Death of a blog

Here's a quick quiz for you: What do the following things have in common?

* Five kids and a wife
* A full-time job with some measure of responsibility
* Serving on the boards of three nonprofit organizations
* Coaching soccer and helping to run the league
* Trying to maintain a house, three cars and my sanity

If you guessed "reasons why Scott can't maintain this blog any longer," you're a winner!

Seriously, I need to put the wraps on They Still Call Me Daddy. I've really enjoyed doing it, but I honestly don't have the time or energy to keep it at the level I want. So this is the final post. (Yes, I know I hinted at it a few weeks ago, but this time I unfortunately mean it.)

I don't want to sound whiny here but...OK, I sound whiny. But there are only so many hours in the day, I have to prioritize my time, blah blah blah blah. You get my point.

Anyway, thanks to all of the regular readers and those who took time to comment, both here and on Facebook. You really made the whole thing enjoyable. And if you're so inclined, please send me a friend request on Facebook or follow me on Twitter (@Scott_Tennant).

Thanks for reading!

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.

10 Reasons I Enjoy Having Sons

Yesterday we talked a bit about the advantages of having daughters. Today I want to focus on the other 40% of my offspring: my sons Jared and Jack. Here's why they're fun to have around.

(1) There's always someone else who appreciates bodily emissions the way I do: I'm stereotyping here, of course, but girls tend not to find as much amusement in everyday bodily functions as boys do. I'm a boy. Ergo, I always have a buddy to laugh like a 4-year-old with me when someone in the house lets loose.

(2) Sports: All three of my girls have engaged in some sort of athletics during their lives, and they're avid fans of the Lake Erie Monsters hockey team for which we're season ticket holders. But when it comes down to really caring how the Indians did last night or how bad the Browns are going to be, Jared is the only one in the family with whom I can relate.

(3) They're uncomplicated: Again, big stereotype here. But stereotypes generally exist because there's at least a kernel of truth to them. If I ask Jack if he's happy and he says yes, I know that what he means is "yes." If I ask one of my girls whether they're happy and they say yes, this could mean one of several different things, depending on the context, the time of day, and her tone of voice. I'm a bottom-line kind of guy. Just give it to me straight.

(4) Hair care: I mentioned yesterday that I'm at least familiar with taking care of little girls' hair, but little boys are a snap. Run a comb through there a couple of times and voila, you're ready for even the most formal occasion!

(5) They eat anything: At least Jared does. Put anything in front of the boy and he'll gobble it down. Feeding time is complicated only by the sheer amount of nutrients needed to satiate him. But when it comes to selection, he's not especially picky (and my girls are).

(6) They understand what it means to get kicked in the gonads: Girls comprehend that this hurts a guy, but they don't know it like a boy does. This is an area in which my boys and I can commiserate, while the girls can never truly understand (though their sympathy when it happens and the care they take to avoid it when we're wrestling is greatly appreciated).

(7) No embarrassing undergarments: I refuse to acknowledge that my girls have developed anywhere past the age of 7 or so. The presence of these garments shatters the little dream world I have built for myself. Not a problem with boys, whose tighty-whiteys are essentially the same from ages 2 through 100.

(8) Meeting my child's girlfriend is less unsettling than meeting their boyfriend: Dads and boyfriends historically have a tension-filled relationship. I like Sean and Chris, Elissa and Chloe's boyfriends, but it's hard to fully dispel that little bit of territorial distrust that lurks in the heart of every father of a daughter.

(9) My old-fashioned gender biases don't show through as much with boys: I know this isn't right, but I feel much better about my sons being out late than I do about my daughters being out late. There should be one curfew for them all depending on their age and regardless of gender, but I'm always going to be a lot more nervous when my daughters are late than when my sons are.

(10) I know what to buy them for birthdays and Christmas: I can list five gift ideas for Jared and Jack off the top of my head in seconds. But the girls? Wow, that takes some serious thought. Probably more thought than I want to expend at any given time, especially if I'm out doing the dreaded Christmas shopping. Boy gifts = easy.

10 Reasons I Enjoy Having Daughters

My wife and I have three girls and two boys. I love 'em all, but this is what I like specifically about having daughters:

(1) The house always smell nice: Girls use all kinds of nice-smelling lotions, perfumes and shampoos, and the residual fragrance makes our house smell better. It's a nice perk, actually.

(2) If there's a delicate subject to be broached with them, it automatically falls to my wife: Not that I can't talk to my girls about anything, but really, when the subject is the three-letter word that starts with "S" and ends with "EX," or is anything to do with feminine hygiene, those are things best handled by Terry. And this is fine by me.

(3) They talk: And in some cases, they talk and talk and talk and talk, ad infinitum. But my point is, they communicate. My son Jared is a good kid, but his preferred method of communication is the Universal Grunt System. The girls use actual words, which as a marketing/PR professional I prefer.

(4) I have an excuse to watch girly shows: I kind of like "Dancing With the Stars." And "Pretty Little Liars." And just about any other show that's geared toward women (which is to say, 85% of television content these days). When someone calls me on it, I can just say, "Eh, Terry and the girls had control of the TV so I had to watch it."

(5) I can do a ponytail and operate a barrette: Well, sort of. I'm no expert, but my work in this area is passable. These are skills I obviously wouldn't have picked up had we had five sons.

(6) I get the opportunity to coach girls sports: That sounds kind of creepy on the surface, but what I mean is that I like coaching girls. They tend to be a little more compliant and coachable than boys, especially at older ages. Give me a team of 12-year-old female soccer players over their male counterparts any day (though if Jack keeps playing, I'll probably have a boys team to coach in just a couple of years).

(7) They like to cook and bake: I realize a lot of boys enjoy this, too (Jack being one of them). But generally speaking, girls get into this more than boys. The result is a variety of excellent desserts and other concoctions that I get to sample.

(8) Easier diaper changing: At least for me. My experience is that it's easier to clean and change a baby girl than it is a baby boy. And that's all I'll say about that.

(9) I learn new things all the time: Boy stuff I already know. I've been experiencing boy stuff for 42 years. But there's always something new to learn about girls. They surprise and fascinate me all the time.

(10) They really are Daddy's Little Girls: My wife has always said that our girls have me wrapped around their little fingers. She is, as is so often the case, exactly right. Maybe this is a bad thing, but I do enjoy spoiling my daughters when I get the chance.

COMING TOMORROW: 10 Reasons I Enjoy Having Sons

One soldier's life, long forgotten

Every Memorial Day, I think of Merwin Brewer.

There probably aren't many people who think of Merwin Brewer on Memorial Day anymore, or on any other day, for that matter. He has been dead for nearly a century.

Merwin Brewer was an American soldier who died on the Western Front at the tail end of World War I. His official address was listed as Cleveland, Ohio, but he was born in my hometown of Wickliffe, Ohio. Our local American Legion post is partially named after him (Brewer-Tarasco).

The annual Memorial Day parade is a big deal here in Wickliffe. It's one of the better parades around, with two marching bands, lots of candy, and 45 minutes or so of entertainment for anyone willing to stand and watch the whole thing.

Every year, the American Legion has a group of local kids walk in the parade carrying signs with the names of Wickliffe natives who have died in war. And every year at the front of this group is a young person holding a sign emblazoned with Merwin Brewer's name.

The 30 seconds or so it takes for that sign to pass by us is the only time the Memorial Day parade turns truly somber for me. This is partly because, as I've mentioned before, I have a morbid fascination with the First World War and the way millions of young men were killed during it. No war is good, but this one was particularly tragic.

According to this web page, Merwin Brewer died on November 13, 1918, from earlier wounds sustained in combat. That was two days after the war in Europe had ended. No one wants to be the last man killed in a war that’s already over, but Merwin was one of those who fell just short of making it through alive.

Merwin served in the Argonne and in Flanders, both the scenes of brutal, bloody fighting. I often wonder exactly how he died. Probably from a shrapnel wound. Artillery was the #1 killer in the war, and countless soldiers succumbed to infections and internal injuries suffered when they were hit by flying hunks of metal from exploding artillery shells.

His story doesn't sound particularly distinctive. His life ended the same way millions of others ended, probably in some military hospital. But Merwin Brewer is as real to me as any one of my family and friends, because he was born in the same place I was born. He was a real person whose death, now long forgotten, probably brought unimaginable grief and sorrow to his family back in Ohio.

And chances are good he was no more than 19 or 20 years old. Just a baby. "Virgins with rifles," that's what Sting called the soldiers of the First World War.

I'm as guilty as anyone of treating Memorial Day as a festive day off from work instead of a time for reflection. But while I'm eating my grilled hamburger later today or lounging outside with my family, I promise I'll spend at least another couple of minutes thinking about Merwin Brewer.

It seems like the least I can do.

Vacation planning as rocket science

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Before we start, just a quick shoutout to the Wickliffe High School Class of 2012 and in particular class member Scott Britton, whom I had the privilege of seeing yesterday at Senior Awards Night. Scott is going to Cleveland State University in the fall and is a huge friend of the blog. Oh, and Elissa came away with an additional few thousand dollars in scholarships, which is a very, very good thing. Anyway, let's get on with it...)

We're trying to plan a family "mini-vacation" for the end of June. And by "mini-vacation," I'm talking about a quick three-day getaway before all heck breaks loose and everyone goes their separate ways in a myriad of school and sports activities.

On the surface, this doesn't sound like an overly difficult thing to do. Just pick a destination, make a few reservations, hop in the minivan, and there you go.

But the reality is much more complicated than you might think. As you veteran family vacation planners know, putting together even a 72-hour junket is only slightly less complex than building a scale model of the space shuttle.

Here are just a few of the issues we're facing:

• Five kids ranging in age from 6 to 18. As you would imagine, each one has a unique vision of what constitutes "fun" and "exciting."
• The fact that there are seven of us and a relatively tight budget. This limits our choice of hotels, meals, etc.
• Finding some place to go that isn't too far away so that we don't spend half of our three-day vacation driving on an interstate.

Fortunately, I have Terry on my side here. Terry is undaunted in the face of these sorts of challenges. And I haven't even mentioned the fact that she's trying to plan a graduation party for Elissa just a day or two before our little getaway.

It's going to be a busy month for my poor wife.

First, of course, we need to pick a place to go. Possibilities include Washington DC, someplace in Southern Michigan (we haven't been very specific there), yet another Tennant Family Pennsylvania trip, and even the wonderful city of Akron.

Akron may seem like a surprise choice, given that it's only about 45 minutes from our house. But that's the genius of it, you see. It's not a long drive, there are actually some fun things to do, and best of all from Terry's point of view, she doesn't have to cook. Depending on what kind of itinerary we can put together, I wouldn't mind an Akron trip at all.

We've been wanting to take a Michigan trip for awhile, since most of our family vacations have been to Pennsylvania. I feel like we've exhausted the fair Commonwealth of Pennsylvania as a vacation spot, having skipped only Pittsburgh and the parts of the state even the locals don't really like. But I'm sure we've missed something worthwhile there.

As for Washington, I realize we're stretching our self-imposed limits. It's a minimum 6-hour drive, and it's not exactly the most cost-effective destination in the world. But the kids haven't been there and I think they would enjoy it, or at least enjoy it as much as a three- or possibly four-day trip will allow.

Anyway, once we pick a place to visit, we also need to select a hotel. Given our numbers, we prefer those extended-stay places like Residence Inn or Staybridge Suites. Not only do you get multiple bedrooms and a living room, there's also a kitchen where we can prepare meals on the cheap and literally save hundreds of dollars.

Fortunately, those types of places are everywhere and usually aren't too difficult to find. They also generally have free breakfasts that are filling and fast, two qualities we like in a vacation meal.

Once we actually hit the road, wherever we're going, I turn into Stereotypical Vacation Dad. My job, as minivan pilot, is to get us to our destination as quickly as possible. No unnecessary stops. Just go, go, GO, GO, GO! "What do you mean you have to pee? You just peed eight hours ago! Just hold it for another 100 miles."

I am, by my own admission, relentless. Vacations for me are about speed and survival. I should probably try to include "fun" in there somewhere, too.

In any event, I'll have to let you know once we pick a vacation spot, just in case you guys have any tips/hints/suggestions on things to do, places to visit, etc. People are never shy about offering up this sort of advice, which is fine with me. It saves me the trouble of going to the library and checking out the Fodor's guide to whichever city we're visiting.

I'll also have to let you know whether Terry actually survives this whole process. It will truly be a miracle if she does.

Our new thousand-dollar dishwasher

We bought a new dishwasher.

I realize how unimportant this is to you, but I'm thrilled about it. I end up being the one who loads the dishwasher most nights, so this is one appliance that matters to me.

The old dishwasher cost something like $400. It lasted four years. The new dishwasher was about $1,000. Can I assume it's going to last 2-1/2 times longer? Probably not. But I'll tell you what, it had better hold up longer than four years.

We bought the dishwasher at B&B Appliance, one of those family-owned stores that has been in business since the Stone Age. Seriously, I'll bet these people were selling hand-crank washing machines and wooden TVs in the Oklahoma Territory 150 years ago. They may not always have the best price, but their service is excellent and they stand behind their products.

I know this mostly because my father-in-law Tom shops there. Tom is not a guy who just rushes into things like buying thousand-dollar dishwashers. He has many years of experience in buying (and fixing) appliances. So if he says B&B is good, I'm with him.

The guy who sold us the dishwasher is named Flint Parker. Really, that's his name: Flint Parker. Isn't that great? If I'm being honest, I'll admit that part of the reason Flint was able to close the deal with us was because of his name. Plus, he looks like Morgan Freeman, and I like Morgan Freeman.

Another reason we bought this particular dishwasher is because it's a KitchenAid. Some years ago I bought my wife a KitchenAid mixer. The thing not only weighs 5 tons, I think it could mix concrete. Terry only uses it to make cakes and stuff, though, so I can't confirm the concrete thing. But it's definitely heavy duty and will last for decades. I'm hoping the same is true for the dishwasher.

Yet another reason we bought it is because it has four spray arms across the bottom. Most dishwashers (including our old one) have only two. Flint walked around the store opening up various dishwashers and showing us that, unlike the KitchenAid, every one had only two and occasionally three spray arms.

I asked why four spray arms is better than two, and Flint looked at me like I was slow. I guess I understand, but if four spray arms are so revolutionary, why don't other manufacturers make their dishwashers that way? I didn't ask Flint because I was afraid he wouldn't like me. And I'm not sure I could handle having Morgan Freeman not like me.

Flint said he has been working at B&B for 26 years and selling appliances for 50. That means he's at least in his late 60s, but he didn't seem that old to me. He was wearing a button-up sweater vest and he looked good in it. Not many people look good in a button-up sweater vest, let me tell you. I guess it takes someone with the confidence of a veteran appliance salesman to really pull off that look.

Anyway, we went ahead and bought the dishwasher, which now that I think about it didn't really cost a thousand bucks. The total was a thousand with delivery and installation, and I was happy to pay extra to have the thing brought to my house and hooked up. I suppose I could manage the job myself after much reading of the instruction manual and the requisite weeping and gnashing of teeth. But really, it was worth the extra cash to come home and see it correctly installed and ready to use.

It's really quiet. And it has buttons on top of the door instead of on the outside. It feels very space age to me, like the sort of dishwasher you would see on Star Trek. If I had the money, I would equip our house with nothing but Star Trek appliances. That's a very tempting thing to do, especially when you walk into a store with all of the latest models.

And believe me, B&B had all of the latest models. Washing machines, dryers, TVs, ovens, refrigerators. They were all there, and they were all insanely expensive. They had a model kitchen that Terry very much wanted. I did some quick math in my head and calculated that all of the appliances together in the model kitchen would set you back about 25 grand. That's some serious cash...cash we didn't have.

So for now we'll content ourselves with the new dishwasher. And with the fact that we now have a friend named Flint Parker. He was nice enough to give us his email address. I think I'm going to email him and let him know how quiet his four-armed Kitchen-Aid dishwasher is.

I went skydiving once. Once.

I don't have time to read many blogs, but one I always catch is written by Peter Shankman, a public relations/marketing/social media guru who is pretty well known in my industry. Peter is a nut, but more importantly he knows his stuff, which is the only reason I read his posts.

Peter is also a bundle of energy and is always doing fun/wild things, from running marathons to jumping out of planes.

Especially jumping out of planes. It seems that whenever he has a spare moment, Peter can be found at some small airport with a parachute strapped to his back. Recently he made six jumps in one day. Six.

That's probably six more than most of us have made in a lifetime, the reason being that most of us have the good sense not to abandon a perfectly functioning airplane if we can help it. Plus, skydiving is an expensive hobby.

Every time I see that Peter is heading somewhere to make a few jumps, three things pop into my head:

(1) Is he crazy?
(2) He must not have any kids.
(3) Are we sure he's not crazy?

Where does he get the discretionary income? And where does he get the guts? It boggles my mind.

Interestingly, I jumped out of a plane one time. Just the one time. There will not be a second time.

Not because I didn't enjoy it. I actually did. But because I really feel like you're playing with karmic fire if you continually hurl yourself out of an airplane with only a properly packed chute (hopefully) keeping you from splattering all over the ground.

My skydiving career spanned one day in June 1991. This was the summer before Terry and I were married, and I dubbed it my "Summer of Achievement." I ended up working a lot of hours at the Plain Dealer newspaper that summer, though, so I really only had two notable achievements: One was doing the Pedal to the Point bike tour (156 miles in just over 24 hours), and the other was jumping out of a plane.

I went to a place called Canton Air Sports in lovely Canton, Ohio. Canton is an hour away from where I live, but they offered the best price of any of the skydiving companies I found in the Yellow Pages (this, you understand, was pre-Internet). So I drove the hour to Canton, forked over something like $180, and in return they gave me six hours of instruction and one jump.

I don't remember much about the six hours of instruction. I know we spent 45 minutes standing on a little chair and jumping off, just so we could learn the proper way to land. As it turns out, you don't do what your instincts tell you to do, which is to brace yourself and try to land standing up. Instead, you immediately drop to the ground and roll, which saves you the inconvenience of possibly breaking your ankles. Who knew?

There were only two of us in class that day: me and an older guy whose name escapes me. But he was clearly insane. Like Peter Shankman insane. He and I not only made our first jumps, he went on to jump twice more that same day, I believe. He couldn't get enough of it.

I was content with just the one jump. When it came time to take to the sky, they outfitted us in manly, attractive jumpsuits. Well, at least Insane Guy's jumpsuit was manly and attractive. Mine was manly in that it made me look like a mechanic, but it wasn't especially attractive. It was dark brown and made of a denim-like material. And they gave me a bright yellow helmet to wear with it. Color-wise, it was as if they had plucked me straight from the roster of the 1978 San Diego Padres.

It's like when you're not very good at horseback riding and the stable guys give you the worst horse possible. (As Seinfeld said in a comedy routine, they see novices coming and start looking around saying, "Is Glue Stick back yet? How about Almost Dead, is he saddled up?") Same thing here. It was obvious I was never going to be a repeat customer, so they gave me the worst of all possible jumpsuits.

Nowadays when people skydive for the first time, it's usually in a tandem jump with a seasoned instructor. But not me. Not in 1991. Not at Canton Air Sports. No sir, back in my day we jumped solo. And we liked it!

Really, they did make us jump alone. We didn't actually open our own chutes, though. There was a static line attached to our packs that would allow us to free fall for several seconds before yanking open the chute. Or at least that was what was supposed to happen. We also had reserve chutes and were taught how to use them, assuming we would have sufficient control of our faculties to remember this training while we fell at 120 MPH through open air.

Anyway, Insane Guy, the instructor, a couple of other people affiliated with the school, and I all packed into this little Cessna and took off from the grass runway at Canton Air Sports. For whatever reason, I was going to be the first one out of the door, so they put me right next to it.

Only there was no door. Seriously, there was a doorWAY, but no actual door. And no seats in the plane, either. It was just an open cabin area where everyone knelt. That certainly helped my nerves, let me tell you!

The plane climbed to something like 3,500 feet, which isn't very high as far as planes go but is extremely high when six inches to your right is an open doorway and nothing at all between you and God's green earth.

It was also interesting to me that we didn't just jump out of the plane. Oh no. Instead, they had us climb out onto a little (and I mean little) step mounted on the side of the plane, grab on to the wing strut, take our feet off the step, and then hang there in midair until the instructor told us it was OK to let go. Really! We had to hang on for our lives for a few seconds, and then he would say "Look up!", at which point we were to look at a black dot on the underside of the wing and let go.

I did all of this successfully, and when I let go it immediately felt like I was barreling down the largest roller coaster hill in history. I don't know how long that static line was, but it felt like I was falling for a long, long time. What little life I had lived to that point flashed in front of my eyes.

After you let go of the wing strut, you're supposed to count to six and then look up to see if your parachute has successfully deployed. I started counting to six, and right around the time I got to four, I felt a tugging on my shoulders suggesting that my fall was being arrested. And sure enough, when I got to six and looked up, there was a beautiful, billowing parachute above me. I was (probably) going to live!

The rest of it was just pure fun. There are steering toggles attached to the chute that you grab in order to guide yourself. There's also a one-way radio tucked into the arm of your jumpsuit, and they start sending you instructions from the ground, like "make a 90-degree turn to the left." I did exactly what they told me and had an absolute ball.

At one point, the voice in my radio – I never did find out exactly who he was – told me to pull both toggles simultaneously. Which I did, and immediately disliked. Pulling both toggles causes you to fall much faster. Having already cheated death seconds earlier, I wasn't in the mood to try again. I let go of the toggles in a hurry.

There was a 20-feet, gravel-filled circle on the ground that was supposed to be our targeted landing area. I came down just shy of it and landed pretty softly, though I did remember to fall to the ground and roll a couple of times to absorb the blow. That $180 worth of training was good for something!

My dad was there to greet me once I came down. He was always fascinated with skydiving, and I could tell he was relieved and amazed that I had successfully done it. He asked me if I wanted to do it again, and I told him, "not for a million dollars."

And I meant it, too.

A couple of weeks later, I received a VHS tape in the mail. There was a small camera mounted on the jump plane's wing strut, and the tape contained video of all of that weekend's skydivers as they took their jumps. One by one, people in much better-looking jumpsuits than mine came out onto the step, grabbed the wing strut, let go and quickly fell away with whoops of joy and broad smiles on their face.

That was pretty much true for all of the jumpers except for one – me. In my portion of the video, you see a guy enter the frame wearing hideous brown denim and a beat-up old yellow crash helmet. The guy gingerly grabs the wing strut, lets go, and immediately shuts his eyes tight in fear. There is no whoop of joy, only a small whimper of terror.

I still have that VHS tape. If I ever get the urge to skydive again, I'm going to break it out and watch my jump, just to remind myself that I clearly was not made for life in the daredevil fast lane.

But I have promises to keep

I was an English major in college, but I never was a big poetry guy. I can appreciate poetry, and the Jesuit professors at John Carroll University made me read plenty of it. But I'll take a good novel or short story over a 14-line sonnet any day.

There are exceptions, of course. My favorite poem is Sara Teasdale's "There Will Come Soft Rains." I almost have that one memorized (almost). And there's something to be said about "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot if you can understand it...not that I really do.

But do you know which poem I find myself coming back to time and again lately? It's one you might know by Robert Frost, called "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." Chances are good some teacher or other made you read it at some point. Chances are equally good you quickly forgot about it.

I, for whatever reason, can't forget it. Or more specifically, I keep reciting the last stanza to myself. It goes like this:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

The protagonist is riding his horse one night and stops to admire some woods. There's something vaguely alluring about them, and you can feel how strongly tempted he is to ride into those woods and never come back.

But he can't. Somewhere back in the "real world" is something, or someone, that keeps him from riding off into oblivion. He has responsibilities. He has promises to keep.

Increasingly these days, I can relate. There is so much I need to do. There are so many things to accomplish. There are bills to pay, projects to finish, and most importantly, children to raise.

If you're a parent, you know what I'm talking about. The work you and I do is important. And exhausting. Mentally, spiritually, physically exhausting. We give everything we have to our children because they deserve it. And because they need us. And simply because it's our job.

Strictly speaking, there is nothing "real" that ties us to it. There is nothing to physically restrain us from pulling up stakes and starting over somewhere else.

But 99.9% of moms and dads don't leave because they can't. They could no sooner separate from their children than they could from their own souls. Your kids are a part of you in every way. The reason we would die for them in a heartbeat is because they ARE us. There is literally no difference between us and them. There is no place where they end and we begin. They are part of us, and we are part of them.

There are times when I wonder what it would have been like if I had selected another life path. What if I had never met Terry? What if I hadn't gotten married? Or had five kids? What would I be doing? Would I have more money? Would I feel less tired? Would I spend more time on things I want to do than on things I feel I must do?

These thoughts are my "woods." They're what I very occasionally stop and consider. At times they seem "lovely, dark and deep." But never for a second are they serious thoughts. Never do they gain any real traction in my mind.

Why? Because like Frost's horseman, I have promises to keep. When I married my wife, I promised I would stay with her for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. And in truth, there has been a heck of a lot more "better" than "worse." It's not an especially difficult promise to keep.

The same goes for my children. I never took any formal oath to protect them, to feed them, to clothe them, or to guide them. I never actually said those words aloud. But the first time I held each of them and looked into their faces, I promised to do all of those things. Then and there, I made a promise that I would be their father for the rest of their lives, no matter what.

And those are promises I intend to keep. Even when something distracts me from the day-to-day mission of providing for a wife and five kids, those promises keep me pointed in the right direction.

One day there will be time for sleep. Not necessarily literal sleep – though that would be nice, too – but rather whatever God has in store for me in my "golden years" and beyond.

As a co-worker of mine used to say, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow and it would all be over. But I like to think there are still many miles before I sleep.

I think I have milestone fatigue

Yesterday, Terry and I spent nearly seven hours at Cleveland State University for Elissa's college orientation. She signed her first-ever college housing contract, selected a meal plan, and started to make the friends who will have a lasting effect on her four-year undergraduate experience.

Tonight is Elissa's prom. She and Sean will attend the dance and then go to the after-prom activities, and they will of course remember the night for the rest of their lives.

Today is also Elissa's last day of classes as a high school student. Starting Monday she will engage in a two-week senior project working in the marketing department at Great Lakes Mall, with the goal of gaining a taste of real-life work experience.

Two weeks from today, Elissa will graduate from high school, wearing her cap and gown and walking off the stage with the diploma for which she has worked since the age of 5.

I'm not sure I can keep up with everything.

More than once, I've mentioned how much I enjoy having a senior in high school. It's a fun and exhausting experience, with enough highs and lows (both physical and emotional) to fill a thousand pages in the kids journal Terry maintains and even remembers to update every few years.

But now that we're near the end of it, I think I'm running out of steam. The last six weeks or so of senior year are so crammed with life achievements and memorable milestones, you as a parent start to take them for granted. And I suspect Elissa may be doing the same.

Yes, these are things we'll all remember forever. But right now they just seem routine. It shouldn't be that way, but when everything comes this fast and this furious, you lose a little perspective.

You know what it reminds me of? My game show experience. (NOTE: You know how I deny it every time Terry accuses me of deliberately bringing up the game show thing in conversation or on this blog? Well, she may be right on this one.)

But seriously, it reminds me of my "Millionaire" and "Price Is Right" appearances. When you're thrust into the middle of an experience like that, it doesn't seem real after awhile. Instead of trying to process the strangeness of what you're doing, your mind instead turns it into a mundane experience. "Why, yes, Bob Barker, I'm CONSTANTLY playing cheesy pricing games for the chance to win a new car and a trip to Tahiti. It gets so boring sometimes. Why do you ask?"

It's the same thing when dealing with this particular phase of my 18-year-old daughter's life, which is kind of a shame. Maybe if they spaced these things out a little more over the school year, I would appreciate them more. But then I suppose that would take something away from it all. Part of the fun, at least for the student, is the pace of events that make up your 12th-grade year.

I'm glad summer vacation is upon us, if only because it gives us a chance to catch our breaths, enjoy the warm days, and take it easy for awhile.

That is, of course, after we get past Elissa's graduation party. And soccer camp in mid-June. And the family mini-vacation we're planning. And Fourth of July activities. And our annual trip to church Bible school. And summer sports practices.

I seriously need a nap.

What's in a (baby) name?

Every year, the Social Security Administration releases lists of the most popular baby names for both genders. Every year I read these lists and immediately notice:

(1) My name is nowhere to be seen
(2) Neither are my kids' names

Well, I can't say our names are nowhere to be found. If you go far enough down the lists, you're likely to find almost any name. This year my daughter Chloe's name is #10 among girls, which is just about the highest I remember any of my kids ranking.

If Terry and I had a philosophy when it came to naming our kids, it was "nothing common but nothing weird, either." We don't have any Johns or Marys, nor do we have any Moon Units or Apples.

Speaking of John and Mary, they are now #'s 27 and 112 on their lists, respectively. Really? Wow. Growing up, I'm pretty sure I knew something like 13 different Johns and at least half as many Marys.

Anyway, we went with fairly-unique-but-not-freaky names for our kids:

• "Elissa" is a common name, but the spelling we chose isn't.
• "Chloe" is more popular now than when my 15-year-old daughter was born (and it should be noted that I still know of more pets named Chloe than humans).
• "Jared" is solid and respectable, though I wanted to go with "Jaret" after Cleveland Indians pitcher Jaret Wright. Terry quashed that idea that in a hurry.
• There aren't a lot of kids named "Melanie" these days, but we've got one of them.
• And as for "Jack," it's kind of a classic American name, but there aren't nearly as many Jacks as there are Jacobs, for example.

Speaking of Jacob, it was #1 on the boys list for the 13th year in a row. Sophia is tops on the girls list. The article I read said that while the boys list tends to be pretty stable, the girls list changes constantly. I wonder why that is. Maybe parents strive to give girls unique and flowery names while thinking boys are better served by solid, timeless names.

I have always liked my name for the same reason I like my kids' names: It's common without being too common. I'm too lazy to look this up, but I think "Scott" has only appeared on the list of most popular boys names once or twice, that coming back in the late 60s/early 70s. And even then it came in around #10.

I never considered naming either of my boys after me, though Scott is Jared's middle name. I figured it was a good thing for the oldest boy to carry at least a little piece of his father around with him (whether he likes it or not).

As for the actual naming process, Terry and I always took a pretty collaborative approach. If one of us liked a name and the other one didn't, it would fall out of consideration. We preferred a united front when it came to baby names, though in case of a tie I do think the woman should get 51% veto power. This is only fair given the relative distribution of work when it comes to pregnancy and birth. Thankfully, Terry never chose to exercise her veto power, though I would not have begrudged her that right had she chosen to invoke it.

In the end, a name should be something both parents agree upon, while also having at least a small chance of being something the child himself or herself will like when they get older. Too many parents follow the first part of that rule while ignoring the second, which is why every kindergarten class ends up with at least one "Clementine Forsythia Stankowski," or some such hippie-inspired moniker.

Haven't these people ever heard of John or Mary?

At the old ball game

Getting emotional about baseball is one of the worst cliches of the middle-aged man. Many of us get all blubbery about it for a variety of reasons, the most common of which is that it was the one thing that connected us to our fathers.

That's very true for me, though it wasn't the only thing my dad and I bonded over. We shared a common love for electronic gadgets, stand-up comedy and boxing, among other things. But baseball was pretty high on the list, too.

My dad played years and years of softball, both fast pitch and slow pitch. I was bat boy for a team in the 70s for which my dad was player-manager. Emphasis on "manager" there, as he would only play when absolutely necessary. He also spent years as a softball umpire and fanatical follower of the sport, so he and I spent a lot of time at softball diamonds.

One of the great things about going to softball tournaments with him was the concession stand. He would pretty much buy me whatever I wanted from the concession stand, though fortunately for him I was usually more interested in playing in the dirt or exploring the park.

This, you understand, was back when no one really thought twice about letting an 8- or 9-year-old run off on their own in a public park. You couldn't do that now, and maybe my dad shouldn't have done it then. But he did, and I was fine. And the memories are incredible.

When it comes to baseball, what I really remember about my dad is going to Cleveland Indians games with him. We went to quite a few Indians games back in The Day, and they were almost all bad. Seriously, the Tribe was horrible in those days. Going to a game and seeing them win was a rare and enjoyable treat.

Like a lot of guys (and girls, too, I'm sure), I have especially vivid memories of my first major league game. It was May 1978, and the Indians were playing the Baltimore Orioles. Getting the chance to actually go to old Cleveland Municipal Stadium was exciting, but the undisputed highlight was walking up the tunnel and seeing that field for the first time.

Oh my, was that something. TVs weren't exactly high-definition back then, so I had no idea how green and neatly kept the grass was. And the dirt was so well-manicured. And there was Andre Thornton, my favorite player. HE WAS ACTUALLY STANDING 50 FEET AWAY FROM ME. So were Duane Kuiper, Buddy Bell, Rick Manning and all of the other players on what was, for most everyone else in the world, a mostly forgettable team.

But they were MY team. And baseball at the time was MY game. And I was there with MY dad, who of course bought me a hot dog and a soda. I had such a great time.

You're probably expecting this story to end with an Indians loss, which in the context of my career as a Tribe fan would make perfect sense.  But they actually won. If I remember correctly, Kuiper had a couple of hits and the Indians chased Baltimore starter Dennis Martinez from the game early, like in the third or fourth inning, and we won, 7-5.

Ironically, Martinez would come to Cleveland and pitch for the Indians an amazing 17 years later as a 40-year-old veteran. He was key to the Indians' 1995 World Series run. But that particular night in the spring of 1978, Dennis lost, and there was at least one 8-year-old boy and his father in the stands who couldn't have been happier.

I still love baseball, of course. The Indians still are, and always will be, my favorite team. They haven't won a World Series since 1948, but year after year I put my faith in them, thinking the Law of Averages will serve up a championship at some point in my lifetime (when in fact that makes no mathematical or statistical sense at all...there's no guaranteeing the Indians will EVER win another World Series, in my lifetime or otherwise).

My dad passed away 12 years ago, so it has been a long time since I got the chance to go to a game with him. I miss him. And come to think of it, given how relatively few Indians games we get to these days, I miss baseball, too. Which I suppose is OK. The best games are always the ones with the best memories attached to them anyway.

It's not my fault, says the youngster before me

I'm fairly certain my children will all end up being lawyers. And good ones, too. As far as they're concerned, none of them has ever actually been guilty of doing anything wrong.

It is not uncommon for me to have conversations that go like this:


ME: So let me get this straight...You're about to get on the bus without having written your English paper, which is due in 30 minutes because you have that class first period, and this happened DESPITE the fact that both your mother and I reminded you of it eight times each last night?

CHILD: Yes.

ME: And further, it is your contention that this circumstance is actually not your fault in any way?

CHILD: Yes.

ME: I see. While I doubt I really want to hear the answer, can you enlighten me as to why, pray tell, it is NOT your fault the English paper wasn't written?

CHILD: Mommy didn't wake me up early to write it.

ME: That's it? That's your reason? Did you ASK Mommy to wake you up early so you could write it?

CHILD: No, but she should have known.

ME: Really? So your mother should, for all intents and purposes, have anticipated your stunning irresponsibility and should have taken it upon herself – without you at least having made the request, mind you – to wake you up early to write a paper that should have been written a week ago? Is that what you're telling me here?

CHILD (entirely straight-faced): Well, yeah. Why is this so hard for you to understand?

ME: <speechless>


The thing is, they say this stuff with such conviction and force, they almost end up winning me over. I start to think, "Oh well, now I see. I guess I'll just write a note asking the teacher to excuse him from the assignment because his parents were negligent."

Fortunately, the forces of common sense generally prevail in my mind and I can only wonder where I went wrong with these children. Because you see, they BELIEVE this stuff. They perceive nothing wrong with leaving messes for their mother to clean up because, clearly, that's her JOB, right? She's their personal maid servant, and if she can't see that, well, then the problem is clearly with Mommy and not with them.

I will walk into the basement and find empty plates and cups left by someone who was probably down there earlier in the day (or even the night before) watching TV and having a snack. I will ascertain who this person is, go upstairs, and order them into the basement to clean up the mess. They'll do it, but only after giving me a look that says, "You want me to do what? Clean up after myself? Well, that's just unacceptable. What am I, your slave? You should have asked Mommy to do it."

Terry, for her part, has done very well over the years in that she has never actually murdered any of her children. And believe me, she may not admit it, but I know the thought has crossed her mind. I've seen that look in her eyes...it's a look you don't want to receive from anyone, let alone your mother. It's a look that says the electric chair may very well be worth it if only for the chance to strangle the 14-year-old before her.

In the interest of fairness, I should note that my children really are good kids, despite their father's influence. And this sort of thing doesn't happen all of the time. But it happens just often enough that Terry and I will have serious conversations that include the sentence, "Maybe five kids wasn't the best idea."

My only real hope, at this point, is that we can get through the next 15 years or so without Terry causing serious bodily harm to one of them. Keep Terry felony-free, that's pretty much all I'm aiming for between now and, say, 2030. If we can get there, I'll have done my job.

You've got your ball, you've got your chain...

I like people who like their spouses.

That's the way it should be, right? I mean, YOU made the choice to marry this person. Did you ever sit down for a second and think, "Wait, can I see myself enjoying him/her for the rest of my life?" There's a certain amount of pre-wedding due diligence you need to undertake that goes beyond what color the reception centerpieces will be.

Now of course, I understand we're all going to be irritated with our spouses from time to time. Why, I think Terry has been mad at me a time or two...or three...during the last 20 years. But I'm talking big picture here. On the whole, can you see yourself enjoying this person's company over the long haul? Do you WANT to be around them?

I'm aware we all change over time. And I suppose there's a lot of wisdom in something my sister Judi once told me: "The things you thought were cute or endearing about your significant other early on are exactly the things that are likely to irritate you later."

I've known my wife for 26 years. That's about 62% of my lifespan to this point. Neither of us is the same person we were at age 16 when we met, but then again, who is EVER the same person in their 40s that they were in their teens? Essential personality traits may not change, but your attitude, your outlook, your goals, and your general approach to life certainly will.

I'm very blessed in that Terry and I started as fairly similar people and have essentially changed in the same direction over the years. We're extremely compatible. We make each other laugh every day, without exception. As I've often said, absolutely no one in the world thinks we're funnier than we do. We crack ourselves up.

I want to be around other people who are similarly blessed. I like those whose spouse is clearly their best friend. I can relate to them far better than to those who whine about their better (or worse) halves all the time.

I read those letters in Dear Abby from husbands complaining their wives have gained 100 pounds since they got married and they're ready to leave them. And I think, "I'm sure you're looking like an underwear model yourself these days, eh, Ace?"

And even if Ace IS sporting a six-pack, there needs to be some substance behind the "for better or for worse" portion of the wedding vow he made.

I certainly don't claim to be an expert in this area, nor am I a licensed marriage counselor or anything. But I do have a theory about marital discord. My theory is that, as a race, we human beings don't do nearly enough walking in other people's shoes. We're way too quick to assume that someone who hurts us does so out of spite, or out of selfishness, or out of a desire to intentionally cause us pain.

In fact, in my experience, people most of the time are not driven by hateful or hurtful motives. Selfish motives, certainly, but not necessarily spiteful. So when our spouse does something that makes us angry, we often automatically assume they did it because they don't care. When in fact what they did was likely driven by some personal need or desire of which we may not be aware.

Before we get mad at our husband or wife, we would all be a lot better off if we took 30 seconds to ask ourselves, "Why would she have done that? What could have driven that behavior?" And if we can't figure out the answer, then we should ask our spouse. Not get mad at them, not shout at them. But just ask, "Why?"

Quite often, the answer will surprise you. Or at least it will make you take a step back and think, "Ohhhhh, OK, I see. What he did was definitely hurtful to me, but he either didn't realize it would be hurtful, or else there was some other circumstance affecting him I didn't know about."

Do I practice what I'm preaching here? Sometimes. Not nearly enough, but sometimes. I go from the basic premise that Terry loves me and isn't intentionally going to hurt me. That doesn't mean she WON'T hurt me, but I at least know that's not what she's trying to do. So when she does something to make me mad, there's almost always something else going on with her that I need to take into account.

If you're going to be married for the rest of your life (and please, people, can we all at least TRY to work from that premise?), you should be happy with the person who's taking the journey with you, don't you think? Maybe, if we walk that proverbial mile in our spouse's shoes, we can all get a little closer to that goal.

Do the iPod Shuffle with me again

A few months ago we played a game here on the blog where everyone would grab their iPods, play them in "shuffle" mode, and report back the first five songs that came up. Song-by-song commentary is more than welcome. I'll start, but you are highly encouraged to give us your list in the comments below or on Facebook, if you happen to be accessing this post from there.

Scott's iPod Shuffle Results - 5/9/12

(1) "Keeping the Faith" - Billy Joel:  This is from 1983, I think, when Billy was in his 50s/60s mode and tried to resurrect the music of that era all by himself (well, with help from The Stray Cats, I guess). I've always thought Billy Joel has been unfairly maligned as a soft rock/schmaltz artist because some of his hits - like "Just the Way You Are" - have a lounge singer feel to them. In reality, he's an amazing musician whose music has spanned everything from doo wop to hard rock. Not my favorite Billy Joel tune, but a worthy representative.

(2) "Roxanne" (Live) - The Police:  Sting wrote this song in Paris circa 1977 about a fictional French prostitute. It ends up being a much nicer song than the subject matter would suggest. I just counted and found that I have eight different versions of this tune on my iPod. This one was recorded at a concert in Atlanta in the early 80s, but my favorite was when Sting sang it with just a guitar and Branford Marsalis on soprano saxophone at Live Aid in 1985.

(3) "Dark Blue" - Jack's Mannequin:  The only non-80s song on my list. Interesting. My daughters were really into this tune when it came out six or seven years ago. It reminds me of summer 2008, when I took Elissa and her friend Jackie to see The Warped Tour in Cleveland. Warped Tour is a collection of bands that tours the country every summer. In my day, we would have classified these sorts of bands as "punk," I guess, but there's really a mix of ska, alternative, and genres I can't even identify. It was hilarious being one of the only people older than 25 there. I was also was of the few non-tattooed attendees. I may as well have been wearing sandals with black socks.

(4) "Hip to Be Square" - Huey Lews & The News:  Terry and I saw Huey and his band live in concert in 1990. It was really loud. You wouldn't expect a Huey Lewis concert to be loud. But it was. There's a great tenor sax solo in this song. I wish there were more tenor sax solos in popular music these days.

(5) "Mandolin Rain" - Bruce Hornsby & The Range:  This isn't the song that most people associate with Bruce Hornsby (that would be "The Way It Is"), but I think it's the best of his popular songs. Great piano, great chorus. If I could sing, this is one of the songs you would hear me warbling up on stage at some karaoke bar.

The end of the innocence (but not yet)

I came home from work the other night in a hurry. It was a little before 6:30, and we had our end-of-the-season party for Jack's soccer team starting at 7. I'm the coach, so I of course wanted to get there on time.

As I rushed into our bedroom to change clothes, I saw Jack sitting at the computer playing a game. He turned around when I came in, and you could literally see the twinkle in his eyes. What he said made me want to hug him.

"I'm so excited for our party!" he told me, and you could see he meant it, too. "I told my friends at school all about it!"

These end-of-the-season parties are, you understand, not elaborate affairs. I reserve a pavilion at one of our city parks, and the parents and kids gather there to munch on pizza and desserts, drink lemonade, and enjoy one last evening together before going their separate ways for the summer.

We also have a little program where I call the kids up one at a time, talk about what good players they are, and present each with a signed certificate awarding them with a unique title. For example, one is deemed "Most Valuable Offensive Player," while another might be "Ms. Versatility" (for the girl who plays all of the positions well) or "Most Improved Boy."

I gave Jack the "Iron Man Award," which I bestow each year on the boy who plays the hardest, always gets up when he's knocked down, and gives his all each and every time he's on the field. We have the "Iron Woman Award," too.

But Jack didn't know he was going to get that particular honor. All he knew was that he was going to be in a place where he and his soccer friends could eat junk food together, play on the playground, and just enjoy being around each other. And he was openly, genuinely excited at this prospect.

I'm sure there was a time in my life when that would have thrilled me, too, but it has been so long that I can't remember. My 6-year-old couldn't wait to get to the park, though, and my heart broke for him.

That may not seem like a particularly heartbreaking moment, I realize. And right now it's not. But I know that in just a few short years, getting excited about a soccer pizza party is going to be the farthest thing from cool, and that the 11-year-old version of Jack will never walk around school telling his friends how excited he is about it, lest he run the risk of being made fun of.

I understand that, and I certainly lived it myself many years ago. But part of me still wants to hug him. Part of me wants to hold him tight for just a few seconds and whisper in his ear, "Don't ever, ever lose that enthusiasm. Don't ever let anyone else tell you what's worth getting excited about and what isn't. Don't ever let the rest of the world dictate to you what's cool. Because you know what, buddy? You're right...soccer pizza parties ARE awesome."

Come to think of it, I will tell him that. And he'll agree with me, I suspect, though there's probably no avoiding the I-just-want-to-fit-in-and-not-be-different years that are coming. Virtually all of us go through them. The trick is coming back full circle and eventually allowing ourselves to be whatever we want to be, regardless of what anyone else thinks or says.

That night, if only for the 90 minutes the pizza party lasted, that was the lesson I learned from my little boy.