Party Favors

When making a mix tape to give out as a party favor for your four-year-old son's birthday party, it's probably not a good idea to include a song with the line "finger-banging my heart," right?

Does it matter if it's been one of his favorite songs for the past nine months?

Guess we'll have to stick with The Flaming Lips and Laurie Berkner.

Hey! Wanna Help Settle An Argument?

One of Zoey's friends wants Zoey to spend the night with her.

Ella and I have had a few discussions about this. One of us believes she is too young. One of us thinks she should be able to go.

Is five too young for a sleepover? If so, at what age should a child be allowed to spend the night at a friend's home?

Ella and I look forward to reading your comments.

Edited to add: Zoey has spent the night at her grandparents' homes with no problems whatsoever.

Edited yet again to add: We would like to thank everyone for their responses.

And in case you were wondering, I'm the one who thinks she's too young to be spending the night at a friend's house.

Song of the day: (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding by Elvis Costello And The Attractions

Broken Record

I know all I've been talking about lately is autism and kindergarten. I know all I've been talking about lately is autism and kindergarten. I know all I've been talking about lately <SMACK>

So I've decided to combine these two great tastes that taste great together in one delectable post. Bottoms up!

Done Deal

If you're a regular reader of this site, you know we've been struggling for quite some time about sending Zoey to kindergarten this fall. She turns five in late August, which would make her one of the youngest kids in her class as the cutoff date is mid-October. At first, I thought the idea of holding your child back from kindergarten was stupid. But then her preschool teachers told us they didn't feel she was ready for kindergarten, so I was forced to eat my words. But then we decided, "Screw it. We're sending her." Then we found out about Zed's diagnosis, and we began to rethink our decision.

But the decision has finally been made: Zoey will be attending kindergarten this fall. Why? She had her kindergarten screening today and placed in the 95th percentile. The hour-long test also measured attentiveness (they looked for signs of distraction, squirming in her seat, etc.) and she showed no signs of inattentiveness.

And if it sounds like I'm bragging, you're damn right I am.

So to recap:

• The state says she's old enough for kindergarten.
• The screening said she's prepared for kindergarten.
• The screening said she's mature enough for kindergarten.
  

If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for me. Because I kick it like a Goonie.

I'm Feeling Like A Criminal

Zed is currently doing education and speech therapy and his therapists and our service coordinator all feel he is showing progress. At the end of the month, we're having him tested to see if he needs physical and sensory therapy as well.

Every time we explore a new type of therapy, we have to go to a government agency to have a screening performed. I hate the tiny little rooms where the screenings take place. They are always small, nondescript, with plastic chairs. But what I hate the most are the two-way mirrors. I always wonder if someone's watching the entire proceeding. I always wonder what they're thinking. I always wonder if my uncomfortableness rubs off on Zed.

Thankfully, the therapy sessions always take place in our home.

Song of the day: Boy Or A Girl by Imperial Drag

See? I Told You My Kids Would Be Better Off If They Were Raised By Wolves!

I heard about it on the news this morning as I was getting dressed. According to a study released by the National Institutes of Health, children that spend time in daycare are likely to have more behavioral problems and worse vocabulary skills than those who do not spent time in daycare.

No worries, right? WRONG!

According to the parameters of the study, childcare was defined as scheduled care by anyone other than the child’s mother for at least 10 hours per week. Since I am a stay-at-home dad and my children spend an average of fifty hours per week in my sans-mom care, that makes me a childcare provider who is making his children more aggressive and less articulate by his mere presence.

So to all you stay-at-home dads, single fathers, and pops who spend more than ten hours a week with your children away from Mom's watchful eye: CONGRATULATIONS! WE ROCK SUCK!

According to the study, our children will be on par with their classmates by age eleven. They'll only be "normal" after they've been away from our evil clutches for five to six years. So there is hope for our poor children!

But I did manage to find a silver lining in this study. When I decide to reenter the workforce, I'll be able to put Childcare Provider on my resume to explain my 8+ year Lost Weekend gap.

Song of the day: Smooth Up In Ya by BulletBoys

The Cynic Doesn't Fall Too Far From The Tree

On Monday, Zoey's preschool class observed St. Patrick's Day. To celebrate, the teachers ransacked the classroom. Seriously. It looked worse than a mid-80s Motley Crue hotel room. They turned the tables over, the toys and pencils and papers were everywhere, trashcans were emptied onto the floor, etc. There may or may not have been an exhausted stripper in the corner.

Seems a band of leprechauns had been playing in the room and left before they cleaned up their mess. How did the kids know this? The evidence: tiny footprints, clover on the floor, and green pixie dust in different areas of the room.

Zoey talked about this nonstop on the way home from school on Monday. She asked, "Daddy? Are leprechauns real?"

No wanting to lie to her, I replied, "Who else could have made that mess?"

"My teachers."

Four years old and she's already a cynic. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised.

I suck as a parent.

Audience Participation Time

When it comes to myths like Santa, leprechauns, the Easter Bunny, and Bigfoot*, I lie to my children. I figure there's only so many years of youthful innocence so I try not to speed up the process. What do you do? Do you tell your children the truth about Santa and the others? Or just wait until some jerk schoolmate crushes their souls one day?

*Actually, I know Bigfoot exists. And I'll prove it one day when my wife and I retire to a Unabomber cabin in the Pacific Northwest (but only after we're done touring the nation in the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile).

Song of the day: A Quick One While He's Away by The Who

I Wish They Tasted Like Chicken

Don't you just love it when you're forced to eat your words?

A few months ago, I wrote about parents holding their children back an extra year to better prepare them for kindergarten and how I was against it. I had a parent-teacher conference on Friday to discuss Zoey's progress.

Guess what? They recommended we hold her back a year.

Her teachers told me that she was very intelligent but they do not believe she's mature enough to enter kindergarten this fall. Apparently, she'd rather socialize than do her work. She worries about what everyone else is doing instead of concentrating on the work at hand. She talks entirely too much. They also cite her late birthday (she would be four when she entered kindergarten).

Damn.

We're hedging our bets. I talked to the preschool director and she said they'd hold a spot open for her in next year's pre-K program. We're also registering her for kindergarten.

I'm really torn here. I see my daughter and know what she's capable of. By the same token, her teachers know what children her age should be capable of. We've scheduled several more parent-teacher conferences and requested regular reports on Zoey's progress.

Time will tell.

Edited: Be sure to check out JayMonster's excellent (and much more eloquent) take on the subject.

BTW, I realize this site has been a den of negativity for a week or so. Hopefully, this will be my last woe-is-me post for awhile. You know it's bad when someone's posting proof of her make-a-fratboy-jealous burping skillz to cheer you up. Much appreciated.

Song of the day: Pretty In Pink by The Psychedelic Furs

Holding Back The Years

My daughter will turn five in late August. A few days before that, she will enter kindergarten. Around these parts, that makes her the exception and not the rule.

In my state, children must be five or turn five by mid-October of that school year to enter kindergarten. Despite these guidelines, many parents are holding their children, especially boys, back an additional year if there birthday occurs in June or later.

The other day, I spoke to a mother who has already decided to hold back her child another year. He will be five in May. And she has already decided that nine months from now, he will not be emotionally prepared to enter kindergarten. I wish I had a crystal ball like some of these moms have.

This makes no sense. "But what if he fails? Then he won't move up with all his friends," is the response I often hear. But aren't you already failing to let your child move up with his friends by making him take an additional year of preschool? And wouldn't it be in the best interest of the child to complete two years of kindergarten (or first or second grade), where he's bound to learn more, instead of another year of pre-K?

I just don't understand this line of thinking. I know there are some children that can benefit from an additional year of preschool; they don't listen to authority or are emotionally ill-equipped for the rigors of kindergarten. But I see no reason why many of the children need to be held back an additional year. Hell, why not hold them back until they're eight just to be on the safe side?

What are your thoughts on this?

Of Turkeys And Restraints

Zoey's preschool is putting on a Thanksgiving show in two weeks. Today, she came home singing one of the songs they'll be performing. Here are the lyrics:

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkey, fat turkey
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkey am I.

I'm not here for living
I'm here for Thanksgiving
Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble
Fat turkey am I.

I'm just hoping she's not the one that has to pull an Ozzy and bite the head off a live turkey when the song's over.

A Question For You

It happens every time I go grocery shopping. Every time I go to one of the big box stores. Every time we go out to eat.

I usually have to go through four or five shopping carts or highchairs before I can find one where the restraints haven't been totally destroyed.

Who are these children that break the buckles or totally rip them off? And how exactly do they accomplish this?

And if you're the parent of a child who has done such a thing, please let me know how it happens. Do you give them pocketknives to play with while you're shopping? Screwdrivers? I'm curious.

Let the truth shine. You're among friends here.

Baby? On Board

We were sitting at a fast food restaurant this weekend. A young girl (I've never been good guessing women's ages (or anyone else for that matter), but I would guess she was somewhere between 16 and 20) came in carrying a tiny baby and headed straight for the restroom. Her mother, carrying a child carrier and the child's blanket, sat at a nearby table while her father ordered the food. After a few moments, the girl came out of the restroom, holding the baby tight to her chest while burping the child.

I exchanged an awkward I've-got-a-kid-too smile with her. Actually, all of my exchanged smiles are awkward; I'm as socially inept as they come. I turned my attention back to coercing Zoey to eat more than 1/16th of a chicken nugget.

Ella noticed the girl burping the baby. "That's a tiny baby," she whispered to me. "No lie. She must have popped that pup out yesterday," I replied.

Five minutes later, we decided to leave. As we were getting up, I noticed the girl was still burping the baby. As we passed her, I took a quick glance at the child. I did a triple-take to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

The girl was burping a doll. The hell?

I had no idea why she was pretending to have a child. Or why she was going to such extremes with the ten-minute burpathon and the carrier and everything else. I figured it must be part of some Home Ec class (or Domestic Engineering class or whatever politically correct empowering term they're using nowadays). But when I was in high school, the kids in Home Ec carried around an egg for a week.

An egg. Not a doll. Certainly not a doll with a carrier.

What gives? Do I just need to get out more?

Why My Television And I Are No Longer On Speaking Terms

My best friend in the whole word, my television, let me down last night. I watched ABC's Primetime. Did anyone else catch it?

Last night's episode, entitled Cruel Intentions, was about cyberbullying. It examined how teenagers (mostly girls) employed various technological devices (chat rooms, instant messaging, MySpace, webcams, camera phones, etc.) to discredit, demean, and destroy one another. It was quite an eye-opener. And quite frightening.

I came away from the show with three conclusions:

• Girls are VERY mean to one another. Seriously. I thought Mean Girls was just a funny movie, not a way of life.
  
• I'm glad I'm a guy.
  
• Not only am I now planning on homeschooling my children, I'm never letting them out of the house again.
  

Have a great weekend!

Ultimate Toddler Fighting Championship

I love my television. In fact, my TV was the best man at our wedding (ok, that's an exaggeration, but our TiVo was the flower girl). We are a television household. I know some of you do not allow your children to watch television. That's cool. I believe you have to do what's right for your family and to hell with everyone else. It just so happens that television is right for our family.

Or at least it used to be. I am beginning to see why some parents do not expose their children to television.

Ella leaves town for business once or twice a month. And since I have yet to figure out how to clone myself, it is impossible to put both kids to bed at the same time. So I park Zoey in front of the television, put Zed to bed, and then read Zoey a few books and put her to bed.

The other week I bought Zoey the Disney Princess Sing Along Songs: Perfectly Princess Volume Three DVD for such occasions. It's nothing but songs from Disney classics such as Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs and direct-to-video fare like The Little Mermaid II: Return To The Sea. Pretty harmless, right?

Wrong.

On the DVD, there's a song, Lesson Number One, from Mulan II. During the singing and merry-making, Mulan teaches a group of little girls how to fight. How to kick. How to karate chop. How to say "hi-yah!"

Three guesses who else has suddenly learned to fight, kick, karate chop, and say "hi-yah!" Bingo!

Whenever she gets pissed at me (which, truthfully, seems to be quite often lately; she's exploring her limits), she scrunches up her nose and karate chops the air a few times, yelling "HI-YAH!" Now I know this is toddlerspeak for "Bite me, asshole." But as long as she's not actually making contact with anyone, it's ok (actually, I can't help but laugh every time she does it. I suck.). No harm, no foul, you know?

But I also realize that it's just a matter of time before she does make contact, be it a chop to my stomach or a testicle-shattering kick worthy of America's Funniest Home Videos. So what do I do?

Do I put an end to it N-O-W? Tell her it's not ok to even pretend to hit someone? That sounds kind of stupid. Plus, I'm not one to stifle creativity.

Or do I let her train for a month and schedule a Toddler Cage Match with The Voice and all other takers?

I need answers, people. While I still have my testicles.

GHS: 7

Related:
Fight Club Junior

Friday Playdate

Today, Zed and I were in line to pick Zoey up from preschool, halfway through our Music Appreciation Class (today's lesson: New York Dolls), when I heard a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my SUV door.

I almost went through the roof. Seriously.

It was Mrs. Baker, the mother of one of Zoey's classmates. Embarrassed (hey, I was just rockin' with Zed, screaming singing at the top of my lungs (the kid loves to watch me make an fool of myself for me to sing to him)), I rolled down my window.

She handed me a white faux-fur wrap and a tiara. "I think these belong to you," she said.

What? I'm not allowed to be Queen For A Day?

***

On Friday, Ella took the day off work. There was a huge-can't-miss-it consignment sale that morning. That afternoon was Zed's one-year checkup (he had the rotavirus at the time of his actual one-year checkup so we had to reschedule). There are few things I cannot do with both kids. I cannot take both on a business luncheon with my clients. I also cannot take both to the doctor. Sitting in a tiny room, trying to entertain/control Zoey while Zed is poked, prodded, or receiving shots is just too much for me to handle alone. I admit it. I suck.

Once Ella got back from the sale, I started mowing the lawn. I was halfway through with the backyard when Ella came outside.

"Guess who has a playdate?" she asked.

"You?"

"Mrs. Baker just called and wanted to know if Zoey could come over and play with Charlotte today after school."

"Did you tell her no?"

"No."

"Am I allowed to tag along?"

"I don't think so. She offered to pick Zoey up. I think that answers your question right there."

"Zoey's too young to go over to someone's house without me. Call her back and tell her something came up."

"I will not."

"Fine. I'll do it."

"No. You. Won't."

"But she's too young to go to someone's house without one of us!"

"She'll be fine."

Grumble. Grumble. Grumble.

Look, I don't trust most people. Hell, I don't even like most people. But I like Mrs. Baker. She is part of my Monday morning coffee get-together.

But I still didn't trust her.

That afternoon, while Ella and Zed were at the doctor, I begrudgingly readied Zoey for her playdate. I packed her princess clothes and some toys. I drove to Charlotte's house very s-l-o-w-l-y, trying to think of imaginary emergencies that would keep Zoey home. Nothing came to mind.

I dropped Zoey off, gave Mrs. Baker a list of emergency numbers (my house phone, my cellular phone, Ella's cellular phone, my mother's cellular phone (ok, that last one was a lie)), looked around their house for sharp objects, and circled the block until it was time to pick her up went back home. I sat at my house and watched the minutes c-r-e-e-p by.

And when I went to pick her up, she was in one piece. And happy. In fact, she started crying when she saw me because she didn't want to come home.

***

"Thanks," I replied. "Zoey was looking for her tiara yesterday. I assumed it was lost in the clutter of her room."

"No problem," Mrs. Baker responded. "Charlotte really had a good time on Friday."

"So did Zoey. Maybe next time they can play at my house. We just finished the playground on Saturday."

"Sounds good. Maybe we can all have a picnic in your backyard."

Immediately, I knew. It was okay for Zoey to go to her house, but there was no way her daughter could come to my house and be alone with me.

***

Ok. Here's the reader participation portion of our story. I have a few questions and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. I won't judge.

• Would you allow your three-year-old son/daughter to attend a playdate without you? Is that too young or am I too neurotic?
• If you have a young child, would you allow him/her to attend a playdate where the only adult supervision is a male? Be honest.
  

GHS: Plenty (but none caused by my kids)

Related:
Sex And The Suburbs

I Asked My Mother, "What Will I Be?"

Lately, Zoey has been obsessed with growing up. She's constantly standing against walls in our home, asking me to measure her. Hell, half the time she dreams about growing. I'll ask, "Did you have sweet dreams last night?" She'll reply, "Yes! I dreamt I grew bigger and bigger and BIGGER!"

I have trouble dealing with the fact that she's already three and a half and will be starting kindergarten in eighteen short months. Meanwhile, she's ready to get her own apartment.

And don't even get me started on her obsession with marriage.

But I guess I can't blame her. Modern society has put the onus on kids. They're supposed to do everything faster, better, and far earlier than we ever did.

In my neck of the woods, kids are expected to be able to read and write before they enter kindergarten. When I was in kindergarten, we learned to tie our shoes.

This probably explains why my writing is so lame. But I can tie a mean knot!

I entered college having no clue what my major would be. Today's kids don't have that luxury. They have to declare their majors in kindergarten. We have charter schools where children are immersed in a particular area of study, be it Spanish, mathematics, computers, or communications. At six years old. What six-year-old knows what he/she wants to be later in life? When I was six, I wanted to be a rock star.

Actually, I still want to be a rock star.

Seriously, I think kids take their pre-pre-SATs in third grade. A soccer mom told me the other day that she's afraid her child's C- on a fourth grade social studies test will keep him out of Princeton.

Ok, that's a slight exaggeration. But probably not too far off the mark.

It's just crazy. I imagine today's kids are under an enormous amount of pressure; pressure I never felt until college. And now my daughter is starting to succumb to it.

Sometimes, Zoey will tell me she wants to be a doctor when she grows up. Other times, she wants to be a teacher.

There are also times when she acts sad. I'll ask her why she's sad and she'll reply, "Because I don't know what I want to be when I grow up!"

You'd better hurry up, kid. You've got eighteen months to decide.

To be continued...

Parenting Tips For The Overly Neurotic: Balloons

Note: I had intended to send this tip to Blogging Baby or Parent Hacks. But then I figured they'd just think I was insane. Which I am. So I decided to keep my insanity our little secret, ok?

I am deathly afraid of my children choking. I'm constantly scouring the floors looking for things that could make Zed choke. Zoey has an oral fixation and will absentmindedly chew on something while she's watching television, drawing, or looking at books, so I have to keep a watchful eye on her as well. I'm constantly watching her eat, making sure she's chewing her food properly and not taking big bites. This explains why the only hot dogs she gets are in milkshake form.

But my biggest fear? Balloons. Balloons cause more childhood deaths than any other toy. Even in our childbirth class, the dangers of balloons were addressed.

But what can you do? There is no escaping balloons. You can find them in kid-friendly restaurants, grocery stores, birthday parties; almost everywhere you go, some moron is trying to hand your child a balloon. Some child-hating moron, that is.

In our childbirth class, the instructor told us, "Just accept the balloon. It will keep the child busy while you eat or shop. Then when you go outside, tell the child, 'Let Mommy hold your balloon' while you put the child in the car. Then let the balloon go." This always bothered me. Your relationship with your child is built on trust. How is your child supposed to trust you when you keep setting all his balloons free?

So here's my trick. Like the instructor said, accept the balloon. Seriously. A balloon will keep your child occupied (at least for a few minutes) while you're getting groceries or trying to have a halfway decent meal with your mate. And inevitably, when it's time to return home, your child will want to take the balloon with him/her. In order to prevent a scene, you must leave the building with the balloon. There is no option here.

But once you get outside, instead of setting the balloon free, play a little game I call Balloon Wishes. See, I hand my daughter the balloon. She closes her eyes, makes a wish, and she sets the balloon free. And happily watches it float away!

Your child gets to play with a balloon and disposes of it him/herself. You're not the bad guy. Everybody wins!

No Dads Allowed! This Means YOU!

Note: This originally appeared on DadCentric on November 3, 2005.

Yesterday, I received a comment from Mr. SAH'D. Seems he took his son to a playground and it was packed with other children and their mothers. He began talking to one of the mothers and found out it was a playgroup for stay-at-home moms. When he inquired about becoming a member, he was told, "Next time [the playgroup] meets, we could vote to allow you in."

The hell? It's 2005, people!

I've met a lot of cool moms at the playground. We talk about the kids, the weather, different amusements in the area, blah, blah, blah. You know, friendly small talk.

I've also seen a lot of stuffy Buffys and Muffys, the kind of moms who are only at the park to socialize, sitting in their lawn chairs, sipping their Starbucks, all dolled up like they're headed to the Debutante Ball, while their kids are dangling from their toes at the top of the monkey bars or buried headfirst in six feet of sand. I'm assuming these are the types of moms Mr. SAH'D met.

I wonder how his application process will go....

President: Ladies, the Committee for Urban Newborn and Toddler Socialites (play the acronym game) is now in session. The first order of business is to rule on allowing fathers into the playgroup. Does anyone have anything they'd like to say on the matter?
Muffy #1: My husband would kill me if he found out I was talking to a man.
Buffy #1: If we let fathers into our playgroup, what's next? Different races? Different religious backgrounds? What will become of our moral fiber?
Muffy #2: There is no way I'm taking my kids up to the park and have some guy undress me with his eyes!
President: I think we've heard enough. Let's put it to a vote. All those in favor of allowing fathers into our playgroup, say aye.

[crickets chirping]

President: All those opposed, say nay.
Everyone: NAY!
President: The nays have it. No dads allowed.

Mr. SAH'D, I hope you start showing up with your child when the playgroup meets. Your kid could still play with the other children. The other children won't care if your kid came to the park with his daddy (gasp!). Just make sure you bring your iPod, because I doubt you'll be having any conversations with these women. Not that you'd want to anyway.

What do you think he should do?

Why? Because I Said So.

Zoey has a new favorite word.

Why.

And while I respect and encourage her inquisitive nature, it can sometimes become frustrating when my explanations are met with further questioning. This evening, the four of us went out for a walk and Zoey saw a bird fly overhead.

Zoey: Can I fly?
Ella: No.
Zoey: When I get bigger and bigger and bigger?
Me: No.
Zoey: Why?
Ella: Because you don't have wings.
Zoey: Why?
Me: Because you're descended from apes.
Ella: Don't tell her that.
Me: Why?
Ella: You don't need to teach her about evolution yet.
Me: So when is the proper age to broach the subject of evolution?
Zoey: Mommy!
Ella: Yes, Zoey?
Zoey: Why can't I fly?
Ella: Because you're not a bird.
Me: Some insects fly, too.
Zoey: Why can't I fly?
Me: Because you don't have wings.
Zoey: Can I grow wings?
Me: No.
Zoey: Why?
Me: Because you're a person.
Zoey: Can I make some wings?
Me: Yes. But you still won't be able to fly.
Zoey: I want to fly!
Me: Zoey, since the dawn of time, man has looked lovingly at the sky, jealous of the winged crea-
Ella: Look, Zoey! A mud puddle!

Ella is always scolding me for giving Zoey too much information, as she likes to put it. Ella believes these things should be brought up at a later time, when Ella thinks Zoey's old enough to comprehend them. But since Ella hasn't given me a copy of this timeline, I'm at a loss. So I introduce topics to my daughter as the need arises. Like last night, when we had a discussion on intoxication, albeit brief.

A moped drove by our car.
Zoey: What's that?
Ella: A moped.
Zoey: A no-pad?
Me: Mo-ped.
Zoey: Mo-ped.
Ella: Good job.
Zoey: Why is he riding a mo-pad?
Me: Mo-ped.
Zoey: Why is he riding a moped?
Me: Because he drank too much. (This wasn't some EcoDude driving a Vespa. This was some guy driving a crappy moped that would've been jealous of my weed eater's engine.)
Ella: Chag!
Zoey: Why did he drink too much?
Me: He's probably married.
Ella: Don't listen to Daddy, honey.
Zoey: Why was he driving that thing?
Me: Because the police caught him.
Zoey: With a net?
Ella: Look, Zoey! A big yellow truck!

That's Ella's m.o.: when the conversation becomes a little too adult, she pulls out the "look, a shiny object" routine. Sorry, but if Zoey asks me a question, I answer it truthfully. I don't make up some story or pretend I didn't hear her or change the subject if the answer's not age-appropriate. Nor do I dumb it down for her. I speak to Zoey as I would an adult. I was never one to say, "Does Zoey-Woey want to ride her bikey-wikey?" Which is why strangers often comment, "Boy she sure does talk good [sic]." Yes, she does. Would you like her to give you lessons?

Sometimes we go through so many levels of whys, I forget what we were originally talking about. And I don't know if it's because I've been whyed to death lately or if I'm going through some sort of midlife crisis, but I have a lot of whys lately as well. So let me float the following questions out in the ether:

• Why can my daughter disrobe faster than a teenage boy prior to his first time and put on and take off various princess outfits with the greatest of ease throughout the day, but cannot seem to put her pants and panties back on after she's used the bathroom? She dresses herself at school after she uses the bathroom. Why can't she do it at home? I tell her to put on her clothes and she just stares at them like I've just given her a Rubik's Cube to solve (and yes, I realize I'm showing my age with that reference). And why does it seem the later we are for something, the harder it is for her to dress herself?
  
  
• Why has my taste in music gone to pot? There was a time when my indie cred rivaled that of any NYC hipster. Now? I find myself listening to top-40 radio and singing along (ugh!) to dreck like The Pussycat Dolls, The Black Eyed Peas, and Kelly Clarkson. Am I just getting old? Or is that after spending my days listening to sappy songs sung by purple dinosaurs, muppets, and various animated creatures, that anything remotely adult-sounding is a welcome change? Or is it a combination of the two?
  
  
• Why are there no diaper stations in most men's rooms or, if there are, why are they always in the handicapped stall? Are they passing judgement on me?
  
  
• Why is it that both children can perform things effortlessly one hundred times in a row when it's just Ella and I around, but when we try to get them to perform their latest tricks for someone else, they look at us like we're speaking Latin? Case in point: Zed's sitting up like a champ now but when I went to show his trick to my Mom last week, he acted like his head was a 2,000-pound lead weight. Why?
  
  
• Why are you still reading this?
  

GHS: 0 (but Ella might have a few after the intoxication discussion)

She. Could. Go. All. The. Way.

Zoey had her first soccer practice on Wednesday (yes, the poor child was thrown to the wolves into a game before she ever got to practice with a team; I'm a bad Dad.). She loved it. She scored three goals, laughed with all her teammates, and listened well to her coach. And didn't even look at us over on the sideline.

Good, I thought. Maybe the crying was a one-time thing.

Nope.

She had a game on Friday night. She played the entire first quarter. At the start of the second quarter, her team lined up for a corner kick (see, I'm learning these terms). Her teammate kicked the ball directly to her. She kicked it. And kicked it again. And kicked it again. She took it the length of the field and SCORED A GOAL!

The only bad thing? It was the other team's goal. Oh well, she's learning.

Then about two minutes later, she looked over to the sideline and saw us and instantly began bawling. She came out of the game and did not return.

The same thing happened during Saturday's game. She was kicking the ball well and was really paying attention to the game. But then she looked over at us and the crying commenced. And she was done. She went back in for a few minutes in the fourth quarter, but only because Ella held her hand while she played.

Are we doing something wrong? I sometimes feel like I'm pushing her, but when she asked me this morning, "Daddy, can I please play a soccer game today?" I feel she really does enjoy it. I would say a good thirty percent of the kids in this league cry at some point or another. I'm starting to think three is just to young to perform anything in front of an audience.

Sorry for the lack of humor today. But some days are like that.

GHS: 0 (although I may get an ulcer from the guilt)

Update: Wow. Two self-indulgent posts in two days. With all the recent hardships people in the southern part of the United States have had to incur (as well as the rest of the world), it seems extremely petty of me to bemoan a few gray hairs and whether or not my daughter like soccer. My regularly scheduled programming (humor, or at least my pitiful attempt at it) will return soon.