Fathers' Day 2016

L. made a Father's Day card for me today. It contained a fill-in-the-blank section titled, "Things I Love About My Dad"

[Note: quotation marks below indicate L.'s answers to the prompts.]

I love the way he: "tickles me and buys me ice cream"

I love it when he: "buys me ice cream"

He is very: "crazy"

He makes me happy when he: "plays with me"

I think my dad is: "very funny"

I got a kick out of her answers. Apparently, I am a "crazy" and "very funny" father who buys his daughter ice cream periodically.

Dangling Modifiers Amuse Me

On our way to Rocky Mountain National Park on Friday June 17th, Carl and I stopped at a restaurant for lunch. While perusing the menu, I laughed over the description of an item labeled "Carolina Pulled Pork." It noted, "After being rubbed and mopped, we slow simmer our pork for 13 hours till it falls apart."

This, of course, begs the question: Why on earth do the makers of Carolina Pulled Pork need to be rubbed and mopped before they simmer the pork? 'Cause I can't see how that would make the meat any tastier.

My Six-Year-Old Daughter Finally Gets Her Turn to Come to Work with Me

I took C. to work with me today. Unlike her older sisters, she actually listened to at least part of my lecture. (Her sisters are well-practiced at ignoring me. They do it all the time at home.)

Me, to the class: "FDR and his brain trust had three main objectives in launching the New Deal---"

C.: "Dad, what's an 'objective'"?

<Students giggle>

I explain. Then C. asks another question.

Me: "Remember how you're not supposed to interrupt me in the middle of class? Can you just write down your questions and save them for later?"

C.: "Okay."

I turn back to the class and keep on talking about the New Deal.

A little while later, C. rushes over to me mid-lecture to show me a piece of paper with an indecipherable question scrawled on it.

Uh, by "later" I meant after class, dear daughter.

I Don't Speak Eight-Year-Old-ese

I took my 9, 8, and 6 year-old daughters grocery shopping with me this afternoon.


Scene: standing in front of the assortment of frozen breakfast items


Me: "L., what kind of waffles do you want?"

L., jumping up and down, : "Boobs! Boobs! Boobs!"

Me: <bewildered stare>

S: "She means blueberry."

Me: "Ooh, okay." <I put a box of blueberry waffles in the cart.>

S: "I have to translate for her."


Yeah, I can see that. And thank you.

Six-Year-Old Daughter to the Rescue

Yesterday . . .

At the end of a particularly rotten day, with my stress level in the stratosphere and feelings of discouragement and failure at an all-time high, I plopped down on my bed. I absentmindedly opened the nightstand drawer and glanced inside. Atop the usual assortment of junk, I found a single sheet of folded paper -- something I had not placed there. Puzzled, I picked up the paper and unfolded it. It contained an ink drawing -- a sketch of my six-year-old daughter, C., handing me a bouquet of flowers and saying, "These are yours." At the bottom of the sheet, C. had written, "I LOVE YOU!!"

Bless that sweet child! Oh how I love her!!

A Triple Daddy-Daughter Date to go see Kung Fu Panda 3

Movie Review of "Kung Fu Panda 3" . . .

6-year-old: "I wish you didn't bring me to this movie."

8-year-old: <absolutely terrified of the bad guy>

9-year-old (the panda-obsessed child): "That was a GREAT movie!"

Discussion in the car after watching the movie Kung Fu Panda 3 . . .

L.: "Why did the mommy panda hide her baby in the box and then run away? Why didn't she take the baby with her?"

Me: "Because the wolves or whatever were chasing her and she was afraid they'd catch her and kill her and the baby so she hid the baby to keep him safe."

S.: "But why didn't she just keep her baby and not stop running? Why didn't she try to outrun the beasts?"

Me: "She didn't know if she'd be able to outrun them or not and she wanted to make sure that her baby would be safe no matter what happened to her."

S.: "I don't understand why she'd do that for her baby. Why would she risk her life to keep him safe?"

Me: "That's just what parents do. They sacrifice their lives if that's what it takes to keep their children safe."

S.: "I still don't understand."

Perhaps someday you will, dear daughter. Perhaps someday you will.

Take Your Daughter to Work Day

I took my eight-year-old daughter, L., to work with me today. I teach college. Here is her evaluation of my teaching style: "You talk too much."


The long commute to work offered L. a chance to chatter nonstop to a captive audience . . . 

L., on the subject of her school's yearly "movement program":

"Next year in third grade I have to dance with boys. That's so gross! It's disgusting! And the fifth graders always have to square dance with boys! That is so so icky! [A friend] had to dance with boys in this year's program and even gave each of the boys she danced with high-fives!"

Me: "So does that mean she liked dancing with the boys?"

L.: "Well, judging by the look on her face, I don't think she liked it. But she did it anyway."

Being the sympathetic type, I commiserated with the young lady. I told her that when I was in first grade, our teachers made us learn the Virginia Reel, thus forcing me to dance with girls. And I found that pretty darn revolting. All those cooties! Ick!

L. didn't think my experience was nearly as horrifying as the prospect she faces next year in school. Perhaps I should've simply agreed that dancing with boys sounded gross indeed.

After class got out, L. expressed dismay. Looking over the empty classroom, she asked, "Dad, don't the students have to push in their chairs before they leave?"

Me: "No, it doesn't really matter."

L.: "Oh. [My teacher] wouldn't let anyone leave her classroom until all of the chairs were pushed in under the desks."

College teachers these days! They let their students get away with anything! They're so much less disciplined than second-grade teachers are!

Grocery Shopping with Mommy

Scene: Katie and six-year-old daughter, C., are grocery shopping

Katie: "We need to get some Whole Milk for [baby] A."

C.: "Don't we always get a whole milk?"

Katie grabs a half-gallon container of Whole Milk off the shelf.

C.: "THAT'S not a whole milk!"

In Which My 9-Year-Old Daughter Puts Me In My Place in Front of a Class of College Students

S. went to work with me today, which meant she got to sit through a two-hour college-level U.S. History class. But before sitting silently for 120 minutes, she called me out in front of my students for failing to count correctly.

I have 14 students enrolled in that particular course. At the start of class, I made a mental note of how many were present. Then I said, "Looks like we're missing five students today." And my math genius of a daughter said, "No dad, you're only missing four."

Me: "Well, there are only nine students here. That means five are missing."

S.: "No, dad. There are ten students. So you are only missing four."

I counted again and, sure enough, there were indeed ten students in class. My nine-year-old daughter can count better than I can. And proved it in front of ten college students today.

I think I'll leave her home tomorrow.

Little Miss "Elite Gold Honor Roll" Herself (straight A's all year long)

Haste Makes Waste, or, How an Exploding Can of Dr Pepper Made Me Late

I dropped a can of soda pop this morning. Which wouldn't have been a big deal. Except it exploded. Everywhere!

It happened as I was getting ready for work. I was running late and, in my haste, dropped the can in the doorway of the walk-in closet. My Dockers and shoes and socks took the brunt of the blast, but the high-pressure stream of brown liquid shot out of the can and across the master bathroom. After capturing the wriggling, writhing can, I put it in the bathtub. But not before the bathroom floor and walls were covered in a fine brown mist. The same sticky mist coated the the toilet, the bathroom counter, the mirror, the sink, our toothbrushes, the toothpaste, my can of shaving cream, and so on and so on.

As I frantically wiped up the mess, I discovered that the brown mist on the walls went up higher than I could reach. I just left that part alone. I think it looks quite decorative, adding color to our otherwise bland white walls.

I quickly changed clothes, wiped down my fancy dress shoes with wet wipes, and ran for the car. Not until I was behind the wheel out in the bright Texas sunlight did I realize that the lenses of my glasses were also coated in the same brown mist, which, I assume, means my face and hair are as well. I'll just tell my students that I'm trying out a new cologne called "Dr Pepper."

The can contained only 12 ounces of liquid, yet it spewed forth approximately 7,153 gallons of the stuff. Why oh why do spills such as this always -- ALWAYS -- defy the laws of physics?

Postscript: a few days later . . .

If You Spill It They Will Come

Remember the exploding can of Dr Pepper? Well, apparently my rushed cleanup job left Dr Pepper residue behind. As a result, we have been fighting off an ant invasion in the master bathroom for the last few days. But maybe if we just leave the ants alone, they'll clean up what remains of the Dr Pepper and then simply go on their merry way.

Yeah, and I'm six feet tall. Sigh.