Takin' a blog vacation...

Hey everyone...Just a quick note to let you know the blog will be taking a little summer hiatus of about 10 days duration. We're knee deep in grad party preparations as I type this, followed less than 48 hours after that by our four-day Hocking Hills vacation. Lots and lots to do that doesn't involve a computer keyboard, which is probably a good thing.

Hope everyone is enjoying their summer so far, and I look forward to touching base with you again on Monday, July 2nd. Talk to you soon!

Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time

Next week we're taking a family vacation to Hocking Hills, an area in Southeastern Ohio filled with trees. And caves. And various forms of water.

In other words, it's pretty nature-intensive. This is quite out of character for the Tennants, whose vacations are usually urban-centric affairs packed with pre-planned activities from dawn to dusk.

But this year we've opted for something more idyllic. Which is fine with me. The thought of just relaxing together as a family is strangely exciting. Our life is usually measured in degrees of chaos, so living in a cabin for four days and occasionally indulging in various forms of outdoor activity (ziplining, fishing, hiking, etc.) will be a nice change of pace.

(NOTE: When I say we'll be living in a "cabin," don't get the wrong idea here. This thing is basically a nice hotel suite in the middle of the woods. It has a hot tub that fits six people, and also a TV, so we won't exactly be roughing it. Except if the TV only has basic cable. Then my kids will consider it child abuse.)

Anyway, we're going to spend some time in the wilderness, or at least a reasonable facsimile of the wilderness, assuming the wilderness is characterized by small groups of Midwesterners walking around in shorts in an unsuccessful attempt to enjoy nature and get away from other Midwesterners.

The other night we took a little family trip to our local library, and Terry checked out a book to take with her on vacation. I thought this was an excellent idea. I never get to sit and read and relax, so I got two books of my own.

Both are Kurt Vonnegut books. I love Kurt Vonnegut. I think he was a genius. He was also an atheist, which I suppose just shows that you don't have to agree with someone's personal philosophy to enjoy something they've written to express that philosophy.

I was an English major in college, which meant I spent large amounts of time with pretentious young undergrads who wore berets and sat around discussing existentialism. I never considered myself an especially artsy person, but there are works of art that genuinely move me. Usually it's music, but occasionally I will be touched by writing.

Much of the writing that touches me was penned by Kurt Vonnegut. In so many of his novels and short stories, he manages to tap into a universal feeling of loneliness and maybe even hopelessness with which I can relate, at least somewhat.

The title of this blog post is actually the first line of the second chapter of one my favorite books ever, Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five." If you knew that already, give yourself five English major points and feel free to apply for a job waiting tables, which is where I suppose many of those English majors I knew in college are working now.

Anyway, by this time next week, I will probably have finished "Slaughterhouse Five" for the 10th time or so, and will be well into a separate collection of Vonnegut's short stories. Assuming I don't get eaten by a bear or something. Nature, in case you haven't noticed, can be extremely unforgiving.

Things that happen in movies but never in the world where I live

People end phone conversations abruptly without saying goodbye
In the movies, people will be talking on the phone and say something like, "I'll meet you at 8 at the IHOP," and then they'll hang up the phone without another word. Just like that. Does this happen to you? It never happens to me. If I'm talking to someone on the phone and it's clear the conversation is over, one of us will say something like, "OK, talk to you soon." And the other one will say, "Great. Bye!" And then we'll hang up together in a mutually agreeable way. It could be that this is just too boring and mundane for movie dialogue. But if a movie is supposed to reflect reality in some way (at least to the point that I the viewer can relate to it), I'm willing to invest a few extra seconds if it means that phone conversations will end politely.

Everyone sleeps naked
OK, not everyone in the movies takes their clothes off to sleep. Like, if it's a middle-aged suburban couple or something, the husband will wear a full set of pajamas and the wife will have on a boring nightgown. That's to be expected. But other than kids, everyone else in the movies seems to sleep au naturale. Maybe I'm just not in touch with the average person here, but I do not sleep naked. Ever. Do you? Am I just an old fuddy duddy at the age of 42? I wear a t-shirt and shorts to bed. Not boxer shorts, actual athletic shorts. I am perfectly willing to admit I may be in the minority here, but you'll note that the title of this post is things that happen in movies "but never in the world where I live." (NOTE: If it's true that a higher proportion of movie characters sleep in the nude than in real life, I suspect this is because actors, for the most part, have nicer bodies than you or me. And there's a demand to see them unclothed. Understood and acknowledged. All I'm saying is, what's with all the nekkid people in movie beds?)

Doors burst open with the slightest kick
This is an unscientific observation here, insofar as I have never actually attempted to kick down a door. But it seems in the movie world that all door frames are made of balsa wood. You don't have to be particularly big or strong to demolish a door in a movie. Are doors really that fragile? Has any blog reader ever actually kicked down a door? I need a ruling on this. If you have, in fact, pulled a Jean Claude Van Damme on a door, please let us know in the comments below. I would be surprised if it's as easy in real life as it seems to be onscreen.

High schools all look like country clubs
Granted, more often than not, a high school in a movie is set in California, because so many movies are set in California. And growing up in Ohio, one is led to believe that everything in California is nicer than everything in the Midwest. I've been to California several times, though, and I can tell you that while the state has many lovely buildings, not all of them are better than what we have in Ohio. Yet so many high schools in movies look like luxury hotels. And class changes are all done outside, which I get is possible in sunny California versus, say, Cleveland in February. But still, do California kids all attend high-end private high schools? And if so, why didn't my parents move there back in the 80s?

The consequences of having British people live in your home

As I mentioned before, we had three young English soccer coaches living with us last week. They left on Saturday, completing the seventh consecutive year we have housed coaches as part of Wickliffe's annual British Soccer Camp.

We love having the guys stay with us, and this year's crew of Ben D., Ben B. and James were great fun. Nice young lads, as Ben, Ben and James themselves would say.

And that's the thing about providing room and board to a trio of Brits: Every year it changes the way I talk and act, at least for a little while until well after they've left. Here's what I find happening every time we have these Englishmen in our home:

(1) I say "init" a lot
This is a uniquely British word that's actually a contraction of "isn't it." I don't know if all British people use this word, but it seems the coaches who stay with us do...a lot. It will be a particularly warm day and one of them will say, "It's hot out there, init?" Or, "The food here is great, init?" I've started using this word myself and people look at me funny. "Did you just say 'init?'" "Oh, sorry. Yeah, I meant, 'isn't it.'" It gets a bit awkward, like I'm trying to put on one of those little faux British accents of which Madonna has become so fond.

(2) I'm suddenly aware of England a lot more than usual
You know that thing where we as Americans know next to nothing about other countries and are perfectly happy to live in ignorance when, say, there are full-scale wars and revolutions going on overseas? Yeah, I'm pretty guilty of that myself. But when the Brits come, I pay a lot more attention to what's going on in my ancestral home (well, the home of SOME of my ancestors...I've got a lot of German in me, too). It's nice to have some awareness of British current events that don't involve the Royal Family.

(3) I'm also aware of how insanely much we eat
Portions in American restaurants are massive. Not coincidentally, so are many Americans. Of the 15 coaches we've hosted over the years, I believe every single one has mentioned that their food intake goes up dramatically whenever they're in the States. All you need to know about us is the fact that the smallest sizing available for many Starbucks drinks is "tall." That's right, "tall" is actually small. The largest size, "trenta," is an Italian word for "heart disease."

25 words I either like or don't like, for whatever reason

1. Sacroiliac = don't like
2. Concupiscence = like
3. Embowel = don't like
4. Neat/Neatly = undecided, but tending toward don't like
5. Boobs = don't like
6. Fusty = don't like
7. Hegemony = like
8. Avuncular = don't like
9. Dodecahedron = love
10. Perspicacious = like
11. Seminiferous = like for reasons I can't explain
12. Poltroon = don't like
13. Constabulary = like but could live without
14. Smarmy = don't like
15. Dangle = don't like
16. Cacafogo = no choice but to like
17. Catchpenny = like
18. Borborygmi = like
19. Flange = don't like
20. Bilious = don't like
21. Melancholy = have never liked, don't plan to start now
22. Gripple = like
23. Fundament = good Lord, don't like
24. Lollygag = very much like
25. osseocarnisanguineoviscericartilaginonervomedullary = made up by Thomas Love Peacock, but no worse for it...verdict = like

3 reasons why I would never survive a zombie apocalypse

If life was a movie and zombies took over our world, and I was among the few humans who survived the initial wave of zombie-related deaths, there's absolutely no way I would last long. Three good reasons for this:

(1) I don't fit the long-time survivor type: White guys tend to do well in post-apocalyptic movie settings, but only certain types of white guys. Like Bruce Willis. Bruce would go all John McClain on the zombies and would establish himself as a leader of the human resistance movement. Bruce would last the entire movie. I, on the other hand, am more the Jeff Goldblum type: Tolerably likable, a little brainy, and ultimately a sympathetic character, but also someone who dies about an hour into the film. You're shocked by my death for about 10 seconds, but then you move on and forget I even existed. There's no way I last to even the 80-minute mark.

(2) Lack of firearms training: I have fired a gun exactly once in my life. It was a .22 pistol, not something with a heck of a lot of kick to it and certainly not something that's going to wipe out zombies gathered in any significant numbers. Bruce Willis' character would hand me a gun early in the movie and I wouldn't know what to do with it. Or else I would blow my own head off looking down the barrel of the gun just because I'm fascinated by how it works. You have to handle some pretty heavy firepower in a zombie-dominated world, and that just isn't me.

(3) Eventually I would give up: If there's one thing we've learned about zombie fighting tactics, it's that they're willing to sacrifice themselves in favor of unrelenting ground attack. They just keep coming and coming and coming. The adrenaline rush would get me through the first wave or two, but after that I would undoubtedly get discouraged and just let them kill me. Bruce Willis would try to convince me to keep fighting, but in the end I would give up. High school football coaches would show that part of the movie to their players to illustrate why only those with the persistence to keep on fighting even when things seem most bleak (like Bruce) ultimately succeed, while people like me deserve to be eaten by zombies.

I just thought you might want to know all of this in case you get cast in the movie next to me. Do not, under any circumstances, put your hopes in my character, listed in the end credits as "Sad White Guy #4."

Calling the authority figures in your life by their first names

This subject came up yesterday when one of my former teachers, Gina Pumphrey, posted an extremely nice comment in response to a blog post. I thanked her in a return comment, calling her "Gina" even though it made me squirm as I typed it.

Why? Because I have never been comfortable calling a teacher by his/her first name. Just can't do it. I know I'm 42 years old and almost a quarter century removed from high school, but I have a tough time seeing these people as peers.

Is that common? Is it just me? Take my high school track coach, Mr. Benz, for example. There was a time when Mr. Benz would tell me to go out on the track and run, say, four laps as hard as I could. And by gosh, that's exactly what I did. There was no questioning a coach. You just did what you were told.

It has been several years since I've seen Mr. Benz, but I can assure you that the last time our paths crossed, I called him "Mr. Benz." Not "Al." Not even "Coach" or "Coach Benz." He was, and always will be, Mr. Benz to me.

My daughter Elissa and her AP English classmates received a very nice note from their teacher, Mrs. Hotchkiss, just prior to graduating a couple of weeks ago. In it, Mrs. Hotchkiss gave them some great advice on how one goes about succeeding in the world. She signed the letter "Mrs. Hotchkiss (aka, Mindy, because it's time)".

I suppose it's one thing if a teacher insists that you begin using their first name. But that doesn't mean I have to like it. I know Elissa finds it a little hard, too. I hate to tell her, but she'll probably feel the same way 20 or 30 years from now.

Part of this, of course, stems from the amazing realization we all come to at some point that teachers are actual people. Yes, they have normal lives outside of school. I was probably in 5th or 6th grade when this very-obvious-but-still-stunning revelation occurred to me. They're real people! With families and houses and everything. They don't actually live in the school.

And they have real first names which they use with each other and, in time, with their students. But I have a hard time returning the favor. To me, no matter how old I get, teachers will always be people to look up to and even revere.

And if they tell me to jump, I'll not only ask how high, I'll also find out if they want me to correct the problems I got wrong on my 10th-grade geometry final. Mr. Bezjak would be the only one who would care, really, but old habits die hard.

The numbing realization that no parent really has any idea what they're doing

Howie Mandel said something once that still resonates with me.

This was when Howie was doing stand-up comedy back in the mid-80s. And he still had hair. And he wasn't so OCD about people touching him. And he used to stretch a surgical glove over his head and blow it up with his nose, which I still find hilarious because I'm an extremely simple man who will laugh at almost anything.

Anyway, Howie and his wife had just had their first child. He said that sometimes he would stop in the middle of what he was doing and say to himself, "I'm someone's dad." The point being that he was just a big goofball and someone in authority had clearly messed up if he, Howie Mandel, was allowed to be the father of a tiny human being.

I'm willing to bet there's not a parent alive who has not felt something similar. You can read all the books you want. You can babysit all the kids you want. You can take all the classes you want. But when you bring that baby home from the hospital for the first time and there are no longer any nurses around to take the little rugrat away whenever you feel the least bit sleepy, that's when reality sets in.

It starts as a low-grade panic somewhere deep in your stomach. And then it gets worse as you realize this is actually happening, and that YOU are the one who is ultimately responsible for the well-being of this impossibly small creature.

And you think to yourself, "This isn't good. I am not in the least bit qualified for this job. I am a Grade A screw-up who can barely remember to change the filter in my fish tank, and suddenly I have to feed, dress and otherwise oversee the upbringing of another person? No, this is not good..."

I remember when Terry and I brought Elissa home from the hospital. We were both dead tired (she more so than me, for reasons that should be obvious). Elissa was sleeping peacefully, as I recall, but when we unloaded everything from the car and laid her down in her little bassinet, we realized we had no idea what to do next. Not a clue.

I think we just sort of sat and stared at each other for a minute. Then we turned on the TV. Whenever Elissa made any sort of noise, we both jumped up and checked on her to see what was wrong.

That night, our first as parents in our own home, was terrible. Elissa continued making the sort of small, ultimately inconsequential noises that newborns do. And every time she did, one or both of us would jerk our heads up and wonder if we needed to go and get her.

By the next morning, we were wrecks. Tired, disheveled and most of all crushingly disheartened at the prospect of spending the next several hundred nights doing the same thing.

But somehow we got through. Night by night we survived. We developed a little routine where I would get up first whenever Elissa awoke, change her diaper, and bring her to Terry for breastfeeding.

Slowly but surely, things got easier. We managed to keep Elissa alive long enough for Chloe to be born. And then Jared. And then Melanie. And finally Jack. And somewhere along the way we learned what it meant to be parents. We're still learning, in fact.

I hope Howie eventually did, too.

(NOTE: Without going into too much detail, I have to tell you that I had a post written for today announcing the end of this blog. There were a variety of reasons for that, just as there were even more reasons why I decided last night to keep it going. I honestly just couldn't walk away from it. You guys are great fun and a joy to write for. One of the main reasons I decided to push on was my daughter Melanie, who told me, "You can't quit! You haven't written about me yet!" Every kid in the family thinks I write about their siblings more than them. But let the record show that Melanie is truly one of the most beautiful, smart, kind-hearted people I know. She's one of those kids who is good at a lot of different things, but often focuses on the stuff she isn't as good at. Which is a shame, because Melanie is just plain talented. She's going to go far in life and I can't even express how much I love my little "Shmoo" (we used to call her that when she was little). So there you go, my little Mel!)

More foreigners are coming to our house

I have a special place in my heart for British people. They gave us Monty Python, for one thing. And the Beatles. And they kinda sorta speak the same language we do.

I guess you could say I'm something of an Anglophile. Which is why next week, for the seventh year in a row, we will play host to a small group of British soccer coaches in our home.

These coaches will be running a British-themed soccer camp here in Wickliffe called – creatively enough – the British Soccer Camp. The camp is for kids ages 5 to 12, and my three youngest will be participating. It runs every morning for five days beginning this Monday.

I am the local coordinator for the camp, and instead of trying to find host families for the young Brits when they come to town, we selfishly have them stay at our house. They're always unfailingly polite, friendly and a lot of fun to be around.

They're also always unfailingly fit and athletic, as you might expect from soccer coaches. Which is why, when the company that runs the camp sends us bios of the coaches who will be staying with us, Terry's first question is always, "Are they cute?"

She asks this in a joking way, but I think she seriously wants to know. When describing past coaches who have stayed with us to her female friends, she will refer to them as "hot Johnny" and "Neal with the dreamy eyes." There was a time when I was the man in her life with the dreamy eyes. Oh well, that's the price of getting old, I guess.

Anyway, this will be the third time in less than a year that a group of foreigners has stayed in our home. Last September we hosted our friends the Jones Family from Australia. Then this past January we had two young Brazilians stay with us for 12 days. And now we're getting ready for yet another British Invasion.

The difference this year is that three coaches will be staying with us. In the past it has always been two, but there are so many kids signed up for camp this year that they're sending us three.

They'll be arriving at our house in two days, but I've already read their bios and know a little something about each one. Their names are Ben, Ben and James. Two things to note here:

• I can't believe they're sending us two guys named Ben. Can we make this any more confusing?
• When I first opened the email that contained the coaches' bios, I could have sworn that James' name was "Jerry." And I was genuinely thrilled that "Ben, Ben and Jerry" were coming to stay with us, wondering whether they might name an ice cream flavor after my family. Not that there's anything wrong with James' name, but I'll admit I was a little disappointed when I realized I had read that wrong.

All three boys this year are English, and all are in their early 20s. In the past we've had a couple of Scots, and at least one (our buddy Gus) was next to impossible to understand. His Glasgow accent was thick. He would say something and the kids would look to me for a translation, as if I could decipher what Jock McMarblemouth was saying. He was a nice guy, though, and eventually we all got pretty good at understanding him.

Anyway, as I've said before, I would recommend the hosting experience to anyone, especially if they have kids. The cross-cultural lessons are great, and having guests gives us an excuse to go out and do fun stuff we may not otherwise do. Every year, we take the coaches to a baseball game (usually the Indians if they're in town), out for a Japanese hibachi dinner, and to Coldstone Creamery to introduce them to the awesomeness of overpriced American ice cream.

I'm just hoping James doesn't mind when I inevitably call him Jerry or – and I guarantee this is going to happen – Ben. Like I said, there's a price to be paid for getting older.

To my wife on our 20th anniversary

Dear Terry,

Twenty years ago today we were married. Can you believe that? I can't even remember what I did yesterday, but I clearly recall June 6, 1992. It was one of the greatest days of my life (and is still the most fun I've ever had at a wedding reception).

After 7,305 days of marriage, there are two things I can say for sure:

(1) You've somehow managed to become even more beautiful.
(2) I haven't.

I know you don't think you're especially pretty these days because you're a mom, and moms as a rule don't have very strong egos. But sometimes I look at you from across the room and my heart does that little skip-a-beat thing it used to do when we were first dating. How is it that you never seem to catch me staring?

I guess our marriage, like anyone else's, has had its share of ups and downs. But for the life of me, as I sit here and try to think of the downs, I'm coming up empty. Lots of ups. Lots and LOTS of ups. But downs? I seriously can't list any.

The only bad part about that is I start to take it all for granted. I assume that's the way it's always going to be, and maybe it will. But you should never take God's blessings for granted. And you, Mrs. Tennant, are definitely a blessing from above.

I appreciate that you've put up with me for so many years. I'm not much at fixing stuff. Nor am I generally a willing yardwork partner. And as hard as I've tried, I haven't been able to earn enough money to make us independently wealthy yet. But on the plus side, I can punctuate a sentence for you and wash your kitchen floor...and I think there's something to be said for both of those things.

Did you know the symbol for your 20th anniversary is China (the dinnerware, not the country)? I didn't. But it reminded me of all the effort I expended trying to convince you that "Frost White" was the dish pattern we should go with: simple, elegant, pure white. But you said no. I think you probably made the right call there.

Anyway, in the midst of all the chaos that comes with keeping a family of seven fed, clothed and generally happy, I thought I should at least take five minutes out of our crazy day to let you know how much I appreciate you. And how much I hope for 20 (or 40...or 60) more great years together with you. We should all be so blessed.

Happy anniversary, honey.

Love,
Scotto

You should listen to this

No great words of wisdom today (not that you ever find those here anyway). Just a beautiful, beautiful cover of Neil Young's "Philadelphia" by Peter Gabriel.  Music like this is worth five blog posts, and I feel obligated to share it with you, my friends.

Please enjoy...

Why crushing your kids at Junior Monopoly is OK

Here's the thing with little kids and board games (or card games or sports or any sort of competition): Sooner or later, they're going to have to learn how to lose. And you as a parent are the one who has to teach them.

This isn't as easy as it sounds. Most of us with children have, at one point or another, let our kids win at something without them realizing it. You know what I'm talking about. You reshuffle the cards in Candyland and surreptitiously arrange the deck so that, hey look at that! Junior just drew Queen Frostine and is now 157 spaces ahead of me and thank the Lord this game will finally be over soon!

(NOTE: If you're going to take that particular approach to Candyland, also remember to scan ahead in the deck to make sure there are no impending disasters awaiting Junior. Like two cards later, he picks Mr. Mint and suddenly is way back at the start of the board and you realize the game will never, ever end because you messed with Board Game Karma.)

I've done this a time or two myself over the years. It makes the game a little more enjoyable for the kid and gives them some confidence. I don't know that I have a lot of theories about parenting, but if I do, one of them is the importance of instilling confidence in a child. It does wonders for them simply to know they can succeed at something.

But of course you can only do this so many times. Just as important as gaining confidence is for them to learn the life lesson that we don't always win. Queen Frostine isn't always going to come up on your turn. The other baseball team is sometimes going to be better than yours. We all strike out, fumble, put the cue ball in the corner pocket, or simply fall short at Go Fish from time to time.

Some kids get this right away, and they're totally fine with it. Others don't deal with losing so well. Like, say for instance, my son Jack.

Jack is a very bright little kid, which is both a blessing and a curse. At school, he picks up on things pretty quickly...98% of the time. When he doesn't get something right away, he gets frustrated and sometimes doesn't want to make the effort to learn it.

I will freely admit that he gets this particular trait from his father. When I was in kindergarten, they actually had me see the school psychologist because I would get so mad when I got even a single math problem wrong. They thought my parents were putting pressure on me to be perfect, but the psychologist quickly discovered that my mom and dad were pretty laid back and I was just a neurotic little freak who had to get every single thing right or else I would slash my wrists.

And so I've passed on the perfectionist gene to my little boy, and he's slowly but surely dealing with it. There's no doubt he really likes winning, though, and I imagine that quality will stay with him forever. Which isn't entirely bad. Once Jack learns the value of applying himself to a problem rather than walking away in frustration, he'll have acquired a valuable skill.

A lot of people complain about today's culture of everyone's-a-winner, particularly when it comes to youth sports. They say we're raising a generation of wimps who don't know how to lose when we give everyone a trophy or a ribbon, no matter how unskilled they are.

I guess I come down somewhere in the middle on this. I have no problem keeping score even at the youngest levels of competition, but I also don't think it's a bad thing for a 6-year-old to walk away with a ribbon at the end of the season as an acknowledgment of his/her hard work and participation.

I think I've mentioned before that I do this with my U8 soccer teams, which are made up of kids in kindergarten, first and second grades. At the end of the season, everyone gets some sort of award reflecting their performance, whether it's Most Valuable Offensive Player or simply the Most Improved. The kids like it and, again, it gives them a little confidence and hopefully encourages them to continue playing.

But in the end, relatively few of them will stick with the sport through high school. And obviously, even fewer (if any) will go on to play in college or at the professional level. Which is why they need to learn to handle the disappointment of losing now. And so Coach Scott instills this by scrimmaging against them and absolutely dominating them.

I like to think of it as my little bit of life teaching for the kids...and feeding my lifelong perfectionist competitive ego at the same time. Everybody wins.

Pomp, circumstance and my little girl in an overpriced graduation gown

My daughter Elissa graduates from high school tonight.

Like millions of kids before her (and undoubtedly like millions of kids to come), she'll put on that cap and gown, have her name announced, walk across the stage, and sit back down an official high school graduate.

We have, of course, known this moment was coming since the day she was born. But it has only become real to me in recent days.

When you first have a baby, someone points out the year they'll graduate and everyone laughs because it sounds so distant. I remember thinking when Elissa was born in 1994, "Class of 2012! 2012? That's, like, the future. I wonder if we'll all have jet packs by then."

(NOTE: I didn't actually think that last part, but jet packs are for whatever reason part of everyone's vision of the future. There's even a band that calls itself "We Were Promised Jetpacks." I love that.)

Anyway, the class of any year that began with "20" seemed an awful long way away back then. And it was. But in the words of those immortal philosophers Smash Mouth, the years start coming and they don't stop coming. And the kindergartner evolves into the middle schooler, who in turn becomes the high schooler at an alarming rate.

And suddenly it's the day when your child graduates and you have absolutely no idea how that could have happened.

I'm not so much emotional about it as I am just plain amazed. There's no escaping the Universal Parenting Syllogism, which states:

All parents of high school graduates are old.

I am the parent of a high school graduate.

Therefore, I am old.

I have four more of these high school graduations to go and I'm sure they'll all be wonderful, but this is the first one and therefore it has its own reasons for being special. By the time Jack graduates, we'll be veterans at this. Of course, we'll also be in our mid-50s and likely older than 90% of the parents in attendance.

But first things first. Tonight we do it for the first time, and I'm so looking forward to it. Over the years I've coached many of the kids who will join my daughter on that stage, and had many of them over my house for play dates and sleepovers. I know most by name and can remember when they were...well, a lot younger than they are now.

And suddenly we're letting them loose into the world. Yikes. Nothing against any of them, but when you're 18, you're a baby. Seriously, you're almost a literal baby. I'm starting to think the secondary education system should extend into the 16th grade or so, just so these kids can get a little more seasoning, ya know?

But then again, we were all 18-year-old high school graduates at some point and we did OK, right? Some better than others, of course, but still, in the end, we were OK.

And that's seriously all I want for Elissa. I mean, bottom line, when I pray to God about her, I just ask that she be OK. Because "OK" implies a lot of things that parents want for their children: health, happiness, a fulfilling life. All of that. However she gets there, whatever God has in store for her, I just want her to be OK.

If Daddy can be on the receiving end of just one graduation gift this year, I think "OK" would be an excellent choice.