Sometimes You Just Can't Win

Often, despite our best efforts, we still fail. Failure can be devastating, but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes we just have to step back, shake our heads, and laugh it off. Today was one of those days.

It all started last night when I attempted to put my girls into bed, but was thwarted by the maze of obstacles on the floor. After a brief discussion about the state of the room we reached an agreement that resulted in some fast cleaning. A few hours later as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about the what else the girls could do to learn some better housekeeping skills.

This morning before heading off to work, I presented them with a challenge listed on a Post-It note. “I’m going to make you a list of a few chores and you see if you can have them done before I get home,” I said in the most exciting voice I could come up with. “You can even put a check in the box next to each chore as you get it done!” Eager to please, they agreed to challenge.

At the top of the list was to vacuum their room followed by vacuuming the living room. The premise here is that if the floor is clean enough to vacuum, then there can’t be anything left on it. Right? The theory is true, the reality, however, is slightly different.

As soon as I walked in the door this afternoon, Maddie came running to meet me in the garage. “Daddy, come see my room!” she squealed taking my hand and escorting me down the hall. Her enthusiasm was was genuine and her room was indeed clean. I glanced at the carpet and saw the vacuum lines confirming that she had done exactly as instructed.

“What about the living room?” I asked.

“It’s vacuumed too!” she said. I went to investigate and confirmed that she had done that chore as expected as well. I lavished her with praise in hopes that we can turn her into the neat freak that her brothers appear to be.

An hour later I had to step back, shake my head, and laugh. The girls had been playing in the freshly vacuumed living room and I decided to check on them. Imagine my surprise when I peeked around the corner and found that they had decided to get into the mood of the season by creating a snow storm in the formerly clean living room. “What happened to the clean carpet?” I asked in disbelief staring at what must have been hundreds of pieces of torn up paper scraps all over the floor. Sometimes you just can’t win.

As the girls started cleaning up the snow storm, I instructed my youngest son to do some cleaning as well. “Can you go pick up the ‘B’ book?” I asked him gesturing to a book on the floor. The “B” book is part of a series of 26 books, each featuring one letter of the alphabet. Being an obedient two-year-old, he picked up the book and took it to the shelf.

“Good job, Little Guy,” I said, returning to the kitchen to help Mommy with dinner. It didn’t take him long to catch up to me. Glancing down as he toddled in, I looked in his hands. “What do you have?” I asked shaking my head, stepping back, and laughing.

“C Book,” he said with a grin. So much for getting the house picked up. Sometimes you just can’t win.

For years I have had a hard time buying my wife Christmas presents without her knowing I am doing it. The reason it has been so challenging is that I only worked a mile from home so it was tough to take a detour after work without getting caught. This year, I work a little further away and there are plenty of opportunities for stops on the way. Today I made arrangements to leave an hour early so I could stop for some Christmas shopping on the way home. I knew exactly what I wanted so the stop was quick and I was back on the road in only about twenty minutes.

Just before dinner, Mommy decided to make a quick run to the store. Not really thinking that she would take my car, I didn’t mention that she needed to avoid the trunk where her gifts were stashed. The minute she walked in the door I noticed a twinkle in her eye as she said, “Can you help me bring the groceries in? And don’t worry, Honey. As soon as I saw the bags in the trunk of your car I closed it and put the groceries in the back seat.” That makes me 0 for 3 for the day. Sometimes you just can’t win.

Breakfast in Bed

There are two things in this world that can make a mommy grumpy in a big hurry: a lack of sleep and pregnancy. Unfortunately for my kids, last week Mommy had to deal with both of those complexities at the same time. The pregnancy has been a consistent issue for the past 22 weeks, but the sleep thing come and goes depending on the whims of various children.

Last week’s challenges were brought about by one very cute two-year-old boy who refused to end his days without first testing every sleep inducing strategy known to parent-kind. Things only got worse each night as he taught himself to wake up sometime after midnight so that he could toddle down the hall and sleep on Mommy. By the time we diagnosed the problem as a massive influx of teeth, the damage had been done.

When Wednesday morning dawned, Mommy was found herself beyond exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in three or four nights and her body was aching from lugging a new baby around in her expanding belly. The night before, I had noticed that we were out of milk. No milk means no cereal. For me, this is a big deal. I love my cereal. It is quick and easy and leaves no mess behind in the kitchen.

For Mommy, cereal is a curse of convenience. When she is pregnant she needs real sustenance to start her morning, not some foo-foo flakes doused in milk. Upon awakening Wednesday morning, I mindlessly opened the fridge only to be reminded of the milk problem. Realizing that my wife would want a hearty meal after she woke up, I came up with a plan.

Stealthily as can be, I showered, got dressed, and headed for my car. The grocery store is only a few miles away so I arrived with just enough time to pick up some milk, eggs, and orange juice and then get home for a quick bite to eat before heading off to work. I knew that my over-tired, hungry wife would welcome some eggs, toast, and OJ for breakfast and I silently applauded my own thoughtfulness. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to fix it for her, but at least the ingredients were now in the house.

With my cereal swimming in milk I lifted a spoonful of flakey goodness to my lips, only to see that Mommy had woken up and stumbled into the kitchen. I was mindlessly chewing and crunching on the flakes, savoring their simplicity when she erupted. “Why did you buy eggs?” she demanded waving the receipt in my face. “You paid way too much!”

I was a bit taken aback by her accusation, and it’s possible that my first reaction might have made things momentarily worse. After a few intense words, I realized that this was the tired talking, not the wife and mommy, so a change of course would be necessary. We continued the brief discussion, then Mommy headed back to bed and the kids took over.

As she lay in bed, my eight-year-old son, Zach, stopped by for a quick visit. I was busy gathering up the last few items I needed for the day, so he did what needed to be done. “Mommy, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

A minute later, I brushed past the kitchen on my way out, only to find my industrious eight-year-old with a cookbook in front of him. His finger buzzed through the table of contents and landed on the words, “French Toast.” I watched as he flipped to the correct page, and got to work.

“Daddy, can you get me the pig pancake pan?” he asked. Thrilled that he was showing such initiative, I pulled the electric griddle off the top shelf and placed it in front of him. He then pulled out a bowl and got to work cracking eggs, adding in some cinnamon and other ingredients before stirring it all up.

I glanced at my watch, tousled his hair and said, “I’ve got to go, Buddy. Have a good day,” and headed out the door.

As the door swung shut behind me, I heard the stirring stop and Zach say, “What are you doing up? You belong in bed.” By then, the grumpies were gone, despite the exhaustion, and a very grateful mommy helped her son make French toast.

Temp Job

Teachers where I come from are very well paid. The problem is that they are only paid for the days they actually work. While their daily rate is quite generous, the opportunities for work are limited to approximately 180 days per year. Compare this to other professions who work 240 to 250 days per year. A fair tradeoff exists between compensation and vacation, but some teachers would rather trade the vacation days for a little extra pay.

So what is the industrious teacher to do when a three week Christmas vacation is lurking just around the corner? He could take a seasonal job at the Christmas tree farm, but that would require him to work nights before the break actually begins. All the seasonal jobs are spoken for by the time school gets out. Without a friend or family member in a hiring position, a temporary Christmas job is probably not an option.

The solution to this dilemma hit me the other day as I sat in the comfort of my extra large SUV jammed full of kids and dogs. As I waited at a red light for my turn to enter the freeway, I glanced to my left and saw a man holding a cardboard sign. I don’t recall exactly what the sign said, but I do know that it ended with “God bless you.”

Since I hadn’t sneezed, I was unsure of the sign holder’s intentions, but I think he wanted money. That’s when the thought came to me. Starting at 3:30 p.m. on December 17 and continuing until the second Monday in January, I will technically be without the ability to work to support my family. Why couldn’t I claim a corner?

I thought a few moments about what my sign could say. It would definitely have to end with “God Bless You,” but everything before that is negotiable. My favorite signs have always been the honest ones. I especially like the ones that say, “I Need Money for Drugs. God Bless You.” Or what about the one that says, “I’m holding a sign and it makes me hungry. God bless you.”

My mind pondered the honest signs and I figured that would be the way to go. My sign would read, “I’m a teacher and the government won’t let me work for three weeks. God bless you.” I’d pick a busy corner, dress in tattered clothes, skip shaving for a couple of days and see what happens.

I shared this plan with my family, but my eight-year-old son immediately zeroed in on the holes. “Dad, that’s not going to make them want to give you money. That’s going to make them want to become teachers.”

Darn it. He’s right. I guess I do have it pretty good.

Toy Guns

"Daddy, may I please have some more bullets?" The question came from my four-year-old daughter and it was music to my ears. When you stop and analyze the request you will see why I was so proud. First of all, she was so darn cute and polite when she asked that I couldn't say no. Secondly, she wanted ammo to fight off the boys who were attacking her. I was so proud of her for standing up to the boys that I had to give in. I made a quick sweep of the house and found a few extra bullets laying around.

"Here you go," I said handing her the nerf darts and helping her reload her gun. Just then, Justin, my two-year-old came around the corner with a gun of his own.

"Shoot Dada," he said with a smile. Then he pulled the trigger. I survived with only minimal suction marks on my forehead, but at least the kids had the time of their lives thanks to some overnight guests who smuggled the guns across state lines to share with us.

"Hey watch this!" I said as I loaded the little red gun. I then aimed it toward the skylight on the vaulted ceiling and fired. The suction dart struck the window and glued itself into place. "Now let's get it down," I said. With another suction dart in place I aimed carefully at the first one and let another shot fly. "Darn it!" Now there were two suction darts on the skylight. "Give me another one," I said to the kids. Four darts later, I decided that I needed to change my approach. With a little piece of scotch tape, I covered the tip of the next dart so it wouldn't be able to stick to anything. I then aimed and let another shot go. Missed. Try again. Missed again. Try again. Missed again. This went on for several minutes before I realized that I needed another new plan

Then it came to me. Hidden on top of the refrigerator was one of last year's Christmas presents that hasn't seen much action. After a few minor repairs it was ready. I carefully positioned the small remote control helicopter under the skylight and slowly eased it up. I quickly realized that the up and down features worked great, but the horizontal controls left a lot to be desired. Let's just say that it was a good thing there was no pilot because if there had been, he would have been so dizzy he'd have never made a safe landing. As it was, my first landing was a bit ugly anyway. With the chopper lifting up toward the ceiling, I tried my best to minimize the spin and aim it toward the darts, but the task was more difficult than I had anticipated given the limited control. Moments later the rotor smashed into the ceiling and the helicopter plummeted to the ground. Good thing it was a kid's toy and was made for hard landings.

With about six kids watching the action, I again lifted the helicopter skyward. "Shoot Dada."

"Not now, Buddy, Daddy's concentrating." Ignoring my plea and with a determined look in his eye, he pulled the trigger. At the same time the rotors clipped the ceiling and the chopper again fell to the floor much to everyone's delight. "I can do this," I said and set things up for a third attempt. This time, I got close enough to knock one dart down as the helicopter made its dive toward the carpet. Try as I may, I could not hit the next three, so we had to make the decision to wait them out. If only I hadn't licked the suction cup on the first one before I shot it.

The next morning, our friends had to hit the road in order to reach their Thanksgiving destination on time. "Red gun?" Justin inquired as their car pulled away.

"They had to take their guns with them," I told him.

"Blue gun?"

"That one too, Little Guy." Fortunately, this all happened the day before his second birthday. The delight in his eyes was unstoppable as he tore through the wrapping paper to reveal his very own nerf gun.

"Gun," he shouted, anxiously waiting for me to remove all the dad-proof packaging. We let him have some time to play with it before starting in on the other gifts. Once he realized that there was another present, his eyes lit up as he shouted, "More gun!"

"They're not all guns," I explained. "Some will be clothes and you need to be just as excited." And he did love the new sweater from Grandma and the other toys, but they could never compare with the joy of reveling in his second amendment rights.

A few nights later, he handed me the gun and pointed to a picture on the wall. "Shoot Gapa."

"You want me to shoot Grandpa?" I asked.

A big smile. "Shoot Gapa!" Not wanting to let the poor kid down I cocked the gun and aimed it right at the picture of my father-in-law's face. The suction dart stuck him right between the eyes. Justin squealed with delight as he handed me another dart. "Shoot Gama!" Before long, we had moved all the way down the wall of pictures and shot every family member at least once. The dog watched all this through the sliding glass door, wondering what the commotion was about and Justin noticed her pathetic stare. "Shoot HeeHee!"

"You want me to shoot Dacey?" I questioned.

"Shoot HeeHee!' So I aimed the gun at the glass and stuck one right on her nose. Needless to say, that present was a big hit.

Chances are the gun will be broken and the helicopter will be in for repairs next time you stop by, but you are always welcome to bring your own toys.

Gut Feelings

Have you ever stopped to consider where your feelings are stored? Which organ is responsible for feelings? Is it the brain, the heart, the pancreas? Feelings have to be stored somewhere within the human body, but the actual location remains a mystery to most of us. Perhaps that is why we use the generic location of “guts,” as in a “gut” feeling. The term “guts” can refer to a whole conglomeration of various organs that all function together to sustain life, so the odds of one of those organs actually being the storage bin of feelings are quite high.

My wife and I have been dealing with a gut feeling of our own lately and it’s not the kind that comes after Thanksgiving dinner. The feeling in our guts has been telling us that the baby growing inside Mommy’s tummy is a boy. We have no rational proof for believing that its a boy, but our guts told us that it was, so it must be so. If you follow the various body parts north from the location of the guts, you will eventually find a route that leads to the brain. When the guts communicate with the brain, the brain tends to accept the gut feelings as fact. Once fact is established, there is little that can be done to change the ensuing mindset, except for modern technology.

And we got hit with a dose of modern technology yesterday. Neither of us really realized that our gut feelings had made the journey north, so we thought we were open minded, but when the ultrasound technician said, “Do you see those three little dots in a row right there?” I immediately thought to myself, “Why yes, three little dots would be the beginnings of boy parts.”

Then she continued. “Those three little dots are girl parts.” Then without missing a beat, she added, “Do you see that line? That’s her bum crack.”

“Are you sure?” my wife asked.

“Honey, I’m sure she knows what a bum crack looks like.”

“Well, we’re not allowed to say we are 100% sure, but those are the three little dots you see when it’s a girl.”

So much for gut feelings. Apparently I store my feelings in a different organ; one that is less accurate than the actual guts. After analyzing this situation, I have determined that my feelings must be stored in my ankles. That way I can blame any feeling errors that I experience on a simple communication problem. The correct feelings always generate in my ankles, but in order to reach my brain, they have to make their way through my guts. Chances are as the feelings navigate their way through the various twists and turns of the guts, the messages get skewed. By the time they reach my brain, the message is so garbled that an occasional mistaken conclusion is reached. Fortunately, I am never wrong since my initial feelings are always right. It’s my guts that are the problem.

Now if only my ankles had a feeling about little girl names. Any ideas?

Fifties Flashback

Pregnancy is a team effort. Of course I was fully aware of this fact 18 weeks ago, but that was different. Now it’s a reality. With baby number five nearly halfway here, we have gotten through the worst of it, but it’s not over yet. As a matter of fact, the first three months of this round were textbook bad. During that trimester, fatigue and nausea were the only emotions Mommy ever felt. As a result, Daddy took over the cooking and cleaning and shopping while Mommy gave a few pointers here and there.

Then came the magical day when the vomiting stopped. I still remember the final one like it was yesterday. Perhaps that is because I was driving and she was sitting in the front seat of my car following a kid-free date. Unpleasant as it was, that final puke represented a turning point in this journey. While Mommy’s strength is still minimal, she can once again do some cooking, cleaning, and shopping thus enabling me to resume my life as a closet blogger.

With Mommy’s newfound (yet limited) energy, I came home today to a picture of perfection. For the first time in months, I felt like maybe we could actually handle having five kids. The task that had overwhelmed us now seemed possible. What I saw today was a moment in time taken straight from a 1950s sitcom.

My day at work had been busy, yet pleasant. The drive home was uneventful and I used the time to prepare myself for the influx of fatherly duties that would await me as soon as I walked in the door, but today things were slightly different.

I pulled the car into the garage and was greeted by my oldest son wearing his favorite Angels baseball shirt and a big smile. “Daddy, I invented a new game today!”

“Really, what is it?”

“It’s called Super Bullet Ball Eaters!”

I followed him inside to the place where he and my two-year-old son were engaged in a boyish game together. “That looks exciting, Buddy,” I told him as I made my way toward the kitchen where Mommy was busily working on dinner, her apron tied neatly in the back. “Smells good,” I said as I leaned in for a kiss.

Just then, my four-year-old daughter came tearing down the hall at full speed and jumped into my arms for a world-class running hug. As I scooped her up and held her tight, my six-year-old came charging down the hall as well. I made a one-armed grab and pulled her up to me. With my arms full I looked around at the boys playing happily in the hall, squeezed my girls in my arms and watched my wife making a dinner she knew I would enjoy.

The house was mostly clean, but not perfect. Evidence of kids could be seen around the house, but at that moment it didn’t matter. What mattered was that I have been truly blessed with a wonderful family that brings me joy despite the moments of chaos. When people ask me why I want so many kids, moments like these are the answer. What other experience can beat the thrill of a couple of full speed running hugs at the end of the day while dinner simmers on the stove and two brothers play happily together?

Free Tacos!

What do you get when you mix a pregnant wife with an offer for free tacos? The answer to this question might seem straight forward, but in reality it is quite complicated. First of all, you are probably working off the assumption that all pregnant women are hungry and therefore are always ready to eat anything. Secondly, you probably believe that tacos, being something, would satisfy those huger pangs. And finally, you are undoubtedly under the impression that this exhausted pregnant mother of four is alert enough at dinner time to recognize a free version of a taco as consumable food.

Since today was Mommy's adjustment day I left work a few minutes early to rendezvous with her at the chiropractor's office. We traded keys and cars and I was supposed to take the Burbful ("Suburban-full-of" for those of you less family oriented) of kids right back home and start working on dinner while Mommy got her aching back straightened out. "So did you plan something for me fix for dinner?" I asked handing her my keys.

"No, I'm way too tired to even think about dinner. The 5:30 mornings are getting to me." Her eyes were indeed heavy and I wondered if she would make it all the way inside the building without falling asleep.

"They're giving out free tacos at Jack in the Box tonight," I casually mentioned.

"That doesn't even sound good," she moaned. "Just feed the kids some left overs and don't worry about waiting for me."

What I heard, however, was, "Do whatever you want because I'm not going to eat anyway." So, since there was no plan for dinner it was off to Jack in the Box for free tacos. Please understand that, as a native Southern Californian, I normally have a strict policy against ordering Mexican food at restaurants that don't start with the words "El" or "La." ("Los" and "Las" are also acceptable derivatives of those words.) Jack in the Box clearly starts with the word "Jack," not "El Jack." I give Jack credit for his good old fashioned American sandwiches, but the dude doesn't have a Mexican bone in his body.

With four kids in tow, we braved the crowded restaurant and placed our order. "I'll have five orders of your two free tacos," I said. The very astute young man behind the counter, not wanting to violate the terms of the free taco offer, carefully counted my four children plus myself to make sure all five bodies were present.

"You do have five people," he commented nodding toward the two-year-old in my arms. I then handed him nothing and he handed me a receipt. "May I have your name?" he asked. I told him my name, carefully saying each letter since Aaron is so often misspelled by the uneducated. And he, being clearly uneducated, spelled it wrong.

It took about twenty minutes, but my name was eventually called and ten neatly wrapped taco-like meals were waiting for me at the counter. I took my bag, rounded up the kids, and hit the road. On the way home, my wife called and told me that her appointment had gone fast and she would be joining us for dinner. Oh no, I thought to myself. She didn't want tacos. I put the pedal to the metal and raced home to whip out that left-over chicken I was supposed to be feeding the kids. Shortly after she walked in the door, I had the table set with ten paper-wrapped taco-esque treats, left-over chicken, and microwaved veggies.

You'll recall that earlier I had mentioned that Jack (of the box fame) didn't have a Mexican bone in his body. Well, I thought that might play to my advantage, because neither do my kids. I felt fairly confident that tacos made by a guy named Jack wouldn't have even a hint of spicy in them. Well, given my kids' lack of south-of the-border taste buds, it only took a hint of spicy to make them think that Jack was trying to burn their tongues off. At least we had the chicken.

As I looked at the ten tacos in front of me and the four kids and one wife who all wanted left-overs, I realized I was in a predicament. The task seemed daunting, but I was up for the challenge. Taking a bite of the first Jack in the Box taco, I couldn't help but notice that the meat-like substance inside the tortilla looked like shredded beef but had coloring that reminded me of taco sauce splashed on a paper towel. The texture of the meatish stuffing was smooth, almost like warm Jell-O. My mouth was confused. Where's the shredded beef texture? I wondered to myself. Then I thought about how remarkable it was that taco sauce could hide so many unsavory flavors. I continued chewing. My stomach felt fine so I finished taco-like substance number one and got to work on number two.

The second one went down fine. Taking a break, I loaded my plate with a warmed up pile of mixed veggies. Might as well get something of value into me before I fill up on spicy meat substitutes. Then I moved on to the third taco, then a fourth. Almost halfway there. I started the fifth, then paused and took a drink. A long drink. I was beginning to question my judgement at this point. Halfway through number six, I had to quit. Images of where my meal may have originated began flooding my head and I couldn't shake them. So much for being up for the challenge.

I'll give Jack credit for defeating me in the ten taco challenge, but he's going to have to take the loss on his latest promotional idea because it just bombed muy grande.

Early Mornings

Even though I was asleep, I knew the heater had kicked on. I could feel the room warming up and the gentle hum reassuring me that I could sleep in comfort for several more hours. Since it was Saturday morning my only plan was to stay in bed a little longer than usual. Then it happened. I wasn’t surprised because it happens every day at this time.

The gentle, yet familiar kick to my leg told me that my night was over. The kick, as always, was subtle but it conveys a message. She doesn’t have to say anything really because I know what it means. “I’m growing your next child inside of me and it’s your turn to take care of the ones we already have.” I glanced at the clock. 5:37 a.m. He’s three minutes early, I thought to myself.

The truth is I knew the kick was coming because I had heard the rapid pitter-patter of a two-year-old in footie jammies sprinting down the hall moments before. There has been very little deviation from this routine for the last several months. Maybe he knows a baby is coming and he’s getting up early to get a head start on Mommy-hogging before anyone else has a chance to climb on her sleeping body and sit on her head.

Being the dutiful husband that I am, I ignored the kick for as long as possible. When it became apparent that neither the child, nor the kick would go away any time soon, I reluctantly drug myself out of my warm bed only to be assaulted by the bright light of the refrigerator as I squinted to find a gallon of milk and pour it into a bottle. Then, as usual, I spent the next hour trying to keep him quiet and out of Mommy’s bed with only limited success.

The little guy has a radar of sorts. He knows that once I sit down to eat my bowl of cereal with the morning news on my laptop, my guard is down. Without even looking at me the slow pitter-patter of pajama-clad feet quickly accelerated to full speed. As I hurried to swallow the first bite, I could hear the bedroom door flinging open, the doorstop absorbing the force of the blow as the familiar twaaannnggg echoed down the hall.

Though I was only steps behind him, the damage was done. No sense in tip-toeing around now to keep the kid quiet since Mommy was awake. For a two-year-old, a time out chair is usually equated to a place to sit and wait while the tears run their course. Over the course of the next ten minutes several things happened: The little guy made multiple visits to the chair, tears came and went and came again, a giant pile of Legos ended up on the living room floor, and my cereal got soggy. The result of all this tragedy was that he finally learned, at least for today, that Mommy’s bed is off limits when the door is closed.

We’ll see what happens at 5:40 tomorrow morning.

Daddy Shirts

There are moments in the life of every parent that we wish we could capture and relive over and over again; moments when our kids do something unforgettably cute or amaze us with their simple perspective on life. These moments come more often than we realize, but we still crave more of them. In the same way children crave rituals. We all want more of a good thing. It is when we blend our craving for unforgettable moments with our child’s craving for ritual that we get priceless memories.

My four-year-old daughter provides me with memories on a daily basis. She is one of those kids who has a zeal for life that inspires. She thrives on attention, yet loves to play alone with her ponies. Her quiet voice often echoes in song as we drive down the road and her toys are never at a loss for words.

A few summers ago while on a family camping trip, necessity forced us into a situation that has evolved into a tradition which bonds us together time and time again. That year the evenings were particularly hot and my girls were having trouble sleeping. I tucked them into their beds and propped open the trailer window. The fan above the bed was running, but air conditioning was not an option as we had no power.

“Daddy, I’m hot,” I heard my oldest daughter moan. Not wanting my precious girls to suffer, I thought through my options. The coldest place in the trailer was the freezer. Anything from there would melt and either get ruined or make a mess. But the refrigerator was fair game.

“I’ve got something that will help,” I told the girls as I presented each of them with their own can of ice cold Diet Coke. “Snuggle up with this,” I said. With the cold can pressed against their cheeks, the girls quickly faded off to sleep. Needless to say, the ritual was repeated again the next night and the next. As a matter of fact it continued throughout the rest of that summer.

When fall rolled around, though, things changed. Temperatures dropped and the need for the Diet Coke was gone. Without that reminder of Daddy, my youngest daughter had a new enemy attacking her each night: lions.

“Daddy, the lions are going to get me again tonight,” she would say. Thinking fast, I told her that lions never attack daddies because they don’t like their smell.

“If I give you a big hug and make you smell like me, the lions will stay away,” I told her. Never being one to shy away from one-on-one attention, she snuggled into my embrace, a contended grin telling me that she would sleep just fine. The next night, she reminded me again of the lions and what I needed to do, only now there was a need for a kiss component. Seven kisses to be exact. Cheek, cheek, nose, arm, arm, leg, leg. That was the only way to make sure the lions would stay away.

After a few weeks of this, I had to schedule a late night at work and knew that I wouldn’t be able to tuck her into bed the next night. “Remember what keeps the lions away?” I asked before bedtime.

“They don’t like Daddy smells.”

“Right, so tonight I want you to sleep with one of Daddy’s shirts. That way the lions will smell my shirt and stay away.” I then handed her my old In-N-Out Burger t-shirt. She snuggled up with it, that same contented grin on her face and drifted off to sleep.

Last night at bed time, the shirt was still in the dirty clothes where Mommy had put it earlier in the day. “Come here,” I said to my daughter, my hand extended out to hers. Together we walked down the hall to Daddy’s closet. “Pick a new one,” I said.

Her face lit up as she carefully studied her options. “I want this one,” she said a minute later.

“You want Daddy’s flag shirt?” I asked.

“Oooh, no. That’s the American one.” Her fingers continued working their way across the red section and past the blues. Finally she got to the black section and seemed to stop. “I want this one,” she announced.

“That one is from Daddy’s work. Do you want to sleep with that one?”

“Yes!” The grin returned. Together we walked back down the hall to her room, hand in hand. She crawled into her pink sheets and snuggled up with her black Daddy shirt. I gave her seven kisses, turned off the light and let her drift off to sleep.

What began as a necessity on a hot night has turned into a tradition. A moment turned into a memory. Over and over again.

Big League Bound

“Widen your stance. Keep your weight on your back leg. Step forward as you swing.” I went through our ad hoc checklist before I began pitching to my eight-year-old son, Zach. He’d shown tremendous improvement over the last few years, but he still wasn’t quite ready for the big jump from “coach pitch” baseball to the next level, where he’d face opposing players on the mound.

“Let the power come from your legs. Swing through the ball. You have to get your whole body into it.” I continued spewing out a string of what I considered helpful tips. My fingers loosely gripped the seams of the well-used baseball. I knew he could make contact, but I wanted to see it go farther. Today was all about power.

I glanced down as I prepared to let the first pitch fly and I could tell he was absorbing every word. I wound up and let the ball go. Contact, but not enough power. The next pitch sailed toward the plate. Better. I glanced down. My sidekick was nearly ready too. Although only 16 months old, Justin wasn’t about to be outdone by his big brother. He knew what I was saying.

The yellow plastic bat rested on the little guy's shoulder. “Ball, ball,” Justin pleaded repeatedly. I tossed one his way, careful to hit the bat right on the sweet spot. There was no need to swing; besides, his miniature size wouldn’t allow it. My pitch was right on. The ball deflected off the bat and trickled back toward me.

The grin said it all. Like it or not, he was ready. “Hold on,” I instructed as I wound up and delivered another pitch to Zach at home plate. A mighty swing, but no contact.

“Ball, ball.” The voice was cheerfully optimistic. I tossed another one his way, hitting my target once again. Turning my attention back to home plate, I recapped my earlier instructions. “Weight back, swing through.” The pitch was right down the middle, the hit equally impressive. I looked up as the ball sailed over my head and landed beyond second base. “That’s more like it!”

“Ball!” It was a demand this time, not a request. Another toss to the side, another gentle tap from the plastic bat.

“Well, Buddy,” I said to my eldest. “Looks like you're ready for the batting cages.” The next afternoon was a team practice at the cages. An outfielder started things off in the fast cage while our first baseman kicked it off in the slower one. The boys cycled through, each working on his own technique.

“Ball, ball!” I glanced down. The little guy was ready too. A pilfered batting helmet, complete with face mask, bobbled on his tiny head while a bat twice his size scraped along behind him. He toddled to the fast cage and began climbing the chain-link gate, reaching for the latch.

“Not yet, little dude,” I said. “Come with me.” The grassy area was small, but so was my batter. With the heavy aluminum bat propped on his shoulder and an entire girls’ softball team from the next set of cages as an audience, he waited for me to begin tossing balls his way. The first pitch was perfect, gently ricocheting off the bat and onto the soft grass.

The girls went crazy. “That is so cute!” they squealed as they cheered the little guy on. Their approval wasn’t lost on the junior all-star. Another pitch. Contact. A huge smile. Applause. A contagious laugh. A pitch. A smile. Applause. A bigger laugh.

“You’re doing great,” I said, as I pulled the helmet off his head. “Let’s just give it a few more years.” A high five. Another laugh.