I’ve been known to be competitive.  I don’t like to lose.  So when UndomesticDiva started talking trash about what a great cake decorator she is, I had to chime in.  Smack talk led to smack talk and eventually a throwdown was discussed.  For the record, I didn’t get to choose the theme: Mario Brothers.  But, I rose to the challenge, figured out the fondant thing and put my best effort forward.  The video below shows the process.  The first minute is me talking about the cake and then… 3 and a half minutes of cake making - at lightning speed.  Skip to the 4:30 mark to see the end product.  And all I ask is, when deciding which cake is best, notice my integration of technology.  Yes, that’s an iTouch with Mario Brothers games being played on it.  Leave who you think is better in the comments section. (Check out her cake here.)   This isn’t about any tangible prize - just pride.  Lots of pride.

It’s a Saturday.  Saturday is a day of frozen waffles, fresh brewed coffee, the morning paper, the Disney Channel and… Gymnastics.

Gymnastics is pink leotards, bare feet, nervous kids, summersaults, dancing and lunch at McDonalds.

Normally, we go as a family - our morning ritual of family time and lunch.  This particular Saturday, however, Mommy has a cold so I am tasked with taking the kids on my own.  This isn’t a problem and I hustle to get the kids ready to go.  It is during this time that Swee’Pea announces she doesn’t want to go to gymnastics.

Now, Swee’Pea is a someone who fights her shyness whenever she’s in a public setting.  Lately, I’ve been very proud of the fact that she seems to be beating that shyness more than losing to it.  We have talked a lot about being brave and trying even when you’re scared and she often takes those talks to heart.  It’s been so heartening to see that growth.

But that growth didn’t manifest itself on this Saturday.  Her early grumbling about not wanting to go to gymnastics lasted the entire drive and continued as we took off shoes and got ready for class to start.  TheMonk, who at this point has been going along just fine, sees an opportunity and begins to whine about not wanting to go to gymnastics too.  Suddenly, I’m outnumbered.

Class begins and they become shy and begin clutching my legs.  The 15 other boys and girls make their way to the room and mine continue to clutch me out in the hall.  I explain to them that I’m not going to play this game and that if they don’t want to participate then we will go home.  No summersaults. No dancing. No McDonalds.

I can tell that TheMonk could be persuaded by this argument and he starts to head into the room.  Until he noticed that his sister wasn’t budging.  Then, he dug his heels in too.  Neither of them would budge even after several attempts and warnings that we would go home.  So at this point, I called their bluff.  Or maybe they had called mine.  I’m not sure.  Either way, I was done.  I started to head over to the cubbies to get their shoes and announced that we were leaving.  That’s when the screaming commenced.

TheMonk, realizing that his Happy Meal was now slipping from his grasp began a full-scale tantrum.  Swee’Pea began crying.  She let me put her shoes on but she knew that I wasn’t happy.  I couldn’t get TheMonk’s shoes on with all the kicking so I grabbed his shoes in one hand and I grabbed TheMonk with my other hand and threw him up over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he kicked and screamed.  Swee’Pea followed at my side, tears streaming down her face as we made our way into the car where I strapped two crying four year olds into their car seat and started the drive home.

Upon arriving at home about 8 minutes later, I took them upstairs and sent them to their room where they continued to cry for another five minutes.  It wasn’t until after they stopped crying that I made my way inside.  I asked them to join me on the floor and we sat facing each other.  I calmly explained that what they did today is not okay.  That if they are feeling scared or unsure of something that they have to use their words and not their tears.  I told them that their behavior was very disappointing.  I was disappointed in them because of their behavior.  Upon hearing this news, both of their heads dropped and I could tell that what I was saying was making an impact.  We ended the discussion with promises to try harder and apologies to me for their behavior.

Apology accepted.

Last month my brother chronicled my nephew’s desire to know everything, calling him the smartest person he knows.  My little guy likes to ask questions too. Lots of them.  Unfortunately, they are almost always about cars (and Taylor Swift, but that’s another post).

The boy is obsessed with cars.  He can’t read but he can look at the logo of just about any car on the road and tell you who the manufacturer is.  Ford, Nissan, Chevy, Toyota.  BMW, Lexus, Mercedes, Porsche.  It is not uncommon for us to be cruising down the road and TheMonk is giving me a play-by-play of all the cars we pass.  “Look, Daddy! There’s a BMW! It’s a convertible!  Look, Daddy! That’s a Ford, just like your car!”

His obsession with cars took on a whole new level when, a few weeks ago, we attended the San Diego Auto Show.  He got to see, up close and personal, every car he ever wanted to see (except Porsche and Nissan, they weren’t there).  He even went to the show determined to answer this question: Which is faster, the BMW or the Porsche?  And, considering Porsche wasn’t there and the BMW women thought he was the cutest thing since Bambi, we were persuaded that BMW is faster. (Porsche, prove ‘em wrong. I will gladly test drive one for TheMonk.)

I drive a Ford Edge so TheMonk was especially excited to see the Ford cars at the auto show.  I even tweeted a photo of TheMonk and a Ford Fusion to Scott Monty, Social Media Guru for Ford, who responded that TheMonk has good taste. Which he does.

TheMonk’s fascination doesn’t end with just the type of car.  A few months ago I was forced to sit down and explain the machinations of the internal combustion engine.  This would be fine if I actually knew the machinations of the internal combustion engine.  Let’s just say that I spent an evening looking for YouTube videos about engines so I could show TheMonk how the pistons work. I can now tell you how the spark plug, gasoline, fuel injectors and pistons make one hell of an explosion. And so can TheMonk.

And finally, like any hot blooded American boy, he is fascinated with cars that go fast.  Every car has to be compared to other cars in relation to their speed.  “Daddy, how fast does a Nissan go?” or “Daddy, how fast does your car go?” “Daddy, which is faster, a Porsche or Santa’s sleigh?”

And, unlike my very well-grounded nephew, he will gladly accept that the magic of Santa’s sleigh can kick Porsche’s butt.  (Again, Porsche, prove me wrong. I will gladly test drive one. For several years. Call me.)

I hear her cry out late at night. She should be sleeping as bed time was at least three hours prior. I rush to her room, like a masculine Ms. Clavelle and as I open the door I see her tear-stained face clutching her stuffed kitty as she cries.

I quickly approach and begin to stroke her sweaty, matted hair. I ask her what’s wrong, expecting her to tell me she had a bad dream. Or maybe she has to go to the bathroom. Instead, through her sobs, she exlaims, “I don’t wanna go to school!”

And there it is.

Ever since we began talking about preschool - a real preschool and not the in-home preschool/daycare they go to now, I sensed that Swee’Pea has been scared about going. She is a worrier, that little one. She turns things over in her head and thinks about it until there’s nothing left to do but cry in the night.

I comfort her with soft caresses and I whisper, “It’s okay to be a little scared, Swee’Pea. It’s normal to feel scared about trying something new. But you know what? When you try it anyway, you feel so much better.”

A few more words of comfort and some gentle goodnight kisses is enough to send her back to sleep. And the next day we talk about how we want her to talk to Mommy and Daddy whenever she’s scared because using our words to talk about what scares us makes us feel better so we don’t cry in the middle of the night.

Swee’Pea agreed to talk to us but ever since I haven’t been able to get my own words out of my mind. When you confront things that scare you, it makes everything better. And then I think of all the fearful things that reside in the pit of my stomach that keep me from reaching my full potential. And my words suddenly felt hollow.

How can I look my daughter in the eye, encourage her to confront things that scare the bejeezus out of her, and not do the same myself? I have always promised myself that not only would I never lie to my children but I will always try to be the best role model I can be. So it has to start with me.

Since it’s fairly close to the new year, I’m going to call this a resolution. I resolve to look fear in the eyes and kick it’s ass in 2010. No longer will that nervous pit in my stomach overrule what I know needs to be done. No longer will I procrastinate because the idea of doing something makes me sweat. No longer will fear hold me back and keep me from realizing all that I can be. And no longer will I feel like a hypocrite when I look into my daughter’s eyes and tell her that trying will help the fear go away.

Fear can suck it.

Said the Dad as he walked with his kids on the shore,
“I love you two just a little bit more.
I love you more, you see, than there are stars in the sky
I love you more than little girls sigh.”

As he stretched for a stone that was just out of reach,
“I love you two more than there’s sand on this beach.
And if there’s one thing you learn from this Dad that you trust,
It’s that I love you more than fairies have dust.”

He squeezed two little hands and began to utter,
“I love you two more than butterflies flutter.
I love you two more than a forest has leaves.
I love you two more than Ali Baba had thieves.”

“I love you more than sunsets have beauty.
I love you more than tutti has fruity.
I love you more than Barbie has skirts.
And I love you more than you love desserts.”

The Dad then looked down at his two little ones,
“I love you more than a runny nose runs.
I love you more than any one thing from my past.
I love you more than a race car goes fast.”

And as the Dad took a breath but before he could speak,
He heard a voice from below that was little and meek.
“But Daddy, don’t you know, it’s you we adore.
And while you love us a lot… We love you more.”

We live in suburbia but we are the definition of suburban sprawl. A handful of years ago, our house was desert landscape complete with coyotes, rabbits and tumbleweed.

We still see an occasional bunny and coyotes have been known to roam the outskirts of our neighborhood but we don’t get too many tumbleweeds anymore. So, imagine our surprise when, after a recent windy storm blew through, we found a tumbleweed sitting in our driveway.

The twins were excited to see the tumbleweed so I did what any father would have done. I put it on our front porch, wrapped it in lights and bows and proclaimed it out Christmas Tumbleweed.

As we gather around our tumbleweed, we want to wish you and your family a very Merry Christmas (if you celebrate it) and a kick butt 2010. You deserve it.

Pssssst. Pssssssst.

Is this thing on? I see the guy we refer to as “Dada” always typing stuff on this thing. It seems like he gets a lot of validation for sharing his thoughts with the world. I think he calls it a “blog.” At first I thought he said “Dog” and I did not want anything to do with this thing but after I cleared up that little misunderstanding, we’re all good.

Except for the reason I’m typing this out. (Which isn’t easy, this typing thing, considering I haven’t had my claws trimmed in a while.) Anyway, as I was saying, I needed to get this off my fur. It’s been eating at me over the last few days and I don’t know what to do about it. I guess I should just come out and tell you…

I’ve been replaced. THEY brought home an annoyingly cute little kitten on Saturday. The little girl, that everyone calls Swee’Pea, who has been chasing me since birth, was in heaven. I, on the other hand, was completely disgusted.

No one consulted me. No one asked ME how I’d feel with another cat in the house. No one thought that maybe, after 9 years by myself in this family, I’d be too old to welcome some little furball into our house. I mean, I’m FRICKIN’ NUTMEG THE CAT! YOU DON’T REPLACE NUTMEG THE CAT!

Well, I showed them. I’ve managed to hide for 2 days straight under the bed in what they call “Grandmother’s room.” I’ve also thrown up on the carpet and hissed at the little shit the first time they brought him into my presence.

They call this cat Socks. Like that cute name will make up for his other faults like his annoying little mew and his loud shrieks whenever he’s kept in another room against his will. Whatever, dude. Someday, you too will be old and they’ll drop kick you to the curb in favor of someone cuter and more annoying.

Anyway, that’s all I had to say. I’m all broken up. I’ve given all I had to this family for 9 years and that’s all I get in return. Stabbed in the back. Anyone looking for a nice cat? Forget what I said about the puking thing. I was just kidding. Heh-heh.

What the -! Someone’s coming! Gotta go! Peace out! Meow!!

Socks. The newest member of our family

Nutmeg the cat. Not amused at all.

Ever since our first year, when we waited over 2 hours to see Santa, we have taken a more local approach to getting a visit with the Fat Guy in the red suit.  Our homeowner’s association has sponsored Santa the past few years and we’ve had great success getting photos with the Big Guy and his lovely wife.  However, Santa’s appearance fee was usually underwritten by a local Real Estate agent who, I imagine, is not feeling so much Christmas Cheer this year.

Seeing as how Santa might be skipping the old homestead, Lovely Wife scouted out new opportunities that would not require us to enter that four-letter word knows as the Mall.  She hit the jackpot when a local mom group arranged a meet-up at the San Diego Firehouse Museum where Santa was scheduled to make a visit.  All we needed to bring was a new, unwrapped gift.  So, we grabbed the never-been-opened Candyland that the twins received for their birthday (we already had Candyland) and we headed to the firehouse.

Swee’Pea and TheMonk had both scouted out what they wanted to ask Santa last week at Target when we went shopping to find a toy to donate to needy children for our YMCA toy drive.  Swee’Pea and TheMonk did a great job finding a toy to donate but also came away with ideas for their own gifts.  Swee’Pea wanted a Barbie Mariposa Mermaid (which, according to the reviews, is a piece of crap - but whataya gonna do?) and TheMonk decided that he simply wanted a race car.

Rather than buy the gifts early, I decided to wait until after the Santa visit since last year’s debacle where TheMonk changed it up on me when he finally got his one-on-one time with Santa.  But, it turned out, I didn’t need to worry.  The only thing TheMonk was concerned about was his insistence that he be clear with Santa that he wanted a “Pretend Race Car” because if Santa brought a real Race Car, that would be a problem. Because, you know, TheMonk can’t drive.

So, with plan in hand, we perused the antique fire trucks waiting for Santa to arrive. Which he did, arriving in a Hook & Ladder truck with lights and sirens blaring.  We had scoped out a good spot and Swee’Pea and TheMonk were the third and fourth kids to sit on old Santa’s lap.

It was another fine Santa encounter.  Happy Holidays to you and yours.

I come home after you and your brother are in bed.  It’s been a long day filled with long meetings and I climb the stairs, thinking that both of you will be awake and I can get some goodnight kisses in before it’s too late.

I enter the room, slightly illuminated and my eyes adjust to find your brother sound asleep.  I glance over at your bed and and I see your eyes peeking out from under your Princess Blanket.  I creep over and you excitedly remove your arms from your cocoon and reach them out for a hug.  I kneel down and you wrap your little arms around my neck and squeeze harder than a 4 year old girl should be able to squeeze.  I bury my nose into your cheek and kiss your cheek as you continue to squeeze.  You finally release me and we whisper to each other sweet nothings as we give each other butterfly kisses on our nose, cheeks and ears - our own little ritual of late.

As I gaze into your eyes, my heart fills with love and I am so blessed that I get to be your Daddy.  It is at this moment that you begin to speak.  Not wanting to miss this touching moment, I lean closer, eager to hear what this precious moment means to you.  Just the two of us.  Daddy and Swee’Pea.

I lean closer and hear you whisper in my ear…

“Daddy. I’m thirsty. Can I have some water?”