Last week, I asked the faithful followers and loyal readers of this online publication to help me with a task.

I had recently purchased a car, a 2009 Honda Accord.

I came to you folks because I couldn't decide on anything worth repeating let alone keeping for the next 60 payments on this thing.  And let me just say...you responded in kind.

So let me first thank all of you for helping out.  They were all great suggestions.  But as I said, I was going to let my wife and kids pick the winner.  I didn't want me knowing who submitted the name to influence my pick in any way.

Tonight, my family rose to the occasion (if our own government worked even half as efficient as a 6 year old, a 9 year old, and their mom, this country would be running like a well oiled, pink colored, machine).  I listed and read off the names (anonymously), they listened to each with the same intent and furrowed brows they typically save for TV,  and after 3 rounds of cuts, they had made their decision.  

So without further ado, let me introduce you 'BRUISER'.

And let me thank Abby, from Abby Off the Record

Abby is a wife and mom of 2 little boys, has a rocking website that is about her life as a mom by day and freelance writer by night.  

You can read Abby's work on her website Abby Off the Record and catch her on Twitter at @AbbyOTR

Thanks again Abby.  And now, thanks to Abby's contribution to my car, she is has the choice between a lifetime pass for a ride to the grocery store anytime she's in the area or she can take over the payments for me.  I'm sort of excited to see which one she picks.

I guess I should go introduce myself to Bruiser.  We're going to be best buds for a long time or until I get the title.

Thanks to everyone who submitted a name.  I really do appreciate it!

Words have meaning and names have power. — Author Unknown

There is something about putting a name to an item that can transform it into something bigger than it really is.

Naming things helps to take ownership.  It lets us feel invested into whatever it was we named.  If something has a name, its less likely we give it up, get rid of it, or forget it (Which may explain why I still own ‘T’. A tee shirt I’ve had for the better part of 10 years).

Probably no inanimate object in the history of mankind has been named more often than cars (although I would be willing to bet there was more than a few chariots in ancient Rome that had names).  Some of these cars have become celebrities and they have their names to thank for that.  Would anyone besides hippies and Phish fans remember a 1963 VW Beetle?  You probably would if it was named Herbie.  Bo and Luke Duke had one of the greatest cars ever but a nameless car from Hazzard County can be replaced unless it’s the General Lee.  Then you get Crazy Cooter to fix it. Do I even have to explain KITT?

The point is, people feel more connected when there is a name attached and guys name their cars all the time.  It may have to do with specific anatomical insecurities, it may just be a true sign of affection towards an inanimate object (leave it to us to love a piece of metal enough to name it), or it could be engrained in our DNA to do such things?  Whatever the reasons, I have not excluded myself from naming my cars.

I’ve had the Goblin (a green Jetta), Snow Cat (a white Golf), the Batmobile (a black Jetta), Black Beauty (a Chevy Blazer) and Bullet (a silver Jetta wagon) to name a few.  It is something I have always done.  Something I am going to continue to do right now but I want your help.

I recently bought a dark blue 2009 Honda Accord.

 I like my car but I want to love my car (especially because I’m going to be paying for it for the next 60 months) so I need a name.   Which is why I am having a contest!

Name Founding a Father’s Car Contest!

The rules are fairly simple. 

All are welcome to enter.

In the comment section, send me a name.

Any name.  It can be a female’s name.  It can be a superhero name.  It can be an animal name.  It can be a play on words dealing with the car.  Be as creative as you like. Also, if you’ve named or name your car, let me know what the name is. I’m interested.

No vulgarity. Nothing crude or derogatory. I’ll be deleting those immediately. Let’s try to remember I’m trying to name my car so I can love it like a living thing…so let’s have some maturity. Seriously. No bad stuff.

I’ll run the contest starting now until Wednesday, May 17^th, 2012 at noon EST.  Since I may know some of the people who are leaving comments, I am going to let my kids and wife decide so no one can blame me for being biased.

The winner will have the satisfaction of knowing their name will forever be attached to my car (all manner of thanking, hyping, and promoting said winner via social media will be done).  Also, as an added bonus, I will send the winner an original autographed drawing. 

While I may not be famous now, one day you’ll be able to sell that drawing on e-Bay for at least as much as a picture of a piece of toast with Jesus’ face burnt in to it. 

So please, help me out. Send me your best car names!

-FaF

If a strong relationship is defined by open lines of communication, my wife and I communicate down the Lincoln Tunnel.  We have never been shy about opening up the flood gates of communication. We’re always quick to talk about how much we love and adore each other but occasionally, sarcasm, backhanded compliments, and the rare blatant insult enter in to it.  And when conversations turn from minor disagreements to all out brouhahas, both of us understand somewhere along our lines of communication there needs to be room for apologies.

By current count, apologies given are at 723,485 to 6 (By our 20^th Anniversary, I’m sure to have her at 10).  We both understand, no matter what our conversations devolve in to, we both love each other very much, and sometimes, “I’m sorry” says “I love you” better than a Hallmark card.  And sometimes, we both get so caught up in trying to be right; an apology can be like an athlete admitting “my bad”.

Case in point, my wife “lost” one of her shirts the other day…

10:42pm. Thursday.

“Have you seen my black shirt?” I can tell before Alicia has even finished saying the word ‘Have’ that this conversation is not going to end well.

“You’re going to have to narrow down ‘black shirt’ hon.  You’re like the Imelda Marcos of black shirts.”

“This isn’t funny. And who is Imelda Marcos?”

“She was…never mind.  Which black shirt are you talking about?”  I thought it best not to dive in to my analogy and extend this conversation any longer than it needed be.

“It’s the short sleeved one with a V-Neck and a pattern around the neck.”  Full disclosure, all I heard was ‘blah blah blah…neck’ which you will soon find out will come back to haunt me.  I blame my wife though, she should have told me to turn off the television before striking up this conversation.

“Ummm, I have no idea.  Did you check the closet?” I thought I’d go logical.

“Yes! Of course I checked the closet! And I checked my dresser.  Now where is it?” It didn’t take Freud to sense her accusatory tone.

I began mounting my defense, “Why in the world would I know what happened to your black shirt?”

She began cross examining, “Because you fold the wash and sometimes you put my stuff away. Now do you remember folding it?”

“First of all, in the past 13 years, the only article of clothing I have put away for you have been your socks and secondly, I folded 4 loads of wash, 4 days ago. I have no idea what I did or did not fold.” The defense rests.

“Would you get up and help me find it?” And it appears court is still in session.  “And don’t roll your eyes and ‘sigh’, just help me.”  The woman is a psychic.

I went upstairs to our bedroom with her and began going through the closet which seemed less like a closet and more like the hallway from Poltergeist that kept getting longer as JoBeth Williams ran down it.  Meanwhile, my wife began rifling through my clothing drawers.

“Why are you looking through my stuff?”

“Because the shirt is not with my stuff.  You must have put it away with one of your shirts. And how many t-shirts do you have? My god, get rid of some of these!”

“I think you’re losing focus here hon.”

“Just keep looking.”

“Is it this one?”  I would go on to ask her that very same question 5 times and get the same answer of ‘no’ each time which would crescendo each time she said it until the last time she said ‘no’ she added this to her answer, “Did you even listen to what I said the shirt looked like?! Why do you not pay attention?” I told you it would come back to haunt me.

Thankfully mocking her under my breath was enough of a hesitation for me to realize telling her I was watching a good show when she told me about the shirt was not the best idea.

We would go on for the next 45 minutes checking the closet, each drawer, the hall closet, the laundry room, and the dryer.

“Did you check the garage?”

“Yes. I put it in the garage next to the lawnmower and snow shovel. I'm not going in to that garage to look for your shirt. I'll buy you a new one before I do that.”

“You know, you aren't funny and I don’t want another shirt; I want the one you hid.”

 “Well, I guess we’ll have to kee…wait. Hid? Seriously?”

“I don’t know, but you know I can’t because where is it?”  The woman was now blinded by rage and lost the ability to form full sentences. I actually contemplated going in to the garage just so I could end this.

The phrase ‘…like Grant took Richmond’ echoed in my head every minute of the 45 we hunted for that black shirt.  Every time we emptied another drawer with no success, she accused me of sabotaging her black shirt.  Then, like Indiana Jones found the map room to the Ark of the Covenant right under his feet, she found the shirt.

Hanging in our closet.

Right where she hung it the day before.

“I’m sorry I got so mad and I am really sorry I blamed you for losing my shirt.”

“You know, if you didn’t have so many black shirts, this may not have happened.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Sorry.”

Welcome back to the Tavern.  For this installment, we have a special guest chef.  Actually, we have a special guest whose forte is books and music.  Andrea Thompson hosts The Bookish Babe, a website she created for her love of all things books.  You can find Andrea on Facebook at her page: The Bookish Babes and on Twitter at: @BookishAndrea

Her credentials are simple.  She’s a mom, which means she not only has recipes at the ready but she has recipes at the ready our kids will enjoy and won’t kill your wallet.  Plus, she’s my friend and that counts even more than a culinary degree from Le Cordon Bleu.

So let’s see what Andrea has cooking for us this week.

Here's my recipe, for Enchilada Chili.

This is the simplest meal to prepare. I don't even have the recipe for it. It's sort of the emergency plan for our family.  Unexpected company for dinner?  Enchilada Chili.  Only 30 minutes to get it together? Enchilada Chili.  Only $10 to your name?  Enchilada Chili. You get the picture.

In fact, when my husband and I got married, we were poor college students. This meal allowed us to eat, and still pay the bills.

ENCHILADA CHILI

Ingredients:

-1 lb. hamburger meat

-1/2 to 1 whole onion, diced (depends on if you want to scare the wife away!)

-2 cans kidney beans, undrained

-2 cans Old El Paso enchilada sauce (we generally use mild)

-1 8oz. bag shredded cheddar cheese

-1 12 oz. bag, corn chips, crushed

To Prepare:

Brown the meat and onion on the stove. Once browned, place the meat and onions in a large, microwave-safe bowl.  Add kidney beans (very important not to drain the beans, the dish will be too dry if you do), enchilada sauce, cheese, and corn chips, and stir together. Cook in the microwave in five minute intervals, until cheese is melted, and the chili is warmed through. You can top it (or not) with sour cream, shredded lettuce, salsa.

Then eat. And enjoy.

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Since my Dad died, there has not been a day that has gone by when his memory hasn’t entered into my mind.  The daily memories vary.  At times it is just his face, every now and then I am fortunate to hear his voice saying my name, and sometimes I hear him laughing.

What triggers these memories is just as varied as what I remember.  They can be overt, like looking at the picture I keep of him in the sun visor in my car or fielding questions about him from my kids.  Other times, the triggers are subtle, like a simple bump in the road or watching a movie.

The other night I was watching Mel Brooks’ ‘History of the World Part 1’. I had DVR’d it some time ago but had been unable to watch it until the other night (iCarly and TVLand had taken precedent as I was left cursing myself for teaching my family how to DVR shows).  I wanted to wait until everyone was in bed because it is not a movie a 9 and 6 year old should watch and my wife would spend the time rolling her eyes, asking me when it was over, and unable to understand why the movie could make me laugh until I cry.

So the other night I waited until I saw the light go out in our bedroom then settled in to my sofa and hit ‘Play’.

Not long after Sid Caesar’s caveman discovered music, my own laughter was overshadowed by my memories.  I heard, above the parody, dialogue, and my own laughing, my Dad’s laugh.  My father loved to laugh and got more pleasure out of making other people laugh (usually at him). If you were never lucky enough to be in his company to hear it (as most of you were not), his was a laugh indescribable.  It could fill even a noisy room, was impossible to not make you smile and more than likely, you would find yourself joining him in even if you weren’t quite sure what he was laughing about.  It was a laugh that could bring him to tears given the right circumstances.  Now here I was, alone on my sofa imagining him sitting next to me, laughing at the same jokes I was laughing about.

I miss my Dad’s laugh.

I was happy to be able to have that memory back, even if it only lasted for 92 minutes of the movie.

I watched the entire movie even though it kept me awake much later than I should have stayed awake.  It was worth every minute that passed and every joke that played on my television.  It was one of those subtle moments I so try so hard to find but only makes itself known when fate seems ready.

I kept watching that night, even as the credits rolled.

After almost 7 years of not having him next to me, I still treasure the moments that bring him back.  It doesn’t matter how or why either.  It could be an old jacket hanging in my closet that carries faint traces of his cologne on it, a Q&A about him with my girls, or a Mel Brooks’ comedy from 1981.  I welcome all the memories these moments give to me.  They keep his spirit alive, they remind me of the man he was, and every now and then, they make me laugh, until I cry.

And finally, I told her, “So that’s the truth; about all of them. Now you know.”

After Christmas last year I had decided, for my own reasons, my 9 year old needed to know the truth about Santa Claus.  Maybe as misguided as my reasoning was, I thought it was time she learned the truth about Santa and his brethren of mythological icons.

In my mind, the conversation would be easy to begin and subsequently get through (As easy as I thought Physical Geology 101 as a senior in college was going to be. Needless to say I was wrong…about both).  I had found myself hesitating and blaming it on patience for the right moment to tell Hannah.  I thought better of telling her before bed, holding a sign at the school bus stop was out, blurting it out after she passed the mashed potatoes at dinner didn’t seem like the best time either. 

So I waited.  As I waited, I planned my strategy out further.  I was like the kid playing Dungeons and Dragons, who always took longer than he needed to figure out what to do with his Mana points.  Each time I took a step towards telling her, I backed up and thought about it a little more.  So I rehearsed my speech.  Tweaked it, edited it for time and for bad jokes, and said it out loud multiple times.  One version had me wearing a leather trench coat and handing her a red pill and a blue pill. Another version I was going to set up a row of cups and chalices and telling her to choose one. And yet another version, I had her watching the Matrix and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade so she could pick up on my references.

Maybe it was me, but I started to rethink this position of her needing to know.  Maybe I was being selfish as I slammed the door shut on a very big piece of her childhood?  Who was I to tear down the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus from Idols to Taylor Hicks?  Did Hannah really need to know?

So I pushed it out further and further.  I resigned myself to be happy knowing by the time she got to junior high she wouldn’t believe anymore (it worked for potty training and elementary school so I was willing to give it shot).  After a while, I understood it was me. My hesitation for the past 3 months came down to one thing, I wanted her to stay my baby…and I’m an idiot for wanting to tell her (ok, two reasons).  I wanted her to be that little girl whose eyes told me she believed in Easter Bunnies, Tooth Fairies, Santa Clauses, and the magic her Dad can wield.   

It was about me overcompensating because I was scared to lose another piece of my daughter’s childhood. A childhood she is rapidly growing out of.  So I thought I would tackle it head on, like a man. Ignore my feelings and grab it by the reigns and control the situation (or in other words, act like an imbecile).

My manly control of the situation came to a crashing halt this past Saturday afternoon while I was at work (big surprise) with one question from an inquisitive 9 year old. 

“Mommy.  There really isn’t an Easter Bunny is there?”

“No.” My wife used Hannah’s question to let her behind the curtain.

She explained to Hannah the intricacies of our reasoning to keep all of this from her.  It didn’t end with the Easter Bunny either.  Hurtling to the ground came the Tooth Fairy (although to be fair, according to Hannah, “I knew that Mommy because Daddy told me about her in his joking voice, not his serious voice”) and toppling lastly and loudest, Santa Claus.  All toppled unceremoniously and without any sort of eulogy befitting their memory.  Just the simple truth which allowed for another chapter in my daughter’s childhood to close. A chapter that held a good deal of significance for her but I suspect not quite as much as it did for me and her mom. 

As my wife relayed the accounts of the afternoon to me, she told me Hannah took it well.  There was a brief moment of sadness and teary eyes but nothing that lasted or affected her past the moment.

I was at work when all of this happened so when I got home I pulled her to the side so her younger sister couldn’t hear (We’re still all about lying to her). I reassured her, told her the same reasons her mom told her for doing what we did, told her I loved her, and gave her a hug. And finally, I told her, “So that’s the truth; about all of them. Now you know.”  As I said it, I got a little sad because I saw her grow up in front of my eyes. 

And her response?

“Yup. Can I go play now?” It obviously had affected my daughter more than I thought…or maybe that was just me?

After the first date I had with my future wife, I sent her a single Gerber daisy with a note attached that simply read, ‘I had a great time’.

I wanted to convey to her what I was feeling without the overt overtones something like a rose might have carried with it.  I wanted to let her know, even after one date, there was something special about her.  Something I felt even as we said ‘goodnight’ to each other after the date (I also wanted to impress the hell out of her).

As we continued to date and become more serious, I continued to get her Gerber daisies.   Sometimes I would get them for special occasions and sometimes I got them for her just because.  So much so, that I have yet to buy my wife a dozen roses because they could never say more than those daisies.  A simple daisy I had originally used to send a simple message soon was used to convey so much more to her. It became my way of telling my wife, without words, what my heart was saying.

At some point in our marriage though, the Gerber daisies stopped coming.  It wasn’t because I didn’t want her to know how I felt or because I felt any less about her but I think it happened when I was duped in to believing her when she told me she didn’t need to get flowers anymore. 

I remember the conversation:  “You don’t need to buy me flowers.  Save your money.”  

I responded with a skeptical, “Are you sure?”  She said she was and I took her at her word.  Little did I know this was one of those times when her word meant the same thing as when she told me she didn’t mind waking up with our daughter in the middle of the night.  I was young…and stupid.  I also thought there were better ways to show her what was in my heart.  Coupled with my obvious stupidity, the hustle of life, and the ease of filling out a Kay Jeweler’s credit card, the gift once used to say everything, was no longer around to say anything.

For 11 years, I have bought jewelry, cooked romantic dinners, relied on Hallmark and my own words, secured Grandparents to serve as babysitters for a weekend, and even burnt mixed CD’s of romantic songs (and mixed tapes).  This Sunday marks our 12^th Wedding Anniversary and while I’m confident I could weave the right words to once again convey how I feel about her, I wanted something else.  I needed something else but finding the right anniversary gift can sometimes be a lot like trying to find the Holy Grail at a Motel 6 in Schenectady.

I contemplated another CD, I thought about a weekend away, I thought about putting a balance on the Kay’s card, I went through the Fannie Farmer Cookbook sitting in our kitchen, I thought about something grand that would knock her off her feet but with all of the things crossing my mind, nothing seemed to be right.  Then it hit me.

When I first wanted to get across how I felt about her, I bought my wife a Gerber daisy.  It was something so simple yet said everything I wanted it to at the time and as we time went on, it was the flower that conveyed all my heart had to give to her.  So I opted to leave behind visions of grandeur for an anniversary gift and go for the simple.  Go for the thing that would let my wife know how much she means to me.  How much I love her.  How she makes my heart skip a beat.  How, after 12 years of marriage, I still want to show her all my heart has to give to her.  So this year for our anniversary, I got her 12 Gerber daises.

Music can come in all forms.  As parents, we know banging pots and pans together and tapping a wooden spoon against the refrigerator can qualify as music.  In fact, what some consider loud rackets of banging, clanging, and long riffs on the whammy bar to just be noise can be music to someone else’s ears.  It just depends on who is playing and who is listening.

My wife and I both played instruments when we were kids.  I tickled the ivory on the piano (I was like the Mozart of ‘Chop Sticks’) and my wife played the trumpet (for my own safety, I’ll leave it to my readers to insert their own Dizzy Gillespie jokes here).  Even with our limited history with instruments, we both thought it was important our kids explore playing an instrument and something other than our CorningWare as they got older.

Hannah, my oldest, reached that point this year as a fourth grader.  It’s in fourth grade her elementary school allows the kids to voluntarily decide if they would like to play an instrument.  Hannah, since the first day of school, has been talking about this moment.  She could not wait until she would be able to pick an instrument.  A few weeks ago the time came. The kids were finally able to pick their instruments.  Hannah, long past her early days of banging and clanging and already a seasoned Recorder player, quickly decided on the clarinet.

My first instinct was to buy, along with her clarinet, a pair of Bose noise cancelling headphones.  Because in all honesty, I was thinking this might be one of those times all I heard was noise and the music wouldn’t be there.  Plus, this was not my first go-around with the clarinet.  My sister was a clarinet player, which still causes me to have nasty flashbacks whenever I hear geese honking.  Because I know the sounds coming from any instrument not played how it was intended to be played echoes more like car crashes and wounded animals than a musical instrument.

I told Hannah before buying it; her clarinet would be a serious undertaking.  She would need to practice, daily, and take care of the clarinet as if she spent a good portion of her paycheck to buy it and not me.  I explained to her that when she was playing her clarinet I didn’t expect her to be Artie Shaw but I did expect her to put all of her energy and effort in to it.  She didn’t know who Artie Shaw was but she did assure me she would practice as hard as she could and she would indeed treat her clarinet great; even better than she sometimes treats her little sister.  I gave her a quick history lesson on Shaw, told her to be nicer to her sister then told her the clarinet would be ordered that night.

A few weeks ago, her clarinet came to the school.  Not since the last day of school the previous year, had I seen my daughter as happy coming off of the school bus, as when she came home with her clarinet and sheet music stand.

Hannah immediately wanted to show all of us how to properly put the woodwind together.  As I watched her tiny hands put the pieces together then line the reed up and finally douse said reed with enough saliva to drown a small dog, I began to shrink back.  My eyes closed a little bit as she was getting ready to blow in to it. I was anticipating the noise not the music.

While those first sounds to come out of Hannah’s clarinet, to some, might have just sounded like noise, but I didn’t hear it that way. My eyes opened up and my shoulders came back down because what I heard pour from the clarinet was my little girl’s excitement and anticipation for this moment. I heard her determination as she worked to get each note out.  I heard the pride in her voice when she asked us how it sounded.  I was so happy for her and so proud of her that I never heard that noise but what I did hear, that was music to my ears.

Around the 48th hour on a family vacation, I begin to think about getting back home.  Not because I don’t like to spend time with my family.  I spend the majority of my free time knee deep in doll clothing and hiding in closets playing hide and go seek with them. I just have a hard time breaking my mind loose from the chains of life.  Eventually I wander back to home, work, and did I remember to flush the toilet before we left.  Even though I enjoy getting away, by the time we’re ready to come home, I have my eyes and mind firmly fixed forward. I rarely, if ever, look back.

Last week, we spent a few days in Port St Lucie, Florida with my in-laws (yes, I’m one of the 1% who enjoys spending time with my in-laws).  It was a chance for my girls to see their grandparents, for my wife and I to recharge from a whirlwind of a 2011, and to experience some things we may not get to do again anytime soon.  Despite all of that, I completely anticipated halfway through our vacation, to be focusing forward.  What I didn’t know at the time was, this vacation would be different.

First of all, we left for the Philadelphia airport on time.  While this may not seem like any huge accomplishment, setting a departure time and leaving when that time comes is like hooking a coelacanth, rare.  In fact, there have been times when I told the members of my family a time a half an hour earlier than the actual time I wanted to leave (and we still didn’t leave on time).  I was fully expecting to leave later than I had wanted to but the gods shined down on us and we left on time (translation:  My wife got ready quicker than any of us thought she would).

Now traveling with my wife can be like traveling with Alec Baldwin without his iPhone.   She doesn’t do well with surprises, long lines at the Starbucks, or unforeseen delays.  So when Kenneth Mazik decided to put a load on and drive his SUV on the runway to the Philadelphia Airport, effectively shutting down everything (including our departure time), my wife’s inner-Alec was pushed to the surface.  We went from relaxing before our flight to wondering if we were going to be able to make our connecting flight.  Even while we were in the air and I was agreeing with the other passengers about the blonde in 22E who kept on complaining, there was no guarantee we would be able to make it to Orlando in one day.  But again the gods shined down on us and our connecting flight in Cleveland waited for my family and I and the 17 other passengers trying to get to Orlando too.  The doors closed behind us as we shuffled on to the plane.

We would finally land in Florida and make our way to Port St Lucie.  We swam before 9am, we took walks, we shopped, and we ate too much, and drank a little too much. I watched my kids’ utter joy at being with their Grandmom and Grandpop.  I ran in to a childhood friend I hadn’t seen since we graduated from college 15 years ago while in Clearwater at a Phillies Spring Training game.  Apparently Tommy and his family were with his in-laws too.

My kids and wife saw the dolphin from the movie ‘A Dolphin Tale’.  I got a chance to sit down with Scott Schrier who you may know as DiaperDads on his blog and twitter and who has been my online pen pal for a while now.  When the kids were at ‘movie night’ with their grandmother, I talked my wife in to getting another small carry-on suitcase to go home with and thereby making it easier on all of us (this was a breakthrough on par like Sybil being cured of  7 of her 13 personalities).

We met my father-in-law’s first cousin.  A cousin he didn’t even know he had until she walked up to his door a few weeks prior.

This is how our vacation went.  Chance encounters, meeting up with friends, seeing aquatic mammalian movie stars, soaking up not only the sun but also valuable time with my family.  The days passed too quickly and before any of us knew it or wanted to admit it, we had to leave.

I have enjoyed every vacation I have ever been on.  I love being with my family.  I love being able to watch my kids’ excitement at the crash of waves at the beach, or going to the pool at 9am and eating ice cream for lunch.  I love all of it and yet, not since I was a kid, have I been able to avoid looking firmly forward when it comes time to go home except for this year.  This year was different.  Maybe it was all the things we did or who we met or saw?  Maybe I had a breakthrough (like my wife admitting her problem with packing)?  I’m not sure what it was but this year, on our way back to the airport and on our way home, it was the first time in a long time I found myself firmly looking back.

Last week I was soaking up the sun in Florida (and copious amounts of beer).  My family and I spent a few days down in the Sunshine State with my in-laws and basking in my children only wanting to be with their grandmother which is why there was no new recipe for the Tavern last week. It also explains why I haven’t had a new update this week either.  Never fear though loyal readers, I’m working on my vacation wrap-up and should have it posted soon.

In the meantime, it is time to get back to Josh to see what he has planned for the Tavern.  This week, he is bringing the French with a recipe for crepes.  Ce magnifique!

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The ingredients and cooking instructions for crepes is fairly simple.  You can look all over but the basic recipe for crepes is pretty much uniform.  I’ve used the recipe at AllRecipe in the past.

INGREDIENTS

1 cup all-purpose flour

2 eggs

1/2 cup milk

1/2 cup water

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons butter, melted

In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour and the eggs. Gradually add in the milk and water, stirring to combine. Add the salt and butter; beat until smooth.

Heat a lightly oiled griddle or frying pan over medium high heat. Pour or scoop the batter onto the griddle, using approximately 1/4 cup for each crepe. Tilt the pan with a circular motion so that the batter coats the surface evenly.

Cook the crepe for about 2 minutes, until the bottom is light brown. Loosen with a spatula, turn and cook the other side.

Once the crepe is cooked it is a blank canvas that your kids can put whatever they like in them which is the beauty of crepes.  In Holland, they eat savory crepes, filled with meat and cheese. They can be eaten for dessert or a meal.  You can try your favorite sandwich combo inside the crepe.   Find something you like and scoop it, spread it, or glob it on the crepe (they make great substitutes for a traditional peanut butter and jelly sandwich).  Then you want to fold the crepe or, how they are most commonly seen, rolled.  If you have your crepe lain out on your plate, take a fork and put the edge of the crepe between the teeth of the fork and start rolling (what is simpler and probably more fun for your kids is to let them use their hands).

A fun way to eat crepes is to lay out a buffet of food to stuff them with at the table.  Fruits, cheese, spreads, meats, the choice is yours (and your kids) and let everyone pick their own stuffing.

One of the things I love to do is eat crepes cold.  Put them in the refrigerator for the next day.  You can pull them out in the morning for breakfast or for a snack during the day.

Crepes are light, easy to make, and are great for meals or a snack.  Enjoy.

The beginning of March may not seem like the typical time of year to yank your children out of school and take time off of work for some fun and sun but when your in-laws invite you to their house in Florida, the last thing on your mind is making sure the kids make it to Math class or your next client.

My mother-in-law and father-in-law invited us down to spend a few days with them in Florida.  They are what are referred to as ‘Snow Birds’, folks who leave behind the bone chilling winter for 85 degree weather.  Thankfully, they decided not to leave us behind so in a few hours, my family and I will be on a plane headed to Port St. Lucie by way of Philadelphia to Cleveland to Orlando.

We had planned this getaway before Thanksgiving because of the massive amount of preparation my wife needed to put in to it (like she was invading the beaches of Normandy).  She is a planner and this trip would be no different so giving her 16 weeks seemed like a big enough cushion.  

My wife started on her vacation list (the list containing all the items and loose ends needing to be gathered or shored up before we left) shortly before Christmas.  This could explain why stuck between ‘beach towels’ and ‘sunscreen’ was ‘scented candle for Aunt Anna’.  Each week she seemed to add another item.  Each week, the list got longer even as she crossed off the items that had been taken care of.  I took a peek at it sometime around January and it was weightier than the first Patriot Act.

But that’s the way it is when it comes to vacations.  We spend as much time planning for them than we do being on them.  We book airline tickets, parking, and rent-a-cars.  We had to make arrangements for someone to come to the house and stay with the furry four legged members of our family.  The kids had to be excused from school which meant I had to craft a legitimate enough sounding excuse for them to leave for a few days (I may have said something to the effect of learning more about indigenous Native American people of Florida).  We had to let our respective employers know about the trip as well as prepare them while we were gone.  I needed a good 8 weeks to convince my wife we didn’t need to pack like we were going on a 2 month safari.  We would have to conserve and eat the food in our refrigerator like we were trapped on the side of a snowy mountain so we wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving too much behind or go through it too quickly and have to go back out to the grocery store.

With our vacation days away, the house needed to be cleaned, load upon load of laundry needed to be washed, last minute items had to be picked up, the kids were left eating the last of the Life cereal that had been in the Lazy Susan since Martin Luther King Day, and I would need to bone up on my knowledge of CAD and spatial geometry so I would be able to figure out how to fit everything in to our luggage.

And now that our vacation is only a few hours away, the bags are packed (and zippered), the dog is confused, the cat could care less, my wife is stressed, the kids are bouncing off the walls in anticipation, and I have printed out the equivalent of ‘War and Peace’ in airline information/rental car receipts/and extended parking confirmations.

We have all put a lot of work in to this vacation, like every vacation, and now I’m ready to go.  All the items on the list have been crossed off, I’m ready to kick back, go to the beach, forget about work for a few days, and pray my in-laws watch my kids for me while I take a mid-afternoon nap.  We have everything ready.  I’m just not sure what we’re going to do with a scented candle on vacation?

 Today, you can buy a small fry or cheeseburger on most fast food chain’s drive-thru menu with a dollar.  We have stores devoted to the dollar.  Stores with aisles filled mostly of useless items, begging for us to buy and put on a shelf somewhere in our house to collect dust.  While there are lots of things a dollar will still buy you, the value of those items don’t always match the bargain their price tag was.

This wasn’t always the case.  At one time, a dollar packed quite a value.  For me, as a kid, a $1 was priceless.  Because as a kid, $1 could buy me a comic book.

I have been a fanboy, or geek, or dork, or any other name commonly attached to comic book fans for as long as I can remember.  I’ve owned and worn Underoo’s.  I’ve made my very own Mjolnir out of a tissue box, duct tape, and a plastic sheath to a plastic toy sword.  In 5th grade I wrote a paper on Captain America for our ‘Who I Want to Be When I Grow Up’ assignment.  I could rattle off my favorite issues to each character and love a good debate on who is the “best” hero.

One of the past times I enjoyed as a kid (when girls still had cooties), was going to Golden Eagle Comics at the Fairgrounds Square Mall with my Dad.  Once a month, twice if I were lucky, my Dad would drive me to the mall to Golden Eagle.  Golden Eagle was my Holy Land.  A comic book store filled with my favorite characters and a center island of long boxes arranged in a tight square, stuffed snuggly with one dollar back issues of the classics (Amazing Spiderman, Detective Comics, World’s Finest, Fantastic Four, Invincible Iron Man).  One dollar comic books whose value far outweighed their price tag.

Friday night, after dinner, my Dad and I would jump in to his car (I jumped, I think he just got in) and ride over to the mall.  I would talk to him about issues I was going to be searching for, why I thought Batman didn’t need powers to be considered a superhero, and why Alpha Flight was awesome.  I don’t know if he cared.  I don’t know if he even knew what I was talking about.  What I did know was he listened which stoked the fire of my enthusiasm.

Getting to the mall, he would release me in to Golden Eagle to dive in to the thousands of bagged comics and back issues.  All of which cost just one dollar a piece.  My Dad would stand outside the store and wait.  The man had the patience of a sea turtle on Quaaludes.  I would glance over at him from time to time to see if he had had enough.  He never did.  Sometimes I would even call him over to the front of the store, where it met the rest of the mall, to ask his opinion on which comics I should spend my money on.  I looked for his approval.  I craved his input and felt good knowing he was close enough to call for help.

On the way home, I would go through each dollar comic I bought and go on about why it was so valuable.  Why, for costing only a dollar, it was a good deal.  I would read parts of the story to my Dad as he drove then summarize what I read.   I don’t know if he cared.  I don’t know if he even knew what I was talking about.  What I did know was he was still listening.  He always listened.  He was always engaged in what I was saying which only added to the entire experience.

Today I could go through the thousands of comics I have in boxes occupying my basement and identify the books I bought with my dad.  I could tell you about Iron Man #165, or Alpha Flight #12, Batman #408, and the Avengers #231.  I could tell you about hundreds of other books that all were collected with my Dad by my side.  Every now and again, I do pull out those issues.  I read some.  I page through others.  Sometimes I just look at the front covers but I value them all.

At the time, I valued those comic books in the dollar boxes for the reasons any pre-pubescent fanboy would value his comic books.  But looking at them today, I value them for a different reason.  Reasons stemming not from being a fanboy, or a geek, or a dork but from being a son who misses his Dad.  Each and every comic I pull from the boxes in my basement, comics I bought with a dollar as he stood in the mall waiting, are a reminder of Friday nights with my Dad. They bring back the memories and feelings that, at the time they happened, only cost me a dollar but today are priceless.

I’ve been searching for you since the moment my voice started to change and I left behind the Clerics and Rogues of Dungeons and Dragons.

I didn’t quite realize what exactly I was searching for at the time, I just knew I had been released by my hormones to find you (like Zeus released the Kraken).  Every time I closed my eyes, there you were.  Sometimes you were whoever graced the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue and sometimes I saw you when I snuck downstairs to watch you on Cinemax but I was young and didn’t know who I was looking for. I only knew I was looking.

For brief moments, I thought I found you but it was high school and I was fooled by those hormones and by teenage love I so passionately defended.  The rush of emotions, excitement, and adolescent flirtation I began each relationship with, and defended, inevitably wore off.  Yet, you stayed in my mind. I know because every time I closed my eyes I could see you, even if I still didn’t know you.

I would continue to be blinded by what I thought was love.  What I didn’t realize was I was falling for moments.  Moments that would not last.  I broke hearts and was heartbroken along the way.  I felt pain I thought would never go away and hoped I didn’t make the mistake of letting you go.  But I knew better because the pain vanished but you never did.  Every time I closed my eyes, there you were.

Age and experience tempered me.  Regretfully, I became jaded.  Eventually I would convince myself you were nowhere to be found.  You were relegated to my dreams only to show yourself when I closed my eyes.  How ironic then, that when I decided you could never be found, I found you.  Not roaming the halls of high school, wearing sorority letters, or on the pages of a magazine, but sitting in front of me, smiling.

And I knew as soon as I saw you… my search was over.

I still get butterflies in my stomach any time our eyes lock.  I can’t help but smile whenever we hold hands for no reason other than to hold.  I would do whatever clichés movies and love songs have ascribed to love and demand of us for you.  I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember.  There are no words that can be said to explain what it has meant to my life that you have loved me.  For so long, I had to close my eyes to see you but for the past 13 years, my eyes have stayed open because you have been in front of me.  Smiling.  The girl of my dreams.  

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

My youngest and I were shedding our coats and boots in the garage.  We had just spent the last hour and a half shoveling snow.  Actually, Emma had been making snow angels and firing snowballs at me while I shoveled out my car and the neighbor’s mailbox.  Her cheeks were red and the edges of her hair that had been sticking out of her hat were wet.

My wife and our oldest daughter were out (conveniently) so my 6 year old and I spent the morning outside.  It was just the first thing on my list of things to get done that Sunday.  After shoveling and dodging snowballs, I was hungry too.

“Sounds good kiddo. Let’s eat lunch.”

“Should I get my tray Daddy?”

Most Sunday afternoon’s, my kitchen is turned in to a diner and I turn in to a short order cook as I prepare anything from a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to scrambled eggs for the kids.  They get to eat out in the living room on their trays and watch television.  The half an hour reprieve gives me time to do begin whatever it is that is on the docket for the day.  That Sunday my wife asked me if I would like her to write down what needed to be done (which is never a good sign).  The President gets the same sort of list from his generals but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t say anything about finishing the laundry.

Our desire to have our kids actively involved with as much as possible short of Himalayan yodeling, time is a commodity. Too often, I find myself moving to try to keep up with the speed of life.  I’m dropping off at this practice and picking up from that lesson.  I’m home from work long enough to change my pants only to leave for the next activity.  There is laundry that needs to be done then folded.  I have a basket of wrinkled clothing in my room so mountainous; the white shirts on top could be mistaken for snow caps. And there never seems to be enough time to get it all done.  This day was really no different.

“No. Leave your tray. Let’s eat lunch in the kitchen.”

It would have been easy for me to say yes to Emma’s question.  I could have made her a ham and cheese sandwich, flipped on the television, and gone about my duties for the day which were plentiful.  I was fairly certain my wife wrote something down about emptying the dishwasher before we had to eat with our hands off of paper towels.  I also remember something about the wash not folding itself and the vacuum cleaner being unable to vacuum from the closet.  In the face of all of that, I decided to eat lunch with my daughter.

I made soup.  Actually I opened up some soup and heated it (which, when I’m cooking, equates to being homemade).  The two of us sat at the island in our kitchen together with our bowls of chicken noodle trying to find the coolest edge so we could start eating.  We talked about the snow.  We had a contest to see which one of us could slurp the loudest.  We laughed.  Emma negotiated for extra chocolate syrup in her hot chocolate (and won) and not once did I notice the speed of life moving past me.

I’m busy. You’re busy. We’re all busy.  We’re all looking for more time to do all that is asked of us. And the time we get is valuable. It’s just not as valuable as the people you spend it with. Sometimes you have to forget about trying to keep up. For the 40 minutes or so Emma and I spent slurping, laughing and talking, I could have been doing a lot of other things but none of them seemed important in that moment.  I was with my little girl and those things, moving at the speed of life, were all going to have to wait until we finished our soup.

I spend a lot of time in front of the computer writing snippets from my life.  I have gone on and on about my wife, my kids, even the dog and cat.  So the other night I asked my wife if she would like to write something for the site.  I actually thought she would balk at the idea.  Little did I know the woman had been taking notes for the past 14 years of our lives together.  She jumped at the chance.  Actually she leapt over me like she was in a Steeplechase and hit the computer (thankfully I retain full editorially license on my site).  Also, any comments or questions you want directed toward my wife, I will make sure she answers. So without further ado, I present to you:

A Word from My Wife

Jimmy is constantly writing about me and our kids so I thought you might enjoy getting to hear about him.  I would like to tell you how Founding a Father came to be.

My name is Alicia.  I met Jimmy 14 years ago.  I fell in love with everything about him, especially his sense of humor. Even after all these years, he can still make me belly laugh (but don’t tell him that, it will go to his head). Two and half years later, we got married. We have been happily married ever since.

Almost 10 years ago, our first daughter was born; almost 7 years ago our second daughter was born.  We have since also added a cat, Ali, and a dog, Penny, to our family.

I knew Jimmy was creative from the beginning. On our second date, he took me to a comedy club.  While we were there, he drew a picture for me on a cocktail napkin.  I must say, I was pretty impressed.  And he has kept drawing for us. But when he came to me a few years ago and told me he wanted to write a blog, well I can honestly say I didn’t know what to expect (I didn’t even know what a blog was at the time).  I knew he could draw but I didn’t think he could write.

Two questions entered my mind (besides if he could actually write):

1.       When are you going to find the time to do that?

2.       How much is this going to cost?

His response?

 It would only take a few hours a week and he would write while me and the kids were asleep. Which didn’t sound so bad except, when he first started, the computer was in our bedroom which meant he would be typing while I was (attempting) to sleep. Thankfully we have since gotten a laptop.

His answer to the second question was nothing.  It was free. 

I told him to go for it and to my surprise, my husband can really write.

Jimmy is a wonderful husband, father, and friend.  The 3 girls (5 if you count the cat and dog) in his life adore him.  Through all of our ups and downs, I could not have had a stronger man by my side.  He is truly amazing.

Today, I look forward to reading what he writes (although I should admit, sometimes I do miss one or two of his posts).  He makes me laugh, cry, and always keeps me smiling.  He expresses himself so well through his writing. If you enjoy reading his posts I know you would love the person he is.

At first I was a little worried about people knowing so much about our family but now that our life is no longer a secret, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  We love you Jimmy. And thank you.

Thank you sweetheart. I love you too. Everything I do, I do for you and the kids…and yes, for the dog and cat too.

If marriage has taught me anything, it has taught me that one of the keys to a happy relationship is being able to communicate with your spouse.  Finding things to talk about with the love of your life isn’t as easy as it might seem.  I would put it right up there next to learning Mandarin Chinese.

Thankfully, my wife and I, during our almost 12 years of marriage, have been able to communicate fairly easily.  It helps that my wife could apply for a job as a CIA interrogator and it helps that I am hilarious. Actually, I think I’m hilarious, my wife used to think I was hilarious. Now she thinks I’m an idiot.

In any event, our communication skills are good, even if she stopped laughing at my jokes after our 4th Wedding Anniversary.  I respect her opinions and she respects my opinions (as long as they are her opinions).  Sometimes we talk about serious things, like how we are going to pay the mortgage without one of us selling our bodies.  Sometimes we talk about nonsense, like how glitter got all over the floor. But most of all, and thankfully, we talk.

Movie Night

“There is nothing on TV tonight. We should watch a movie.” I said this as a statement even if it sounded like a question when I said it.

“There’s nothing on? Not one thing?”  If I didn’t know any better, I don’t think my wife wanted to watch a movie.

“Well, I’ve just spent the last hour surfing the 300 channels at our disposal and our DVR recordings. The most compelling things I found were the entire 4th season of Wizards of Waverly Place or repeats of Futurama.”

“What movie do you want to wat…you already picked out a movie didn’t you?” My wife can read me like the (comic) book that I am.

“Jaws!”

“Sigh. Really? Again?  Is that the one with the ‘…gonna need a bigger boat’?”

“Yes and yes.”

“How many times have you seen that movie?”  It is a well-known fact, the number of times a man has seen a movie is directly proportional to how much his wife will want to watch said movie. Since I have seen Jaws at least 100 times, I went down a different avenue with my answer.

“But I haven’t seen it in so long.”  I made sure to stress the ‘so’ to add emphasis and persuasion.

“Fine, put it in. Just don’t sing the theme song.”

“Da Dum. Da Dum. Dadumdadumdumdumdum…sorry.”

“How long is this movie?”

“124 minutes.”

“It’s 10 o’clock at night and I spent 2 hours helping a 4th grader and a 1st grader with their homework, want to break that down in hours for me Mr. Timex.”  Sarcasm is the weapon of choice in our house.

Since she unsheathed hers first, I parried her sarcasm with my own, “2 hours. Why? You have a date tonight?”

“I could only be so lucky. No, I want to go to bed.”  Even though my wife is in her mid-30’s she has the sleep schedule of an 80 year old with an iron deficiency.

“Bed? It’s early.”  Watching Jaws would be no fun if I couldn’t pretend I was the shark and bite her leg for most of the movie.

“Yeah, I’m tired. I had a long day.”  I was about to ask her what she did all day long but thought better of it. For my own sake.

“It’ll be over by midnight Grandma. You should be fine.”

“Keep it up and we’ll watch Sweet Home Alabama.”  Sometimes her messages are veiled in ambiguity and sometimes her messages are received loudly and clearly. I considered this one of those loudly and clearly times.

I dove in to the cabinet which held our DVD’s.  It is a cabinet that would remind you of the hanger at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The one with all the crates.

“Where is it?”  I sounded slightly more panicked than I would have liked to.

“How would I know where you put Jaws?”

“Did you do something with it?”

“Yeah. I hid it.”  My wife can wield sarcasm like a ninja wields a katana.

“You did?”  Now I sounded like one of my kids when I tell them they have to go to church.

“No you idiot. I have no idea where it is.”

“That’s great. That was the 25th Anniversary Edition.”  Only a man could or would assign the type of value to a DVD that my voice just did.

“I’m not going to wait all night until you find the movie.”

“Just give me a minute.”  I arbitrarily chose a ‘minute’ because I knew if I said anything longer she was going to put an end to movie night.  In reality, a minute could last a half an hour.

“Got it!  It was behind a bunch of Barney movies which, why do we still have those movies? The kids don’t watch Barney anymore?  Unless they were kept to purposefully hide Jaws?”

“Don’t you think you’re stretching on that?”

“Of course, like a rubber band, but you still haven’t answered my ridiculous accusation.”

“Shut up and put the movie in. And you’re rubbing my feet if we have to watch this.”

So we watched Jaws. I rubbed her feet. I pretended to be the shark and bit her leg a few times. She pretended to be mad but laughed every time I did it.  We kept talking through the movie. My wife asked who was next to be killed, what those yellow barrels were supposed to do, and which one was Quint (6 different times).  And when she wasn’t paying attention, I even sung the theme song.

When I was in high school, I had this superstition about washing my practice shorts for basketball.  Granted, it began because I never remembered to put the shorts in laundry basket, opting instead for the floor of my closet, but after a few good practices, seldom would I allow my mom to wash the shorts.  In my mind, washing the stink off of those shorts would surely mean washing off any ability I might have had to play well on the court.  But this is how superstitions work.

Sometimes it is a rabbit’s foot, a four leaf clover, a horseshoe, how you get dressed in the morning, tapping on a sign on your way out of your football locker room before a game, or a pair of gym socks that could run on their own, a daily routine before work, or a penny we picked up off of the street, ignoring any possible communicable disease because it was head’s up, to be our talisman.  We carry, wear, or go through these items and routines because we have attributed any success or good that has happened to us to these items’ believed mystical charms.

I have already made my New Year’s Resolution to not allow luck to be my divining rod to success. Also, I’m not much on superstitions these days unless you count making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese every Wednesday night as the sure fire way to get my kids to eat something, as one.  I have abandoned the unwashed shorts (actually I ceremonially burnt them years ago to avoid a call from the CDC), I put my shoes on by whichever I can slip on without untying first, and I have stepped on lots of cracks and never once had to visit my mom in the hospital for a broken back.  Superstition had no real place in my life anymore. That being said, I have recently found myself clinging to a new superstition (thankfully one that had nothing to do with not washing my clothing).

This superstition has been about a kiss. Actually two kisses.

I started a new job about a month ago.  In 2011, starting a new job had become almost as regular an occurrence as Mondays coming after Sundays but this one has been different.  This newest position is one I have a particular affection towards. One I truly enjoy and would like to keep so I am working as hard as I can to do just that.  I’m enthusiastic, energetic, excited, and just about any other ‘e’ word you can think of every morning before I go. It is a job I would like to keep.

One particular morning, on my way out the door, I went through my round of ‘goodbyes’ to my family. I pet the dog on her head, kissed the kids, kissed my wife and headed towards the door.  Before I pulled away, I remembered I had forgotten my cup of coffee in the house.  Barring actually being in the parking lot at work, I would have gone back for the coffee, so I got out of the car and headed back inside. I grabbed the cup, pet the dog, said ‘goodbye’ to the kids, and kissed my wife again. For a second time.

That day resulted in my first sale at my new job and thus the superstition of two kisses was born.  Every morning since then, I have gone through my regular routine of ‘goodbye’ in no particular order or type. Sometimes (especially if I’m tired) I pet the kids and kiss the dog. But always, before I leave the house and barring actually being in the parking lot at work, I don’t start my day without two kisses.

Sometimes the second kiss has done its job and the mystical powers that be have bestowed success to me.  Sometimes not.  But always two kisses from my wife's magical lips.

I understand why I never washed my shorts, why some people rub a rabbit’s foot, put their hand to a locker room sign, or keep the penny crawling with botulism in their pocket. When you have something good going for you, you want to keep it going.  Even if, in order to keep it going, you put that success in the hands (or paws or stink or chance of disease) of a something that you think helped with the initial success.

I also understand that superstitions may be construed as silly. To be no more effective at enhancing success as aligning your life to horoscopes' advice and fortune cookies (my apologies to those of you believing "Every Exit is an Entrance to a New Experience").  Down not so deep, I understand that my success does not have anything to do with whether or not I have a lucky talisman, wear a certain piece of clothing everyday, or if I get two kisses from my wife before I walk out the door but I don't care. Because whether I am a success or not, I can’t think of a better way to start my day than with two kisses.

For those of you who have been reading this blog with any sort of regularity, you will know I am a married father of two girls (for those of you who don't read regularly, now you know). It is me, my wife, my two girls, my dog, my cat, and the two goldfish. The dog and cat are also both female. As for the fish, I have a sinking suspicion they are also female though I'm not quite sure how to verify this. Now I'm no good at math but if my addition is right, that is 7 females (I'm counting the fish) to the 1 male in my house. This equation catapults me past the Jack Tripper and Dan Conner zone and directly to the Chief Kanisky from ‘Gimme a Break' zone for male to female ratio in a house.
This ratio has presented a certain dynamic in my house. A dynamic lined with pink flowers and sun dresses. A dynamic that has put my testosterone to the test.
I would consider myself a regular guy. I still wear t-shirts I wore in college a decade ago. Most of the time, I use the bar of soap instead of shampoo in the shower. I can blow my nose by simply pressing in one nostril and blowing as hard as I can through the open nostril. I have urinated in public, I laugh when someone farts (the louder the funnier), and ignored directions when in the car. Now that I am writing this, it is not so hard to understand why men are so disgusting...but I digress. I enjoy sports, action movies, any magazine that has an annual swimsuit issue, and television shows that involve breaking or blowing things up. I had some rough edges, to say the least.
But those once rough edges have been softened by estrogenical erosion that has been gradually wearing my manhood down like a stone on the beach. I noticed a change 9 years ago when my first daughter was born. Along with the baby talk and dirty diapers came new found emotions. Where once stood a disgusting, stereotypical man now stood a dad (covered in poop and spit-up). Any lingering ideas of attempting to maintain my manhood disappeared when my second daughter was born.
Not that I wasn't ready to give it the old college try. I have diligently worked to influence my children but to no avail. In fact, not only do they ignore me (a trait they gained from their mother) but my plan backfired on me. As my kids have been able to repel my suggestions to wipe their noses on their sleeves and lessons on how to get real distance to your spit, I have been a complete sucker for their suggestions.
I am "Grandpop" to 6 different dolls. I have allowed my room to become a school, or a doctor's office, or a house for my "grandchildren" or whatever my kids deem it to be at the time. I don't build futuristic spaceships or cities out of Lego's; I am an interior decorator for Barbie's mansion. Putting the toilet seat down has become such a habit, I do it in public restrooms too (granted it's with my foot but still). I have tea parties. I have forgone important playoff football games for Wizards of Waverly Place. I barely have a section in my own closet let alone a ‘man-cave'. I don't think pink is such a bad color and I know my kids may never care about the ‘Miracle in the Meadowlands' or Mike Schmidt.
None of this bothers me.
I have been put on this planet for my kids. Without them, I'd just be a man and a disgusting man at that. I have put most of my manly endeavors in the rearview mirror as I have embraced whatever it is my kids want me to do or need me to do, even if it is "burping" an American Girl doll. Because what they want and what they need is infinitely more important than what I want or need (unless it's a nap, then I might need 20 minutes).
I may complain from time to time, but in reality, I don't feel like any less of a man. In fact, the definition of a man in my house doesn't have to even include crotch grabs, farts, arm wrestling, and fantasy football drafts. The definition of a man in my house is one that includes tea parties, polka dot colored walls, babysitting my "grandchildren", always walking down the pinkest aisle in the toy department, cuddling, helping put on training bras, dealing with crying fits because someone's feelings were hurt, folding panties, crying at a sentimental movie (or commercial now), turning my head whenever I hear the word ‘Daddy', staying up at night to make sure a 6 year old goes to the bathroom, protecting two girls from the dangers and fright of thunderstorms and "monsters", adoring the two people who are most important to me and most importantly, making sure I remember to put the toilet seat down.