy. My fiddling with the front door had misled her into thinking I was departing. I set her down and told her I hated to disappoint her, but that I wasn't going anywhere. Then, for the first time in her life, she ran over to the front door, plucked one of my shoes from the pile of family footwear, and brought it to me. I tossed it back. Then she ran back to the pile and picked out one of *her* shoes. She followed me around the house with it, trying to convince me to take her out for a night out on the town.

So far I'm resisting, but the child can be pretty persuasive -- especially when she's so darn cute!

Then, half-an-hour ago:

So you know how I just posted about A. the Adorable? Never mind. This just happened. Notice the bath toy. She pulled it out of the toilet bowl when I walked in. Give. Me. Strength.

Bringing Up Fathers Without Tearing Them Down

Over the last few days, my nine-year-old daughter, S, has gone into the master bedroom alone several times and stayed in there for quite a while. Finding this behavior unusual, I have checked in on her to see what she was up to. Each time, I have found her sitting calmly in the rocking chair. And each time I asked her what she was doing, she simply brushed off my question and casually strolled out of the bedroom -- a little *too* casually.

Clearly she was up to something.

Today when she left the room, I noticed that she had left a book open and face-down on the filing cabinet next to the rocking chair. So I investigated. And learned that my little fourth-grader has been reading Kevin Leman's Bringing Up Kids Without Tearing Them Down -- a freebie I picked up at work a few weeks ago on a whim. She is currently on page 33. The folded down corners of quite a few of the book's pages, S's preferred place-marking method, prove that the child has been reading the book in short installments for much longer than I would have guessed.

Knowing S., she'll have plenty of parenting advice for me when she finishes the book. I trust that when she offers it, she will do so in a way that brings up this parent without tearing him down.

My Daughter is 8 going on 13, and I'm Not Ready for This Yet

This morning I took the kids to school during a rainstorm. We were behind schedule, so we ran out of the house and raced for the van. L. carried a rolled-up poster presentation on cyber-bullying that she had spent hours meticulously laboring over. She stopped underneath the patio awning and refused to move, fearing that her poster would get wet once she was out in the rain. So I took the poster and carefully shoved it under my shirt. That shielded it sufficiently for the brief trip to the van.

As we drove, L. asked how she was going to get the poster inside her school without it getting wet. I glanced around the van and spotted two plastic Rowlett Public Library bags on the floor. At a stoplight, I grabbed them and threw them onto the back seat. "Use these," I said, pleased to have found a solution. And L. did so, sliding a bag over both ends of the rolled up poster.

When I pulled up at the end of the carpool line at L's school, she asked, "Dad, do I *have* to use these library bags?" Knowing how hard she had worked on the poster and how important it was to her, I told her yes, she did need to use the bags. And L. burst into tears. "But dad," she said. "I don't want to go to school with the library bags. Everyone will stare at me! They'll all think I'm stupid!"

I assured her that they wouldn't even notice. I said, "School starts in three minutes. Every kid is racing inside and heading to class. They're focused on not being late. They won't even see you, much less what you're carrying."

L. wailed, "Why do you want to embarrass me, dad? I don't want to go inside my school looking like a doofus!"

I explained that I had no desire to embarrass her and assured her that nobody would think she was stupid for covering her poster in plastic bags on a rainy day. L. disagreed. She especially objected to the use of "dumb" library bags, which she thought would bring her nothing but ridicule. I pointed out that I use Walmart bags to protect my papers and books every day on the way to and from work. And L. said, "Just because it wouldn't embarrass you doesn't mean it won't embarrass me!" Then the waterworks started again, and L. begged, "Please please please, daddy! Don't make me use these dumb library bags! It'll be so embarrassing! Everyone will think I'm stupid. I'll look like a doofus!"

In then end, I relented. I told her it was her homework project, so it was her choice whether or not to let it get rained on. She tore off the bags, leaped out of the van and, poster under one arm, raced through the rain and into the school.

My eight-year-old daughter is too embarrassed to use plastic bags to protect her homework from rain. What's next? L. ducking down as I pull up in front of her school because she's too embarrassed to be seen in our minivan? Or worse, too embarrassed to be seen with her father?

The kid's only in third grade and she's already this worried about what her peers will think of her?! Isn't this sort of thing supposed to start in junior high? She won't be a teenager for another five years! I'm so not ready for this!

A Daughter's Secret Food Storage Program? Or Kitchen Midden?

Two days ago, my eight-year-old daughter pulled a slice of bacon out from under the kitchen table, showed it to my wife, Katie, and then put it back. Not a piece or a small fragment of bacon, mind you, but an entire slice. Puzzled, Katie investigated. And discovered a wide assortment of food resting on a wooden support underneath the tabletop.  Sound unlikely? Well, check out the way our table was engineered. Here it is, all innocent-looking.

But underneath, there are two "secret" compartments -- one above each table support:

Upon the above platform, Katie found far more than just bacon. Also present were large pieces of dinner rolls, taquitos, chimichangas, quesadillas, and fish sticks, among other things.

Thoroughly grossed out, Katie left the stash untouched and awaited my return home from work. The moment I walked through the front doorway, she told me what my first project would be that evening.

First, I scooped all the food out from its secret hiding place:

Then I swept it up.

Two mysteries surround this secret cache of cast-off food: first, the identity of the guilty party; and second, why she ditched yummy food. Bacon? Seriously?! You're getting rid of bacon? Why not vegetables?

If my parents had had such a table when I was a young child, and I found so perfect a hiding place, I would have filled it with peas, carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, and all manner of vegetables. But mostly, I would have filled it with bread crusts. I hated bread crusts more than just about anything. Why? Well, because they were so, uh, crusty. I used to discard them by simply dropping them on the kitchen floor underneath my chair. This meant that they were discovered quickly, and made it very easy for my mother to ID the guilty party. As I grew older, and therefore more sophisticated, I discovered the adhesive properties of peanut butter. This meant that crusts from my peanut butter and jam sandwiches ended up glued to the underside of the table. It took my mom longer to find those, but find them she did.

Given the extreme degree of desiccation, it is likely that the food has been squirreled away under our tabletop for a very long time. My guess is, most of the items date back to the Cretaceous Period.

Congratulations dear daughter or daughters! You have been far more successful than I ever was at hiding unwanted food! May you always find such success in every endeavor you pursue!

Leasing a Fireplace in the Texas Heat

This sign recently went up in our neighborhood:

 I just about died when I first saw it. I couldn't believe my eyes. The absurdity! It's early September! In Texas! And the rocket scientist who put this sign up thinks advertising a fireplace will attract renters to their home?! It's a thousand degrees outside! And I ought to know -- I just finished mowing the lawn. What's more, in Texas it is too hot to use a fireplace for 11.875 months out of the year.

We have a fireplace in our living room, but in the more than three years we've lived here, have never used it. It has zero value. If anything, it should lower the value of the home. We put the couch in front of it. It is an inconvenience, a very poor use of perfectly good wall space.

But back to the sign . . .

It says "HOT" on the bottom. I'm confused. Is that a reference to the fireplace? Because everyone knows that, when in use, fireplaces are hot. Or is it a reference to the current temperature? Because everyone knows it's hot the second they waltz out their front door. At best, this portion of the sign is an insult to people's intelligence. At worst, it is a terrible marketing ploy -- "Hi, we know it's hotter than the surface of the sun all year long in Texas, but by golly, we've got a fireplace in our rental unit! When it's 90 degrees outside, you can come curl up in front of a nice hot fire!"

Three days later . . . 

Apparently the owners are unable to generate any interest in their property and are getting desperate. The sign changed yesterday. Check out the new top line:

When we drove past it today in a car that lacks air conditioning, my sweat-soaked eight-year-old daughter noticed it. She said, "Dad, why are they advertising a fireplace? It's way too hot for that. Ugh!"

Me: "Yeah. I think they'd have better luck renting their home if they advertised a walk-in freezer rather than a fireplace."

I wish the owners the best of luck in their futile endeavor. Perhaps people will be more interested come January when the heat of the Texas summer finally fades.

Laundry Day

Yesterday, my wife did the laundry -- washing, drying, and folding each girl's clothing into orderly stacks. Then she asked each child to put away their respective piles of laundry. This they did, but only in accordance with their own interpretation of the phrase "put away." One child's interpretation of her mother's instructions differed quite sharply from Katie's intended meaning. This morning, Katie went into S's bedroom and discovered one stack of the child's neatly folded laundry stuffed under her pillow, a second stack of laundry shoved inside the bedroom closet, and a third stack crammed into a toy bin.

I dare say little Miss S. will be hearing from her mother upon her return home from school this afternoon.

P.S. Dear 9 y/o daughter, couldn't you just throw all your freshly laundered clothing into a single heap on the floor like most kids do?

Weak Brothers, Muscular Brothers

Sometimes my kids come up with the most random comments about stuff. Yesterday, I was talking to my 6 y/o daughter and she asked me about her Uncle Randy, who towers over me.

C: "Dad, is he older than you?"

Me: "No. I'm older than him."

A confused C., pointing to my sternum: "If you are older than him, then he should only be this high on you."

Me: "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I weigh more than he does."

C: "Because he's really weak?"

LOL. That's right, kid. Compared to my little brother, I'm just one solid mass of muscle. He got the height, and I got the finely chiseled, muscular physique.

smh

A Star Wars-themed cereal box featuring C3PO, R2D2, and BB-8 gets me in trouble with my wife

A couple days ago, Katie sent me to the grocery store to get a few things. While searching for the items in question, I traveled down the cereal aisle and came across this little beaut'. 

Naturally I bought it. After I arrived home and piled the bags of groceries on the kitchen table, Katie sorted through the contents and discovered the contraband. She held up the box and said, "How did this end up in the cart? Are you purposely trying to get yourself banned from going grocery shopping?"

I assured her that I was not.

And she said, "I told you to buy cheap stuff, and only necessities."

And I said, "But honey, STAR WARS!!!"

She did not find my carefully argued defense persuasive. I, on the other hand, thought it quite convincing.

Later, I showed my prized cereal box to the girls, who I figured would be a more receptive audience. And, lest they think me crazy, I quickly pointed out the feature they would find most appealing. I showed them the back of the box (see below), and said, "See, I can even cut out my very own Star Wars poster and put it on my bedroom wall!" This got no visible reaction from my daughters, but it caused my wife to roll her eyes.

So I guess C3PO and friends will not be adorning the walls of the master bedroom anytime soon.

A Trip to The Home Depot's Kids' Workshop

One of the things the girls and I did together on Saturday, my last work-free one for the next few months, was go to The Home Depot's Kids' Workshop. Home Depot holds these workshops on the first Saturday of each month, and the kids enjoy participating in them. This month, they had fun putting together small wood-framed dry-erase boards.

The nine-year-old insisted on painting the wooden frame of her dry-erase board, much to my dismay. Just as I feared would happen, she got paint on her shirt.

The eight-year-old was content to simply cover the frame with stickers. But the stickers were covered in glitter, which we all know was spawned in the infernal realms.

The six-year-old begged to be allowed to paint her frame, but she was wearing much nicer clothing than the nine-year-old. So I told her no. She put a bunch of stickers on, and then asked her oldest sister, who was already painting, if she would consent to paint hers also. She agreed. Unfortunately, the six-year-old still managed to get blue paint on the white lace trim of her shirt. Grr!

Two of My Daughters, Budding Scientists, Turn the Bathroom into the Okefenokee Swamp

Sunday: a day of child-caused chaos.

Can we start this day over again?

This morning, L. (8 y/o) and C. (6 y/o) decided to engage in a series of scientific experiments: testing a variety of items to see if they float in a bucket of water. It reminded me of that classic scene from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" (1975) See: Witch Village

The problem? When their experimenting was done, L. attempted to empty the bucket's gallons of water into the bathroom sink. And failed. Instead, she poured water all over her lab partner, soaking C. to the bone. The water covered the bathroom floor with a layer so deep that I considered hiring a lifeguard to oversee it.

The water spill would not have been so bad if the girls had not first strewn six million square feet of toilet paper across the floor, as well as peppered it with small rocks -- some of which had been crushed into a fine powder. [Sir Bedivere: "What floats in water?" Would-be witch burner: "Very small rocks."] Mixed in with the toilet paper and rocks were the girls' "hair things" -- barrettes, clips, scrunchies, and elastic band pony tail holder thingies.

All of this had gone on while S. (9 y/o), separated from her sisters' makeshift science laboratory by only a shower curtain, serenely soaked in the bathtub.

The serenity was not to last, however. S the Unflappable became, uh, flappable, when her baby sister climbed into the tub with her.

With the Okefenokee Swamp still not completely cleaned up, a fully clothed 14-month-old A. gleefully splashed and played in her big sister's bath water.

Give me strength!

Bounce House Fun

The girls had free passes to a "Jump Zone" (read: super-sized bounce house) in a nearby city. Since today is my last work-free Saturday for a few months, I decided to take the kids to redeem their passes. I took some photos and a few brief video clips of the girls at play. Here's a sampling for your viewing peasure:

Big Fat Sweaty Daddy

Day 3 without the main A/C unit:

S. climbs on my lap. "Dad, you are sweaty."

Me: "Yup."

S. wraps her arms around my shoulders, squeezes me, and says, "My big fat sweaty daddy!"

Is it Monday yet?

Four Sweet and Sour Sisters

A week ago . . . 

Sometimes my kids freak me out. They bicker and fight so much that that seems the norm -- so much so that I forget what sweethearts they can be.

This morning on the 20-minute drive to school they fought and fought and fought. This afternoon on the 20-minute drive home from school they fought and fought and fought. It was ugly and very mean-spirited.

During dinner tonight (after the conversation related in my last post), C (6 y/o). got excused from the table and sent to bed for behaving very badly. Once in bed, she cried and cried. By this point, Katie had left home for the evening. Alone I tried to wrestle with a very fussy baby A. and a loudly bawling C.

Amid the chaos, S. (9 y/o) came up to me and said she was going to go talk to C. to calm her down. I said that was fine. What I did not know then was that S. sneaked two books into C's room with her. She read two bedtime stories to her little sister.

Meanwhile, out in the living room, I wrestled with cranky baby A. She wanted nothing to do with me. She only wanted L. (8 y/o) (she just *loves* L.). So L. picked her up, and baby A. cuddled up and laid her head on L's shoulder. L. got the baby's pacifier, blankie, and favorite stuffed animal. She also picked out pajamas for the kid. Baby A. was quite content as long as L. held her. A short time later, L. set her down on my lap and went to her room. Deeply distraught, baby A climbed off my lap and went waddling down the hallway calling out L's name: "YaaaYaaa, YaaaYaaa." So L. took over once again.

This evening my two oldest girls voluntarily took good care of my two youngest girls. And they did a great job. They were so sweet, gentle, and patient with the cranky little ones. It surprised me. And warmed my heart.

The following day . . .

Remember how S. was really sweet to C. last night, reading her bedtime stories and comforting her? Well, today C. wrote S. a thank-you note. As near as I can make out, it says "Thank you for all that you do. I will give you a kiss and I'll say I Love You! I am . . . that is a . . . one more big smooch." Then C. applied some type of "lipstick" and kissed the paper -- hence the grease stain right in the middle.

At the bottom of the paper, which you can see best in the second photo, C. drew a picture of a panda climbing up a bamboo plant. She did so because, as you probably know, pandas are S's favorite animal.

I sure love my big-hearted six-year-old! Where on earth did that kid come from?

A conversation about how I am unlike my siblings

Scene: dinner table

C. (6 y/o) <very sad, whimpering>: "I wish I was big like S. [9 y/o], or a baby like A. I am so different from my sisters. I'm not like them at all."

Me: "That's okay C. I'm different from my siblings as well."

C: "You are?! How?"

Me: "Well, I--"

L. (8 y/o): "You're short!"

Uh, well, I guess there is that, yeah. *Sigh*

Dad Braids His Daughter's Hair

Dear old dad braids his daughter's hair while mom is unavailable. S. (age 9) actually let me do it, which was a surprise. And she didn't tear my head off when I did a crappy job. That surprised me, too. She said the braid was a little loose at the top, but that it was pretty good overall. Either S. is mellowing out, or I'm actually getting better at braiding hair. Or, most likely, last night's laid-back attitude was just an anomaly.

(Photo credit: L. [8 y/o])

Tales of a Third-Grade Bathroom Monitor

When I picked her up from school on Wednesday, L. announced that she had been given a class job that she will keep until October. She is now the "Bathroom Monitor" for the girls. She sounded excited, and said it was a "pretty cool" job. 

She further explained that the job entails making sure only six girls are in the bathroom at any given time. So, after the first six girls go in, she has the remainder of her classmates wait in line until a spot in a stall opens up. And one by one she lets them use the john. She also apparently monitors usage of the drinking fountain.

On Friday, I overheard the following conversation between L. and S.

L. "Today a girl was in a stall and another girl in my class went in and was banging on the door of the stall really hard. She wanted to use that stall even though there was already somebody in it. She could have used an empty one, but It's her favorite stall, and she'll only use that one."

S.: "[One of my friends] always uses the fifth stall. She won't use any of the others."

Huh. I guess it's not just college students who are creatures of habit, always sitting at the same desk class after class. Though I've never seen any of my students squabble over their favorite seat.

First Day of School: Creative Ideas for Breakfast and Lunch

Well, today is the first day of a new school year. We have a newly minted fourth grader, a third grader, and a first grader. Here they are ready to go:

In keeping with tradition, Katie made the girls fancy breakfasts: pancakes shaped like bear faces, with bacon or sausage for the mouth, chocolate chips for the nose, scrambled eggs for the eyes, chocolate chips for the pupils, and slices of banana for the hair on the top of the bears' heads:

The coolest part, though, was the lunches Katie made. I photographed just the first grader's lunch as an example:

As you can see, the sandwich is cut into the shape of a fish. And on the baggie is written, "You Are 'O' fish ally a 1st grader.:

Cucumber slices cut in the shape of stars using a cookie cutter. It says, "Even the starfish are impressed."

Half an apple with grapes attached by tooothpicks makes a sea turtle. On the bag is written, "Sea Turtle says Totally Tubular Dude!"

A bag of goldfish crackers. The baggie says "Just Keep Swimming! Just Keep Swimming!"

And last but not least, dessert. The heart-shaped cookie says "LOV U"

And they're off! Good luck today little ladies! Remember mommy and daddy love you!

Road Rage in an 8-yr-old girl

On the way to the kids' Back To School night this evening, I was waiting to turn left at a traffic light and the person in front of me refused to budge even though the light was green and there was no oncoming traffic. We were running late and I was a bit impatient. So I said, "You can go, there's no traffic! You can go!"

And L. called out from the back of the van, "Yeah, go, you jerk!"

Katie spun in her seat. "Leila, we DO NOT call names!"

L. replied, "But dad does that to people all the time when he takes me to school."

*facepalm*

Dearest daughter, a few words if I may:

1st: I do not call other drivers "jerks." Other names, perhaps, but not "jerks."

2nd: Try to rise above your father's imperfections, rather than mimic them.

3rd: Thank you for throwing me under the bus and getting me in trouble with your mother. Next time, a simple "Okay, mom" will suffice.

The child looks so innocent, no?

In Which My 8-yr-old Daughter Considers Becoming Either a Politician or a Musician When She Grows Up

Remember how L. (8 y/o daughter) kept saying last year that she wanted to be president of the U.S. when she grows up? Today in the car, she and S. (9 y/o daughter) were discussing the assassinations of politicians and prominent historical figures. They talked about Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, James A. Garfield, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X. Near the end of that discussion, L. said she had been reconsidering running for president, given the risks involved. She said she probably would prefer to be a celebrity -- like a music star -- since that would be a lot safer. And I said, "Tell that to John Lennon."

The conversation reminded me of a song I learned in my junior high school choir class three decades ago: "Abraham, Martin, and John"

In Which My Daughters Debate the Merits of My Beginning a Regular Exercise Program

Episode 1: lunchtime

This morning Katie took the kids with her to exercise with a group of friends. They have returned from that adventure and are now eating lunch as I sit on the couch grading student papers. The 9 y/o and 8 y/o are talking about exercise. A moment ago, the 8 y/o wondered aloud if "dad" likes to exercise. The 9 y/o's guess was that I do not. So they asked me. I told them I *should* exercise to be healthy, but admitted that I do not like to exercise. The 9 y/o turned to the 8 y/o and said, "See! I told you!" The 8 y/o then said that she thinks I should start exercising regularly. And the 9 y/o said, "No! If he exercises, he'll lose his stomach, and I like it. It makes such a comfortable pillow!"

Well, far be it from me to deprive my oldest daughter of a perfectly comfortable pillow!

Episode 2: dinnertime

The dinnertime conversation was similar to today's lunchtime conversation. Clearly the subject of exercise is on the girls' minds. The 6 y/o instructed me, "Dad, you should start doing curl-ups [crunches?] so that your stomach is not so fat." After a short pause, she tried to mitigate the damage. "Not that it's really fat, but I think I could bounce on your tummy."

Nice mitigation job, 6 y/o! Niiiice! That made it all better.

A Day at the Water Park with My Daughters

At the city water park today I dunked my head under the water. When I stood back up, the two oldest girls shouted at the same time, "Dad! You look like you have hair!"

Really? *That's* all it takes to make me look like I have hair? No Rogaine, hair transplants, or throw-rugs for me then. All I gotta do is dunk my head in a pool. I do love simple solutions!

Oh How I Loathe Mowing Lawns in the August Heat

A word concerning the mowing of lawns in the infernal August heat:
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
Yes, I know that has nothing to do with lawn care, but citing a word with only four letters in it seemed grossly insufficient to describe my feelings on the subject today.


P.S. Katie I finally mowed the lawn!! And if that's not true love, what is? 
In an unrelated matter, I found our missing Saturn sedan!

The Sacrifices of Fatherhood, in a Nutshell

Fatherhood (n): Turning off the car radio in the middle of Van Halen's "Jump" so that your daughters can watch "Barbie: Princess and the Popstar" on the minivan's DVD player as you travel endlessly through the conurbation that is Dallas-Fort Worth.

Of Wedding Anniversaries and Historians

I posted this on Facebook yesterday for my wedding anniversary:

At the time Katie and I got married, I already had a Masters Degree in history. Why do I bring this up? Because you'd think a fella with a graduate degree in history could have picked a better day of the year to marry his sweetheart.

August 9, 1877 the Nez Perce, who are attempting to flee to Canada to safety, fight against the U.S. Army in the Battle of the Big Hole. Eighty-nine Indians and 29 U.S. soldiers are killed.

August 9, 1945 the U.S. drops an atomic bomb on Nagasaki, Japan, killing somewhere between 60,000 and 80,000 people.

August 9, 1969 Actress Sharon Tate is found murdered.

August 9, 1974 President Richard Nixon resigns the presidency amid scandal in order to avoid impeachment.

On the bright side, however . . .

August 9, 2005 Dale and Katie get married

August 9, 2015 To celebrate their tenth anniversary, Dale takes Katie on a trip to Paris -- Paris, Texas, that is.

In My Daughter's Eyes, I am No Hero

This morning I took my 6-year-old daughter, C., to her appointment with the pulmonologist. Nine-year-old S. came along. As part of the routine, C. got her breathing ability tested in a lab. This particular lab is staffed primarily with large men -- say 6' 4" 250 lbs and up -- with gray hair and beards. C. finds them rather intimidating. While we sat waiting in the lab, she told her big sister that the "boys" who do the testing are "big, tough, and mean." And S. observed that, in contrast, their daddy "isn't big, tough, or mean."

I'm not big and tough, S.?! What do you mean, I'm not big and tough? Of course I am! You are only nine years old. Therefore, you should view me as big and tough for four more years.

Don't let reality cloud your vision already, kid. There'll be time enough for that later.

‪#‎InMyDaughtersEyesIAmSmallAndFrail‬

‪#‎ShesNotEven13Yet‬