Of course it wasn’t long before I heard a little voice from my inquisitive little boy (who, by law, is mandated to ask more questions each day than a week’s worth of Jeopardy) piped up from the back seat. “What are those caws doing, Daddy? Where are those caawwws going?”

Think fast old man! Where are they going? A baseball game? The beach? The local carwash? I couldn’t think of a suitable answer. My mind raced and as he waited for an answer I could feel the anxiety rising in my chest. Finally, after reaching a point where hyperventilating was a real possibility I seized upon an idea that was so far out there that I couldn’t believe I would even consider such a response. But I was desperate. So I took a deep breath and…

I told the truth.

“Monkey, someone in that black car in front of us died. They are taking that person to the cemetery so that all those people in the cars behind us can come and celebrate that person’s life.”

TheMonk, I could tell, was digesting this information. I could tell there was going to be a follow-up question. There always is. So I braced for the worst and squinted from the reality of the situation as he uttered his next question… “Well, what are the motorcycles doing?”

Motorcycles?! Oh praise the Lord! I could DO motorcycles. We spent the rest of the drive talking all about motorcycles. Not dead people. Motorcycles. I have never been so glad to discuss why some motorcycles are loud and some are quiet. I had survived!

Fast forward to this evening. We are driving along the same stretch of road that we had driven on a month prior when we witnessed that funeral procession. I was lost in thought as we cruised down the freeway with Jason Mraz providing background music. (It’s all about the Wordplay, apparently)

Suddenly, from out of the blue, TheMonk speaks up from the back. “Daddy, why did that man in the back of the car die?”

*Sigh* This time, I went straight for the truth. It worked so well last time and as I formulated my response, I began scanning the road for a motorcycle to distract us.

“Well, Buddy, just like babies are born every day, people die every day. It just happens. It’s sad when we know the person who dies because we can’t see them anymore but it’s okay that people die.”

I pause and wait for his follow-up. And when it comes, it’s a doozy.

“Daddy, what happens when someone dies. Do they ever wake up?”

As my body temperature rises, I experience a heat flash and I can’t find a Goddamned motorcycle ANYWHERE! So I take another deep breath and say…

“Buddy, when someone dies they aren’t sleeping. When someone dies they leave their body and, if they’ve been good, they go to heaven.”

Oh, shit. Why did I bring up heaven? Did I really want to go there? Maybe he didn’t hear that part.

But TheMonk heard it. “If they’ve been good they go to heaven? What’s heaven?”

“Heaven is a place where we go after we die. It is in the sky and it’s where God lives and it’s a wonderful place. But you have to be good to go there. That means you have to tell the truth, be nice to others and don’t hit people.”

Now the words are just barfing out of my mouth and I can’t control it. I know that I am sliding head first down that slippery slope and the bottom will not be pretty. And there is still not one damn motorcycle anywhere to be seen.

TheMonk, smelling blood in the water, follows up again. “You mean, if I hit, I won’t go to heaven?” He quickly mentions two younger daycare friends who, as fate would have it, are dead smack in the middle of their hitting phase. “Victoria and Jayse like to hit. They are not being nice.”

And then, a little girl voice pops up from the back seat for the first time since we started this conversation. In a matter of fact voice that is dripping in sad resignation, Swee’Pea declares…

“Yep. Victoria and Jayse aren’t going to heaven.”

*sob* I so suck at this.

Today is Father’s Day. When I was growing up, this day meant very little to me. Since my own father died when I was six, Father’s Day was often a painful reminder that my father wasn’t around to celebrate the day with.

But then 28 years after the death of my father, you two came along and, all of a sudden, Father’s Day had meaning again. My first Father’s Day was just days after you were born and I didn’t really get what being a father meant. That was the curse of not growing up with a father - I just didn’t know. But it was also a blessing. It was a blessing because I could dictate what being a father meant to me rather than what I had learned through my interactions with someone else. I could shed stereotypes about what being a man is all about and create my own definition of what being a father means.

And four years later I now know, more than ever before, what it means to be a father. I know it because I’m living it every day through my interactions with you both.

You see, being a father means providing strength when you need it most. It means gentle kisses in the morning and evening and every time in between. It means a firm resolve to show you the difference between right and wrong. It means leading by example and being the person I want you to grow up to be.

Being a father means wiping noses, wiping butts, and wiping away the tears. It means loving you so much that the love gets me to the next day, even when it seems like the weight of the world is upon my shoulders. It means being the one who comforts you in the middle of the night after a bad dream and the one who dances with you in the light of day to celebrate a milestone. It means having to say no when I really want to say yes. It means saying yes when I really want to say no.

Being a father means baking cookies, baking cakes or just plain making the attempt. It means learning that not every shade of pink matches and that superglue fixes the broken heart that comes along with a broken toy. It means learning to make a ponytail, painting little fingernails and going shopping for a new tube of lip gloss. It means teaching the intricacies of the internal combustion engine - even when I have to make some of it up along the way.

Being a father means expressing my love out loud but also expressing my love through deeds. It means sharing a popsicle on a hot day, giving horsey back rides and helping you climb the difficult ladder at the playground. It means putting on lipstick, clip-on earrings and having tea out of pink plastic cups. It means teaching how to throw and catch a ball.

Being a father means reading the same story three nights in a row. It means finding a Hot Wheel and a barrette in my pocket while sitting in a meeting at work. It means researching the best car seats and then buy four of them and not thinking about the cost - until the total is read out loud. It means planting “magic beans” in the back yard and pretending they grow into beautiful flowers. It means pretending the beautiful flowers smell really, really good.

Being a father means so much more than I can write in a single post. But then that’s why I have this blog. So you can see first-hand, my little ones, how much I love being your Daddy. While this year has been a tough one for us I hope you remember this time, if you remember it at all, as being one of love and feeling safe and secure. Because, above all else, that’s what being a father is all about.

Love you always,
Daddy.

Okay, granted, one could argue that the vast majority of my ideas are hair-brained but this one sat in my head for a while and it was harder to shake loose than a stubborn booger. So I went with it.

See, the idea is this. For the next year I will, upon leaving the house, line up each kid at the door and take their photograph. The goal, of course, is to look back on their fifth birthday at all 365 photos and see the transformation in a matter of seconds. But then there are also other intriguing elements that I have discovered in just the four days we have done so far. The most interesting aspect is the fact that I have found they are not always in the mood to take their photo as we are heading out the door. This, I have decided, is an added bonus. One that will be fully enjoyed only when they are much older and I can make fun of them for having some of the most forlorn looks known to man (Yes, Swee’Pea, I’m talking to you.).

The other bonus is that I have found that encouraging them to make whatever face they want in the photos will open up a window into their personality and, I think, become better understood after the year is up. I hope this project will be one that they will look back on and think, “Boy, Dad sure was crazy had a great idea.”

Now I know that the hardest thing will be to keep this up for an entire year. I also know it will be hard to get every single day on camera. Having said that, I think this will be a successful project if I can get close to 300 photos each. And if this doesn’t turn out the way I think it will, then at the very least I will have prepared them well on how to take a mug shot.

If you are interested, I will be posting each photo on flickr (One set for Swee’Pea and one set for TheMonk) but will try and resist putting many more on the blog until I put them all together in a video in June of 2010.

But, a little peek into the first four days are in order. I present days 1-4:

But there’s nothing like a life milestone to jumpstart the writing.  Yesterday, Swee’Pea and TheMonk turned four.  First, I need to start with the most obvious question.  A question that I’m sure every parent faces when one minute they are wandering the halls in a sleep-deprived daze to suddenly contemplating some Christian pre-school, even though you’re Catholic, because it’s right down the street.  The question, of course, being…

Once I got over the shock of having kids who can now climb up on a barstool, clamber over to the fruit bowl in the middle of the kitchen island, grab a juicy nectarine and eat it while Daddy is in the shower, I realized that “four-years-old” happened while I was busy trying to figure out “three-years-old.” And that happened when “Two-years-old” was only half-figured out. At this rate, I’m beginning to think I will never figure my kids out. Maybe when they’re 38.

To illustrate how badly three-years-old messed with my mind, I thought it would be a good idea to throw a birthday party for the Swee’Pea & TheMonk. We would invite over 8 to 10 of their closest friends and we’d party like it’s 1999. It would be great! I’d bake each of the kids a cake while making cupcakes for the party goers. We’d give out caramel apples as party favors. But it would be small, intimate and downright cozy.

Well, it turns out that caramel apples aren’t as easy to make as it seems. And baking cakes (even though we do it every year) must be like pregnancy. You forget the pain so much that you think doing it again would be a good idea.

Luckily we had help. Grandmother and Great-Grandmother (who’s old and quiet but will slap you upside the head if you get out of line. I just know it. I can see it in her eyes.) arrived to help set-up and, more importantly, clean-up. Grandmother also took Swee’Pea and TheMonk out this morning to buy candy for the treat bags (I couldn’t give out our poor little apples. Think… the caramel apple version of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.), buy Swee’Pea underwear (Don’t ask. Apparently it was an emergency.) and get haircuts (not on the agenda I sent her out with so she’s darn lucky the hair looked good.).

Anyway, the party was short and sweet. The kids had fun and the party goers were on excellent behavior. We even enjoyed chatting with the grown-ups. But even as I write this my legs are aching from all the work that went into this party. I’m already dreading next year. Except the cakes. I’m looking forward to that.

Oh, and just as I was lamenting the fact that my babies are growing up, TheMonk looked up at me today and said, “Daddy, being four means I’m medium-big.” Okay, maybe I can live with that.

Happy Birthday my not-so-little ones. Your Daddy loves you with all of his heart. May your fourth year be filled with love, happiness and a complete weaning of Pull-ups.

Also, can you tell me if you would consider buying Katy Perry’s eye make-up that’s profiled on page 23?  And if you would, can you tell me at what strip club you are employed?

Oh, and since I’m first on the list and you might not have looked at the others, you can find them here (But take your time. They’re not going anywhere.):

Halcomb Hellions

McNulty Quads

Howell Quints

As a kid, I would stand in front of the mirror, peering relentlessly into my own eyes and ask why I existed. What am I here for? What am I supposed to do? Am I here by chance or is there a purpose behind my existence? Was I part of a higher being’s great celestial plan? Or was I here based on a big bang and pure chance?

I never did find an answer.

But that didn’t keep me from asking the question. As I got older and wiser I began to think that maybe I was put on this earth to do good. To bring joy to peoples lives. To leave the world a better place. To make a difference in the life of a child.

As I studied the stars on a crystal clear night, I would ponder the heavens and wonder about all the possibilities strewn across the galaxy and galaxies beyond. And again I’d think of the question… why? Is it to behold a sunset while holding your wife in your arms? Is it to witness the newborn cries of your children and see life being created and all of its possibilities? Perhaps it’s to experience laughter and sorrow and fear and joy and love and anger so that you may truly know yourself. Perhaps each of us is put here to learn as much about ourselves as possible before we move on to the next stage. Or perhaps this is the last stage.

Years and years of pondering have brought me to this point. One where I finally know myself and I can finally answer the question, “Why am I here?”

The answer, it turns out is this:

To eat donuts.

You might not be aware of this right now, but we’re in a recession. The economy has taken a dive and families all over the country have taken a hit in the wallet. We’re no different. Our house is worth much, much less than when we bought it and retirement funds have been slashed as well.

As I have been eying our options, I have come to the conclusion that you two are the single biggest factor in how your mother and I live our golden years. No pressure but every life decision you make will directly impact the quality of life we will have. In case you needed some clarification on how this works, I have taken the liberty of creating some scenarios for you so that you can better understand the connection between your mother and father’s happiness and your own future.

Married vs. Single
If you stay single I upgrade to a BMW (and save a little “just in case” there’s a future wedding)
If you decide to elope, I upgrade to a porsche within the week.
If, however, you have a real wedding, I downgrade to a unicycle bought off Craigslist from an unemployed circus clown.

Prestigious University vs. School of Hard Knocks
If you don’t go to college, your mother and I take your college fund and travel the French Riviera for weeks on end dining on escargot, caviar and lobster.
If, however, you do go to college, we travel as far as the local Taco Bell, dining on 7-layer burritos before rushing back to the house in gastrointestinal distress while arguing who gets to use the “good” bathroom.
Of course, if you don’t go to college you’ll have other worries - like where you’ll live.

Fame & Fortune vs. Do-Gooder
If you become famous for something other than appearing naked in a magazine, leading to untold riches, your parents will be moving to a Hawaiian estate overlooking the ocean. You will pay for it. It’s in the contract you signed when you were three. I know it’s in crayon but it’s still enforceable in a court of law.
If, however, you follow your old man into the non-profit world, your parents will be renting out your old rooms to some meth-smoking college students who steal our identity and spend your inheritance on pay-per-view porn and prostitutes.

Near vs. Far
If you marry your high school sweetheart, live nearby and come visit us periodically, you can make sure we’re okay on a regular basis and we’ll be able to live in peace knowing loved ones will be there for us in our times of need.
If, however, you find love, move away, have kids and never come back except for the odd holiday or high school reunion, one day you will realize you haven’t heard from us in a while and authorities will subsequently find our mummified bodies. I will be sitting in front of the TV, remote in had, with Food Network still on. Your mother will be found staring forlornly at the phone that never, ever rang.

I’m still in the process of creating Plan B for retirement. So far I have come up with a handful of ideas but they all include webcams and farm animals and I don’t think your mother is going to sign off on any of these ideas. So, as you see, your decisions are what really will make or break the latter years of our lives.

Choose wisely.

As of today I have received 5 Father’s Day emails.

I’m not bitter though… Okay, Screw that. I AM bitter. What the hell, people?! Why don’t Dads get some love for being a parent the way a mom does? And, yes, I know that even today more moms take on a greater role in parenting but times are changing and if more men were recognized for the role they play in parenting their children, they would, I bet, be inclined to do even more.

So, I’m going to do my part. I’m going to suggest a few things that men would like from their significant others when it comes to recognizing their role in parenting their children. Some are not surprising, some are cliche, one I was paid to recommend. Read on for more

1) Sex. Lots of it. Let’s face it. We are what we are. And while we may be tempted by snazzy electronics or a good bottle of booze, what we really want for Father’s Day is our significant other laying on the bed wearing nothing but a big red ribbon. Added bonus? In times of economic hardship, it’s practically free. You could even lose the ribbon if you want to save a few bucks. We won’t mind.

2) Did I mention sex? I did? Hmmm, ok, this is harder than I thought. How about chocolate and flowers? Us men nowadays are perfectly secure in our manliness so a little floral and sweet love wouldn’t be unwelcome. If you’re nice, he might even share some of the chocolates with you.

3) Anything with the word “Flat Screen” is always a winner.

4) Power tools. Even if your husband can’t spell screw driver (heh. heh. I said “screw”), he’ll love any tool that makes lots of noise and destroys things easily.

5) Lingerie. Of course, he won’t be the one wearing the lingerie… (Or maybe he will. Hey, what you do in the privacy of your own home is up to you. I won’t judge.)

6) ATH-ANC3 QuietPoint® active noise-cancelling in-ear headphones. I was sent these earphones to review and I was pleasantly surprised. First, they come in a cool case that also is perfect to put my iPod nano in. Second, they not only deliver great sound, but they actually do prevent you from hearing your wife nag you about projects around the house just about anything when you are wearing them. I even mowed the lawn with these things on and couldn’t hear the lawn mower. I might have even put them in when a couple of kids in my house the neighborhood were screaming their bloody heads off.

7) Finally, I have saved the best gift for last. Sex. You can’t go wrong with an oldie but a goodie. What? Why are you looking at me like that?

Now go make that dad in your life a very happy man!

How is it that 5 minute naps in the car means your child will not fall asleep again until Letterman signs off?

Is there a limit to how many times a kid can poop in one day?

Why does your child wait until the guy with the mohawk and the tattoo of a swatsika on his forehead is standing right next to you to ask, “Daddy, why does that man look like that?!”

Why does your child’s extreme need to tell you something always coincide with your need to use the bathroom?

How can the hour before bed time seem like a year and the year between birthdays seem like an hour?

Why do the words, “Daddy, come see what I did!” send chills down my spine?

How can a child who can’t count past 13 know when she’s been short-changed in the snack department?

Why does the three-year-old get to control the remote?

Why do tantrums always seem to occur when you’re running late?

Why can’t both kids get sick at the same time?

When do kids learn to wipe their own butt?

Why don’t marker sets come with extra pink and extra blue pens?

Can ketchup be considered a vegetable?

Why don’t more foods come in the shape of a nugget?

Why don’t upscale restaurants have a Drive-Thru?

Why do the words “Be gentle with the cat” sink in just fine but the words “Don’t hit your brother,” don’t?

Why did the Thomas The Train people name a train Percy? Don’t they know how that sounds from a little boy who has trouble pronouncing his “R’s”?

When will Kelly and Handy Manny finally get it on in the back of the hardware store?

Why do kids always miss the toy the day after you throw it out?

Do kids lack the ability to recognize they’ve seen the same damn episode of [insert any children's television show here] three times in the past five days?

When will I finally get this parenting thing figured out?

With that in mind, I have been noticing that Swee’Pea and TheMonk have been getting their groove on more and more lately. It’s been so much fun watching, I decided to video their dancing (and join in a little bit, as well). Enjoy.