A trip to DIZZneY World

     “I’ve seen horrors.  It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means.  Horror…horror has a face…and you must make a friend of horror.  If not, it is an enemy to be feared.”
-Marlon Brando as Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now
-Me as a father with two kids at Disney

     With all due respect to the brave men and women in the service I feel as if I have survived a tour of duty.  Five days at Disney World have taught me one thing.  Nothing goes as planned despite months of intense planning.  Prior experience can’t prepare you for the horror that awaits at Disney.  I’m not speaking of the corkscrew roller coaster rides at 60 miles an hour or the intense heat the melts you faster than Olaf “…in summer.” 
     It’s the constant battle against forces collectively known as EVERYONE ELSE.  Your trip planning would likely include conversations with recent Disney survivors, sorry, travelers.  Their well-intentioned advice and suggestions will seem like a beacon light.  You will feel armed with supreme confidence as you dream of a magical experience that awaits you.

     And then you arrive.  You suddenly realize you are ill-prepared for anything.  Waves upon waves of people appear out of nowhere and you find yourself drowning in arms, legs and strollers.  You quickly lose all sense of direction.
     It is mothers screaming at fathers and kids, kids screaming at mothers and fathers and fathers wondering “Why in the world isn’t alcohol sold in Magic Kingdom?”  Often wondering out loud I might add.

     Upon our arrival at Magic Kingdom on the first day of our trip it took all of, oh, say…two or three minutes for the six-year-old girl to exclaim, “It’s sooooo hot!” and shutdown after just a few steps onto Main Street.  “But sweetheart, look, it’s Cinderella’s castle! Let’s get a picture.”  Nope, she doesn’t care.  “And there’s Goofy!”  Not interested.  Okay, we need to find food, water and shelter.  It’s like you were dropped into a survival reality show.  Tossed about by this sea of humans I notice, out of the corner of my eye, what appears to be a quick service restaurant. We join the masses looking for a shaded table.  There is no room inside so my wife goes on that expedition as I stand in line with food orders.  This place could serve anything and we’d take it at this point.  And remember, we’ve been at Disney for only a few minutes.  Oh, they serve hot dogs!  At least the kids will be happy.  As I quickly peruse the limited menu I see a footlong chili dog with cheese.  Good gosh, who could survive that in this heat...with those rides?  Scanning the sweaty crowd around me I realize many people are going to give it a shot.  After a “regular” hot dog, a few fries and refill of soda, the six-year-old is smiling and wide-eyed.  Phew!  Maybe this trip will be a success after all.

     I see our unit as a tightly organized outfit.  Dad will be in charge of supplies.  Mom will be the navigator.  Grandmother will be the peacekeeper between the boy and girl.  The 11-year-old boy is dealing with a summer cold, but being quite the trouper.  Apparently the best medicine is picking on his sister.  And it doesn't take long to realize you need to take a Mama Bear attitude to survive out there on the streets of Disney.  All's fair in love, war and getting in line.
     The girl is just tall enough for all of the rides, but we approach the scarier ones with a good amount of trepidation.  What will we do if she loses it just before or during the ride?  You don’t stand in line for hours just to back out at the last second.  Thank goodness for FastPass.  More on that in a minute.  To our shocking delight Princess Diva couldn’t get enough of the death-defying, eye-clinching, bloodcurdling rollercoasters.  “Let’s do it again!”, she exclaimed.  “Well, sweetheart”, I cautiously tossed out, “we can’t.  We had a FastPass for that ride.  To do it again we’d have to go to the standby line that currently shows a wait of 130 minutes.”

    Ahhhh, the FastPass.  What a beautiful idea.  It’s been around for a little more than 15 years and is a life saver.  It allows you to bypass the standby line and basically get on a ride inside of five minutes as opposed to waiting for hours. You are only allowed three FastPasses a day.  And while you can add one FastPass at a time after you go through the initial three there are rarely any available times left for the popular rides.  Did I mention you can sign up for your FastPasses 60 days in advance of your trip? Or should I say you better sign up for those FastPasses in the very first minute on the first possible day because you are competing with THE REST OF THE WORLD for those.  They go fast, if you will, but they are necessary.  I woke up at 5:30am two months ago and spent two hours trying to beat the world’s population for quick access to Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, Splash Mountain and Rock ’n’ Roller Coaster just to name a few.  I can’t describe the feeling when you have successfully completed that mission.  I assume it’s like winning the lottery.

     There is no break from the oppressive heat at Disney.  Caps, spray fans and water bottles are no match.  There are few areas of shade to stand in and those usually resemble clowns trying to cram into a Volkswagen.  You quickly find yourself standing in line for a ride you never would’ve considered for a FastPass just for the chance to sit down in a cool space for a few minutes.  “It’s A Small World” will be stuck in your head forever, but you’ll love the three minutes of air conditioning while sitting down for a slow, lazy river ride. 
     I must say it’s impressive the way Disney runs like a well-oiled machine with the tens of thousands of people it deals with on a daily basis.  Disney employees do try to make it “the happiest place on Earth.”  And they do this while wearing character uniforms to match the attraction.  I’m not sure why workers at The Mad Tea Party ride need to wear long sleeves and pants in 99 degree temperatures, but they do…and with smiles on.  I swear they must be animatronics.  Fortunately Disney’s other parks sell adult beverages.  To see a woman almost collapse to her knees in gratitude at Hollywood Studios is a sight to behold.  She and my wife discussed this glorious revelation for a good ten minutes while waiting on margaritas.  Now it's the happiest place on Earth.

     Wednesday is the mid-point of our undertaking.  As a pick-me-up, and photo op, we have scheduled a Princess breakfast at Cinderella’s Royal Table where our Princess Diva could mingle with fellow royalty over bacon.  The boy is more interested in making goofy, not Goofy, faces and asking for their phone numbers.  Son, this is not a strategy that will serve you well later in life.  The breakfast goes off without a hitch and with plenty of pictures.  And we get earlier access into the park that day before the gates open.  A full day leads us to a nice dinner at California Grill that offers a balcony view of the nightly fireworks show.  I assume it was quite a sight.  We crashed before the 10pm start to the sparks.  Our objective is starting to take its toll on us.

     Nothing prepared us for Day Four.  Our mission was to conquer two parks in one day.  Animal Kingdom in the morning.  Epcot in the afternoon.  The kids can barely get out of bed.  The adults are running out of bandages for their wounds.  The smell of ointment and gels has dulled our senses.  It’s hard to remember what bacon smells like.  But this is Disney, a once-in-a-lifetime trip for many.  So you drag your limbs through shirts and shorts and push on.
     What seduces you at Disney are the sudden, surprisingly short wait times on rides you don’t have a FastPass for.  For example, Expedition Everest in Animal Kingdom is a popular, but scary ride.  Our FastPasses that day were for Epcot.  We arrived at Animal Kingdom as the gates opened and crossed our fingers.  As we heard terrifying screams coming from the top of Everest we turned the corner to see a wait time of only five minutes!  Well, you just can’t pass that up.  After somehow emerging unscathed we exited to see the wait time was now just ten minutes.  Well, you just can’t pass that up.  As you might imagine, the wait quickly got longer so it was on to other adventures.

     Our original strategy had us returning to the hotel for a quick break before tackling Epcot.  This did not happen with our unit being detained at Animal Kingdom by those seductive, shorter than expected wait times.  With FastPasses waiting at Epcot we had to trudge straight through.  But two big surprises were waiting there.  This was the pinnacle of our trip.  The new FROZEN ride recently opened and I had been able to change the girls’ FastPasses to FROZEN (a three-hour process that day).  Princess Diva loved it and even got an Olaf doll afterwards.
     One more surprise and our mission would be a complete success…a FastPass for pictures with Mickey and Minnie.  Isn’t that what Disney trips are all about?  Lasting images with the iconic, signature characters.  But the journey was depleting our energy, our patience.  As we moved closer to our turn Princess Diva leaned on the velvet rope, pulling it off the stanchion.  Cue the tears in 3…2…1.  It didn’t matter that the Disney employee quickly reconnected the rope to the stanchion and told Diva it was okay.  The shutdown was underway and could not be stopped.  It’s like trying to bring a rocket ship back after blast off.  It just can’t happen.  Are you kidding me?  She would embrace stomach-turning roller coasters with hands raised, but shutdown at the drop of a rope?  Nothing worked.  There would be no hugs or pictures with Mickey and Minnie.  Diva sulked against the wall as her older brother stood in for her and tried to high five the mascot mice.

     I realize this reads as “Hey kids, get out of my yard”, but that is not my intent.  It’s just a natural reaction for any Dad trying to survive Disney.  There were more than enough smiles, laughs and collections of breath to make the Disney experience most of what it’s cracked up to be.  This could very well be our last trip to Disney.  Who knows?  To really do Disney right you need to do it fairly often and that’s practically impossible.  But if we do re-enlist for another tour I sure hope I can find these notes.

Ballerina Dad

     How tough could it be?  Months of ballet and tap practice led up to her first performance.  The note sent home read, “Be at rehearsal on time and be prepared to listen to some important information at the start.”  Great.  I’ll drop off my six-year-old daughter, get the low down for the next day’s performance, grab some coffee, run some errands and pick her up at the end.
     Now understand, this was my first rodeo.  I’m embarrassed to admit I totally underestimated the culture of stage performance.  My prior experience involved transportation and writing checks.  I knew it involved discipline, but I was woefully unprepared when greeted with the harsh reality that an extra special brand of discipline was saved for the parents.
     I have been scarred by buns.  I honestly don’t know how I can order a burger or barbecue sandwich moving forward.  A pony tail appeared to be good enough for the first few months of ballet and tap practice, but as we got closer to the performance I was informed only a bun would do for my daughter’s hair.  There can’t be many things in this world more excruciating than trying to put my daughter’s hair in a bun.  This should be a carnival game.  No one would win the stuffed animals.  My daughter’s hair is not quite long enough to make it easier.  I didn’t find out about bun holders for weeks.  We kept passing the task off to the next person who thought he or she could do it.  This was much like trying to pull Excalibur from the stone.  After many people made numerous attempts we ended up with something resembling a bun.  This included a bun holder, 20 or so bobby pins, a hair net and hair spray.  Her arms and legs may have been able to move during dance practice, but that head wasn’t going anywhere.
     We're now at rehearsal.  No problem with traffic, we found the auditorium and the hair is in a bun.  Let me get this information and away we go.  Or so I thought.
     This was an episode of the Twilight Zone.  We were now in boot camp.  Rows of parents (almost all Mothers with experience at this) sat facing the stage where the dance director had placed a lone chair.  It was from this vantage point where she would unleash her commands.

     “I don’t do recitals.”  I will hear that in my sleep.  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she bellowed, “but the only person I want to please with this show is me.”  I took that as, if she’s pleased we’d all be pleased, but I’m not quite sure.  “If your child’s hair or dress is sloppy, they will be sloppy dancers.”  “If you, or someone you bought a ticket for, can’t sit still and stay off their cell phones for an hour and a half, I’ll give you your money back.  That happens at recitals.  I don’t do recitals.  You’re not ruining this show.”  “Lipstick will be bright red.  Eye shadow will be dark blue.  If you bring them with anything else on, they will still appear on stage with red lipstick and dark blue eye shadow.”

       I was squirming in my seat by this point.  Her expression had not changed over half an hour.  Despite being several feet away I felt I was nose to nose with a drill sergeant.  And then…the worst news, “I know it’s National Donut Day today, but I better not see a donut tomorrow (bun holders are called donuts for their shape).”  WHAT?!?!?!  “I want perfect buns, no donuts.”  Is that even possible?  I guess it is because as I scanned the rows of parents no one seemed fazed by the command that sounded an awful lot like “Now climb that mountain against enemy fire and take the top…while carrying a cannon on your back.” There was one other Dad in the auditorium, but his back was to me.  I assume he was too petrified to move.  After a few more instructions (marching orders) we were given our release.  I may have knocked a few people down trying to escape.  I’m not sure.  I had 24 hours to follow my orders and present a perfect performer for the show.  I needed to celebrate five o’clock in every time zone tonight.

     It is now the day of the show.  I think I’m prepared.  “Dad, I want a princess breakfast.”  What’s a princess breakfast?  “Bacon.”  Okay then, a princess breakfast it shall be (with chocolate chip pancakes as it turns out).  Wait, makeup!  It’s off to Walgreens.  How did I forget to get the makeup?  Red lipstick, dark blue eye shadow.  And, of course, no one is at the makeup counter.  I can’t be left alone to figure this out.  So many reds, so many blues.  Fortunately a nice woman took pity on me and walked me through it.  I think we’re good.  Until…I arrive back home and find my wife screaming, “I’ve tried and tried and I can’t put her hair in a bun without a bun holder! Take her to her grandmother and see what she can do.”  The six-year-old is suddenly the voice of calm.  And she has to perform in front of strangers in a couple of hours.
     Even her grandmother gasped when I delivered the crushing news.  “And you can’t use a bun holder.”  Now we’re also fighting the clock.  A brave attempt by her grandmother may have done the trick. That and 30 or so bobby pins.  Not to mention my daughter was under strict orders not to move her head on the way back home.
     She would be arriving an hour and a half before the curtain went up so we were told to bring snacks.  As you might imagine, those snacks came with restrictions.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to come up with snack ideas that don’t involve the color orange or chocolate crumbs?  Very.  After debating this for several minutes, I arrived at turkey slices, a cheese stick and applesauce.
     Hair? Check.  Makeup? Check.  Costume. Check?  Flowers? Check.  Fragile state of mind? Check.  My wife had taken the performer ahead of time with the snacks and a book to pass the time before the show started.  Hahahahaha!  I take you back to “first rodeo.”  As my son and I race to the auditorium I get a text, “Thank goodness for veteran dance Moms who know to bring blankets and toys.”  We are clearly fish out of water here.

     Somehow my kids came across Dance Moms on Lifetime a few weeks ago.  My son would have some idea of what to expect as I informed him (okay, threatened him) how he would behave over the next two and a half hours.  “No phone, no talking, really…no breathing.  Just sit still.  You don’t know what this woman is capable of.  I’ve lived it.”
     Little did I know that our daughter’s tap dance routine was toward the end of the two-hour show.  Not that we would’ve left early, but a bump up in the order could’ve cut my tension in half knowing I had survived.  A few times during the show other people would stand up or try to quietly check their phones.  I wanted to whisper to them, “You’re going to get us all killed.”
     As I nervously waited for her routine I found myself enjoying, appreciating and respecting what I was seeing on stage.  The commitment, the time and the work put in by these kids showed in the precision of their flawless performances.  They were making moves any athlete would be jealous of and doing it exactly on point.  I realized dance doesn’t cut corners.  There are no short cuts to a perfect performance.  And all of a sudden, my drill sergeant’s commands made sense.  With all of the time and effort these dancers put in for this one show, the least we could do is discipline ourselves for two hours and not disrupt things because we’re used to moving at warp speed through our daily lives.

     Finally it was our daughter’s turn.  And speaking of turns, my stomach had been doing plenty of them.  But she was terrific. The bun stayed in place.  The red and blue makeup stood out under the bright lights.  And she danced beautifully.  This was no big deal to her.  Outside the stage door we presented her with flowers.  She beamed as everyone took photos with the dancing star.  I asked her if she had fun. “Yes.”  Do you want to continue with ballet and tap? “No, I don’t think so.  I think I want to try gymnastics now.”  Okay, but just one question.  Does that require a bun?

The Mother of all Holidays

     On Sunday we celebrate the 102nd anniversary of Mother’s Day.  As history tells it President Woodrow Wilson signed Mother’s Day into a national holiday in 1914, designating the second Sunday of each May to recognize and honor Mothers.
     By my math, Mother’s Day will turn roughly 37, 230.  I’ve long believed that every day is Mother’s Day and should be celebrated as such.  How to do that is up to interpretation.  Anna Jarvis, a West Virginia woman who led the charge to create Mother’s Day, was apparently not happy with the commercialization of the holiday.  Hallmark Cards jumped on this in the early 1920’s.  That may have upset Anna Jarvis, but made millions of kids and husbands ecstatic, especially around the second Saturday in May when they realized they had forgotten to get something.

     There really are no right or wrong ways to express feelings on Mother’s Day.  Madison Avenue may try to shame people into going overboard, but what's behind the gesture or gift matters the most.  I think honoring and loving your Mother the other 364 days of the year can make a simple “Happy Mother’s Day, thanks for all you do" a beautiful gift.
     Imagine this, Mothers being Mothers…only on Mother’s Day.  “Son, just throw it in with the other laundry and I’ll get to it on May 8th.”  “You kids have 257 more days to figure out what you want for dinner and I’ll cook it that night.”  Being a Mother never stops. Mothers don’t get sick days at home.  Mothers don’t get family vacations.  Mothers get their joy from making sure the family enjoyed its vacation (and perhaps from wine, but that’s another story).
     Not to undervalue flowers, brunch or a spa day, but nothing makes a Mother happier than being proud of her children.  We’ve all heard Mothers brag.  Giving them that opportunity is the best gift.
     Everything in life these days seems to move at a warp speed pace.  We suddenly slam the brakes around certain days, cram the day full of gifts, and then hit the accelerator again.  I’m not harking back to “the good ol’ days”, but suggesting we try a little harder to be aware of the people around us and appreciate them more often.

     I lost my Mother three years ago.  I think I was a good son.  Her version of me got better as I grew and matured.  In her final years she would recall how much of an angel I was as a boy.  I know this not to be true, but she wouldn’t budge.  That led me to wonder if I ever truly showed her how much I cared for her as a child, as a teenager.  I imagine most Mothers know their children love them and that they’ll likely recognize that as they grow, but it never hurts to say it, to hear it.  Like most things in life we take Mothers for granted because they’re always there.  Do we really stop to take the time and think of the sacrifices they make?  They will say they do everything out of love, that it’s not a sacrifice, but despite their superhero powers Mothers are human too.  They feel pain and joy just like the rest of us.
     I was adopted as an infant.  As I entered my mid-20s, my Mother asked me a few times if I’d like to find my birth Mother or at least find out about her.  My answer was always a swift, definitive and reassuring, “No.”  I never said that for her sake, but mine.  I speak only for my situation, but the woman who chose me, who fed me, who clothed me, who comforted me, who sacrificed her life for me…that’s my Mother.  I mean that as no disrespect to the woman who gave birth to me.  Not knowing those circumstances I give that person the benefit of the doubt, but you earn the title of Mother.  And besides, I ended up with a great one.  We never had much growing up, but never lacked anything.  She was always there for me despite how her day was going.  I even think my memories of being whipped with a switch are fond ones now.
     With kids of my own I am keenly aware of how they treat their Mother.  They have their moments, good and bad, but know the day better begin and end by showing respect and love.  It’s the very least they can do for an incredible woman who has earned the title Mother.
     The late Theodore Hesburgh, a past president at Notre Dame, once said, "The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”  That’s a requirement I love fulfilling 365 days a year. 
     Now, where did I put that gift card to the wine store?

Lights, Camera, Jackson

     I fear I have no one to blame but myself, although my wife would say I’m not that funny.  My 11-year-old son, Jackson, is always going for the laugh.  This has been his modus operandi since he was three.  I remember when he was that age we were driving through midtown with a friend.  My son blurted out something from the backseat that made my friend laugh.  Big mistake.  Jackson wore that line out over the next 30 minutes.  Son, it was funny the first ten times.  The next 40, not so much.  But the beast had awakened and would need to be fed.

     His appetite for “hardy har-har” has only grown in leaps and bounds since then.  I assume it’s energized by the feedback he gets from friends. As you might imagine this has gotten him into his fair share of trouble over the years.  Admittedly he has received mixed signals over his behavior.  At a recent parent/teacher conference I was informed that Jackson was disrupting class every now and then by making light of things.  I took this very seriously until the teacher proceeded to laugh at re-telling Jack’s antics and how much it made her laugh.  Pick a side.

     Statements or questions directed to him at any particular moment are met with a facial expression of his choosing.  Usually, it’s something along the lines of Flynn Rider’s “smolder” from the movie Tangled.  I find he’s developed certain trademark sounds like the Fantastic Mr. Fox.  Getting a photo of Jack involves patience.  I’ve learned you need to fake a good number of snaps before getting the photo you want because he has an array of goofy faces and moves to get out of his system before you can get down to business.

 

     When Jackson has finished a task he pockets the impending excitement for his latest maneuver.  “Jackson, I told you to do this and that. Did you do it?”  Jackson replies, “No.”  “WHAT?!?!?!  I TOLD YOU…”  “Ha, ha, ha, I did it.”  “THEN WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?” “I just like to see you get worked up.”  This is actually quite hysterical if you’re not the subject of it.
     At home Jackson can barely keep a straight face as he’s being dressed down.  I find myself starting every disciplinary discussion with “Go ahead laugh, get it out now.”  Bless his heart, he’s not being disrespectful.  Or trying not to be.  He just can’t help himself.  Now, understand, he isn’t laughing at the end of the discussion or discipline, but the boy finds humor in just about everything. 
     Jackson is like those action figure dolls from back in the day, the ones that talked when you pulled the string in the back.  Only Jackson’s string broke and you can’t shut him off.  You don’t so much watch TV with him as you watch him watching TV.  In a previous life he was probably a cast member on “Mystery Science Theatre 3000.”  He has a wisecrack for everything.

 
     Jackson doesn’t adhere to the century old adage “leave them wanting more.”  If he’s not getting the laugh, he’ll keep going.  If he does get a laugh, he’ll aim for a longer, louder one.  I admire his persistence.  I don’t want to squash his thirst to entertain, but I do keep driving home the point that there’s a time and place for joking around.  And the time isn’t “always” and the place isn’t “wherever you’re standing.”  But show me a comic who follows rules and I’ll show you an out of work comic.
     Who knows where his thirst for guffaws will lead him, but I apologize in advance.

I Promise (with a lot of parentheses)

     It’s my wife’s birthday.  She turns forever young today.  As she has every year.  Happy Birthday, sweetheart.  As she accepts an abundance of gifts I wish she would give me one.  Please explain, my darling, what did I ever do to deserve you?  I’ve tried to be a good man, a good person, but likely fail more times than I’d like to admit.  As we probably all do. That’s something everyone can work on. I promise to keep working on it.
     We’ve been together for more than 15 years when you include my courting of her.  She doesn’t necessarily like the word “courting”.  It flows from me naturally because I’m old-fashioned and more hopeful romantic than hopeless.  Not to mention that “pursuing” someone doesn’t exactly conjure up positive images. Yes, I courted her.  And somehow I got out of my own way to avoid screwing it up.  I realize there’s still time to do that, but I promise I’ll do everything I can not to mess it up.

     She’s as beautiful as the day I took notice of her when a friend said to me, “What about those eyebrows?”  My wife has perfect eyebrows.  She takes great pride in everything, but especially her eyebrows.  And they captivated me along with everything else.  I fell for her immediately and like Groundhog Day I experience those same feelings every morning.
     When we first started “officially” dating we ended every phone call with “Love you.”  We still do to this day.  I hope it never stops and I promise to do a better job of showing it than just saying it.
     We’ve never had a fight, but we argue about the origin of our first date.  To me it was a friend’s wedding, our first actual night together.  To her that night was a chance to dance and have a few drinks with a mutual friend.  Our friend’s sister unknowingly asked how long we had been together.  She got a big kick out of that.  All I could think of was how much I would love to have a real answer to that.
     When a man courts a woman he’s nervous about pretty much everything.  I remember sitting in a bookstore, translating English to French to ask her on a date in a letter (an actual handwritten note to go in an envelope with a stamp on it, not email).  It may have impressed her, but would’ve likely ended relations between the U.S. and France.  Somehow she decided to stick with me through an Elvis impersonator contest near the airport (we laughed constantly with a great meal afterwards in Midtown), ballroom dance lessons (I was the only male in the group so I don’t know how I didn’t nail it with all of the practice I had as the stand-in),  the 2000 World Series (with me hiding behind the sofa as the Yankees rallied in the ninth and won Game 1 in extra innings).  That likely prepared her for football season and the Steelers.
     She’s put up with my coffee (actually bought a coffee pot for her apartment and she can’t stand the smell of coffee) and my attention to detail (some call it OCD).  In my defense I’ve inherited two cats.  Clearly she made the larger sacrifices.
     She understood and accepted my dear, late Mother and would only cackle about her when she knew I was going to do it too.  When I got up enough gumption to ask for her hand in marriage, to make me the happiest man on Earth, during a vacation in Mexico, I was shocked she said yes.  And that’s after her father happily gave his approval.

     She has given birth to two beautiful, wonderful children.  She does great work.  I had very little to do with it.  She is an incredible Mother who often has to play the role of father.  I promise to try harder to lessen that last role.  She’s a dedicated worker who appreciates great ethics.  She is the best of everything and makes our family and this world a better place every day.
     I understand Warner Brothers is reprising the role of Wonder Woman in 2016 in the Batman vs. Superman movie.  That makes me laugh.  Oh, I’ll watch the movie.  We all grew up with super heroes, but my incredible wife is Wonder Woman.  Flying an invisible jet with a golden truth lasso is easy.  Work a stressful job, rear two kids, decorate every holiday and put up with an OCD husband.  Exactly.  Lynda Carter would turn that role down in a heartbeat.  But my wonderful wife makes it look easy or is it the wine?  No, she’s just amazing!
     So, Happy Birthday, sweetheart.  I would do everything the same way all over again except maybe not the wedding proposal.  I’m afraid you would think about it a little longer and have a different answer.  And that makes me promise to work even harder to be a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better person...for you.

Identity theft

     I like me.  I’m not always perfect or even good, but I like to think I strive to be on most occasions.  I certainly know that no one has a better chance of being me, especially a good version of me, than me.  It’s the one thing I can do quite well even if the end result leaves some wanting more.
     But I am no longer me.  I haven’t been allowed to be myself for quite some time now.  It just didn’t hit me until recently.
     I am now Dad.  Or her Dad.  Or his Dad.  But most definitely Dad.  Now don’t get me wrong.  That’s a wonderful thing, but as far as having my own identity.  That ship sailed years ago.  When you have children, bless their hearts, you give up everything you were and are.
     If friends of my son or daughter are over it’s “Jackson’s Dad, can we…” or “Caroline’s Dad, she won’t…”  Despite my repeated pleas to be addressed as Mr. Glenn the voices continue to call out for someone’s Dad.
     I do still have my last name, but it’s mostly used in formal situations.  “Mr. Carver, can you please make an appointment…”  I do like that because it gives me the warm illusion of respect, but I know it’s really just the right thing for businesses, schools and such places to say.
     I admit I find myself using the Mom and Dad monikers, “Honey, what did Connor’s Dad say about…”  Maybe it’s hard to keep up with first names because we meet so many people over the course of our lives.  I doubt it, but who knows. Soccer or basketball games often result in “Hey, Jackson’s Dad.” “Hey, Bradley’s Dad.” “Hey, this is Danny’s Mother."
     I am able to hold over my kids heads that if I’m going to be known simply as “Your Dad” it better be for good reasons.
     My friends love this because they can relate or it’s just funny to them to see me slowly slip away.  I’m honestly trying to remember the last time someone called me Glenn.  At work I am known as Carver or by some nicknames that can’t be repeated. The old adage about being on a “first name basis” with someone appears to be lost.  I imagine, like most parents, my Mother put a lot of thought and effort into coming up with my name.
     In today’s fast-paced society we’re often referred to simply as “Man”, “Dude”, “Girl” or worse just “Hey” in a loud voice. “HEY, did you get that phone number we were looking for?”  If a number of people are around at that moment I assume the “HEY” is meant for the person closest to the direction it was shouted.
     A phone call now usually goes like this, “Hello.” “Hey, it’s me.” “Hey, what’s up?” “You take care of what we needed?” “Yes.” “Okay, everybody doing well?” “Yes, you?” “Fine.” “Alright man, talk to you later.”  It’s as if we’re all in the mafia trying to dance around the FBI’s phone taps.

     I’ve also lost the ability to speak at home.  My voice tends to carry, but it has been muted by children who seem like conversation magnets.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve started to talk to my wife only to be interrupted by kids.  It’s uncanny how quick they detect my mouth opening and interrupt my first word before it’s finished. “Nic-MOM, WHAT ARE WE HAVING FOR DINNER?” “Clean-DAD, WHERE’S THE REMOTE?” “Shop-DAD, WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY THAT’S FUN?”  It’s not disrespectful because they honestly are not aware that I’m talking. And it doesn’t matter where they are.  Other side of the house, no problem.  Headphones on in the car in the backseat, no problem.  Scientists should really study how kids can blindly sense a parent’s lips opening and beat them to the punch.  It’s like trying to see if you can catch the light out in a refrigerator by opening the door fast or slow. My mouth opens, kids shout out.  Open, shout.  Open, shout. Open, shout.
     So, I have no name, no voice.  My identity has been stolen by kids who can’t even remember to close a door or throw away trash.
     I’ve accepted my fate with a faint grin because in about 20 years or so I know those same kids will likely be wondering where their identities went.

Daddy-Daughter Dance

     It's that time of year again.  Time for elementary and middle schools to scare the living daylights out of fathers.  I guess it's formally called "Daddy-Daughter Dance", but "You're scaring me to death and my life is flashing before my eyes" would be a more accurate title.  After all, daughters do very little dancing with their daddys at these shindigs.
     This was my second Daddy-Daughter dance.  Much like dog years, dads age about seven years with each dance for a variety of reasons, but mainly because their little girls are growing up each year.
     But it is at least one night when dads are in the spotlight and daughters have no choice but to embrace them because Super Mommy is at home.  You want something, sweetheart? You have to ask Dad.  Of course, daughters are fully aware they're going to get whatever they want on this night. The last thing an unprepared dad wants to deal with is his daughter crying in the middle of a gymnasium even if the music and disco lights hide the theatrics.
     Of course, my DDD (Daddy-Daughter Drama) began before we left.  My six-year-old had a beautiful pink dress.  Despite her initial disappointment that I wouldn't be wearing a tuxedo she was overly excited for this special night.  And when Super Mommy agreed to let her wear a little makeup...well, what could possibly ruin this night?
     Lipstick.  Lipstick could ruin this night.  "Mom, I want bright red lipstick." "Ummm, no m'am.  That's not going to happen.  You can put on a little lip gloss."  Cue the Hoover Dam.  Finally, after tears were shed and egos fed, Ms. Six going on 17 agreed to wear lip gloss.  I was pretty proud of my point to her.  "Sweetheart, lip gloss is lipstick.  Like you have a nickname, lip is just short for lipstick.  So, you're wearing lipstick gloss." Crisis averted.

     After facing the paparazzi of family members on the way out the door it was on to the school gymnasium turned Studio 54.  The school really does a terrific job with this.  And since we had survived one DDD my daughter wouldn't fall for my story that I had bribed the principal to let me choose the music.
     We arrived fashionably late (did I mention prior meltdown) and I knew what my first vision of the gym would be.  Yes, a group of dads surrounding the sidelines and baselines of the basketball court that made up the dance floor.  It's not quite guards in front of Birmingham Palace, but not far from it.  Dads are encouraged to dance, but most take the floor in the most tentative of ways and tend to sway two or three inches to each side while keeping a laser-like focus on their daughter.

     You could also compare this to the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona.  The dads are the walls that line the streets and the daughters are the bulls...running wildly around the floor.  There are also dads who pack the bleachers of the gym.  Some to get a better vantage point to keep an eye on their daughter, but most in hopes of not having to descend on the dance floor and be exposed.  Those who think they can't dance or actually can not dance know their fate.  They will inevitably be positioned next to the one dad who can bust a move with the best of them and isn't shy about proving it.
     I don't fancy myself to be a dancer, but I can get by.  I had no problems sharing this night with my daughter on the dance floor.  And besides, I knew I could embarrass her on purpose if she didn't listen to me.

     The more experienced dads know they don't have to worry too much.  Once the daughters weather the initial flash of what's happening upon entry they have only one mission...find their friends.  After taking the floor for about, oh, thirty seconds of dancing, the next five to seven minutes are spent cruising the gym for friends at about the same pace Cinderella had trying to beat the clock to midnight.  And what a glorious moment when your daughter finds a friend or even better a group of them.
     Eventually, a slow song will come on with the DJ requesting daddys and daughters to dance together so dads know they'll get their moment, but during the "Friends" episode of the night dads can catch their breath and talk about dad things without guilt because for that period of time we don't exist in our daughters worlds.  They will dance and laugh among themselves without a care in the world.  And of that I'm extremely jealous.  I spent my free time as a water boy holding three to four small bottles of their water while they danced hard regardless of the tempo of the song.  I was pretty impressed with my ability to hold three bottles of water, a bag of popcorn and cookies in napkins while keeping up with who had what when the song was over.
     Then came the inevitable bathroom break.  Since it was the school gym she just took off with "bathroom" trailing off.  I stood guard near the door.  And waited.  And waited.  And...you get the picture.  When she appeared some 15 minutes later I made the mistake of asking her what took so long.  "Uh, Dad, the line was long."  I did not see a line out the door so I asked, " Did you happen to spend some time gabbing with your friends in there?"  A smile slowly creeped across her face and she knew she was busted.  I didn't know the whole "women going to the bathroom together" started at six years old or younger.  She was also smart enough to know she could escape with a well-timed "Let's dance!"

    When the dance was over (an hour that felt like three hours, but also just ten minutes at the same time) I felt deprived.  I had seen into the future, but also felt like I had lost something valuable in the past.  I asked, "Would you like to stay out and have Daddy-Daughter dessert?"  A resounding "YES!" rang from the back seat. "Dad, can we go somewhere fancy?"  I answered, "Absolutely, we'll find a place worthy of your Princess presence."
     We settled on a steakhouse not too far away and were treated like royalty by the staff despite informing them we were just there for dessert.  We looked at photos, traded jokes and drizzled chocolate sauce on our vanilla ice cream to stir it into chocolate soup although careful enough not to splatter.  I mean, a Princess has a certain image to live up to.
     As we were walking to our car she said, "Dad, I know I can't marry you, but I wish I could."  I laughed out loud, but now know it was probably to keep from crying.  Fortunately she bailed out my emotions with her next line. "But I'm not going to marry a stinky boy.  If a stinky boy proposes to me I'm going to say NO!"
     So through the meltdown, the forgetting I'm there and the bathroom vacation I realized she's pretty smart and has a very good idea of what she wants.  And for one night she wanted me by her side.  I can't wait for next year's dance.

Snow Daze

     It’s what every kid looks forward to.  And from what I can tell every teacher.  A snow day.  Better yet, snow days.  Down in the South they’re more of a myth.  Rarely do we get snow and that’s why everyone seems to overreact.  And I mean everyone.  Even the transplants from the north who overreact to our overreaction.  We get it.  You used to live where snow is measured by feet, not inches. But you’re one of us now and even a couple of inches can shut an entire city down.  Don’t even mention ice. 
     On Friday, the kids (and teachers) got their wish.  NO SCHOOL.  A forecast of 2-4 inches led school systems to call it a day late Thursday afternoon.  The forecast had been in the works for a few days.  I honestly don’t know why they just didn’t call Thursday a snow day as well.  The minute, sorry, the second that kids picked up the scent of a possible snow day by stumbling past a television during the weather portion of a newscast they had cashed their chips in.  Tweets, texts, posts flew furiously from their fingertips. Spread the word. Bigfoot had been spotted.  I mean what were they going to learn on Thursday with thoughts of snow flakes clogging their brains? Kids don’t understand Mother Nature.  She is fickle and will change her mind in an instant.  So the concept of "let’s wait and see” means nothing to them.  A chance of snow means SNOW!
     Never mind that they were coming off a two-week holiday break.  And it was already a short week.  No, a snow day is that rare treat than stands on its own.  So every hour of every day leading up to Friday included “We’re not going to school Friday, right? It’s going to snow, right?”
     It’s easier to get kids to sleep on Christmas Eve than on a snow day eve.  I can only imagine teachers have a harder time containing their anxiousness. It reminds me of Carly Simon’s hit, “Anticipation”.
     So at 6:00am my son is up and making noises.  He has to share the incredible glee that is about to burst out of him.  Not only did he have the advantage of an early snow day closing, guaranteeing no school, IT HAD ACTUALLY SNOWED!  Not the 2-4 inches previously predicted, but enough to cover the ground.  And that meant one thing.  He would get to hit his sister with a snow ball. Consequences be damned.  He can live with an hour in his room or a day without tv or electronics or even a potted meat sandwich for dinner.  The chance to uncork a fastball at an unsuspecting rival was just too good to pass up.

     I will admit I was enjoying the thought of not waking up at the usual early hour to make school lunches and drive them to school in below freezing temps.  But when a kid’s snow day body clock goes off it carries an avalanche effect.  I opened my eyes to two creatures standing over me so bundled up they could barely move.  The night before their snow clothes had been laid out.  This did not go over well.  Too many layers for the boy, not enough fashion for the girl.  But if you want to play, you have to make sacrifices.
     Fortunately for me the kids are old enough to dress themselves.  Friends with younger children describe a living hell trying to get them dressed to go outside and play.  By the time you finish they need to use the bathroom so it’s peeling the layers back off only to start all over again.  It usually leads to late morning drinking, but hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
     So it’s now 7:00am and I know there’s no chance of staying in bed for even a few more precious minutes.  I’m dealing with my own snow daze as I stumble around in the darkness of the bedroom, putting on who knows what that doesn’t match.  Their goal is to get me outside as soon as possible.  It’s freezing, of course, and I know my top priority is taking photos.  One, for the memory.  Two, for proof that I actually went outside with them after receiving an order from my wife several hours earlier, “You have to go outside and play with them.”  It was not a suggestion.
     Snap, snap, snap.  Done.  Now to head off my son’s sinister plan to unleash terror on his sister.  “Do not aim at the face!”  I could read his mind.  “Aim at her legs.”  We proceed to joke and laugh, make snowballs and big plans.  In my back pocket I know I have two weapons to save me if this drags on too long. “Hey, kids, who wants hot chocolate?” and “Hey, kids, let’s get warm for when Grandad comes over to get you later.”

     But they are blinded.  Not by the snow, but the fun in the snow.  Hearing my daughter laugh that genuine laugh when she falls down in the snow and seeing my son celebrate hitting a target (not his sister) made everything worth while.
     I even decided to get in on the fun.  With my daughter distracted I rolled up a snowball and took careful aim to hit her in the back, lightly.  And it didn’t matter.  She let out a wild scream.  The tennis ball sized snowball had found her shoulder blade, through four layers of clothing.  There’s no way that could’ve hurt, but she was caught off guard and Dad was going to pay.  So through all of my warnings and preparation my son got the last laugh without even throwing a snowball at her.  He got the pleasure of seeing her squeal without getting in trouble.
     The fun resumed for a while longer.  Snow days are special, but I prefer them in singular form.  Sorry teachers, but you’ve had your fun.  Back to school on Monday.  After all, it’s the South.  It could be another year before we get snow.

Pacman Jones could channel Adele to apologize to Antonio Brown

Cincinnati Bengals cornerback Pacman Jones lived up to his word and apologized to Pittsburgh Steelers wide receiver Antonio Brown for saying Brown was faking a concussion.  Brown will miss the Steelers next playoff game because of concussion symptoms.  Pacman's dilemma was perfect for an Adele adaptation.

Hello, it’s me
I was wondering if after all these days you’d like to meet
To go over everything
They say that time’s supposed to heal ya
But I guess that doesn’t include concussions

Hello, did you hear me scoff?
I’m in Cincinnati, dreaming about the playoffs
When we had the ball and the lead
I’ve forgotten how it felt before Burfict knocked you off your feet

There’s such a difference between us
Your team playing and mine sitting at home

Hello from the defense side
I must’ve misspoke a thousand times
I want to tell you I’m sorry
For everything that I said
But when I went on those networks
I kept saying things I now dread

Hello from the defense side
At least now I can say I tried
To tell you I’m sorry
For us breaking your head
But it don’t matter, that I lied about what you said, anymore

Hello, how are you?
It’s so typical of me to talk about myself, I’m sorry
I hope that you’re well
Did you ever make it out of concussion protocol
When I said nothing ever happened?

It’s no secret
It was stupid of me to cuss
I’m running out of my mind

So hello from the defense side
I must’ve misspoke a thousand times
I want to tell you I’m sorry
For everything that I’ve said
But when I went on those networks
I kept saying things I now dread

Hello from the defense side
At least now I can say I tried
To tell you I’m sorry
For us breaking your head
But it don’t matter, that I lied about what you said, anymore

Turning the tables

       It hit me a couple of years ago, while having drinks with friends one night, that I may lose my part of the battle in raising (I know you rear children, but who actually says that? And I'm a stickler for grammar) our little girl. She was three at the time. My friends, who are women, squealed with delight over the thought of this little girl taking down her mean, old Dad. I will add these two women do not have children. They were using their childhood as evidence that sweet, innocent girls always conquer their fathers and only an agonizing life of pure frustration awaits me for decades to come. I'm not sure if their glee was more about predicting that my daughter would follow in the footsteps of her millions of predecessors or their expectations of me swirling in pure heck for eternity as the result.
      Now, I will say, I stood firm that night over drinks. Likely because I was sitting down. I boldly declared that my daughter would not own me, despite the pink and purple of her room, the tens of princess dresses, the overflow of Disney merchandise. My mother, God bless her soul, raised (reared) two boys by herself on a small nurse's salary through the 60's, 70's and 80's. She was never battle-tested by a daughter, but I doubt she would've caved. Plus, she was a mother. Apparently, only fathers have to face this specific type of dilemma.
     My friends went on and on about the trials, tribulations and trauma I would face as the years passed. Their smiles grew bigger and laughter got louder with each prediction. Those decibels were surpassed when I proudly proclaimed I would win more than my fair share of battles with the "tike going on teen."
      Three years have passed since then. My daughter likes to tuck her hands under her chin, tilt her head and give me a sad, puppy dog face when she wants something. I pull out my company line, "That won't work on me." To her credit she continues to make that her 'go to' move. Never surrender!
      I am also proud to say, I stand tall and firm with my demands when it's Dad's turn to make and serve dinner. My daughter and her older brother (by four years) do not like it when it's my turn. Let's say they're getting an elegant meal of chicken nuggets, broccoli and rice. My daughter starts out with one nugget, a complete serving of broccoli and rice.
LT. PRINCESS-"Why do I have only one nugget?"
GENERAL DAD-"BECAUSE YOU'LL TEAR THROUGH ALL OF THE NUGGETS FIRST AND NOT EAT YOUR BROCCOLI OR RICE."
LT. PRINCESS-"But Dad, (channeling her inner Kerrigan) whhhhyyyyyyy?"
GENERAL DAD-"Finish your broccoli and then you'll earn more nuggets."
LT. PRINCESS-"Can I have some ranch dressing with it?"
GENERAL DAD-"Sure, but my pour."
     As you might imagine, she sweeps up the entire pour (small, mind you) of ranch dressing with her first piece of broccoli. The frenzied request for more ranch dressing falls on deaf ears as I wonder what my wife and I will have for dinner at yet another late hour of the night. With the volume of a bullhorn I repeat my victorious line, "FINISH YOUR BROCCOLI AND YOU'LL GET MORE NUGGETS." I stand proud on the battlefield of Fort Kitchen!
      Suddenly, as I think I have breezed to victory, an alarming shriek goes out, carrying past the refrigerator, the oven, the sink, the dishwasher, growing as it nears my ears, "DAD, THE RANCH DRESSING TOUCHED MY RICE!"
      My initial reaction, a suppressed laugh, avoids detection. A more suitable, but challenging "REALLY?" is released from my widening lips. Poor rice grains. Ten of them never stood a chance as the thick, white lava rushed toward them, steered by a giant green monster with tiny trees growing out of its head.
GENERAL DAD-"It's all going to the same place anyway, your stomach."
LT. PRINCESS-(Head hanging) "But it touched the rice."
GENERAL DAD-"I will separate the fallen grains from their comrades. If you don't want them touching then be more careful the next time you swipe your broccoli."
LT. PRINCESS-(Apparently thinking she had distracted me) "Can I have more nuggets?"
GENERAL DAD-"WHEN...YOU...FINISH...YOUR...BROCCOLI!"
      She finally caved. Each floret wearing just a trace of ranch before disappearing. I assume the ranch-laced broccoli and rice had a good laugh in her stomach later as they danced together.
      Dad won that round. I'm smart enough to know the battles will grow in volume and strength. She will grow smarter, more savvy. And more challenging...just grow up period. But I will always have the advantage of being able to tell her, "I taught you everything you know, but not everything I know."
     Let the games begin.