Fatherhood, From Z to Z

This is Dedicated to the One I Love

2009-06-17T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's Kelly's birthday today. I hope I'm not giving too much away (considering that she needlessly tells the kids that she's 29 year after year) by divulging that it's the 28th year we've been a couple on the big day. You'd never know it—or believe it—by looking at her, either. She's often mistaken for being...well, just a few years older than 29, let's just put it that way—before I really get myself into trouble.

I'm not one much for Hallmark-variety mushiness, nor do I have a knack for expressing my emotions in fancy words of my own. But I hope Kelly knows how much I love her after all these years and how lucky I feel to have her in my life. And, um, how much I appreciate that she still loves me in spite of the bad early 90's hair I was sporting in these photos.

Happy birthday, KJ. If I had a million dollars, I'd buy a gift worthy of you. But since I don't, I hope this will do...

And There Will Always Be a Place in My Heart for Her

2009-06-14T16:40:00.000-07:00

If watching Zach develop signs of approaching adolescence is tough, then watching my baby girl start to grow up is even tougher. But hard as it was for me to believe, Zoë turned eight Friday, and signs that she's no longer a little kid are becoming apparent. And because things have always been more complicated with Zoë, that's left me dealing with a boatload of mixed emotions.

For nearly four years, Zach was an only child. He liked it that way, and I did, too—especially since he was a boy, and I loved doing boy stuff with him without the complications of girly stuff diluting our simple male experience. If Zach had been a girl, as I was convinced he would be when Kelly was carrying him, I don't know, as I discussed recently, how I'd have dealt with him—or her, rather—insecure, first-time father that I was. But fathering a boy was fairly instinctual, so I found it easy to parent Zach, just doing what came naturally. And yet, once we found out Kelly was pregnant again, I found myself hoping Z Number Two would be a girl. And Zach, once he'd gotten used to the idea of sharing me and Kelly with a sibling, surprised us by demanding that it be a girl.

Eight years later, I know Zach would write a different script if he had it to do over again. He loves his sister and will reach out to her emotionally, especially when she's in need, as well defend her. Fairly often, he'll even play with her or help her with this or that. But usually, they're not what you'd call best buddies. That makes it tough on Zoë, who is constantly looking for acceptance and companionship. And her struggle, along with not understanding why her older brother doesn't always want to be her playmate on call, makes things challenging for us, too.

Zoë is, without a doubt, much more difficult to parent than Zach. She's moody where Zach is even-keeled. She's quick to anger where Zach has a very long fuse. She's outspoken, even defiant, where Zach does his best to please. She's constantly bored where Zach is happy to waste his days away doing nothing. She's shy and afraid of new people and settings where Zach is everyone's best friend from the minute he meets them. And she's quick to take charge, to the point of overstepping her bounds and offending people, where Zach is happier being a diplomat. Sure, there are upsides to some of these traits. But for now, they're a lot to handle.

Still, when all is said and done, Zoë is Daddy's Girl beyond a shadow of a doubt. When it's just the two of us, she transforms completely, and our relationship moves to a different level. When we're with the rest of the family, Zoë is, nine times out of ten, the contrarian and the cause of tension and problems. But when we're alone, she's eager to please and easy to be with. I don't get it, especially since she had me essentially to herself for nearly four years after I quit my job to stay home full time. Or perhaps that's part of the problem. It's a riddle I'm constantly trying to solve.

Fortunately, Kelly and I think we're seeing light at the end of the tunnel with Zoë—more positive behavior, less defiance, and longer periods between outbursts. It's become much more evident since February, when we changed Zoë's class at school from one where she was horribly unhappy to one that was a much better fit. The results were dramatic, and we've done our best to capitalize on them. And as her rough edges soften, we see more of her sweet side. When she's not driving us up the walls, she's a charming kid—intelligent as can be, complex and charismatic, and caring to a fault. And knowing that side to her exists makes us want that Zoë even more.

If Zoë had been our first child, I'd have had an entirely different outlook on parenting. Little did I know what we were getting ourselves into as I laughed over Zach's happy dance in the waiting room after his sister's birth. But Zoë introduced me to another side of fatherhood—one requiring a lot more work than tending to a Mini-Me—and forced me to grow, both as a person and as a parent. On the tough days, I still feel I'm not up to the demands. But when I make it through those rough spots and bask in the loving glow of Daddy's Girl—or better yet, of Mommy and Daddy's girl, like we've been seeing more and more lately—it's all worth it.

Do I wish I could break through and have that kid 24x7? Of course I do. But given Zoë's complexity, I don't know if it will ever happen. So I'll take the baby steps of improvement and eat up the good times, doing my best, ill-equipped as I may be, to help my baby girl become the amazing young women I'll know she'll soon be.

And truth be told, I've actually come to enjoy the girly stuff. Zach's still not sold, but I'm thinking the male experience needed some diluting after all...

A gallery of photos from Zoë's birthday parties—one at a bowling party with her friends, and another informal one back at home on the actual date—can be viewed here.

It Rained On Our Parade—So We Threw a Party

2009-06-10T10:42:00.000-07:00

The rollercoaster ride that was Zach's final season in Little League came to a crashing halt last Wednesday. After eight weeks of ups and (mostly) downs, it took a perilously steep and fast descent in the final week, jumping the track completely. But we weren't going to let it end that way, especially after Zach had braved its twists and turns so valiantly along the way.

So we threw a party. And we—the players, their families, and the coaches—had more fun than we'd had all season. Even when the clouds opened up and sent us all scurrying home.

For those who haven't been keeping up and/or prefer a Reader's Digest version, here's a recap of the season:

In February, Zach's off-season preparations paid off big-time when he more than held his own in tryouts.

A few weeks later, we learned Zach had been selected high in the draft by the Mariners, who came with a strong pedigree after giving Zach's old team, the Rockies, one of their toughest challenges last year.

Early practices for the Mariners went well, and Zach's new coach showered him with praise. Scrimmages against other teams indicated the team had promise.

When Zach was asked to try out at catcher, he jumped at the opportunity but then came home from practice with a sore, numb throwing arm—something we didn't grasp the severity of at the time.

On Opening Day in April, Zach missed a play in left field, scrambled for the ball, threw it—sort of—and effectively wrapped up his season. Three days later, he was diagnosed with elbow tendonitis and a pinched ulnar nerve.

Zach immediately began physical therapy with a former minor league pitcher. He bonded with the therapist, Mike, to such a degree that it really softened the blow of not playing.

As the season progressed, the Mariners struggled horribly. Despite practicing relentlessly, they routinely fell victim to The Big Inning, allowing games to get out of reach.

Meanwhile, Zach assumed the role of team cheerleader and stand-in bench coach, never wavering in his commitment—and recognized by his coaches, his teammates, and even his therapist.

Zach set his sights on the season's final game, scheduled two days after his two-month follow-up appointment. But then we learned that due to a scheduling snafu, the game was cancelled. Zach was devastated, since it appeared his season was over.

To our utter surprise, Zach was cleared to resume playing baseball just a day before an April 30 doubleheader. To say he was elated would be an understatement. He barely slept that night.

Sadly, those games followed an all-too-familiar pattern, as the Mariners were blown out, on a very warm day, 5-19 and 0-11. Combined with the heat and only a short break between games, they left horribly dejected.

With a record of 0-12, outscored by a combined 38-156 runs, the coach set his sights on the final game. Zach did the same, thankful for another chance to play.

And that, Gentle Reader, brings us up to date as we headed in to a game that would, for all intents and purposes, define the Mariner's season. Win, and they could say they pulled out at least one victory. Lose, and they'd say they never won a game.

Unfortunately, they'd never get the chance to do either. What they ended up with was a sacrifice win since the other team, the Pirates, who'd already been eliminated from the playoffs, failed to show up. It was better than another loss, perhaps, but bittersweet in its implied sense of "What if?"

Suspecting the Pirates were not likely to show, we'd hurriedly pulled together a party for the team, determined to go out on a positive note. We hauled in barbecues, food, and beverages, and once game time officially struck and the umpires announced us winners by default, we lit the briquettes, broke out the baseballs, and—for the first time in weeks—took a collective deep breath and relaxed. And it was wonderful.

Players, coaches, and fathers split up into teams and took part in a spirited, fun-filled final game, playing with more intensity and joy than they had in ages. And Zach, wound up on adrenaline and two months' worth of pent-up desire to be on the field, reveled in it, at last feeling like he was part of the team. He even got to play third base, which he'd been aching to do all season.

As luck would have it, we paused for dinner mere minutes before storms that weren't supposed to arrive until after midnight became unwelcome party guests. As sprinkles became a heavy downfall, families scrambled for their belongings and ran for their cars. It was a shame, really, leaving precious little opportunity for goodbyes. Or reflection. Or closure. And yet, maybe it was for the best. To come together, steal a win—even a cheap one—celebrate, and part ways was probably the best medicine for the emotional wounds inflicted by such a brutal season.

Most of the players will be back for another chance next year. But Zach won't have that opportunity since, based on his birth date, he's done with Little League, injury-shortened season or not. But as I said to his coach on Wednesday, I think Zach learned more sitting on the bench all those weeks than he would have on the field, even. About baseball. About challenges. About hope. And about life.

Not a bad season, when you look at it that way...

Welcome Home, Roxie

2009-06-08T15:31:00.000-07:00

Her last name's not "Carmichael." She's far too young to be famous. And we chose to spell her name with an "ie" rather than a "y," simply because we thought it was cuter. Still, Roxie, the newest resident of The Hamilton Zone—all one and a half pounds of her—received one heck of welcome when she came home with us from the local animal shelter on Friday.

After losing our sixteen-year-old Himalayan, Belly, last Monday, I assumed we'd hold off a bit before welcoming another cat into our lives. The pain of her passing was still fresh in our hearts and minds, and to be honest, the challenges with which Belly had presented us in her final couple of years were things I wasn't exactly anxious to handle again: pooping and peeing all over the house, repeated and expensive vet visits and medications, emotional detachment one day and neediness the next. Yes, we were willing to accept those things in exchange for the positive aspects of pet ownership. But they'd been a lot to handle—as had her death. So while Kelly and I didn't specifically discuss how long we'd wait before taking on another animal companion, the tone of our conversations suggested that it wouldn't be right away.

But then, completely by coincidence, I read on Wednesday a tragic story in our local paper about a teen-aged girl who'd observed a kitten being thrown out the window of a moving vehicle, then nearly run over intentionally by the person who was driving it. Sadly, once she'd rescued the kitten, she couldn't find a shelter nearby that would take it because all of them were full to capacity. Worse, it came to light that because of the overcrowding, unwanted pets were being euthanized in as little as two to three weeks. Hearing that just days after having to consciously make that decision for Belly was a bit much to handle. We couldn't save them all of the animals, but we could certainly save one.

And, though they'd handled the news about Belly fairly well, the kids were in very short order asking about a new pet. Given that Belly had never been what you'd call sociable—and not at all with the kids—it was hard to fault them for seeing an opportunity to acquire something more kid-friendly with Belly gone and a "space" appearing to be open. And their pleas fell on sympathetic ears, as I was hurting more than I expected to be last week, feeling like there was a big, empty space in my heart—something I was reminded of every time I walked into our bathroom, where Belly had spent nearly all of her time.

By Thursday, I was perusing the shelter ads online and discussing the topic with Kelly. She seemed surprised at first, but she offered no resistance. She even started sending me ads for kittens she though showed particular promise. So by Friday, with Zoë out of school for the summer and me completely charged to put behind the sadness and start over again with a new ball of fur, we headed to the humane society where we'd adopted Zane.

It didn't take us long to find Roxie. In a room full of cats and kittens, all of them adorable, she just seemed to stand out. And she was the one who stole our hearts—all of them. Aside from being adorable, she immediately came to the front of her cage and begged us to pet her. Though we would have been happy with several other kittens with whom we interacted, once we'd held Roxie, heard her instantly—and loudly—purring, and felt her nestle without hesitation against our chests, it was a done deal. We took a poll, and although Zienna wanted to take "all the kitties" (And who didn't?), it was unanimous. Roxie was the one.

Arriving back home with Roxie in tow, I began to feel a bit guilty about adopting another cat so quickly, wondering if it was disrespectful to Belly to have done so. But thinking about the sadness we'd felt all week, it was obvious Roxie was offering some much-needed joy, as the kids argued about who would hold her next and for how long. Plus, while we'd purposely avoided any kitten that resembled Belly too closely—even though Kelly, Zoë, and I had really been drawn to one—Roxie had just enough in her coloring and, more importantly, in her eyes to remind us of Belly without appearing like a ghost of the friend we'd lost. And that seemed perfect.

So Belly's not been replaced, just supplemented. After all, it was she who, along with Bowie, taught this cat hater—or rather, former cat hater—how to love a feline in the first place. And by extension, every time we shower Roxie with affection, a bit of it will be indirectly headed Belly's way, too. After all, they say you never get over your first love. And I know I sure won't.

A gallery of photos from Roxie's homecoming can be viewed here.

No Easy Way to Say Goodbye

2009-06-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that when Kelly and I got married, I didn't really want children. When she'd ask me, I'd say "Sure." But that was like, "Sure, I guess so," not, "Sure, you bet I do." I figured by the time Kelly got serious about the topic, it would be years later and I'd have come around. But the fact was, I thought of kids like I did cats and dogs: tolerable if they were someone else's but not something I wanted for myself.

Much to my surprise—and distress—it wasn't long after our wedding before Kelly started bringing up babies. This scared the heck out of me, made worse by the fact that her younger sister and, it seemed, every female friend close to her age was either having children or wanting to. Meanwhile, I was nowhere near ready to be a father, perfectly happy acting like the carefree and irresponsible mid-20's guy that I was. I lived for late nights, live music, and spontaneous road trips. How on earth would a kid fit into that lifestyle?

As the pressure mounted, Kelly started bringing up pets as well. In the back of my mind, I knew getting one would afford me some breathing room, at least temporarily. But she wanted a cat, and I wanted nothing to do with one. Cats were moody, cats shredded things, and cats needed litter boxes. Why on earth would I want a cat?

But then, just as Zach would change my mind about kids a few years later, Stardust Bosco Bowie changed my mind about cats. A neglected Persian we spotted at the local pet store, he'd come from a mill. And while normally, we'd not have bought such an animal, we felt as if we were rescuing him—and were told as much by a vet at his first visit.

Bowie stole my heart overnight. But very quickly, he developed health problems—serious ones. The vet suggested a friend might help him, and I immediately gave into the idea, assuming I'd misjudged cats and that any other we adopted would be as easy a fit as Bowie. So we located a breeder whose prices seemed too good to be true because...well, they were...and we ignored the fact that the kittens overrunning her house were not sociable at all, content to grab the only cat who'd actually let us catch it—especially since she was adorable.

Though we hoped she'd open up in time, Belly was reclusive and stayed that way. Even our closest friends found it hard to believe she existed, since Belly was seen in daylight about as often as your average Bigfoot. Usually, she showed herself around 3:00 a.m. Whining. Wanting attention. And parking herself on my chest, demanding it. Cute as she was, she made it hard to love her.

Meanwhile, Kelly's ploy had worked. I'd found a spot in my heart that wanted children, and we'd welcomed Zach into our world. The cats loved to linger about him, and even Belly became a bit more open. It was hard to believe, but photos from that era prove it.

And then, out of the blue, we lost Bowie. Struck by a thrombosis, Kelly and I had to deal with the grief of allowing the vet to euthanize him. It was a harrowing experience, and it brought out all the reasons I didn't want to allow myself to love any little dependent beings, human or otherwise. And yet, Belly suddenly became almost completely reclusive, just when I needed her most. Whether she was as affected by Bowie's disappearance as we were, I'm not sure. But from that day on, she became Invisicat. She seemed content with her phantom existence, and though it seemed odd to family and friends, it worked for her—and for us.

When we adopted Shack last year, our vet pointed out that despite Belly's apparent health, it was in both of their best interest—and Zane's—to be more attentive to her, just in case. As if on cue, Belly began showing signs of age. First, she started peeing wherever she wanted. Then pooping. And more troubling, she began losing weight, which she could hardly afford, and showing signs of kidney trouble. Finally, she was diagnosed with heart worms. Yet, every time we had "that" talk with the vet, she'd stabilize, and we'd go back to the way things had always been, letting her live quietly in our bathroom.

When we woke this morning, we found that Belly had apparently lost control of all her bodily functions. Between that and the lethargy she'd been exhibiting, showing no interest in grooming or otherwise caring for herself, arthritis that caused her to tiptoe as she walked, and the fact that she'd acquired heart worms, we knew she needed to see the vet. Kelly did the dirty work and took her. And once he learned she'd lost a quarter of her body weight since February, he told Kelly it was "time" and that we were doing the humane thing by letting her go.

Kelly brought home Belly's collar, and we shared a few tears. Then, I prepared myself to break the news to the kids. Zoë wasn't overly affected, but Zach certainly was, primarily because he had no warning and didn't get to say goodbye. I felt bad about that, but Kelly said there was no way she could have walked out and prolonged the process, either, which I understood.

Losing Belly closes a chapter in my and Kelly's life together. Caring for her and Bowie seemed like a Really Big Deal to me when we acquired them. Had I only known. But they helped me prepare for parenthood and with it, far greater demands. Fortunately, we've got a great dog, another cool cat, and three great kids to more than fill the void Belly leaves behind. But I'm an old pro at caretaking and nurturing now, and I have those two cats to thank for it.

Be at peace, my little friend. And know that any time I awake at 3:00 a.m., I'll be thinking about you. And that if it happens tonight, I'll no doubt be shedding a tear or two...

Three is a Magic Number

2009-05-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

Oh, to be three again. To want nothing more from your birthday than a day at the park spent swinging, having some snacks, and frolicking with a few friends. To find as much joy in brightly-colored gift bags and birthday card envelopes as you do with what they hold inside. To be able to amuse yourself for hours after the party's over with a helium-filled balloon. And to take away so much glee from these things as to still be expressing days later how much fun you had and what a perfectly wonderful birthday it had been.

All Zienna wanted for her third birthday, as she began telling me and Kelly months ago, was a party like the one I just described. I went so far as to try and convince her to have her shindig at Chuck E. Cheese instead—an idea her big sister latched on to and would not let go of. But Zienna wanted nothing to do with it. Simplicity was all she desired. And so, armed with balloons, party hats and horns, and some kid-friendly beverages to ward off the heat, we descended upon the park down the hill—the one with an enclosed play area for preschoolers that Zienna loves—on Tuesday morning. There, we met up with Zienna's pals Faith (her playmate from two doors down), Sherilyn (daughter of our friends Ken and Lili), and Mali (son of the wonderful real estate agent who helped us buy our house, and his wife). To make the event extra special, Grandma and Grandpa Loop, who were in town visiting, tagged along as well.

If you're thinking clowns and music and party games—or even a piñata—think again. This was a party envisioned and planned to please an easy-going three-year-old, so there'd be none of those things, even though I offered them. Zienna was content to just hang out and play on the swings and slides as if it were any other day, with the added bonus that she had friends along to share the experience. And judging from the other kids' reaction, they were fine with it, too, swinging and running and laughing to their hearts' content.

At one point, we broke briefly for cupcakes, courtesy of Sherilyn's mom, Lili. Zienna opened her gifts and cards, too. And then she was off again, excited to be at one of her favorite places in the world—and thankful for the fact that unlike most visits to the park, which are typically squeezed between errands like picking up her siblings from school, I wasn't constantly eying the clock and warning her that it was almost time to leave.

Usually, when I do announce that it's time to go, I get massive flack from Zienna, who given her druthers, would move in to the park and live there full time. But not on this day. I'm not sure whether it was the heat, which was just starting to kick in, or whether she was beginning to tire, or whether she realized you can't mess with perfection and ought, at some point, leave it alone and walk away. But as the two-hour period set for the gathering drew to a close, Zienna actually asked to leave. And though goodbyes and thank yous dragged on a bit, there were smiles all around. I left feeling like this was what a birthday party was supposed to be like, free of the pre-packaged, superficial merrymaking marketed by businesses large and small these days.

Arriving home, Zienna was only too happy to play with her big, Mylar Tinkerbell balloon, having dispensed the latex ones to her guests as they'd left the park (with ribbon detangling help courtesy of Lili and Grandma, since the wind had whipped them about pretty brutally). After nearly a year of asking during each trip to the grocery store if she could have one of the big, shiny balloons for her birthday, Zienna finally had one. And like all the other simple pleasures of the day, she treasured it (a fact which made my heart sink a bit the following day when the balloon got tangled in her ceiling fan and lost much of its helium before I pulled it free).

Oh, to be three again. And so innocent. But at least I've got the next best thing: the ability to live vicariously through my amazing kid at an age when, though I could be a grandparent, I'm old enough to really appreciate her experiences—and mine right there beside her.

A gallery of photos from the party and Zienna's cake celebration back at home later on can be viewed here.

Food, (Not-So) Glorious Food!

2009-05-23T18:04:00.000-07:00

"But daddy, I don't like food."

With that simple statement, uttered to me earlier this week, Zienna proved once and for all that Kelly and I must have brought the wrong kid home from the hospital. Because no one else in my family would ever say such a thing. Finicky about food? Maybe. But claiming to not like it? That just ain't Hamilton-like.

As a child, I was, to put it lightly, a very big boy. After buying me "husky" sized pants, my mother would still have to cut several inches off the legs to make them fit. Each year, I was the heaviest kid in my class, and I was tagged with awful nicknames like "Hamilbutt," "Hamil-weighs-a-ton," and "Scott, Scott, the Big Fat Pot." It was a pretty lousy way to spend a childhood.

Fortunately, about the time I entered my second decade, I began to slim down. Countless days spent biking and skating helped, as did a growing awareness of fitness and healthier eating as I entered my teens. Still, I loved my food and still do, and it's been a lifelong battle to keep my super-sized appetite from super-sizing the rest of me.

As for The Z Kids, I'm not sure if appetite is hereditary, but it must be if Zach and Zoë are any indication. Unlike me, they're pretty picky—each in their own way—about what they'll eat. But give them what they like, and they'll eat and eat, often beyond the point when they should stop. Zach is primarily a meal guy, while Zoë is my snacker. But they both love their food. Kelly and I often have to remind them to be reasonable about what they eat, and we do our best to teach them to make smart decisions for themselves.

Given Zach and Zoë's fondness for food, I expected Zienna to be the same. But so far, it's not been the case. Since shortly after birth, Zienna has been our thinnest child. And getting her to consume anything but milk, which she drinks way too much of, is a real challenge.

With Zach and Zoë, I try to make sure they have well-rounded, complete meals to ward off hunger between them. But with Zienna, I have to employ different tactics. For one thing, since I'm happy if she consumes even one healthy food at a sitting, I try to limit her choices, since it seems the more I put in front of her, the less she eats. And since she eats so little at mealtime, I try to offer healthy snacks throughout the day before she asks for anything. When I don't, she'll typically ask for milk when she finally feels hungry, refusing anything else.

And while Zach and Zoë would happily live on junk food if given the chance, Zienna's not even big on that. She still has most of her Easter candy, including the bunny, which Zoë begs for daily. She turned her nose up to most of a Burger King kids' meal just last night, then turned it down a second time this afternoon at lunch—including the fries. And even when she decides she's in the mood for dessert, she's usually satisfied with a few bites—or, maddeningly, changes her mind by the time we serve it to her.

All in all, I'm glad Zienna seems better at self-regulating her appetite than her older siblings or I. Fortunately, she's as likely to ask for fruit or vegetables as anything when she's hungry, and she'll often consume something in large quantities when she's in the mood—like the strawberries I brought home last weekend. And while her pediatrician is on my case about her overconsumption of (nonfat) milk, Zach has since weaning from the breast been the same way, and it sure hasn't seemed to hurt him—all 5' 4" of him.

My brother Steve, whose blog I've quoted here frequently, has faced his own challenges with a Kid Who Won't Eat. And while I laughed over his account of trying to get his son Grant to cut the Christmas Story routine—acting like Randy, the child in the movie who won't eat—I never thought I'd have such problems myself. Unlike Steve, I haven't resorted to "pretending" to get Zienna to eat, nor do we insist that she stay at the table. She's not wasting away, and I don't want her to eat for the sake of it, as children in my generation were brought up to do (to avoid the starvation supposedly suffered by Chinese children, who it turns out are much healthier and less overweight than us). My only real concern is that Zienna gets adequate nutrition, so I hedge our bets with a daily multivitamin, which she loves and even begs for—again breaking the mold of her siblings, who balk when I insist they take them.

Fortunately, we've been seeing what I hope is light at the end of the tunnel and perhaps even signs of a coming growth spurt (as if the three inches Zienna's grown since New Year's Day aren't spurt-y enough). Yesterday, in fact, she asked for food all morning long, literally one thing after the other. But if we're not out of the woods? I suppose since Zienna—like her cousin Grant—is a trash man fan, we could always try one of Steve's methods, telling Zienna she's a garbage truck and that the food is her refuse to be collected.

Come to think of it, that might actually work. Especially with—ahem—junk food...

Karma of Kindness (With Help from the Internet)

2009-05-21T12:55:00.000-07:00

Woke up this morning
I suddenly realized
We're all in this together
I started smiling
Cos you were smiling
And we're all in this together
I'm made of atoms
You're made of atoms
And were all in this together
And long division
Just doesn't matter
Cos were all in this together

—"We're All in This Together," Ben Lee

Heading home from Zach's baseball game Saturday, I was down in the dumps. His team had imploded again, falling to 0-8 after a 2-14 drubbing. To make matters worse, Zach had headed off to the movies with a teammate's family, leaving me to drive alone with my thoughts rather than having him along to chat with. It was 106 degrees outside—well above our seasonal norm—and after sitting out in the heat for three hours, I was hot and cranky. And I had a hot, cranky and very tired Zienna along with me, as well as Kelly at home sick in bed, waiting for us. I wasn't feeling very weekend-y at all.

Spotting a local strawberry stand that sells fruit grown right on the spot, I stopped, desperate for something to lift my spirits. The aroma of the bright, red berries was like magic, as were the smile and broken English of the friendly merchant selling them. I purchased several basketsful and got back on the road feeling much more upbeat. Zienna was snoozing, finally through crying, and I had the air conditioner, the radio, and the sight and scent of that luscious produce to keep me company. The afternoon was definitely looking up.

Once home, however, I realized with some frustration that my wallet was missing. I immediately knew where I'd left it, since I'd only stopped once. But would it be at the fruit stand when I got there? Might someone have taken it? Or had I perhaps left it on the roof of my truck and driven off, meaning it might have fallen off anywhere along the way home—perhaps even the freeway? There was only one way to find out. So I headed back across town.

Back at the stand, I approached the gentleman from whom I'd purchased the berries and tried explaining why I was there. He shook his head and smiled. Trying a different tact, I motioned as if I were pulling out my wallet but finding it missing. That did the trick. He whisked it out from below the berries and thrust it into my hands, assuring me in broken English that he had not touched anything inside. I was elated. I thanked him and then headed back home with my resurrected afternoon still looking up.

Several hours later, as the sun was setting and I finally had dinner for myself on the stove, I realized I hadn't checked my email all day. Sitting down for a second to do so, I found there wasn't much except for a comment to post to my blog. Comments are always fun, so I was curious to read it, a bit surprised to see that rather than being from from a friend or family member, it was posted by "Anonymous."

Are you missing a wallet? It was found at a strawberry stand...the man at the strawberry stand is holding it for you...contact (email address deleted for privacy reasons) for more info, if needed. we don't want to put too much information on here in case we don't have the right person. we looked for your phone number but didn't find any...this is the best we could do.

I sat there, dumbfounded, staring at the computer screen. Granted, I'd already retrieved my wallet. But someone I'd never met had not only turned it in to the fruit stand, they'd spent their Saturday evening tracking me down so I'd know where to find it. I was so touched by the kindness of a stranger that suddenly, the challenges of the day—the brutal game, the intense heat, Kelly's illness, even leaving my wallet across town—didn't matter. All because someone I'd never met had done a kind act.

Quite tired, I decided to think about what to say before sending this thoughtful soul a thank you note in the morning. Then I sat down to have dinner, feeling very contented. I savored my meal and then cleaned up the kitchen before settling down for the evening. But a few minutes later, as I began dozing off in front of the TV, I decided to check my email one more time before turning off the computer for the night. And again, I found a message from the stranger. This time, they'd gone to the trouble to join a music-related web site I run and sent me a private message--two of them, in fact.

did you lose a wallet today....Saturday?

forgot to leave a contact (email address deleted), regarding the lost wallet

Now I was really blown away. And considering it was nearly 10:00—meaning this person had spent at least two hours looking for me online—I felt guilty that I hadn't responded earlier. I quickly did so, and then I sent a little something their way as a reward, feeling it was the right thing to do.

Since Saturday, I've been looking at strangers a bit differently since any of them could be my good Samaritan, or might be in the future. Or I could be theirs. We're all on this little planet together, and from time to time, we need to rely upon one another. So, if I've been just a tad more inclined to let a car into traffic or hold the door at the store or let someone with fewer items ahead of me in line—and felt good about doing so—I have the act of a stranger to thank for reminding me that a little effort goes a long way and pays huge dividends. And I'll do my best to keep that fact in mind the next time a dreary day has me in the dumps.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the strawberries were really good, too...

Thank Heaven for Little Boys...and Girls

2009-05-17T18:21:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I conceded to my brother Steve, the father of three boys and no girls, that yes, it's definitely easier to raise the former than the latter. I'd just written about how much easier I found it to shop for and clothe my son than my daughters. Steve's reaction to what he'd read, which reinforced feelings he'd already held, was so strong that he reacted by saying, "Oh, what the heck: man, I'm glad I don't have girls. No offense."

No offense was taken, especially since, once upon a time, I never envisioned myself fathering girls. Even after giving in to Kelly and agreeing to take on parenthood, I could only picture myself as a boy-dad. Fathering a boy would be effortless, I reasoned. Toss a ball around. Watch sports together. Share a laugh over bodily noises and expulsions that would upset Mom. Teach him about all the stuff that interested you growing up and, in many cases, still did, merely drawing on your own experiences. And through it all, you'd basically be getting a second childhood and another chance to play with toys you'd left behind, watch movies you never thought you'd see again, and have an excuse to buy video game systems and other things people might question if you were buying them for yourself.

But to father a girl? After decades of trying to figure the female gender out, I felt horribly ill-prepared to even try raising one of its subjects myself. What on earth would we talk about, I wondered. What would we do? Having precious little experience in dressing dolls or ballet dancing or cheerleading or other stuff that seems to interest girls, how could I possibly pass myself off as a competent authority on such things? I couldn't. Nor did I really want to, if it means concerning one's self with ruffles and flowers and baby animals and perfume and diaries and all of that girly-girl stuff. And of course, right about the time that I'd finally figured out how to parent a girl, she'd start turning into a woman, and the ramifications of that—adolescence, boys, increased drama, boys, awkward situations too frightening to imagine, and boys—were WAY too much for me to even consider. Better to stick with what I knew, I figured.

And then we had Zoë. And even when she was swaddled in a blanket and wearing the same color and variety of hospital-issue cap Zach had worn when he was born, the minute I held that sweet little baby—and more significantly, that sweet little baby GIRL—in my arms, I knew, despite the generic appearance on the outside, that my world had been changed. And I realized that as much as I adored my son, I was going to love his sister on an entirely different level. Thank heaven for little girls, indeed—and daddy's girls at that. No dad without one can really understand what I'm saying. But we girl-dads do.

When Kelly was pregnant for the third time, I was fully realizing the, um, challenges of raising a girl, courtesy of Zoë. And partly for that reason, partly because Zach was starting to grow up and pull ever so gradually away from me, and partly because I felt I'd missed out on much of Zach's early childhood by working too much and not being involved enough, I was really hoping Zienna would be a boy. Kelly was, too—as was Zach—and I felt in my heart of hearts that she would be. We even had a name for her: Zane.

But then of course, Kelly and I decided to do something we'd not done in her previous two pregnancies by having a 3-D ultrasound. By doing so, we learned "Zane" would need a new name—a feminine one. And though I was crushed at first, I was fully back in girl-daddy frame of mind a few weeks later when Zienna decided to come on out and make it official that Zach and I would forever be outnumbered—and that I'd have to deal with all those icky girl things that frightened me so not just once, but twice.

As Zienna approaches her third birthday, coming at the end of this month, and Zoë loses more and more of the tomboyishness of her youth and asks to wear nail polish and frilly undergarments, the dynamics of our family are noticeably changing. Suddenly, it really does feel like Zach and I are outnumbered. And with increasing frequency, we have to give in to the feminine majority when deciding what to do, what to watch, or what to listen to. For now, it's OK. But I fear the day when a teen-aged Zach starts going off and doing his own thing, leaving me in a setting of Girls-3, Boys-1. I'm far from a macho guy, but the prospect of non-stop chick flicks and mani-pedis and Miley Cyrus music is definitely intimidating, especially with little or no son-shared Simpsons, video games, or punk rock to break it up. But it's a future I'd better prepare for, I suppose.

Meanwhile, I'll enjoy girl-daddying for its merits, like the head-over-heels love I felt upon seeing Zienna's first portraits in far too long, shot earlier today. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and if I haven't managed to explain to boy-daddies why I adore my girls, hopefully the pictures of Zienna will do what I could not.

Boy-dads, if that sweet face doesn't sway you, then we'll just have to agree to disagree.

Note: If you're interested, a gallery of 25 portraits from Zienna's three-year-old photo shoot can be viewed here.

For Love of the Game

2009-05-15T11:52:00.000-07:00

While the door on Zach's only season of Majors eligibility for Little League isn't shut yet, it's only open a crack at this point. But since Zach's not ready to give up hope on his being able to play again this year, neither am I.

If you haven't been following Zach's season, he was diagnosed five weeks ago with two forms of tendonitis and irritation of the ulnar nerve after "gapping" his elbow while overthrowing. At the time of the diagnosis, which came just a couple of days after Opening Day, Kelly and I never dreamed Zach would be out more than half of the season. But last week, he was told by his sports medicine specialist to hold off throwing for at least another four weeks. With his next appointment just two days before his final game, the entire season, save opening day, was suddenly in jeopardy.

A few years ago, this wouldn't have mattered much to Zach. Back then, I was coaching him in soccer, and he seemed to have no interest in baseball. He never played T-Ball, and after a useless season of quasi-instructional recreational baseball, he appeared to have left my favorite sport behind, despite attending summer camp with former San Francisco Giants players. Each year, I'd ask if he wanted to play Little League, and each year he'd say no. I began to lose hope he'd ever play.

But then we moved to Redding just as Zach was—unbeknownst to me—losing interest in soccer. And when Little League signups rolled around that winter, Zach said he wanted to give it a go. And in the uncompetitive, nurturing environment of "farm league," with its machine pitching and de-emphasis on scoring, Zach really took to baseball for the first time.

The following year, there was no question Zach would be playing. By that point, he was calling baseball "his" sport and making friends with other players. That was a season of huge growth for Zach under a very supportive coach, and in the end, his team, the Rockies, went all the way to the league's championship game. They lost, but it was a thrilling ride. And when he hung up his cleats for the year, Zach clearly had the bug. He was a baseball player, plain and simple.

Drafted the following season by the same coach—who had to broker a trade to get him. To my disbelief, Zach had initially been selected by a Majors team based on his performance at tryouts. But given his lack of experience, Kelly and I felt—and Zach agreed—that it would be more beneficial to spend another season in Minors. Returning to his old team, starting nearly every game, and developing on every level, Zach's performance started mattering to him more than pleasing his parents. And it showed. He earned a game ball, he became more consistent, and he fully contributed to his team's amazing performance, completely dominating the league before losing again in the championship game—ironically, to his former coach and the remnants of his farm team.

As this season dawned, everything was intensified. Because of his birth date, Zach was left with only one year of Majors eligibility, and this was it. He and I began preparing early for tryouts, and he did himself proud in them once again—well enough to be drafted third after the coaches' sons were chosen. I don't know who was more ecstatic over that news—him, or me and Kelly—even if we were collectively disappointed that his former coach, who had been so supportive, had not been chosen to move up to Majors. Regardless, all the pieces seemed to be falling into place for Zach's—and our—dream season.

But then, the walls of the proverbial house came tumbling down. After one early practice, when he was being evaluated at catcher—yes, catcher—Zach complained of excruciating pain and numbness in his arm. Then the same thing happened on Opening Day. And once the macho, overly-proud side of me gave in to the practical side, we it checked out—and got the bad news. Zach was left with a prescribed regimen of rest and thrice-weekly physical therapy, made slightly more bearable by the fact that his therapist, Mike, was a former minor-league pitcher who shared many common interests with Zach.

So that's where we stand. Bittersweet as it is, the moral of the story, should Zach not return before season's end, has already been written. When we got into the car after being told last week by his doctor that he wasn't ready to resume playing, I asked Zach how he was feeling. "I'm depressed on the inside, but I have to be positive on the outside," he said to me, matter-of-factly. What could I add to that? I'm sure the pride—and love—I was feeling for him was evident on my face, but I still complimented him on his level-headed thinking and great attitude. I mean, c'mon—the kid's only twelve years old!

In the end, all that's left is the hope that, through some small miracle, Mike clears Zach to resume playing ahead of schedule. With an 0-7 record and having been outscored 16-85, Zach's team is having a brutal season. It's been agonizing for Zach to just sit and watch, knowing he can't contribute. But as bad as it's been, he's conducted himself beyond admirably, staying upbeat and acting as a stand-in dugout coach and assistant. And his coaches have noticed and commended him for it.

And as for us? Kelly and I will just have to take things as they come, making sure that no matter what happens, we follow our wise-beyond-his-years son's advice and stay positive on the outside. Even if, yes, we're depressed on the inside...

Boys vs. Girls: The Wardrobe Edition

2009-05-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

Zach is a kid—a male, mainly—after my own heart. Were it up to him, he'd never go clothes shopping, even if it meant wearing the same old garments until they were down to their last few threads and a sickly grayish-tan from being washed a million times. Problem is, he's still growing, rapidly, so they're often all that and breath-stealing tight to boot. And because of this, he occasionally needs to get new clothing.

Still, when the time comes, he shops the way I do: stake out a store, hit the racks and shelves in quick succession, grab whatever looks remotely appealing, try them on, dart for the register, pay, and then go. Mission accomplished, and who cares if you're not the end-all be-all of fashion plates? You've got clothes, and you're good to go.

If only it were so easy with Zoë. And if only pigs could sprout wings and fly.

When Zoë needs clothes—or even when she doesn't, since she often tires of what's in her drawers and decides she has "nothing to wear"—shopping for her is a job best reserved for someone with the fortune of a Rockefeller, the patience of a monk, and the fashion sense of Stacy London or Clinton Kelly. Unfortunately, I'm none of the above. And since Kelly often promises to go shopping with Zoë but rarely follows through for lack of time, patience, energy, or a combination of the three, the duty typically falls on my shoulders. And to put it simply, I'm not worthy.

Were we still living in the Bay Area, the task would be difficult enough. But it'd be like panning for gold: visit a million stores, and you're bound to strike it rich now and then. But we live in Redding. And I can count the number of local stores where we effectively can shop for Zoë on...oh, about one hand. Add in that she's built athletically—not plump, not fat, but certainly not stick-thin, either—and the difficulty of the endeavor is complicated exponentially. Because, in case you've not shopped girls' clothes recently, everything is low-rise, slim-cut, and meant to fit the 21st-century version of Twiggy.

For a time, I dragged Zoë around, forcing her to try things on. This strategy was far from perfect for a variety of reasons:

Too often, Zoë would, much like her mother, claim nothing fit right

Too often, what Zoë liked most did not, by my estimation, fit

Too often, what Zoë liked most was what I could not or did not want to afford

And too often, what we thought fit perfectly at the store oddly did not fit at home

Fortunately, there was Plan B, which involved me shopping alone and throwing everything that a) I though Zoë might like and b) I was willing to buy into a cart. This involved buying things in various sizes, since, as the parent of any girl knows, no two brands cut identical sizes the same. The fatal flaw in this setup was that after buying several times over what I actually needed to clothe my daughter, I'd end up with many, many items needing to be returned—a monstrous and somewhat embarrassing job. And far too often, it never got done, resulting in boxes of even more hand-me-downs (and hope-they-fits) for Zienna.

Lately, I've resorted to Plan C: avoidance. And as a result, poor Zoë has ended up with an abundance of out-of-season, ill-fitting, threadbare clothes. Were she not a clothes horse, this might not be a problem. But since she is, it's been a disaster.

Given my struggles to clothe my daughter, is it any wonder I so value my son's flexibility? And perhaps the greatest beauty of his situation is that even as he begins to pay attention to his attire—fueled in part by his growing awareness of the opposite sex—he's still as easy as ever to shop with and for. That fact was proven to the Nth degree yesterday when we needed, with less than an hour on our hands, to buy clothes for his school's "Dress For Business" day. We hit one store, and in less than an hour, including trying things on and shopping clearance racks, we had him in and out the door. Witness the photo for evidence of what he chose to wear—and couldn't stop raving about.

Compare that to several hundred dollars' worth of clothes I bought last week for Zoë's summer wardrobe, and there's really nothing to talk about. What she liked didn't fit, and what we liked, she didn't. The majority of it is bagged up, ready to be returned, hopefully.

I'm doing my best not to take sides. But in this particular battle, it's clearly Boys-1, Girls-0. Even if my boy's happy to be a "wear what's there" slob like me.

Frightening Fare, Sickly Smells, and Rickety Rides

2009-04-30T16:58:00.000-07:00

My children have betrayed me. Even the youngest one.

You see, I hate carnivals in a serious way. It goes back to when I was about five and my paternal grandmother took me to one along the marina in my hometown—Martinez, California. I have vivid memories of begging not to ride the Ferris wheel, then trying not to vomit as I viewed the city and its lovely oil refineries from a vantage point too high and unstable for my stomach's liking. The minute I got off the torturous contraption, I darted for nearby bushes, where I remained for some time, doubled over and heaving. That scene would be repeated many times over the years. And since I also get ill on boats, planes, mountain roads, and even spinning playground equipment, it's pretty clear I have motion sickness.

But motion sickness alone doesn't account for my extreme distaste for carnivals. The reasons run much deeper. For one thing, carnies scare me. Maybe I was overly affected by Gary Busey's disturbing portrayal of one in the movie of the same name. Perhaps it's because so many of them look like escaped mental patients, paroled felons, or both. And I suppose it could be because carnies typically don't seem to be the sharpest tools in the shed, yet you're putting your life in their hands every time you step on the rides they oversee. So sue me for being just a tad leery of them.

And then there's the rides themselves. I can bring myself to ride amusement park rides, except for the whip-you-every-which-way-then-upside-down-and-back-again-at-five-hundred-miles-per-hour variety, which will immediately induce me to vomit. But let's face it: those rides are run by established businesses, plus they’re built and maintained by engineers and other qualified professionals. Contrast that to rides which on a weekly basis are set up, torn down, dragged around on trailers, and then set up again. And don't forget that it's the aforementioned carnies doing the setting up. No wonder we hear about things like rides toppling over. How could we not?

Next, there's the overpriced crap they sell at carnivals. Why should it cost nearly as much for tickets to the handful of rides offered by the typical carnival as it does to visit a well-maintained, expansive, family-friendly amusement park? That it does makes no sense to me. And then there are those ever-popular suckers’ bets, the games. Even if I could fit the oversized basketball through the undersized hoop or knock all the milk bottles off the pedestal, I don't want a paper-thin, sawdust-filled Bart Simpson made in China or a goldfish that will die by the time we get home. But you can bet my kids do.

And last but not least—since there's no escaping it—there's the, um...for lack of a better term..."food." Who doesn't want a big blob of greasy, sugary, salty (insert "funnel cake," "cotton candy," or any item requiring a stick for deep frying)? Thanks, but I'll pass, even if there's no way to ignore the pervasive stench of the rancid, coronary-inducing oil it’s all fried in. And don't forget, all that yummy goodness is being prepared, cooked, and served by those same carnies. Gulp.

Yep, I loves me some carnival. And I actually do on one level: watching my kids enjoy them. From birth, Zach has gone into a frenzy every time he's spotted a carnival, and Zoë's even worse. Some of our happiest family memories have been made attending them. So despite my revulsion over the setting, I've gladly taken the kids to carnivals frequently over the years and done my best to focus on their glee while ignoring the horrors of the setting where they're having all that fun. And yet, I'll admit that I’ve held out hope that Zienna might not turn out to be carnival crazy like her siblings.

No dice.

A few weeks ago, when Zienna spotted the Ferris wheel being erected in our local mall parking lot—marking the arrival of our annual spring break carnival—she went absolutely berserk. Since we'd skipped the event last year and she'd been too young to attend the year before, she’d never been to a carnival. But based on her description of what she saw as we drove by, she obviously knew what one was—and how much fun they were supposed to be (no doubt brainwashed by her traitorous brother and sister). Kelly and I intended to take her, but we wanted to wait for the second weekend and he exodus of the crowds from Redding’s tourist-drawing Kool April Nights classic car rally, making for shorter lines and more opportunities to ride. But try explaining that logic to a two-year-old. She wasn’t buying it, and carnival hysteria made for a very long week.

When the big day finally arrived, Zach and I decided on the spur of the moment to head down to San Francisco for a Giants game, leaving the girls to venture out alone on Zienna's maiden carnival voyage. By Kelly's account, it was a huge, thrilling success, and Zienna chose the dragon roller coaster as her favorite ride, just as Zach and Zoë had when they were younger. The only damper on an otherwise perfect day was the fact that with few visitors left, the carnival closed early. And as it did, Zach and I rolled back into town, happy to help distract the girls and listen to their tales of rickety rides, frightening food, and memories made.

Sometimes, you just have to let kids be kids. Even when they’re traitors and there are carnies involved.

The Perfect Day

2009-04-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

Two lower box seats at AT&T park: $93 I had no business spending

Veggie dogs, garlic fries, and Cokes for two: $37 I had no business spending

Gas, bridge tolls, and parking: $52.50 I had no business spending

A day at the ballpark with my son on a brilliant day for an awesome game: Priceless

Shortly after being woken Sunday morning by Zoë, at 6:10 after a very long week, with the kids home on vacation and Kelly traveling, I expressed in no uncertain terms a need for some alone time. Or family time. Or both. And shortly after that, completely by coincidence, I discovered that Randy Johnson, Zach's favorite pitcher, would later that day be going up against his former team—and just as importantly, the only team in the Major Leagues who he'd never beaten—the Arizona Diamondbacks. When Kelly heard this, her response was immediate: "Go!"

Since money is tight, I was hesitant. It didn't help that we'd promised Zoë that, on its final day, we'd take her to the annual Spring Break carnival. Perhaps even more significant, since she'd never yet attended one, Zienna was begging to go. But as Kelly egged me on, I realized I was long overdue for time with Zach, too. And alone time. And baseball.

So I did it.

Moments later, Zach and I were frantically packing essentials—caps, gloves, seeds, music for the three-plus-hour drive, and sunscreen—and heading out the door. It was roughly 9:30, and we didn't have a moment to spare.

Hitting Interstate 5, we quickly fell into a relaxed existence, as Zach has acquired from me not just a love of baseball but a shared appreciation for trance music. With the bass thumping from our favorite, DJ Doboy, we were soon barreling down the highway with hardly a care in the world. We'd headed out without breakfast, but our grumbling stomachs didn't matter much. We had a higher calling: GIANTS BASEBALL! And long overdue Giants baseball at that.

Though I did my best to push the speed limit a bit, we were up against numerous participants heading home from the weekend's Kool April Nights classic car rally held here in Redding. With some cars on the road and others on trailers, it seemed we were constantly behind someone not willing or unable to to go the speed limit. By the time we reached the outskirts of civilization—aka Vacaville—we were not as far along as we needed to be. And then we hit the Bay Bridge toll plaza, which showed us no mercy. Minutes ticked by as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic quickly remembering why, all things considered, we don't really miss the Bay Area.

By the time we got to the bridge, the traffic finally opened up, and we made our way across with the first inning of our game already in the history books. Fortunately, since I used to work a block from the stadium, I was able to navigate our way quickly to a reliable and cheap parking garage adjacent to the stadium before the end of the second inning. Then we dashed across King Street, intent on getting to the game.

Once inside, we grabbed some food, since we'd not yet eaten, and made our way to our seats, along the first base line and just six rows up from the Diamondback's bullpen mound. Then we relaxed, taking in the glorious stadium that for too many games to count—World Series and playoff games among them—we'd taken for granted when we lived in the Bay Area and owned a share of Giants season tickets. It was a glorious day, just over 80 degrees and with a slight breeze. One of the most historic pitchers in Major League history was pitching for my team. And I was with my son, who I'd promised would see this matchup before season's end. There wasn't much more I could ask for.

Oh, and said pitcher was on his game, despite pregame concerns he might not be. At 45 (Ahem!), he'd pitched two duds in a row to debut for his new team, and it was questionable whether he'd be in true form any time soon. But he was, throwing seven innings of spectacular, nail-biting no-hit ball. And the Giants offense, asleep since opening week, showed up to support him. Zach and I couldn't have been much more excited. When Randy left the game, we gave him a standing ovation. And for my part, it was as much a thank you for my son as much as anything. We might never again see this man, who I'd taken Zach years before to see face the Giants when he was almost too young to appreciate why people were giving him dirty looks for cheering the opposing pitcher, play again. So this was really, really special.

In the end, the Giants won the game 2-0. When they did, Zach and I cheered until we were hoarse, high-fived, and reveled in what had been a magnificent day. On the way out, I added to our "no business spending" total by purchasing Zach a Randy Johnson Giants shirt. I knew it meant a lot to him, and I knew he might never get one if I didn't buy it right then. And then we headed home, in indescribable father-son love and content beyond words, with trance music thumping to keep us awake.

Sometimes, life is almost too good to describe. Sunday falls into that category, and I doubt I've done it justice. But it doesn't really matter. Zach told me repeatedly on the way home how much fun he'd had, how much he loved me, and how much he'd appreciated the day. And those words are far more important than mine. In fact, I'd call them priceless.

I Know Somebunny Who Loved That Eggstravaganza

2009-04-15T13:44:00.000-07:00

Though we never do all that much around our house for Easter anyway, the holiday really caught us off guard this year. Kelly was traveling in the weeks leading up to it, leaving me in single parent/just get through the day mode. Then we were preoccupied with trying to solve Zach's arm issue that threatened to derail his final season of Little League. Throw in Zoë's school's open house and various other commitments, and it wasn't until Saturday that we realized that—yikes—the springtime celebration of sugar consumption was almost upon us.

Considering that Zach and Zoë are too old to believe a rabbit enters our house and fills garishly-colored baskets with candy—and like me and Kelly, are not particularly keen on coloring eggs—we briefly considered blowing off all aspects of Easter except the "don't ask, don't tell" (for Zienna's sake) baskets. But then, early Saturday morning, the "don't rob the youngest kid of her childhood" part of my conscience took over, and I found myself scanning the paper for local egg hunts. Kelly agreed to take Zienna to one taking place across town, and in exchange for her sparing me from dealing with the crowds, I assumed my customary Easter roles—meal planner, shopper, cook, basket stuffer, and home-based egg hunt organizer.

Unfortunately, said hunt was a complete bust. Though it apparently wasn't as bad as another later that morning—where an estimated 2,500 people showed up to fight for 15,000 eggs dropped from a helicopter, with adults knocking down children and grabbing them from the kids’ hands—it was bad enough. Staged at a very large park, Kelly estimated there were at least 300 people and 150 eggs. Those eggs were snatched up—and in some cases, snatched from younger children—in less than 60 seconds. Zienna got a grand total of one, and that was only because Kelly positioned her directly over it and told her to dive as soon as she heard the word "go." Zienna didn't seem to mind. She got an egg, and she got to swing for a bit afterward. That was good enough for her.

Next stop, since they were out already, was a trip to the mall to see the Easter Bunny himself—or whoever they had posing as him, since we all know he was busy preparing for the big night. Most likely, it was some teenager making minimum wage inside of the cheesy costume, but Zienna didn't care. She'd spotted him weeks earlier and had been begging ever since to visit him (or her, since in fairness, we really had no idea what lurked inside the oversized costume of bad synthetic). That no one else was there when they arrived, even on the day before Easter, didn’t matter to Zienna. She jumped on his (or her) lap and enthusiastically posed for an overpriced photograph. And she got a bag of gummies. So far, so good, as far as Zienna was concerned.

The next morning, Kelly and I...er, the Easter Bunny…left what I'd deem practical but generous gifts in the baskets set out for the kids: See's bunnies, Jelly Belly beans, and appropriate non-candy gifts. For Zach, it was a Transformers shirt he'd been wanting badly—a traditional Easter gift if there ever was one. For Zoë, Ol' Floppy Ears left a Webkinz dragon (though not the exact one she’d wanted—oops!). And for Zienna, there was a DVD featuring Pocoyo, the latest object of her kid-video adoration. All three kids were pleased—especially Zienna.

Later in the day, I set up our traditional Easter egg hunt, with goodies and levels of difficulty specific to each Z Kid. Zienna's eggs, filled with M&M's (or "M's," as she refers to them) and a few coins, were simply strewn around the lawn so she could find them easily and—in part to make up for the fiasco the day before—in short order. Zoë's eggs, filled with money instead of more already-too-abundant candy, were hidden a bit more thoroughly. And because he'd mocked how openly I'd hid them last year, Zach's "stealth eggs"—in colors and textures resembling concrete, wood, and vegetation—were hidden in such difficult places around our yard that after an hour or so, I finally had to go out and help him locate them. By that time, Zienna was inside playing with her eggs, ridiculously happy as she emptied and re-filled them over and over.

The rest of the day was full of simple pleasures—hanging out, playing with friends, and eating an uncomplicated, barbecued veggie dinner. And no one was happier about it all than Zienna, who was thrilled to have an afternoon with nothing better to do than play with her pal from down the street, Faith. Kites were flown in the spring breeze. Conversations were had. And memories were made. And throughout it all, Zienna had a smile on her face, oblivious to everything but the fact that a pretend rabbit and a few pieces of candy had brought about such joy.

Oh, to be that innocent and carefree again. At least I can be, in a sense, as I experience such things vicariously through Zienna's eyes—and in this case, mouth.

Baseball Teaches This Fan a Lesson About Life

2009-04-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

Being the baseball fan that I am, I was really excited heading into this season knowing Zach would be playing in the Majors division of his Little League. I was even more thrilled discovering that Zach's interest in the sport had grown even beyond what it had been last year. And I was ecstatic when he did himself beyond proud in tryouts when, on a cold, blustery day, with shifting, driving winds straight out of our beloved AT&T Park, he fielded like a pro. That performance led to his being selected early in the draft, setting the wheels in motion for what I expected would be his—and my—dream season.

I'm generally not one of those parents who live and die based on their kid's athletic performance. But as my hopes for what Zach could accomplish escalated, I started to feel like one. So when Zach told me after practice a few weeks ago that his arm was bothering him and that at one point, it had actually gone numb, I was concerned, but not terribly so. Blinded subconsciously by an unwillingness to accept that anything could derail how well he was playing, I told Zach to rest his arm when we got home and to let me know if it was still bothering him the next day. And then I basically forgot about it. Normally, I'd have worried. But I wasn't in that mode.

Finally, last Saturday, the big event arrived: Opening Day. Zach's team had practiced and scrimmaged Wednesday and Friday nights, then snuck in additional preparation during downtime that afternoon. Shortly before game time, Zach took a line drive from one of his coaches hard off his sternum. I wasn’t there and didn't know about it until later. But as I’d learn, it was going to impact him in a big way.

Minutes later, the game was underway. Right off the bat, it was clear Zach and his teammates were dragging. After going down in order in the top of the first, they took to the field, with Zach heading to left. He jogged out and was moving slowly, and I became frustrated, not aware that he’d been hurt earlier. But then things went from bad to worse when a ball hit to left went right by Zach, rolling to the fence. He trotted to the ball, bent down slowly to retrieve it, and then tossed it half-heartedly toward the infield. I was thoroughly confused, knowing how he'd been pumped up for days looking forward to this game.

When his team came off the field after giving up three runs, signs of the funk affecting them was etched on every one of the players' faces—particularly Zach's. The coach apparently noticed, and he made some changes pronto. After batting once—and striking out—Zach was pulled from the game. I couldn't blame the coach, given Zach's performance and the fact that they were trailing and playing lackadaisically. But I still wasn't happy. Suddenly, I was that hyper-competitive parent again, wishing I could snap my fingers and make my kid perform like Super Athlete.

A few innings later, Zach was reinserted in the lineup, and as fate would have it, he was left standing at the plate when a teammate tried unsuccessfully to steal in the final out of the game. Zach headed toward the dugout, dejected, and I knew we'd be having a heart to heart on the drive home. When we got to the car, he nearly started crying, telling me about the ball that had hit him and explaining that when he'd taken the field in the first inning, he could barely breathe, let alone bend over. Then, when he'd tried to throw the ball and salvage the play, the numb-elbow-and-pain-down-the-arm syndrome had struck again, only much worse this time. And, he said, by the time he'd made it back to the dugout, his hand was shaking and so weak that he could barely clutch a water bottle.

At that point, I did a complete emotional one-eighty. Here I'd been disappointed that he'd been giving less than 100% effort, yet he'd been pushing himself to perform and not admit that he was hurting, and hurting pretty badly. I felt so ashamed.

We iced Zach up when we got home, but it helped very little. By morning, he was worse. His arm had kept him up much of the night, and he had tenderness in his inner elbow and pain when he rotated his hand downward—classic signs of Little League Elbow, which affects a child's growth plates, as repetitive throwing causes soft, developing cartilage to crack and sometimes separate from the arm bone. Kelly and I talked, and after reading online that any boy Zach's age experiencing elbow pain after throwing should be evaluated immediately, we agreed he needed to see a sports medicine specialist.

So, two days later, Zach was x-rayed and evaluated. The good news was that he didn't have Little League Elbow. The bad news was that he had two forms of tendonitis, and he'd be spending at least four weeks in therapy, prohibited from throwing. When I heard the doctor say four weeks—and knowing that was the best-case scenario—the competitive dad started to surface again. But then I saw Zach's long face and obvious sadness, and I got over it. The consoling, supportive dad took over, and I heard myself telling Zach this was good news overall and that it could have been much worse. Finally, the realistic, pragmatic dad had arrived, and just in time.

Zach began his therapy the next day, and he loved the fact—as did I—that his therapist, hand-selected by his doctor, was a former minor league pitcher for the Oakland A's. And it was icing on top of the cake when later in the day, Kelly and I received a message from Zach’s coach telling us what a wonderful kid we have, how sorry he was to hear about the injury, and how badly he wanted Zach back on the team. Kelly and I shared the message with Zach and told him in no uncertain terms how proud we were of him and what he’s already accomplished regardless of whether he makes it back to the lineup this season. And watching his reaction—and sharing a group hug—I was reminded that as much as I love baseball, I love that kid a whole lot more.

Zach and I are both students of the game. But it’s pretty clear that this season, I’m the one who’s being taught the bigger—and ultimately, more valuable—lessons.

Welcome to My (Weird) World

2009-03-27T10:04:00.000-07:00

Want first-hand evidence of the effects of staying home full time with no one to talk to most of the day other than a two-year-old (not that that's necessarily a bad thing)? Just watch the video below, at least until I get a cease and desist order from the copyright owner since I was naughty enough to post it here and provide them with free publicity (since neither its audio nor video is available commercially anywhere that I could find).

I get really excited when this comes on from time to time as Zienna's watching Sesame Street, arguably her favorite TV show. Really excited. In all reality, far too excited. And I got even more excited when I found a copy of it online this morning. Note that I don't even particularly like James Blunt, even if this version of his hit "You're Beautiful" sticks in my head every time I hear it and refuses to let go.

I won't say on this basis alone that my life is weird or anything. Just different. And on some days, really different. But I dare you to watch the video a few times through and see if you don't sing along. Laugh if you want to, but I know I do...

Daddy's Little Idol, Stage Fright and All

2009-03-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

If you've ever spent time around Zoë, it probably hasn't taken you long to realize how much she loves to sing. Sometimes, it seems like all she ever does. Oh, sure, she sings in the shower. But she also sings in her room. And outside when she's playing. And in the car. And in front of the TV. She'd kill me for divulging this, but she even sings when she's sitting on the toilet. Believe me, if she ever wins American Idol, as she says she'd like to do, I'll be one of those parents they interview who reminisces about how much their kid loved to sing as a child.

Zoë even sings at school, apparently, or at least talks about doing so. When she was Star of the Week earlier this month and her classmates—who'd only known her a few weeks, since she'd just switched classes and joined theirs—wrote fictional stories about her, many wrote about her being on stage, including that big one on TV that draws 30 million viewers each week. They discussed the songs she'd sing (particularly those of Taylor Swift, her current idol). And they envisioned her winning. She's read the stories, bound into book form, over and over since bringing them home.

Problem is, much as my girl likes to work her pipes, she clams up when a big opportunity to do so comes along. She'll sing for an audience in a safe setting like our next door neighbor's living room, where she loves to give their karaoke machine a workout. But when asked to sing in a formal setting, Zoë's confidence disappears. And so, in four school plays over the past two years, Zoë has shied away from roles that would require her to sing as anything but part of a chorus. Oddly, she's readily accepted speaking parts. But faced with an opportunity to strut her musical stuff, she's cowered away, only too happy to avoid the spotlight.

I've explained to Zoë that if she wants to sing, she needs to get over her fear and take a chance. I've also reminded her that she's frequently complimented on her voice and technique. Even her teachers have encouraged her to try higher-profile roles. But it's all fallen on deaf ears. Frustration over wanting to sing but being too scared to do so has brought Zoë to tears a few times. But it's still not been enough to make her throw caution to the wind.

Kelly and I have, of course, been proud of Zoë's performances no matter what. Just last week, she took part in her new class' production entitled Child of the World. Though she joined the class weeks after the other students had begun memorizing lines and lyrics—and how to "sing" the songs in American Sign Language, which was part of the play—Zoë was one of the first students to learn the entire script. Yet, when a student with a featured role moved just days before the performance and the teachers scrambled to cover her part, Zoë wanted nothing to do with it. But no matter. Zoë, positioned in the middle of the ensemble and looking far too grown up in a wardrobe of her own choosing, did a great job, and we loved every minute of it. You can witness a bit of the magic for yourself in the video clip below.

Frankly, I suspect if Zoë had the talent to be an Idol contestant, we'd be seeing hints of brilliance by now. But there's no way I'm going to discourage her. Determination and desire can do wonders, and there's plenty of "singers" making comfortable livings on marginal talent. So you can bet I'm going to encourage Zoë, to sit through her performances, and to listen to my little song bird when she's in her own world, singing for herself and the shower head.

And if she finds a way out of her shell? Look out, world. With this kid's passion, I can only dream of what she might accomplish. Whether that meant Idol contestant or soloist in a school play, I'd be proud either way—and reminding everyone within earshot that I was her number one fan "way back when." And I'd mean every word of it, too.

Note: To view the video below in higher quality, click the "HD" button in the bottom right corner. Then, if you wish to view the video in full-screen mode, click the screen icon just to the left of the arrow.

Dog Bites Man

2009-03-18T09:55:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking: surprise, surprise—Scott's had another lapse in blogging. And, I obviously realize this isn't the first time it's happened and that I've show up trying to explain why. But at least this time, there's a reason for it other than procrastination. Or rather, a few of them.

For starters, things headed downhill when I switched in mid-February, after nearly two years of flawless service, from Charter cable Internet to AT&T DSL. Lured by a 30% reduction in our monthly cost, guaranteed by a long-term contract and sweetened by some hefty rebates, I apparently forgot how much trouble we had with AT&T and all its numerous outages after we moved into our house in 2006. You think I'd remember the nights spent shivering outside with a phone test set plugged into our MPOE (minimum point of entry) jack, or the countless hours I spent on the phone arguing with script-reading tech support agents that finally prompted me to abandon AT&T, screaming and pulling out my hair, for an alternative. But I didn't. And since I didn't learn from history, it is, predictably, repeating itself, leaving our new service down as often as not—only weeks into what will be, if things don't improve soon, a very long two-year contract. It's hard to blog when you can't get online.

Next, as I was grappling with the connection issues and preparing to upload a couple of blog entries I'd written during the downtime, some very important people in my life were stricken with life-threatening health conditions. Given that I'd written about lighthearted, tongue-in-cheek topics—in part to veil my frustration with not being able to get online reliably—it just didn't feel right to post them with my head in an entirely different place, concerned as I was over those folks. And so, I began rewriting one and authoring another from scratch, only to have the service go down again—and this time much more severely, where it remained until (hopefully) yesterday. Ironically, I'd made a conscious decision just before these issues emerged to curtail my online time and focus more on home and family. Still, I wanted to be the one making the decisions about how, when, and why I'd be online, rather than being AT&T's stooge. Harumph.

And then finally, while battling the connection issues and propping myself up for hours on end on one elbow, under a desk, with a phone held to my ear with my shoulder, I began having severe pain in my neck that extended into my back and all the way down my arm and into my hand. As the pain grew worse, I took it seriously and decided that, stubborn or not, I was going to have to wait to address the Internet, my blog, and everything else related to the computer, since sitting at a desk had suddenly become very uncomfortable. But even with rest, the problem got worse, to the point that by last weekend, the pain had begun to rival that of the low-back problems I had in the 80's and 90's, when I had three herniated disks, endured multiple epidurals, and narrowly escaped surgery. I finally dragged myself to the doctor a few days ago, and while a diagnosis is pending (and the pain has mercifully subsided a bit, probably due to rest), it appears I may have ligament problems, tendinitis, and/or a neck injury—or some combination of the three. I miss being online, but if sitting is an issue, I don't know often I'll be there until this situation improves.

So, there's my attempt to check in and explain my absence, just in case anyone was wondering where I've been. In the grander scheme of things, not being able to check my email or grind out self-serving prose isn't really that big of a deal. You really come to realize that when the lives of people you care about are in danger. But I at least wanted to drop in and post something so it wouldn't seem like just another garden-variety gap in the history of Fatherhood.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to find a chalkboard so I can write some Bart Simpson-style lines on it. If Pennsylvania school officials meted out such a punishment to those who sold a $46,000 trailer on eBay for $1, it only seems fair I should face the same fate for not learning my lesson about AT&T's crappy broadband service. Repeat after me 500 times, "I will not fall for AT&T's lousy DSL service again." D'oh!

There She Goes Again

2009-02-28T12:07:00.000-08:00

After missing Zoë's moment in the spotlight at her school's December awards ceremony, you can bet I took things much more seriously when she brought home another award notification letter earlier this week. There was no doubt I was going to be there for her this time. Neither flooded streets, forest fires, nor wild horses themselves could have kept me away from her campus yesterday, even though—once again—I had no idea how or for what she was to be recognized.

Good thing I'd learned my lesson. Because for the second time in four months, Zoë was, to my utter shock and surprise, named Student of the Month.

With schools turning increasingly to "each child gets a turn" faux awards in an era where everyone wins and youth sports teams don't keep score, Turtle Bay's Student of the Month is a legitimate award given to just one child per month from each class. With twenty students in each second-grade class and ten months in the school year, it's obvious not everyone's going to get one, let alone two. And yes, I'd have been happy and proud of Zoë had she received either of the other two awards presented at the ceremony—one for citizenship and one for embodying the school spirit. But I certainly wasn't going to complain about what actually happened, either. If I hadn't been videotaping the big moment, I'd have been jumping up and cheering like a madman.

That I'd not been present when Zoë received the same award in December made it that much sweeter that I was able to be there this time. And, the fact that we'd switched Zoë's teacher and classroom just three weeks ago made the latest award a bit more special, too. Though Zoë had seemed happy in her original class at the start of the school year, she'd quickly began to struggle. Kelly and I tried everything to make it right, including communicating frequently with her teacher and meeting with her very supportive principal, Mr. Woods. But as rides home from school continued to be crying sessions and Zoë's unhappiness affected her behavior and, increasingly, our family, we knew it was time for a change.

And so we did it. Zoë isn't big on change and was very nervous at first, begging over the weekend before the move to cancel everything and leave bad enough alone. But from the very first day in the new class, there was no doubt it was a better fit for her. Suddenly, Zoë was cheery instead of grumpy when I picked her up. She began showing confidence with her schoolwork again instead of self-doubt. She started getting ready for school before we'd even gone in to wake her, rather than fighting to stay in bed and skip school. And her behavior, thankfully, began to improve.

And then she made Student of the Month just three weeks later. That she'd settled in that quickly and made enough of an impression to warrant such recognition seemed a clear sign that we'd done the right thing. Mission accomplished.

Later in the day, Zoë was again singled out when her teacher deemed her the class' "Star of the Week." And while, yes, this is one of those "each child gets a turn" faux awards, I'm quite sure it was an even bigger deal to Zoë than the honor bestowed upon her earlier in the day. Because this time, she got to bring home the class' mascot, Blackie the bear, for the weekend. And as we all know, borrowing an over-loved and tattered stuffed animal is a lot more fun to a seven-year-old than actually getting to keep some silly old piece of paper—even one that says you're Student of the Month.

But that's OK, let the bear make Zoë happy. She's earned it, and besides, I've got the paper. And once I've smoothed out all the wrinkles it received after being crammed into Zoë's backpack, I'll be tucking it away alongside the other mementos that remind me how lucky I am to have such awesome kids calling me "Dad." And how proud I am of them—especially when they can bounce back from adversity.

Note: To view the video below in higher quality, click the arrow icon in the bottom right corner as it begins playing, then click "HD." Then, if you wish to view the video in full-screen mode, click the screen icon just to the left of the arrow. Enjoy!

The Big Switcheroo

2009-02-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

Though we're old as dirt and have been together forever, I'm here to say that Kelly and I spent our twenty-eighth Valentine's Day in our bedrooms. Yes, bedrooms plural—as in Zach's, Zoë's, and Zienna's. Oh, sure, we made it to ours eventually. But by then, we were exhausted, sore, and ready to collapse. And why not? We'd engaged in vigorous physical activity all day. Because on that over-marketed Hallmark holiday, we shuffled all three kids' rooms, furniture and all.

For a few years now, Zoë has been experiencing major Bunk Bed Envy, since shortly after Zach's eighth birthday, we'd purchased him a loft-style bunk and she'd begun begging for one of her own. Her envy turned into unadulterated jealousy after we moved into the house, as three girls on the block had bunks of their own. It became routine that every time Zach went away for the night, Zoë would, despite boy sweat and dirty sheets, sleep in his bed. She loved it, and Kelly and I wondered, since we still struggled to get Zoë down at night, if having a bunk might motivate her to turn in with fewer hassles. I located a cute, feminine model at Bombay Kids—but then Bombay filed for bankruptcy and closed its doors, just as we hit some financial snags of our own. So, the topic was shelved.

Then a few weeks ago, Zach made an offhand remark about feeling like he was outgrowing his bed. Hearing his concerns, a light bulb went off above my head: Would he be interested in switching beds with Zoë? When he said yes, I told him to mull it over and that Kelly and I would do the same.

Talking it over, Kelly and I recalled that when we'd moved in, Zach had expressed an interest in the small bedroom at the front of the house. We'd vetoed him, convinced he should have the largest, quietest room. But with Zach facing baseball games ending at 10:00 pm this spring and 7:00 am band sessions next fall, didn't it now make sense for him to have the room next to the front door? He wholeheartedly agreed that it did. And since Zoë was a slam dunk, I knew the deal was done. Now all we had to do was pull it off.

So it was that on Saturday morning, I got an itch to be productive and decided to move the kids before we changed our minds. But to do so, I faced the daunting task of disassembling and reassembling the bunk bed, which is no small feat. Debating myself mentally, I felt another light bulb go off: Why not leave the bed where it was and move Zoë in there? Presented with the idea, Zoë went from excited to ecstatic. And thus, the move was on.

Though it took most of the day, we managed to clear the rooms one by one, relocate their contents, and toss a bunch of stuff out along the way to boot. And then, figuring that a change of scenery might be a good luck charm, I got really ambitious and dug the pieces to our toddler bed out of the garage, intent on giving it a try. I had to fight to keep Zienna off the bed as I assembled it, and when bedtime rolled around a short time later, she was only too glad to climb on and tuck herself in. Moments later, Zoë did the same in her bunk. Wow. I could hardly believe it.

So, the big move was a win all around. Zoë got her bed, Zach got his room, and Zienna got to ditch her crib. And as for me and Kelly, it appears that after years of nighttime battles, we finally have a smooth nighttime ritual for all three kids. It may not have been a candlelight dinner or a moonlit walk. But as fortysomething parents with three young children, we'll take it—especially since now, we can actually go to bed at a decent hour ourselves.

Talk about a gift that keeps on giving. At that point, who needs Hallmark, anyway?

It's Easy Not Being Green

2009-02-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

I started hearing it the minute we had Zach: "Oh my gosh, what beautiful eyes!"

Typically the speaker would simultaneously be sneaking glances at my drab, grey orbs with a puzzled expression on his or her face.

"They're Mom's," I'd explain, as a look of relief mixed with apology greeted my words. "Hers are big, green, and really amazing."

This scenario has played out too many times to count during the past twelve years. Hearing the same sentiments so often, it's been tempting to take them for granted. But when I stop and really look at my kids' eyes, I appreciate them what they are: updated versions of what attracted me to my wife in the first place. And on that level, I can say without embarrassment that yeah, they are pretty gorgeous.

Before I met Kelly, I was, frankly, partial to blue-eyed blonds. But the moment I set eyes on her, those amazing, clover-colored peepers drew me in and wouldn't let go. They hypnotized me, and overnight, I became a green-eyed lady kind of guy.

So, when my first kid came issued with carbon copies of Mom's peepers, I was neither surprised nor disappointed. Hell, I was grateful. And overnight, I couldn't take Zach out of the house without receiving constant compliments on his eyes. Never mind that he had long, luscious lashes any model would die for. That only sweetened the deal. That they were the hue of fresh-cut grass reminded me every time I looked at him that I'd married the right girl.

When Zoë came along, she emerged the same big eyes and long lashes as Zach. Soon, I was getting compliments directed at her as often as I was about Zach, even if, for a time, it seemed Zoë's eyes might stay blue, as they had been at birth. But as she reached toddlerhood, they began to mimic her brother's. Blue became turquoise and then green, and that's where they stayed. The Middle Z's eyes are expressive beyond belief, and though I'm biased, I've got a feeling some lucky guy is going to fall as deeply into them one day as I did into her mom's.

With me outnumbered three to one, I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if Zienna had joined me in a blue-eyed coalition of two. At birth, she did just that, though her eyes were as big and hard to miss as her siblings'. Of course, I knew that most Caucasian babies' eyes start out blue before gaining pigment that determines their ultimate color. Yet, as her second birthday came and went, Zienna's eye color had deepened, giving them a sapphire-like appearance. Fairer skinned than Zach or Zoë, it was looking as if she'd be the kid who most resembled me, tone-wise.

But it was not to be. It was Zach who, a couple of weeks ago, noticed quite out of the, um, blue that his younger sister's eyes had suddenly followed his and Zoe's lead, taking on what has by now become a Z Kid trademark: an emerald-like cast. I was startled when I saw that he was right, given how quickly—and late—they'd changed. But change they had, and it suddenly seemed well and right that the kids I adore should share the physical trait that had first attracted me to their mother. And overnight, people who knew us—neighbors, the checkers at the grocery store, and the like—were suddenly noticing Zienna's new look, often with surprise.

Early in my parenthood, I felt left out when people made comments about how much The Z Kids resembled Kelly. Over time, though, I've come to realize what a huge compliment it is. Yeah, I see a bit of me in each of them. But given the choice to look at mini mes or variations on my gorgeous wife's appearance? That's not a tough call. So, as I've said to Kelly so many times before for so many different reasons—and I'll say many times more before the story we're writing together is done—thanks, sweetie.

Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day, too.

Small But Mighty

2009-02-13T18:09:00.000-08:00

Though she won't be three until the end of May, Zienna constantly amazes me with how quickly she's picking up basic preschool knowledge. For some time now, she's been reciting the ABCs and counting to ten. She's recently moved on to twenty and counting small groups of items. She's got basic colors and shapes down pat, and she's the first of our kids to master the classic Tupperware Shape O Ball—so much so that I gave it to a neighbor since Zienna could do it, like a rocket scientist doing a Rubik's Cube, in mere seconds.

Still, much of what's behind those feats is memorization. Taking things to the next step is another story. So, imagine my shock when Zienna began doing puzzles, including some labeled for ages three and up, out of the blue. After watching Zoë assemble a few, she'd asked to try some herself. But aside from the "put the pieces where they go" wooden type, she'd not had much luck—until last week, that is. Hanging out with me as I cleaned the garage, Zienna jumped when she saw a bin containing numerous puzzles Zach and Zoë had outgrown long ago. Since many were missing pieces anyway, I saw no harm in letting her play with them. I sorted out the pieces as best as I could and then left her to experiment.

A few minutes later, Zienna called out to me saying she'd completed one of the puzzles. Yeah, right, I thought, ready to praise her for trying. Except, she'd actually done it—and the one she'd put together was a picture of Reptar from Rugrats, a character and show she'd never seen, meaning she had no reference point from which to work. So, yeah, I praised her alright. And I did it again when she completed Barney, Dora, Blue, and a few others. It absolutely blew me away that she'd done them with no help at all.

The next day, we were back in the garage, and I found a box containing more advanced puzzles. Among them was a Strawberry Shortcake model with fruit-shaped pieces for each number from one to ten. I gave it to Zienna, and it wasn't long before she'd matched the berries to their respective places even though they were all quite similar. Figuring she was up for a challenge, I removed the pieces and asked Zienna to find me the number three, which she did. Then I asked for five. No problem. And so forth. By the time we were done, she'd confused "1" and "7 " and "6" and "9," as well as not recognizing "10." But the rest of the numbers she'd identified without hesitation. We celebrated her success with a spirited round of high-fives, her favorite.

Then this morning, as I was holding her in my arms, I noticed Zienna was studying my shirt.

"Daddy, there's three A's on your shirt," she said, holding up the same number of fingers.

I looked down and, reading "JAMAICA," realized that yep, she was right.

"And there's a C," she added, pointing to it. Right again.

And though she called the "M" a "W," I was still mighty impressed.

When I made the decision in 2001 to stay home full time, I set a goal of having Zoë, who'd just turned one, reading before kindergarten. I'd spent ten years working for the company behind Hooked on Phonics, so I knew it was possible. I ultimately fell short on my goal, but just barely. Then again, I hadn't really start working with Zoë until she was three, and I'd had to curtail my efforts the final summer before school since Zienna needed my attention and was leaving me exhausted.

Given Zienna's early start, I'm even more determined to have her reading when she heads off to kindergarten. With sixth-grade Zach reading at a twelfth-grade level and second-grade Zoë devouring books from the middle-school section of the library, Zienna's got some big footsteps to walk in. But you know what? That's one kind of sibling rivalry I'll definitely encourage.

The Unwanted Houseguest

2009-02-06T16:43:00.000-08:00

I love animals—really I do. I've been an ethical vegetarian going on 18 years. I give to animal rights and welfare groups when Kelly and I can afford to. And I struggle, living in an area where the average Joe lives to hunt and fish, not to get angry when pressured to "just give it a try."

Yep, I'm passionate about animals. But, that doesn't mean I care about them all equally. Insects don't get much concern from me. Spiders, unless I know for sure they're harmless, I kill on site without the slightest hint of shame. If snakes disappeared from the planet tomorrow, I'd be happier and calmer. And rodents? They're in a league of their own. For years, Zoë has been begging for a hamster—or a guinea pig, or even a mouse or a rat. But it isn't going to happen on my watch. No way, no how.

Mind you, when we've had problems with rodents, I've been compassionate in dealing with them. Rather than conventional mouse traps, which I liken to cruel leg-hold traps used for coyotes, I've relied upon ultrasonic devices and catch and release traps, much as I dread emptying the latter. Still, if forced to choose between my PETAesque leanings and my paranoia of the order Rodentia, I fall unequivocally on the side of survival. Cornered by a nasty, plague-carrying ball of fur, with no way out and a shovel in my hand, I guarantee you'd I'd be swinging steel with purpose in very short order. I'm not going to stomp my foot, since he's germ-covered and gross. But I'm not going to mess around, either.

It's a ridiculous understatement to say I'm no Willard. In that context, consider if you will the events that unfolded yesterday morning...

Stepping into our garage, I noticed there were hand washables in our utility sink which I'd started and forgotten about several days before. Since I'd done nothing but fill the sink and add detergent, I proceeded to scrub the clothes. And as I did, I noticed protruding from one of Zach's beanies something that looked like a rather thick band of elastic. Shoot, I thought, it must be coming unsewn. So, I pulled on it—and then nearly passed out. Because it wasn't a piece of elastic.

It was a rat's tail.

I must have shrieked rather loudly, girly-man that I am, because through two closed doors, Zane heard me and began barking like mad. Within seconds, Zienna was in the garage asking me what was wrong. Her presence snapped me back into reality, giving my stunned brain a much-needed jump start. And as my senses resumed functioning, I was able to see that this was no finger tip-sized pet store mouse. The hefty tail was connected to a body roughly five inches long—a body that had been floating in soapy water for who knows how long and was now bloated. And decomposing. And as I took all this in, I suddenly realized that the water had a foul stench about it and that brownish muck was clinging at its surface to the sides of the formerly white sink.

Then I remembered that I'd been sloshing my hands around in that foul brew for a good two or three minutes. Gulp.

That was it. My breakfast was now begging for release, leaving me doing what I could to hide the gagging from Zienna. Fearful she would peer into the sink, I distracted myself by hurriedly luring her into the house. Then, just wanting the experience to be over, I mustered up every ounce of courage inside me and snapped on some rubber gloves. Still shaking, I headed back in to the garage, disposed of the creepy little corpse, and then alternately flooded the sink with bleach, about a can's worth of Lysol, and gallons of hot water. And for good measure, I went over it—repeatedly—with disinfectant wipes. Finally, I tossed the stopper and what had once been laundry into the trash, where they belonged. There was no way I was keeping them, not considering where they'd been!

This weekend, I intend to hit the garage on poopy patrol. In our last residence in the Bay Area, a family of mice nested in the main heater duct, where they became trapped before rotting, filling every square inch of the house with the most gut-lurching stench imaginable. So, I want to be absolutely sure that the guy who committed hari-kari in our sink was alone, not hunting for a family.

But when I do, you can be darned sure I'll have a shovel in hand.

It's a Family Tradition (Apparently)

2009-01-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Let’s get one thing out in the open right away: I am not a scientist. However, since writing earlier this month about Zienna's fascination with waste collectors—and speculating that there must be a recessive gene responsible for such a quirk—I've learned enough to deduct, relying solely upon my rudimentary high school and college genetics instruction, that I was 100% on the mark. And when the science journals are writing this stuff up and you see it reported on Headline News, you, lucky reader, can say you heard about it first.

Just witness the staggering evidence pouring in from both sides of our family:

Case #1: My Nephews Aidan, Cole and Grant

In that previous entry, I discussed how my brother Steve's boys' appreciation for their garbage man is so deep-rooted and impassioned that it will one day be the stuff of legends—even if Walter, the man whose heroics turned them into Garbage Groupies, seems to have left the building.

"I'm afraid we haven't seen him lately," Steve commented on the entry. “We still have his Christmas card waiting, but every week since before the holiday, it's been a different driver.”

“We're left to wonder what's become of him."

Too bad about Walter, since he's the one who launched the boys' fanaticism. But it seems obvious that when any part of "we"—as in, your entire family—has a Christmas card waiting for one specific guy who humbly removed your rubbish, you're a true fan of the man.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Case #2: Kelly's Nephew Adam

After reading about Zienna, Melissa, Kelly's father's sister, emailed to tell me that as a child, her son Adam exhibited signs of being a Garbage Groupie.

"When Adam was about two, he developed a thing for the garbage truck's arrival," she said. "He actually got to the point where he 'rode' the side of the playpen his younger siblings were in, holding a round block container that was his version of the garbage can."

Melissa and her then-husband, Howard, searched desperately for a toy garbage truck to supplement Adam's faux can. That by the time they did, Adam was four and "on to much bigger and better things" doesn't discount the fact that at Zienna's age, he’d had the bug. Riding a playpen and pretending it's a refuse rig? C'mon. Case closed.

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present.

Pretty impressive, you say? Well, hold on tight, because you haven’t seen anything yet. Just take a look at this one…

Case #3: Me

That's right. Hard as I find it to believe, yours truly apparently carries the Garbage Groupie gene himself and, as a child, exhibited its presence. This stunning news comes from none other than my mother, whose email on the topic may have provided the clincher in my informal little study.

"I thought I’d told you of your fascination as a youngster with garbage men,” she said. “You were little, and it was the highlight of your week, seeing the guys come to collect our trash!"

Continuing, she said, "At that age (probably 2-1/2 or so), whenever your dad and I asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, your reply was, 'A garbage man.'"

"This was cute to us, and we figured you would grow out of this idea one day," she added. "So, ugh, I think this fascination comes by our family naturally. You started, I think, by being the first in our family to have the fascination!"

Conclusion: Garbage Groupie gene present—unless you're gonna argue with my mom, that is!

So there you have it. Children on both sides of our family have, for more than 40 years, scrambled to their respective windows just to catch a glimpse of a guy tossing trash. And clearly, since the trait is now present in our daughter, there’s definite genetics at work. It’s as simple as that.

Rubbish, you say? Perhaps. But I'm afraid we'll have to shelve that debate and revisit it later. Right now, I've got to do some serious soul searching. Maybe even hunt down a regression therapist. Because to be honest, I'm reeling from the image of little me getting excited over a garden variety waste collector.

Me, a Garbage Groupie? Sheesh...

Taxi Tales: The Owie Maneuver

2009-01-26T12:03:00.000-08:00

On too many days, I feel like a dad driving the bumper sticker-clichéd “Mom’s Taxi,” given how many short trips I take transporting Zach and Zoë to and from school and events around town. Arriving home from one outing just in time to leave on another gets old quickly, and it really wears on me. And yet, as I wallow in self-pity, I sometimes forget that Zienna is right there behind me, mile after mind-numbing mile, stoplight after drowse-inducing stoplight. Considering she's barely able to move or stretch when confined by the straightjacket-like straps of her car seat, is it any wonder that with increasing frequency, when I reach for my car keys, she protests? A play date for Zoë or a sports event for Zach means just one thing to Zienna: being stuck in the car for who knows how long, away from the toys and play she loves so much.

Simultaneously, Zienna has developed a habit—sometimes annoying, sometimes amusing—of parroting the symptoms of any malady expressed within her earshot. If Elmo develops a cold, within seconds Zienna says she has one, too. If Zach stubs his toe, Zienna claims to have done the same thing. And if a neighborhood friend complains of an upset stomach, Zienna immediately reports similar symptoms. And, she's discovered that she need not wait for an external cue, drumming up illnesses and injuries of her own making—some downright comical. “Daddy, I sick” in Twospeak can mean “I need a hug,” “I’m tired,” or a million other things.

I try not to laugh or dismiss her concerns. Instead, I look for their real cause and then dispense kisses, reassurance and distraction. And when there's even the slightest evidence of a real owie, I resort to the time-tested cure-all: the band-aid. We go through a lot of band-aids.

Still, I couldn't help but snicker over an exchange we had this morning. Zienna had woken up cranky and protested mightily about getting dressed. She’d complained more fiercely over leaving the house. And then, even though it was below freezing, she’d refused to get into the car without me. Since I was more concerned about Zoë getting a tardy, I allowed Zienna to stand beside me as I chiseled the rock-hard sheets of ice blanketing our windows. Finally realizing she was cold, Zienna was in no mood for the car seat by the time I loaded her into it.

Thankfully, she quieted down once we hit the road—at least until we headed back up the hill. Though Zienna hates our shuttle missions, once we’re out, she dislikes even more heading back home, where she was suddenly begging not to go. I reminded Zienna that her favorite TV show, Sesame Street, was about to start, but she claimed she didn't want to watch it. But at least her tantrum subsided—briefly, anyway. Seconds later, she began quasi-crying ("fake crying," as Kelly and I call it). What on earth could it be now, I wondered.

"Daddy?" she sobbed.

"Yes, sweetie?" I replied, with as much verbal sugar as I could pour on.

"My finger has a owie," she replied, no doubt referring to yet another ripped cuticle brought on by dry hands so common in our low-humidity climate.

"How did that happen?" I asked, with restrained concern.

"My finger got a owie from being in the car too much," she replied emphatically.

"How did that happen?" I asked again, fighting back laughter and not knowing what else to say.

"I dunno," she replied. "But my finger been in the car too much."

At that point, we turned onto our street, and I was left to ponder whether my girl had been working the mechanisms in her small but growing arsenal—my guilt over dragging her around so much, and her recognition that owies get you attention—or if this was just a spontaneous and accidental coupling of the two. But I tried not to smile, knowing that wouldn't help.

And I promised a band-aid as soon as we got home.