It is that time of year again. The time of year where the stench of parental despair is replaced with the fresh scent of pine. That's right folks, it Christmas time. Where we all (or most of us Christmas Purist) get a real tree and prop, or tether it to the nearest four walls, and hang some sentimental (or really gaudy) ornaments. We string them with lights; white if you were born after 1980, or multi colored if you are real old skool and fill the rest of the decorating spaces within your abode with other holiday nick-nacks and chochkeys. We use this time to tell our offspring about the sentimental meaning of each of the "Baby's First Christmas" or SnowBaby riding a Harley thing hanging from the shrubbery that was just savagely torn from its home (or picked up from the local garden store or volunteer fire department).
We set out this morning to "Free a Frasier Fur" from any disaster it would encounter in a field. Now I am from the school of thought that a tree that is to be worshiped and glorified in the name of The Big Guy, it should be big and full. We have had some very big and very full trees in the past. Some to the point of blocking the television or taking up half of the living room. Both were exceptional trees to me. But last year my Christmas tree spirit was somewhat broken and we got a "normal" sized tree. While it served it purpose, part of me felt a little empty inside. I guess it was just a little too weird watching the mindless holiday television programming clearly, without a branch full of needles to block my view. Where's the Christmas sprit in that?
Fast forward to the present, or at least earlier today. We returned to the last year's massacre sight, but no trees were tall enough for us to free. So on we went. The next farm, or murder sight, was abound with tall and full trees, AND plenty of Emancipators of Pine. After a lovely walk up a hill, dragging, nudging, and tugging the kiddo's we arrived at the frasier fur section. Some nice. Some not so much. But there were a group of tallish ones in the back. They looked perfect from afar. But upon closer inspection there was a flaw. These trees were on the roadside of the field which meant they were one-sided. The Boss thought that fact was a deal breaker and wanted to move the hunt on. I am a problem solver. And I felt sorry for these trees. Poor guys. Just because of someone's ill thought out planting they would never be freed of the slavery that is the Christmas Tree Farm. And since we put the slave, I mean tree in the corner, this little guy would be perfect. My argument was immediately agreed upon. (I finally won one. In under an hour. Something must be up.) I think everyone's patience was running on E and hysteria was going to ensue very shortly. Saw 'er down!
I must have looked like a genius, or a complete dork, but I took the landscape trailer with us to get the tree. Its small; 5x8. Not like its a 12 footer or anything. That would have been a little overkill. Why lug it on the roof of the car when I can just throw it in the trailer? And who cares anyway? They are all just jealous of my problem solving skills. I'm the man!
Set up tree. Tether it to walls because I have a history of trees that like to be still until they are all decorated and then they revolt. Decorate tree with a healthy mix of sentimental and gaudy, and do what has become a Hoehne tradition. We turn off the lights in the house then me and the rug rats slide under the tree and gaze up at its beauty. It may not sound like it, but the view is quite breathtaking. Not Bo Derek breathtaking. But breathtaking in the fact that you are sharing a moment with your kiddies. Its a peaceful moment. A peaceful moment. It doesn't last that long but it was there. Try it sometime. You can even adopt our tradition as your own. Do it just to savor the moment with your kids before they go back to maddening you beyond belief and before the stench of despair returns to your house.
Happy holidays.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Its a new day in Daddom
Today, well last night it started, a new day was christened in my Fatherhood. I survived a two and a half hour dress rehearsal for my daughter's dance recital. In years past that feat would have been a walk in the park because she was only in one or two dances per recital. But now she has progressed into the Petite team and is dancing in five of six (read, a thousand) dances. And she is rocking the whole thing; smiling for the audience or judges, hamming it up just like one of her dance instructors. It's enough to make any father who couldn't dance to save his life except for the occasional Cabbage Patch or Running man proud.
That is not what this is about. Sure, I am proud of my daughters dancing accomplishments. But last night was different. Last night I was "backstage" helping costume changes and watching the underbelly of dance recital rehearsal first hand. Basically I was being frantic, then calm (during said dances) and frantically finding costumes, changing costumes, and tracking down runaway pairs of shoes that six and seven year olds throw about. It was much like my every day life in every way. But the most rewarding part was the acceptance of the other Dance Moms to my being there. Sure, I may be one of the few Dance Dads that willingly help out, but I did so with great enthusiasm and charm that flows from my being. (I am a bull-shitter and try to be funny in situations where I don't feel 100% comfortable)
I left the rehearsal last night exhausted and content. I was finally talked to by the "Moms of Dance." Before I got the cordial nod or salutation. Maybe now they will let me into their inner den of their Not Too Crazy Dance Mom club. What a joy that would be. Can you imagine me, all dance crazy? Yea. Me neither.
I realize that I probably won't be able to help out backstage for most recitals or competition due to my chromosomal make up, but maybe I can buck the trend and become a Dance Dad extroidinare. Or maybe one or two Moms weren't all that comfortable with my presence helping out and just kept their reservations to themselves, or until they got together with the other Moms in a secret, underground meeting damning me from ever helping out again. If that were to happen I'd be sad but OK with it. I understand that I am just a dad trying to be helpful. And having two lovely girls that like to dance I feel the need to be involved with their activities, whatever they may be.
So whatever happens, I will accept it and watch from the audience. Or backstage. Or on the DVD later because they have banned me from ever stepping foot within earshot of their daughters. (I'd better talk softly at the next dance class)
Yes it is a new dad in Daddom for this guy. Even if it was for just one evening.
That is not what this is about. Sure, I am proud of my daughters dancing accomplishments. But last night was different. Last night I was "backstage" helping costume changes and watching the underbelly of dance recital rehearsal first hand. Basically I was being frantic, then calm (during said dances) and frantically finding costumes, changing costumes, and tracking down runaway pairs of shoes that six and seven year olds throw about. It was much like my every day life in every way. But the most rewarding part was the acceptance of the other Dance Moms to my being there. Sure, I may be one of the few Dance Dads that willingly help out, but I did so with great enthusiasm and charm that flows from my being. (I am a bull-shitter and try to be funny in situations where I don't feel 100% comfortable)
I left the rehearsal last night exhausted and content. I was finally talked to by the "Moms of Dance." Before I got the cordial nod or salutation. Maybe now they will let me into their inner den of their Not Too Crazy Dance Mom club. What a joy that would be. Can you imagine me, all dance crazy? Yea. Me neither.
I realize that I probably won't be able to help out backstage for most recitals or competition due to my chromosomal make up, but maybe I can buck the trend and become a Dance Dad extroidinare. Or maybe one or two Moms weren't all that comfortable with my presence helping out and just kept their reservations to themselves, or until they got together with the other Moms in a secret, underground meeting damning me from ever helping out again. If that were to happen I'd be sad but OK with it. I understand that I am just a dad trying to be helpful. And having two lovely girls that like to dance I feel the need to be involved with their activities, whatever they may be.
So whatever happens, I will accept it and watch from the audience. Or backstage. Or on the DVD later because they have banned me from ever stepping foot within earshot of their daughters. (I'd better talk softly at the next dance class)
Yes it is a new dad in Daddom for this guy. Even if it was for just one evening.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
It turned out to be a busy day for me....
It truly has turned out to be a busy day for me. Not only did I do laundry, go to the bank, and tidy up some of the basement, but this will be my SECOND post today. I really need to tone it down. I am going to set a bad precedent. The next thing I know, I'll be posting once a month..... Yea right. A good goal but my life would have to slow down first.
Any-hoo, This morning the Mrs. and I thought it would be good to begin to teach my eldest daughter a very integral life skill: shoe tying. This stemmed from her telling me that she had to have a classmate tie her shoe when it kept falling off. I am sure she reveled in the sight of one of her minions bowing down and kissing her feet, umm.. tying her shoe, but I couldn't let that continue and still consider myself a halfway decent parent. I'm ok with decent or even mediocre. But I can't condone halfway decent. Who do you think I am? Mr. Cleaver?
So this morning's teachings only led to a grumpy, frustrated kid (by my accounts she was grumpy before we started this exercise). To advert an all out meltdown, we tied her shoes with the promise we would revisit the life skill lesson after school. My assignment from the Head Master was to research ways to teach a youngin' to tie their shoes on the popular site YouTube. (If you read today's other post you will know I am no stranger to the video site that has taken the interweb by storm) I found what I thought would be an easy method.
Once the budding life skill master was home, done with homework, and regrouped herself from her daily post school attitude realignment (believe me, she comes home with more attitude than an '80's Hair Band's hair style) we decided to tackle the task yet again. Only this time we had our trusty YouTube video. The easy looking video I thought would work, only made it more confusing. So we watched a few more. She watched intently like a surgeon studying surgery. (not a good analogy but it works; badly) Slowly she puts the steps together in her brain and then onto the practice shoe in front of her. She tries. I give a few pointers. She tries again. And again. And again. Almost. Try again. GOT IT! Try again. Nope. But then it clicks. While she may not do it with speed and accuracy of scorpion hunting its prey, she gains confidence. And more importantly she did it herself. Wouldn't have any help from dear, ole dad.
She showed off her new skill to her mother when she returned home from a chilly day at work, proud as a peacock. (Are peacocks really that proud? I know they make a very annoying sound and there ain't nothing to be proud of that noise)
The moral of the story is my daughter learned something, mostly by herself. She learned a life skill that will stay with her for the rest of her life. And more importantly, I won't have to bend down and tie her shoes (while she is thinking I am just another minion bowing down and kissing her feet). I may lace up a ballet slipper here or there but the regular, everyday shoes and sneakers is no longer in my pay grade.
Any-hoo, This morning the Mrs. and I thought it would be good to begin to teach my eldest daughter a very integral life skill: shoe tying. This stemmed from her telling me that she had to have a classmate tie her shoe when it kept falling off. I am sure she reveled in the sight of one of her minions bowing down and kissing her feet, umm.. tying her shoe, but I couldn't let that continue and still consider myself a halfway decent parent. I'm ok with decent or even mediocre. But I can't condone halfway decent. Who do you think I am? Mr. Cleaver?
So this morning's teachings only led to a grumpy, frustrated kid (by my accounts she was grumpy before we started this exercise). To advert an all out meltdown, we tied her shoes with the promise we would revisit the life skill lesson after school. My assignment from the Head Master was to research ways to teach a youngin' to tie their shoes on the popular site YouTube. (If you read today's other post you will know I am no stranger to the video site that has taken the interweb by storm) I found what I thought would be an easy method.
Once the budding life skill master was home, done with homework, and regrouped herself from her daily post school attitude realignment (believe me, she comes home with more attitude than an '80's Hair Band's hair style) we decided to tackle the task yet again. Only this time we had our trusty YouTube video. The easy looking video I thought would work, only made it more confusing. So we watched a few more. She watched intently like a surgeon studying surgery. (not a good analogy but it works; badly) Slowly she puts the steps together in her brain and then onto the practice shoe in front of her. She tries. I give a few pointers. She tries again. And again. And again. Almost. Try again. GOT IT! Try again. Nope. But then it clicks. While she may not do it with speed and accuracy of scorpion hunting its prey, she gains confidence. And more importantly she did it herself. Wouldn't have any help from dear, ole dad.
She showed off her new skill to her mother when she returned home from a chilly day at work, proud as a peacock. (Are peacocks really that proud? I know they make a very annoying sound and there ain't nothing to be proud of that noise)
The moral of the story is my daughter learned something, mostly by herself. She learned a life skill that will stay with her for the rest of her life. And more importantly, I won't have to bend down and tie her shoes (while she is thinking I am just another minion bowing down and kissing her feet). I may lace up a ballet slipper here or there but the regular, everyday shoes and sneakers is no longer in my pay grade.
'Tis the Season of Thankfulness
The time of year has come around again where people in America look back and reflect on the things that they are thankful for. So here is this year's list of Things To Be Thankful For:
I am thankful some rogue Bastards decided to get out of Dodge (Britain) and start anew in an uncharted territory many, many decades ago. (Sorry English readers but without you we wouldn't be the United States of America. So I guess this post is your fault. THANKS!)
I am thankful for my family. My two angelic (most of the time) little girls and I am thankful for the unnamed, unsexed (at least to us) little addition to our family.
I am thankful for my wife, who works tirelessly at her ever demanding job so I have the opportunity to stay home, raise our children and goof off. (Honey, disregard this line. I work hard, really, really hard all day. Just don't come home unannounced. I may be knee-deep in laundry or YouTube videos of cats, dogs, or drummers, or building Legos while the kids "try" to help.)
I am thankful for my health, even if it hurts to walk down stairs on my 33 years-young legs as they creek and ache. And thankful SUSAC's Syndrome is self limiting. Screw you auto-immune syndrome. I showed you!
I am thankful for all four seasons we experience here in New England. Thankful I get to work outside tending to our garden and mowing my lawn (to keep my sanity mostly).
I am thankful for our extended family of friends and family. Without them my life would be boring and uneventful.
I am thankful for my band, even if I am just a hired hand, with a gig every quarter, if we're lucky. I am thankful I get to do something I love and am passionate about.
I am regretfully thankful for the changing of the seasons. It's just too damn cold this fall.
I am thankful for everyone I have ever met. Ever person that has come into my life has left a mark on me; good, bad or indifferent, you have left your mark.
I am thankful for every day I wake up, refreshed or not. Though I awake more refreshed than my counterpart. Her side of the bed just happens to be closer to the door. I'm thankful she takes the brunt of the kid's nighttime visits to our bed.
I am thankful for laughter because without it we all would have gone crazy long ago.
Well, there it is. The list of things I am thankful for this year. By all means, it is not complete. It is just a start. What to do you expect? I just scribbled this in 10 minutes. Get off my back.
I am thankful some rogue Bastards decided to get out of Dodge (Britain) and start anew in an uncharted territory many, many decades ago. (Sorry English readers but without you we wouldn't be the United States of America. So I guess this post is your fault. THANKS!)
I am thankful for my family. My two angelic (most of the time) little girls and I am thankful for the unnamed, unsexed (at least to us) little addition to our family.
I am thankful for my wife, who works tirelessly at her ever demanding job so I have the opportunity to stay home, raise our children and goof off. (Honey, disregard this line. I work hard, really, really hard all day. Just don't come home unannounced. I may be knee-deep in laundry or YouTube videos of cats, dogs, or drummers, or building Legos while the kids "try" to help.)
I am thankful for my health, even if it hurts to walk down stairs on my 33 years-young legs as they creek and ache. And thankful SUSAC's Syndrome is self limiting. Screw you auto-immune syndrome. I showed you!
I am thankful for all four seasons we experience here in New England. Thankful I get to work outside tending to our garden and mowing my lawn (to keep my sanity mostly).
I am thankful for our extended family of friends and family. Without them my life would be boring and uneventful.
I am thankful for my band, even if I am just a hired hand, with a gig every quarter, if we're lucky. I am thankful I get to do something I love and am passionate about.
I am regretfully thankful for the changing of the seasons. It's just too damn cold this fall.
I am thankful for everyone I have ever met. Ever person that has come into my life has left a mark on me; good, bad or indifferent, you have left your mark.
I am thankful for every day I wake up, refreshed or not. Though I awake more refreshed than my counterpart. Her side of the bed just happens to be closer to the door. I'm thankful she takes the brunt of the kid's nighttime visits to our bed.
I am thankful for laughter because without it we all would have gone crazy long ago.
Well, there it is. The list of things I am thankful for this year. By all means, it is not complete. It is just a start. What to do you expect? I just scribbled this in 10 minutes. Get off my back.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Fatherhood changes a man
Some time ago, like many, many moons ago, I was living with my parents like most out of college kids (I may even still have been in high school at that point). I didn't have enough money for the finer things in life. Namely new audio cables. (Hey what can I say. I'm an audio geek.) So to combat the lack of funds I started to fix and/or make new audio cables that I had around. My ever attentive father got me this sweet precision screwdriver set and soldering iron. One of these gifts is used more than any other tool I have ever used; and it doesn't even get hot.
Since my children have grown, toys break. It is a part of life; just like the sun rising and the weather changing. I can remember my father hot gluing wheels on my General Lee. It turns out that that super car really can't fly. Sometimes parents say a prayer when a toy breaks. "Finally, we don't have to listen to that noisy toy at all hours of the day." or "Thank God! Time for some peace and quiet." We all want our children to have good, educational toys, but a line has to be drawn at the annoying factor. And most toys the kids want have an annoying factor of one million.
So yesterday we were at the fair (because it is now fair season and what better way to spend the day eating and buying crap than a fair) and the kiddies get their eye's on some of the finest toys the World Famous Goshen Fair has to offer. To our defense, it was a little noisy when the light up butterfly was purchased for an ungodly amount of money, but a mid afternoon tantrum in front of a packed fair wasn't in the cards. When we finally get to a nice quiet spot with our french fries doused in catsup and vinegar (my wife likes the vinegar on her fair fries) we are serenaded by the lovely, never ending, not annoying at all sound of this seizure inducing insect. Oh joyous day!
Fast forward to bed time and the kids are all riled as if they were mainlining pixie sticks. They finally settle when from up stairs I hear a voice that informs all that her butterfly is broken. "There is a God!" But like any good father would do, I inspect and see if it can be repaired, tell her it will take time and hopefully she will get it back tomorrow good as new. Upon my inspection, I come to the conclusion that there is no saving this high quality piece of crap and give up to finish watching Breaking Bad to hopefully return in the morning with a fresh mind and some bright ideas.
The morning comes and just like it happened seconds ago, she inquires about here busted hunk of overpriced plastic. Again I tried to fix it the best way I could think; taking it apart, super-gluing the tinniest of tiny plastic piece that won't stay put unless I had an injection mold for this one part. Defeated, my mind began to improvise, trying to bring joy to my little angle's life. Then I remembered the best tool ever made. Duct Tape! A gift from the heavens. Before I venture down the new repair road, I ponder if the aesthetics of the dull grey adhesive would be acceptable, but forge on anyway. After some strategically placed miracle tape, the fake crystal looking bug on a stick is back in action and joy is returned to a three year old's psyche. Score one for dad and Duct Tape.
The moral of this story is there are things that we used PC (pre children) that are just as important, if not more important than they are today (AC- After Children). Who knew a set of tiny screwdrivers would single handedly bring so much joy to my children. Such is life.
On a related note, the other toy, the stuffed dog on a stick, ripped in three places. No screwdriver is going to fix that. That one is up to her mother.
Since my children have grown, toys break. It is a part of life; just like the sun rising and the weather changing. I can remember my father hot gluing wheels on my General Lee. It turns out that that super car really can't fly. Sometimes parents say a prayer when a toy breaks. "Finally, we don't have to listen to that noisy toy at all hours of the day." or "Thank God! Time for some peace and quiet." We all want our children to have good, educational toys, but a line has to be drawn at the annoying factor. And most toys the kids want have an annoying factor of one million.
So yesterday we were at the fair (because it is now fair season and what better way to spend the day eating and buying crap than a fair) and the kiddies get their eye's on some of the finest toys the World Famous Goshen Fair has to offer. To our defense, it was a little noisy when the light up butterfly was purchased for an ungodly amount of money, but a mid afternoon tantrum in front of a packed fair wasn't in the cards. When we finally get to a nice quiet spot with our french fries doused in catsup and vinegar (my wife likes the vinegar on her fair fries) we are serenaded by the lovely, never ending, not annoying at all sound of this seizure inducing insect. Oh joyous day!
Fast forward to bed time and the kids are all riled as if they were mainlining pixie sticks. They finally settle when from up stairs I hear a voice that informs all that her butterfly is broken. "There is a God!" But like any good father would do, I inspect and see if it can be repaired, tell her it will take time and hopefully she will get it back tomorrow good as new. Upon my inspection, I come to the conclusion that there is no saving this high quality piece of crap and give up to finish watching Breaking Bad to hopefully return in the morning with a fresh mind and some bright ideas.
The morning comes and just like it happened seconds ago, she inquires about here busted hunk of overpriced plastic. Again I tried to fix it the best way I could think; taking it apart, super-gluing the tinniest of tiny plastic piece that won't stay put unless I had an injection mold for this one part. Defeated, my mind began to improvise, trying to bring joy to my little angle's life. Then I remembered the best tool ever made. Duct Tape! A gift from the heavens. Before I venture down the new repair road, I ponder if the aesthetics of the dull grey adhesive would be acceptable, but forge on anyway. After some strategically placed miracle tape, the fake crystal looking bug on a stick is back in action and joy is returned to a three year old's psyche. Score one for dad and Duct Tape.
The moral of this story is there are things that we used PC (pre children) that are just as important, if not more important than they are today (AC- After Children). Who knew a set of tiny screwdrivers would single handedly bring so much joy to my children. Such is life.
On a related note, the other toy, the stuffed dog on a stick, ripped in three places. No screwdriver is going to fix that. That one is up to her mother.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Are my kids bi-polar or just kids?
This morning Bayly woke up and was a pill from the get go. We are living in a hotel room for the week while my wife has a conference. A normal child will be grateful for the "spoiling" she has received. The pool trips. The later than any five year old should be allowed to go to bed bed times. The popsicles, candy, treats, junk food, crack cocaine (pixie sticks), movies and whatever else we did to keep them quiet and public appropriate.
So this morning Bayly "Couldn't find anything to wear!" She didn't want to wear a dress. No dress? She wears dresses to plant a garden. She wears dresses to ride a bike. She even wears dresses over her dresses to go grocery shopping. With the FIVE TO TEN dresses that are clean and packed out of the question, we move onto the other perfectly acceptable garments available to her.
"This is too tight."
"This is ugly." Even thought she has just about worn a hole in it.
"I don't want that."
"I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!"
Normally I would just leave her in her room and let her tantrum it out. But we are living in the lovely Hilton Chicago. (More on the amenities of lack thereof later) I cannot in good fatherhood let her scream and yell and be a spoiled little "girl" where the whole 3000 room hotel can hear her. So I did what any "good" father would do. I told Cali that we were going to breakfast and left. I didn't really leave. We just left the room and waited in the hall. Usually that is enough to snap her into line. Usually. Three minutes or so later there was a little voice at the door. So I go in only to be sternly asked to "GIVE ME PRIVACY! GET OUT!"
"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked. "The bathroom?" There is only the bathroom and the main room. I can't hide out in the open. I have yet to perfect the cloaking device. Soon....Soon... And then I will make millions...........
So back into the hall Cali and I go. Soon its "I have no leggings, but Cali does."
"Fine, get hers but change your shirt. You wore it all day yesterday AND you slept in it."
This simple statement set off another whole ration of shit. At this point, I am the end of whatever frayed rope I have been dangling from.
"Fine. Wear the shirt, but lets go."
Crisis adverted. Not really but adverted in the loosest sense of the term. Off to breakfast. The kids agree to share strawberry pancakes because the restaurant doesn't do single flapjacks. Compromise. A step in the right direction. It would have been great, but either kid failed to eat any pancakes. Cali ate the strawberries and Bayly wasn't hungry. Whatever. I had no more fight in my for another public battle. But my cinnamon roll french toast was killer. If you come across it anytime, do yourself a service and gobble them up. Or go to Yolk in Chicago. Its up to you.
So we finish breakfast of champions (really breakfast of wills) and head to the shuttle to go to the kids camp. Another perk of the conference. I have been kid-less for two afternoons. Bummer, I know. I make do. On the shuttle she's right as rain. I stopped trying to figure women out many many moons ago. I have found its easier and better for the psyche not to try. But I figured I would be able to figure out a five year old. Not so much.
Is she bi-polar? Is the "I change my mind because I am a woman" thought process (or lack-thereof) imbedded at birth? Is she just a kid? Am I out of my mind for thinking I could figure these beings out? All of the above? Perhaps. Probably. Most definitely.
As promised here is more about the Hilton.
I am writing this post from a Starbucks eight blocks from the hotel. Starbucks, where you can come, sit, buy an overpriced yet delicious beverage, or not, and use the WiFi.
Hilton Chicago. Where you get a room that costs more than a beverage from the barista (some of them, at least), and no free WiFi. They charge some ungodly fee and still charge for the room. Its a nice room. Not thee nicest room ever built but it works. Would it kill them to have some free WiFi? I've been to a fair amount of hotels and motels in my day and in my experience the fancier the joint the lack of free WiFi. But as you work your way down the price ladder of establishments, the more willing they are to give free internet access. Go figure.
If you work for Hilton, the last part was just a rant. Don't take it personally. If you don't work for Hilton, be prepared to dish out a few bucks if you want to access the interweb at their elegant and magnificent establishment.
So this morning Bayly "Couldn't find anything to wear!" She didn't want to wear a dress. No dress? She wears dresses to plant a garden. She wears dresses to ride a bike. She even wears dresses over her dresses to go grocery shopping. With the FIVE TO TEN dresses that are clean and packed out of the question, we move onto the other perfectly acceptable garments available to her.
"This is too tight."
"This is ugly." Even thought she has just about worn a hole in it.
"I don't want that."
"I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR!"
Normally I would just leave her in her room and let her tantrum it out. But we are living in the lovely Hilton Chicago. (More on the amenities of lack thereof later) I cannot in good fatherhood let her scream and yell and be a spoiled little "girl" where the whole 3000 room hotel can hear her. So I did what any "good" father would do. I told Cali that we were going to breakfast and left. I didn't really leave. We just left the room and waited in the hall. Usually that is enough to snap her into line. Usually. Three minutes or so later there was a little voice at the door. So I go in only to be sternly asked to "GIVE ME PRIVACY! GET OUT!"
"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked. "The bathroom?" There is only the bathroom and the main room. I can't hide out in the open. I have yet to perfect the cloaking device. Soon....Soon... And then I will make millions...........
So back into the hall Cali and I go. Soon its "I have no leggings, but Cali does."
"Fine, get hers but change your shirt. You wore it all day yesterday AND you slept in it."
This simple statement set off another whole ration of shit. At this point, I am the end of whatever frayed rope I have been dangling from.
"Fine. Wear the shirt, but lets go."
Crisis adverted. Not really but adverted in the loosest sense of the term. Off to breakfast. The kids agree to share strawberry pancakes because the restaurant doesn't do single flapjacks. Compromise. A step in the right direction. It would have been great, but either kid failed to eat any pancakes. Cali ate the strawberries and Bayly wasn't hungry. Whatever. I had no more fight in my for another public battle. But my cinnamon roll french toast was killer. If you come across it anytime, do yourself a service and gobble them up. Or go to Yolk in Chicago. Its up to you.
So we finish breakfast of champions (really breakfast of wills) and head to the shuttle to go to the kids camp. Another perk of the conference. I have been kid-less for two afternoons. Bummer, I know. I make do. On the shuttle she's right as rain. I stopped trying to figure women out many many moons ago. I have found its easier and better for the psyche not to try. But I figured I would be able to figure out a five year old. Not so much.
Is she bi-polar? Is the "I change my mind because I am a woman" thought process (or lack-thereof) imbedded at birth? Is she just a kid? Am I out of my mind for thinking I could figure these beings out? All of the above? Perhaps. Probably. Most definitely.
As promised here is more about the Hilton.
I am writing this post from a Starbucks eight blocks from the hotel. Starbucks, where you can come, sit, buy an overpriced yet delicious beverage, or not, and use the WiFi.
Hilton Chicago. Where you get a room that costs more than a beverage from the barista (some of them, at least), and no free WiFi. They charge some ungodly fee and still charge for the room. Its a nice room. Not thee nicest room ever built but it works. Would it kill them to have some free WiFi? I've been to a fair amount of hotels and motels in my day and in my experience the fancier the joint the lack of free WiFi. But as you work your way down the price ladder of establishments, the more willing they are to give free internet access. Go figure.
If you work for Hilton, the last part was just a rant. Don't take it personally. If you don't work for Hilton, be prepared to dish out a few bucks if you want to access the interweb at their elegant and magnificent establishment.
I am a dad. I am still a man.
It occurred to me the other day that fatherhood has changed me. This "revelation" came to me as the girls and I were watching Disney's "Brave". For those who have yet to see it, or won't ever see it, it is a story of an independent princess. But not a princess in the likes of the glitzy, girly, prince Charming waiting, evil step-mother having princess. This strong, independent princess will do good for girls near and far. She is very similar to my princesses. Independent, strong willed, don't tell me no, I can do it myself kind of princess. Sound familiar?
Back to the dad part. Ever since Bayly entered this world I noticed a change in myself. I am sure other father's have noticed the same change. I started to get teary-eyed at sappy movies. I started to see things differently in the way of emotional situations; mostly in movies and shows.
At the end of "Brave" there is an emotional reunion of sorts of the princess and her mother. I could feel the room get "dusty." Darn dust; always gets into my eyes and sure as the weather men are wrong my eyes start to water. I am totally confident it was the dust concentration in the air and had NOTHING to do with the movie. NOTHING.
So as I was driving my family to a business trip for my wife, and everyone in the car was either sleeping (wife), watching a movie (Bayly), or annoying her sister to no end (Cali) I had the aforementioned revelation. While I may have become an emotional movie watcher, or developed and very acute allergy to dust (more likely), I am still a man. I do man things. I mow the lawn, superbly. I fix things, sometimes just good enough, sometimes not superbly, sometimes it gets the job done. I do have two kids, ya know.
The moral of this is I can be both. I can show my princesses that a father can have that emotional side, or that its ok to be really allergic to dust and I can do masculine things. I guess that is just the juggling act of fatherhood. At least in the fatherhood of stay-at-home-dad land.
Being a good dad/father/man is tough work. All we can do is our best.
Back to the dad part. Ever since Bayly entered this world I noticed a change in myself. I am sure other father's have noticed the same change. I started to get teary-eyed at sappy movies. I started to see things differently in the way of emotional situations; mostly in movies and shows.
At the end of "Brave" there is an emotional reunion of sorts of the princess and her mother. I could feel the room get "dusty." Darn dust; always gets into my eyes and sure as the weather men are wrong my eyes start to water. I am totally confident it was the dust concentration in the air and had NOTHING to do with the movie. NOTHING.
So as I was driving my family to a business trip for my wife, and everyone in the car was either sleeping (wife), watching a movie (Bayly), or annoying her sister to no end (Cali) I had the aforementioned revelation. While I may have become an emotional movie watcher, or developed and very acute allergy to dust (more likely), I am still a man. I do man things. I mow the lawn, superbly. I fix things, sometimes just good enough, sometimes not superbly, sometimes it gets the job done. I do have two kids, ya know.
The moral of this is I can be both. I can show my princesses that a father can have that emotional side, or that its ok to be really allergic to dust and I can do masculine things. I guess that is just the juggling act of fatherhood. At least in the fatherhood of stay-at-home-dad land.
Being a good dad/father/man is tough work. All we can do is our best.
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