Things I didn't accomplish in 2015

(1) Learn how to speak Latin. This is mostly because, like the guy who complains about not winning the lottery but never actually buys a ticket, I didn't technically study Latin this year. Still, I consider it a failure.

(2) Figure out how to drive a stick shift. Again, I never actually tried doing this, but the fact remains that, as was the case a year ago, I still can't drive a car with a manual transmission.

(3) Spend the time I want to spend with my kids. Yeah, yeah, I have to earn a living to support them and all, which takes a lot of time. There are probably a million excuses I can make. But the fact is I fell short in this area. Again. Gotta do better in 2016.

(4) Write my wife a poem. Or a song or something. I really should do that. I used to make up very Caucasian rap songs about her when we were dating. Like, on the spot. I could improvise quickly. Not so much anymore. That's a skill I ought to dust off because, really, who DOESN'T want to listen to a 46-year-old suburban (read: white) guy rap about his main squeeze?

(5) Read through the Bible in a year. I've only ever actually done this one time, and it was the year 2000. I should be doing this every year. I didn't make it a priority. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also...

(6) Learn to play in the altissimo register on the saxophone. This is a band geeky thing. For you non-musicians – or non-saxophonists, really – the saxophone naturally has a range to high F (some saxes have a key that lets you reach high F-sharp). It's possible to play much higher than that, but you have to learn what is called "altissimo"playing, which is in some ways a very controlled squeak. Something to do with "overtones" and other musical terms. It's difficult but not impossible. Or at least I assume it is, because I never learned it. It's a life goal. I'm going to make it happen.

(7) Run every day. I always say I want to start doing this because I'm inspired when I visit runeveryday.com and read about people who have run at least a mile every day for 5, 10, 15, 20 or more years (two guys actually have streaks of 45 or more years, as certified by the who-knew-they-existed United States Running Streak Association). But my body does not cooperate with this wish. I tear a calf muscle just sitting here thinking about it. I may not have the build ever to actually achieve this, but I'll keep trying.

So what's it like there in the future?

Dear Blog Readers from Another Time,

As this post is being written on Thursday, October 29, 2015, I am very excited to have the chance to communicate with you, the denizens of The Future.

I guess my main question is what life is like where you live in late December? How have things changed? For example, do you still have the Internet? You may not. You may have something completely different. In my time, the Internet was a complex digital network we used primarily to forward emails with non-factual political information to each other. And to swap pictures of cats. And, if I'm being honest here, videos of naked people. LOTS of videos of naked people.

I was also going to ask whether you all travel around via jetpacks, but I realize that's silly because the vision of universal jetpacks NEVER seems to come true, no matter how advanced we as a civilization become. This is confusing, though, because it doesn't seem like particularly complex technology. Maybe you're making strides in this area in your time?

What about sports? I and others like me are avid sports fans here in The Distant Past. I am particularly interested in Cleveland sports. Honestly, back here in October 2015, most Cleveland sports teams are dismal. The exception is our basketball team, the Cavaliers. Are they still competitive in your time? Is Lebron James still playing? Or did he retire? He was a very good basketball player. You may know of him.

Who is the president in your era? Here in October 2015 the president is Barack Obama. Many people here don't like him, which kind of makes me sad because, as much as I disagree with him on certain things, I do like him. I think he and I would get along well together. Is he still alive in your time? Did anyone ever figure out whether he was, in fact, a Kenyan Muslim operative? Or was that just something I read in one of the emails mentioned above?

Anyway, the very fact that you're reading this shows that this blog still exists, which is good, because I have a habit of blogging for several months at a time, then stopping because I claim I don't have any time, then starting up again saying I suddenly do have time, then stopping again, etc. But if my blog is still around in your era, it means something is going right in my life.

Of course, that's assuming I'm even still alive by the time this runs. You never know. I write these posts so far ahead that I may die tomorrow and no one will know because Scott's blog posts just keep showing up week after week.

Well, I appreciate the fact that you took the time to read this, especially if our society has changed so much by your time that we don't even speak or read English anymore. We may have moved on to an entirely new universal language, in which case I appreciate the effort it must take for you to translate these words in your head as you watch them on your advanced personal hologram screen or whatever.

Thanks for reading/deciphering. If you can, please keep the future as clean as possible, as we in this time all plan to get there eventually and would appreciate not having to clean up after you upon our arrival. Take care, and I'll see you soon.

Your pal from the past,
Scott

It's Christmas. Get off the computer and/or your phone and go tell your family you love them.

Even if you don't celebrate Christmas, tell them you love them anyway. You don't need a holiday to do that.

Seriously, I'm not writing a post for you people today because you don't need one.

Go be with your family. Or a friend. Or at the very least go do something in which you'll be in the vicinity of other people.

And whether you're Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Rastafarian, or you worship The Great Green Arkleseizure, I want you to have a Merry Christmas. Can you go and do that for me?

Thank you. See you Monday.

Top four things I think about while driving to and from work

(1) People are idiots
It's not so much that they can't drive. I'm sure most are actually quite capable of driving well. It's that they refuse to drive in anything other than a selfish, reckless manner. Stop it! Stop driving that way! You're going to kill the both of us! Will you be satisfied then? (NOTE: That's something your mom would say, isn't it?)

(2) What I am going to do when gas costs $20 a gallon?
Because that's going to happen, apparently. At least according to a book titled, creatively enough, "$20 Per Gallon: How the Inevitable Rise in the Price of Gasoline Will Change Our Lives for the Better." I haven't read the book, but I do know that we in the U.S. pay an absurdly low price for gas, at least in comparison to drivers in many (most) other countries. But if it gets to the point that I can no longer afford the gas required for my 70-mile daily roundtrip commute, I suppose my only alternative will be to become a shepherd. The pay isn't great, but the exercise and outdoor time make up for it.

(3) Who are all these people and where are they going?
There aren't that many people in the whole Cleveland area who have jobs, are there? Because if so, 100% of them are apparently on the road with me at any given time. Seriously, they must all just follow me around. This isn't Chicago, New York or L.A. This is Northeast Ohio. We don't DO traffic here. WHO ARE ALL OF THESE PEOPLE?

(4) Seriously, people are idiots
I want to come back to this point because I can never stress it enough, either to you or to myself. Driving on an interstate is a borderline suicidal activity. There's a healthy chance that, on any given day, someone driving near you will do something stupid, thus causing you to wreck and potentially ending your life. Yet millions of us still do it every day. What are we thinking? These people (NOTE: "These people" is defined as "anyone who doesn't drive exactly as I think they should.") are maniacs!

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

(NOTE: This is our monthly Blog Rerun, where we bring back a post from years gone by. This one originally ran on June 19, 2012. And now it's running on December 21, 2015. So there's that...)

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 doors 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. 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 often 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?

Motivating the unmotivated child

I have a child who for purposes of this discussion shall remain anonymous. We will refer to this child as "Pat," which as Saturday Night Live viewers know can be either a male or a female name.

Pat is very intelligent. Pat has talents that he/she/it is either unaware of, or chooses to ignore because acknowledging those talents' existence might mean there is work to be done. And Pat avoids work whenever possible.

Pat gets very good grades. Those grades could be in the "excellent" range if Pat would be willing to give more than the minimum effort required.

Actually, the effort Pat puts into doing "just enough" is impressive. Pat expends more energy getting just above the line of what's required than he/she/it would if they actually, you know, tried their best. If you look at Pat's grades online, you will see a long line of percentages at or just above the 90% mark: 90.3, 90.1, 90.4, 93.1 (that last class is one that requires a 93% for an 'A').

Because our educational system tends to reward a just-good-enough effort, Pat sees no need to go above and beyond the level of effort that Pat is currently giving. This works now, but it will not work later in life. Terry and I try to tell Pat this, but the message falls on deaf ears.

How do I get Pat to understand all the possibilities that are out there for him/her/itself if he/she/it WOULD JUST BEAR DOWN A LITTLE AND TRY. JUST TRY, PAT! THAT'S ALL I'M ASKING!

I have three possible solutions:

(a) Show Pat pictures of homeless people sleeping on the street and emphasize that this could very easily be Pat in 10 years.

(b) Actually make Pat sleep in the street with the homeless people to drive this point home.

(c) Repeatedly bludgeon Pat's thick skull with a heavy object in the hope that this action will beat some sense into Pat.

I'm thinking about going with option (d) "all of the above."

Five more reasons why my wife can't ever die

(1) If she goes and I'm suddenly in charge of the cooking, we would essentially have the same four meals over and over and over. Eventually the kids would rebel and throw me out of the house. That would be unpleasant.

(2) She paints well. And while I know she doesn't exactly love painting walls and stuff, she definitely hates it far less than I do. So I need her around to paint things.

(3) She's the only one willing to pull out all the honeysuckle that grows along our driveway. Without her, it would eventually overrun everything, including the inside of our house.

(4) If you leave the grocery shopping to me, I would only think to buy things I want. I would get home and realize the children had nothing to eat at all, and rather than going back to the store, I would just give each of them $50 in grocery money and let them fend for themselves. Which would of course mean a house full of mac and cheese, Krave cereal, and popsicles. Fun, but not especially healthy.

(5) She's the only one with the ability to clean out the little holes on the dishwasher spray arms when they get clogged. If she's gone and the dishwasher stops working, that would be it. We would just start cramming old socks in there or something, because I can guarantee you there would never be another dish washed in it again.

Man, do I miss my World Book Encyclopedias

When I was growing up, we had a full set of World Book Encyclopedias on our living room bookshelf, and I devoured them.

I don't mean I ate them, I mean I read them. Just to clarify.

Here's exactly what they looked like:

And I'm not kidding when I say I read them. I would literally open up a volume and just read whatever article I found. This is a main reason why I'm so good at general-knowledge trivia. Seriously, a lot of the weird stuff I know came from reading the 1964 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia.

There were, though, certain articles that I came back to time and again. "Snakes" was one. "Space Travel" was another. I also remember them having cool plastic overlays illustrating the different organ systems of the human body. Not sure if that was part of the "Anatomy" entry or what.

Still, there was no article I turned up more often than the one on "U.S. Presidents." The pages for that entry were torn and dog-eared from use. I can still picture the two-page spread in which the World Book editors very helpfully laid out head shots of all the presidents from beginning to end, from Washington to Lyndon Johnson (this was, remember, the 1964 edition).

I memorized those photos to the point that I could recite the presidents in order by the age of 6. My dad took me to the Hob Nob, the neighborhood bar down the street, a couple of times and had me show off my little presidents trick. The friendly drunks there were very appreciative of my skills, and both times I did it, Doris the barmaid gave me a free Coke. Not a bad deal.

Anyway, I used those World Book Encyclopedias a lot throughout my school career, usually as the basis for some written assignment or other. Like, for example, I remember having the "V" volume open at the kitchen table while I wrote out a report on the state of Vermont. Later reports depended heavily on Volume "I" for Iceland, "D" for diphtheria, and "R" for my favorite president of all, Teddy Roosevelt.

I later went to college in the late 80s and early 90s, which you geezers will remember was still essentially the pre-Internet age, so the World Books even helped me out as an undergraduate.

Then, in the mid-90s when personal computers came out with CD-ROM drives, the encyclopedia people started putting their stuff onto CDs. Which at the time was pretty cool. "All of those encyclopedias on this ONE tiny disc?" As you might imagine, it was a lot cheaper – both for the manufacturer and for the consumer – to produce encyclopedias on CD rather than heavy-bound books.

And so printed encyclopedias started to go away. Do any of them even exist anymore? I know the Encyclopedia Brittanica stopped putting out a print version a few years ago. Hold on, let me go and check if World Book is still killing trees...

You guys, they are! I just went to worldbook.com and was so pleased to see that you can STILL get a complete printed version of the 2016 World Book Encyclopedia for the low, low price of...$1,099.

Yeah, that's a little steep.

God bless the Internet.

Guess I'd better start my Christmas shopping soon...

I'm not normally a procrastinator, but I rarely start shopping for Christmas presents much before, oh, round about now, I guess.

Yeah, two weeks before the holiday is usually about right for me. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. But two weeks is pretty much my norm.

I fall right into Guy Stereotype #47 in that I do not especially enjoy shopping. I come up with a list of specific items before I leave the house, and then I go looking for those specific items. Once I find them, I go home. I generally do not buy anything else. As soon as everything on my list is checked off, I stop.

Then, at some point soon after, I wrap those same gifts. And I finish the whole thing as soon as possible in the same way I try and finish scooping out the cat litter boxes every morning. It's just another to-do that needs to be completed.

I actually don't mind crowds and traffic this time of year. To me they come with the territory, and a store full of people has a Christmas-like quality to it (Which is sad, isn't it? Because that suggests that buying stuff is the No. 1 thing I associate with Christmas. My bad.)

What I don't like is not finding the things on my list. So that's why I plan so extensively before I venture out to shop. I want to walk in, find what I need, buy it, and walk out.

Sometime this works, sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't work, I admittedly get a little frustrated.

So here's a holiday tip: If you're someone to whom I give a Christmas present, please check with me first for my List of Approved Stores at which I'm willing to shop. Also be prepared to tell me exactly where inside those stores I can find your desired item.

That's what Terry does and it works great for both of us.

Merry Christmas!

Those few seconds when you just stare at your child

I was looking at my son Jared the other day. He didn't know I was looking at him, which is good because it would have been a bit weird and creepy, with me just staring at him and all.

But you parents know what I'm talking about, right? Sometimes you just look at your child. You do it when they're infants and they're sleeping. And you do it when they're older, too. You can't help it.

When I was looking at Jared, I was thinking a lot of different things. I thought about how grown up he is. I thought about how physically big he is. I thought what a shame it was that my dad never got the chance to see him play soccer or kick a football. (Trust me, Bob Tennant would have LOVED watching his grandkids play high school sports. He would have been a permanent fixture at Wickliffe High School. Heck, he came to most of my football PRACTICES. The man was a true fan.)

Sometimes you look at your kids and you think what a genuine miracle they are. I imagine this is especially true for the mothers who actually birth them because, you know, you grew a kid inside of you. In less than a year, that child formed inside of you and burst into the world. And now, well, here they are. Amazing.

You also look at your kids and worry a little. Even if there's not really anything specific to worry about, you worry anyway because that's what you do. Right there in the parent job description it says, "Must be willing to worry about child even when you can't quite pinpoint exactly what you're worrying about."

I guess we worry about whether we've done our jobs right in raising them. We worry about how they're doing in school and in life. We worry about whether we've taught them the things they need to know.

All of this flickered through my mind when I looked over at Jared as we were driving to a hockey game together. And in that moment I felt a love so intense for him it was a little jarring.

You always love your kids, of course. But there are moments when you remember how much you love them, and it hits you hard. For most of us, we love because we ourselves were loved. We are bound to pass that love along as part of a relationship that is simultaneously the most rewarding and most difficult thing we do in this life.

And all the while, The Boy was looking down at his phone, no doubt absorbed in checking the performance of his fantasy football team or reading up on how the Browns – his favorite football team and mine – have managed to screw up in some new and creative way.

He was oblivious, but that's OK. It's not his time yet. One day he'll feel the same love for his own child, and only then will he realize that his own parents felt the same way about him. You can't fully understand it until you're ready to give it to someone else. That's the nature of it. And like I said, that's OK.

I stared at him a few more seconds, and then the light that had us stopped in Downtown Cleveland turned green. So I turned my attention back to the road. But I still loved him.

I'll always love him.

World War II was a lot more real when I was growing up

Does that make sense? Do you know what I mean?

This year marks the 70th anniversary since the end of the Second World War. And of course today is December 7th, Pearl Harbor Day, commemorating 74 years since the Japanese sneak attack on U.S. Navy installations in Hawaii. That's the event that brought the U.S. into the war and kept it there until the very end.

When I was a kid, there were WWII veterans all over the place. They're still with us, but there are a lot fewer of them every day, and the ones who are left are older and, well, quieter, I guess.

The WWII vets I knew often told stories about their experiences when I was growing up. Or at least the ones who didn't mind talking about their service did. Others had such harrowing memories of combat that they never discussed them.

Mine is the last generation of people that had dads who fought in the war. And even then I'm really at the tail end of that class. My dad entered the Army in 1946, a year after the war officially ended, and served in the Occupation Army of Japan. And he was older than most of my friends' dads.

So my experience of the war was more third-hand than anything else. But even in the 1970s and 80s, you heard about the war more than you do now. Which is understandable, because it's slowly fading into a more distant past. We'll have WWII vets around for many more years, but their numbers will drop precipitously as time goes on. They already have, really.

I know this partly because I am particularly interested in the First World War, and the last few veterans of that conflict died out in the past five years or so. (This Wikipedia article provides a good summary.) I've read and studied so much about "the Great War" for so many years that it has become somewhat personal to me, even though I obviously don't know anyone who fought in it.

So when the last WWI veterans passed in the early part of this decade, I felt like that really shut the door on an era of history. The First World War brought about a wealth of technological advances, but it was still in some ways very much a 19th-century war, with horsed cavalry and bright uniforms (early on, at least) and things we associate more with the Civil War than "modern" military operations.

Those 100-plus-year-old First World War vets were our last direct and human links to one of the greatest catastrophes in the history of mankind. Their deaths meant we could only relate to that war through the written and recorded word.

And the same will one day soon be true of the Second World War. It's a conflict whose flame will burn brighter and longer here in the U.S. simply because we were so much more deeply involved in it, but eventually those living, breathing connections to this momentous historic event will be gone.

And I guess that makes me sad. Especially on Pearl Harbor Day, when our country was finally awakened from the blissfully ignorant thought that maybe we can just keep ourselves out of foreign conflicts and "Those People" will simply leave us alone.

It's not so much history that repeats itself, folks, as the lessons of history.

Here's wishing a blessed Pearl Harbor Day to those men and women who lived through it and are still around to talk about it.

There's no way I should be looking at my phone half as much as I do

Whenever I leave the house, I check my pockets to ensure I have three things on me:

• My car keys
• My wallet
• My iPhone

If you were to tell me I had to leave one of these things behind, I would put my wallet back in the dresser and make sure I wasn't in a position where I would need it. If you were to tell me I had to leave two of these things at home, I would immediately drop my wallet and car keys and unhesitatingly walk wherever I was headed.

This is both true and sad.

I look at my phone all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I look it at while I'm standing at a urinal. Really, I do.

Because apparently I need to know 24/7 whether someone has commented on my Facebook status, whether my tweet has been favorited, or whether an extremely non-urgent work email has popped into my inbox in the past four minutes. And sometimes I just suddenly need to play an emergency game of electronic cribbage.

I cannot simply exist. I cannot just sit there and think. If there's a lull in a conversation or a break in whatever action I'm engaged in, I must fill in that time with phone browsing.

And most of the time, that's all I'm really doing: browsing. Just looking. Just checking to see if any life-changing information has come across my phone that I absolutely must know right this minute.

More than 99% of the time, I find nothing that couldn't have waited five more minutes. Or 10 more minutes. Or an hour. Or until tomorrow.

I am truly addicted, though it's not the phone itself to which I'm addicted. And it's not even the phone's output that has me hooked. It's the promise of finding something funny/interesting/uplifting/useful that drives me. Just that little bit of potential, rarely fulfilled, is enough to make me look at my phone every few minutes throughout my waking hours.

And I need to stop it. I know this. I need to stop it.

But that's so much easier said than done. I want to go back to a time when I could simply sit still for awhile and think. Or not even think. Just BE.

Yet I've lost the capacity to act that way. How? How did this happen? When did I and others like me lose the ability to be disconnected? I'd like to figure that out.

You don't know how close I just came to hopping on my phone to Google "phone addiction."

I can only remember things that are practically of no use to me

Exactly 13 years ago today was my first day as an employee of Dix & Eaton, the Cleveland PR firm where I worked for nearly four years and which provided me with a wealth of valuable experience and skills.

I am the only person in the world to whom this anniversary matters, and even I don't really care about it. Dates like this just stay in my head and I can't get rid of them.

Things I really, really want to remember – like where I put the iPad charger or the name of my wife's favorite Starbucks drink – come and go in my brain. Sometimes they stick, sometimes they don't. But I know the exact start date of every single job I've ever had, with the exception of the few months when I was a dishwasher at Tizzano's Restaurant back in the summer of 1985. (Though I know my first day there was in June.)

The only time this type of information comes in handy is when I'm filling out an application, like for a job or a loan or something. I don't have to go to the trouble of looking back through my records because all of the relevant dates are readily accessible in my mind.

But when someone asks me a question to which I really should know the answer, and to which I really want to know the answer, I'm often stumped. Why didn't they ask who hosted "Joker's Wild" in the 70s? That I know. But instead they ask for something that's actually, you know, useful and relevant and all of that, and I can't help them.

Why are we wired this way? Why does our brain collect facts that will never, ever be needed again and hold on to them as if they were winning lotto tickets? And why does it discard the stuff that should be right at the front of our cerebral file cabinets?

I want an answer. Mind you, I won't actually remember that answer once someone explains it to me, but on the plus side, I will be able to rattle off for them all of the U.S. presidents born in Ohio. That's useful, right?

I only really get into Christmas starting tomorrow

December 1st. Every year, that's the day when I start acting like it's Christmas time.

Not before. Not a single day before then will I do anything Christmas-related unless forced to, such as purchasing and setting up our Christmas tree. My wife and children often coerce me into doing that.

But in my own form of protest against the now-insanely-long holiday season, I will not voluntarily sing a Christmas carol, eat a Christmas cookie, buy/wrap a present or otherwise acknowledge that it's Christmas before the first day of December.

Christmas is 25 full days into the month. Isn't that enough time to celebrate and prepare? Twenty-five days? I say it is. Why do we have to make it longer? To me that cheapens the magic of the season. Christmas is CHRISTMAS: The Granddaddy of Holidays. It doesn't need any help from us in for the form of October decorations or early-November shopping sprees.

So come midnight tonight, I will gladly take the road before us and sing a chorus or two of whatever Christmas song you'd like. But not before. Not a minute before. Tempt me all you want with holiday treats and my favorite Christmas tunes at 10:30 p.m., but I won't pay any attention. Two hours later? I'll gorge myself and sing at the top of my lungs with you.

Deal?

Deal.

One unfortunate side effect of full-time work is feeling disconnected from the day-to-day reality of your home

We are a single-income family. I go to work five (sometimes six) days a week, while my wife Terry stays home and runs the house. This is no small feat, considering that seven of us live there, but she does it well.

Or at least I assume she does it well, because I am rarely a witness to the daily operations of our household. I leave for work at 7 a.m. and am usually not home until somewhere between 6 and 7 p.m. In between, there's a whole bunch of stuff that happens without any input from me whatsoever.

Well, except the money. The money I earn funds the operation. But that's OK because I like it that way. As I always say, I am in charge of Accounts Receivable. My wife – who pays the bills and manages monetary outlays – has complete jurisdiction over Accounts Payable. This system works for me.

But on those days when I happen to be off or working from home, I get a glimpse into how one goes about helping to manage the lives of two college students, two high schoolers and a middle schooler. Terry is constantly running to and fro, packing lunches, helping with homework, reminding kids to do this assignment or practice that piece of music for band.

She spends much of her days driving to various schools to drop off forgotten soccer socks and misplaced trumpets. She runs errands and cleans the house. She serves as the Uniform Mom for the high school band, a never-ending job that requires gobs and gobs of hours and effort. 

She goes to daytime school events, emails teachers when there are issues to be addressed, and takes kids to various doctor and dentist appointments.

It's like this day after day after day after day.

And all the while I get only a glimpse into it. I hear about what's going on through hurried texts and quick afternoon check-in phone calls.

A typical conversation between Terry and me goes like this:

ME: So how was your day?

TERRY: <proceeds to rattle off 147 different things she did involving the kids>

ME: You did all that? Today?

TERRY: Yes.

ME: This Melanie person you mention. That's our ninth-grader, right?

And so on.

Don't get me wrong, this approach to life is a good one for us. Or at least it is to me, as I'm not the one having to serve as cook, maid, chauffeur and administrative assistant for six other people with crazy schedules. But I think Terry is OK with it, too.

It's just that all of these things happen without my knowing it, which makes me feel a bit disconnected from the reality. It's as if the family lives a separate life that I get to participate in for only a few short hours every night and on weekends.

Speaking of my family, if you see them, tell them I said hello. I miss them. And I'm fairly sure I know all of their names, too.

The challenge of Thanksgiving when you've just lost weight

So I've been regularly attending Weight Watchers meetings the last several Saturdays in an attempt to get back to (and stay around) my goal weight of 185 pounds.

After losing a great deal of body tonnage a couple of years ago and getting down as low as 172, then ballooning back up into the high 190s, I decided that 185 was probably a comfortable target for me.

Well, actually, Terry and I both decided it would be a good target for me. I value her opinion on matters like this, and she knows I can be wishy-washy when it comes to setting health goals. So she chimed in with a quick and firm "185" when I asked her back in September what number I should aim for on the scale.

So 185 it is, then. I finally reached that goal weight a couple of weeks ago. Yay for me.

Now that I'm back to it, I would of course like to stay there. Which isn't really that difficult most of the year but gets a bit harder over the holidays.

Those holidays, as I'm sure you're aware, include Thanksgiving. The idea of Thanksgiving is to show your gratitude for everything you have by eating unhealthy amounts of turkey and stuffing and putting yourself into a food coma. I'm not sure what the connection is there, but that's the way we Americans do it.

Yet I don't want to do it. Eat a lot, that is. I want to stay somewhere near my daily targeted allotment of Weight Watchers points. That's an awfully big challenge when a table full of calorie-laden goodies is staring you in the face and everyone is saying, "Hey, it's Thanksgiving! You don't have to eat so healthy every day. Splurge for once!"

For most people, that's sound logic. But not for me. I no longer splurge. I cannot splurge. I do not have sufficient self-control to indulge one day and shift easily back into calorie cutting the next.

If I give in and eat whatever I want tomorrow, I'll do it again on Friday. And again on Saturday. And probably Sunday. Then I'll just figure, well, I'm not cut out for this Weight Watchers thing so I think I'll just quit and HEY, PASS THE CAKE!

That's how I am. I know myself. And I also know that it's really not that difficult for me to limit my food intake, even when we're talking about Thanksgiving or just a trip to a nice restaurant. All I have to do it try a little and I'm fine.

Yet dinner spreads like the one I'll face tomorrow still scare me. I never want to compare my situation to that of an alcoholic, but it's the same principle: I cannot have just one big meal. There's no such thing as one big meal for me. I must constantly maintain a healthy diet if I want to maintain a healthy body.

So tomorrow I'll have a little turkey, a small scoop of mashed potatoes, some yams and a maybe a bit of stuffing. I'll eat it slowly and allow it to fill me up, and I'll be satisfied.

And Friday morning my pants will still fit and I'll feel great. I won't feel as if I denied myself and will look forward to my Saturday morning weigh-in at Weight Watchers.

A healthy life is a happy life, folks, at least for me.

So if you DID have it all to do over again...would you?

I've made some good decisions in my life, but sometimes I can't decide whether they were actually good decisions or just so-so decisions that, with a lot of divine assistance, turned out well.

Either way, my life is pretty darn good. For all the things I tend to take for granted and the blessings to which I'm oblivious, I can at least say I'm good at being grateful.

But let's suppose you had a one-time-only offer to go back and redo up to three things in your life. First, would you take advantage of the opportunity? And second, if so, what would those things be?

I don't really have much in the way of regrets, but if you were to open the time machine door and allow me to step in, here are the three items I would change if I could:

(1) I would have gotten a master's degree (at least) directly after my bachelor's
When I graduated from college in the spring of 1992, I was running on fumes. For months I had been going to school full time, working full time, and helping Terry plan what turned out to be a pretty decent-sized wedding. Graduation was a time when I could lift one of those weights off my shoulders, and I was grateful for it. My dad suggested I stay in school another couple of years and get a graduate degree. I said no thanks. In retrospect, Dad was right. I always figured there would be time later for a master's program. But here we are decades later and I'm still without that advanced degree. And probably will be for at least several more years, if not forever. I should have toughed it out.

(2) I would at least have seriously considered a career in academia
I love to learn. I love (and miss) the classroom environment. I love research. I love to obtain knowledge for the sake of obtaining knowledge. All of these seem like indications that a career spent as Dr. Scott Tennant, Professor of <FILL IN THE BLANK> may have been a good move. We'll never know now, but I think I could have thrived as a scholar. (Though hey, maybe someday?)

(3) I would have forced myself to become better at home repairs and handyman stuff
I know I'm still perfectly capable of learning these things, but I feel like you're more of a sponge for practical knowledge like this when you're younger. Maybe not? All I know is that I should have listened closer when my dad tried to teach me a lot of this. Once again, Dad was right (ARE MY CHILDREN NOTING THIS 'DAD WAS RIGHT' THING AS A RECURRING THEME?)

The legend of Johnny Flipperhands

(NOTE: Here's our Blog Rerun for November, as we once again bring back a blog post from the past and run it because I like it, and also because it saves me the trouble of having to write a new one. This one goes way back, at least relative to the age of this blog: It was first posted on December 12, 2011. Enjoy it...and stop staring at my tiny hands.)


"Johnny hands." That's what I've always called my hands, because they look like they should be attached to a little 5-foot-tall guy named Johnny.

Seriously, I have the smallest hands. They don't look like they should belong to someone my age and body size. It's even weirder because the rest of me is fairly proportional. Well, except for my head. My head is freakishly large. I don't know why, but I've always had a large noggin. And my feet, while reasonable in length (size 10 1/2), are quadruple-E in width. And in some models of shoes, 4E isn't even wide enough.

So that's me in a nutshell: Large head, small hands, fat feet. Picture Fred Flintstone. That's me.

I have always had small hands. But now that my kids are growing up, my tiny appendages have become almost embarrassing. My daughter Melanie is 11 years old. If we hold our hands up against each other, palm to palm, my fingers are MAYBE an eighth of an inch longer than hers. And Elissa, my petite little 17-year-old who has trouble making the minimum weight to give blood, has fingers that are clearly longer than mine.

Don't even get me started on Jared, our 13-year-old man-child. He is not only taller than me, but his fingers are longer than mine by a full knuckle. It's amazing. Where did I get these little digits? My dad had short fingers, but they were at least bulky. They had some width to them. Mine? They're the fingers of a third-grader, and I'm guessing they're not growing any time soon.

Actually, I think they're shrinking. I don't remember them ever being this tiny before. I just measured the nail on my pinky finger, and it's 3/8" across. Three-eighths of an inch! There's going to come a point when my fingernails will disappear altogether -- a process I have admittedly helped along because I chew them all the time.

Sometime in the next 5-10 years, I would say, my fingers themselves will just vanish. Then I'll be left with tiny flippers and no opposable thumbs, making even the most rudimentary tasks impossible. I'll need to hire a full-time assistant just to pick things up for me.

Yes, this is the fate that awaits me. Just call me Johnny Flipperhands – Master of the Large Head, Fat Feet and Tiny Mitts.

My doctor and the five love languages

It is often the case in marriage that the wife makes health care decisions not only for herself and for the children, but also for her husband. Some guys simply won't go to the doctor unless someone makes them go, and most of the time, the only person who can make a husband do anything is his wife.

That last part – about the wife's ability to make her husband do anything – is absolutely true for me. Life is easier if I just go along with whatever Terry says. Plus, if I'm being honest here, I'll tell you I'm also terrified of her.

But the part about guys not wanting to go to the doctor? Not me at all. This may sound strange, but I love going to the doctor. I'm not kidding, I look forward to it.

Part of the reason is because my primary care doc, Dr. Spech-Holderbaum, is wonderful. I really like her, and she takes the time to answer my questions.

More importantly, she also takes time to praise me when I put up good numbers. Like, for instance, if my weight and blood pressure are in the healthy range, she tells me what a good job I did.

I am a 46-year-old man. I should not be motivated by a pat on the head from my physician, but I am. I get giddy with anticipation when I know my vitals are good and I'm going to see Dr. Spech-Holderbaum soon.

This is because my love language is "Words of Affirmation." Are you hip to the whole love language thing? The concept comes from a 20-year-old book by relationship counselor Gary Oldman called "The Five Love Languages."

The idea, as I remember it, is that everyone has a particular love language; that is, a particular way of speaking or acting by their partner to which they respond best. (And I think everyone also has a secondary love language, but I'm not sure on that part.)

As I said, my primary love language is "Words of Affirmation," which is just what it sounds like. If you tell me I did a good job and offer up a few words of praise every once in a while, I will run through a brick wall for you. You'll have me hooked.

Other love languages are Gifts, Quality Time, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch. Terry's love language is Acts of Service, as I'm reminded every time I sit down on the couch and she puts her feet in my lap so I can rub them.

Anyway, we were talking about my doctor. I have my annual physical scheduled for this Monday, and I'm genuinely excited to go. I'm anticipating some glowing feedback from Dr. Spech-Holderbaum. In fact, I'm not nearly as concerned about getting a gauge on my overall physical well-being as I am about hearing what a good and conscientious person I am.

It's sad, really.

What will the kids say about you when you're gone?

Here's a good thing to do every once in a while if you're a parent:

Stop for a second and imagine you're dead. (I know, I know. Work with me here.) Now picture your kids sitting around and talking about their memories of you. What will they say?

"Remember how he couldn't fix stuff except maybe computers? Man, he did not get the handyman gene AT ALL."

OK, fine, guilty.

"He told Dad Jokes. He didn't think they were Dad Jokes, but they were."

Yeah, sorry, but I really did think my jokes were funny.

"And he made up that toad song on the guitar."

This is true. I don't play the guitar, but I do know how to pluck out an E-minor arpeggio, which I play in the background over a short set of lyrics I wrote about a guy who meets a wise toad. I'm not kidding. It's a classic.

"When we were little, he used to wrestle with us. And he played those songs on the computer that we would dance to."

Do they remember all of that? I hope so. I sure do.

"Why did he get so mad when he played board games with us and we would knock the pieces over?"

BECAUSE IT WAS FRUSTRATING. I TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER, "DON'T KNOCK THE BOARD!" WHAT PART OF THAT DIDN'T YOU GET?

"I thought it was weird that he built those model rockets. It's like he used us as a cover. He just wanted to build and launch those rockets, and spending time with us was his excuse."

Inside every man is a 12-year-old boy. That 12-year-old boy manifests himself in different ways. In my case, it's launching model rockets into the sky and seeing if we can recover them. Oh, and also snickering any time anyone says the word "duty."

"He was a strange guy. But he loved us. I always knew he loved us."

Even if they don't say that, I hope they know it's true.

Anyway, while we're still alive, we should realize what influence we have over those future around-the-table conversations among our children. What you say and do now affects how they grow, how they think, and how they remember their upbringing. Not a bad thing to keep in mind.

It's Friday the 13th! Which means absolutely nothing

So I wrote the following short post about Friday the 13th and horoscopes, and then I went back and read it and thought it sounded patronizing and borderline rude.

Which really makes me the prototypical weenie perfectly suited to the politically correct 21st century, doesn't it? In our painstaking efforts not to offend anyone, we ultimately end up saying nothing. So I'll just let the post stand as is. But I'm wondering at what point I'll reach that "I don't care if this offends you" level of communication as I age. Because I'm really looking forward to that.

Then there's there: I dismiss those who believe in what I see as meaningless pagan superstitions and astrological psychobabble, yet every Sunday morning I go to church to worship an unseen God and remember a guy who said some profound things and was nailed to a tree for it 2,000 years ago. You could argue that I'm simply trading one superstition for another. I think you're wrong, but logically speaking, you could most certainly argue that.

I'll stop babbling. I just thought this one deserved a little context. Here's what I wrote:

____________________________________________________


I know you're a person with common sense, because you read this blog.

So I know the fact that today is Friday the 13th is meaningless to you. The date and day of the week have absolutely no effect on our individual fortunes, right? You know this, right?

Please tell me you do. And please tell me you don't read your horoscope and take it seriously. Please, please, please. I'll feel so much better about the world if I know you're not planning your life around someone's airy predictions based on your date of birth and the relative position of the sun or moon or stars or Pluto or whatever.

I just...I'd like to think we as a species have made some progress since the 15th century, and we know that stuff like this holds no water in terms of actually forecasting future events or understanding what each day holds in store for us.

Because if you do get nervous on Friday the 13th, I want to hug you in the most non-condescending way possible and say, "I have confidence in you. Really, I do. I know you know that none of this is real. Deep down, you know that to be true, right? Right? You're a bright and talented person. We need your help building a better society here in the fact-based world, so please come and join us."

I'll tell you what: If you do put stock in Friday the 13th and horoscopes and the possibility of the Cleveland Browns ever winning the Super Bowl, all I ask is that you just don't tell me, OK? Let's just pretend together that you don't think that way. I would greatly appreciate it.

I know you know this, but it bears repeating: There's no guarantee you'll be here tomorrow

A co-worker of mine passed away very unexpectedly recently. She was in her early 50s and had been having some health problems, but nothing that seemed to be life-threatening. Until it actually was.

Here today, gone tomorrow.

I know you're aware of this. And I know no one wants to walk around thinking about their own mortality all the time. That's now how we're supposed to live anyway.

But please understand there is nothing that says you're guaranteed a place on this earth tomorrow. Or even an hour from now.

Then understand what that means for how you should live. Tell people you love them, don't wait to work toward achieving your goals (whatever they are), don't allow a single day to be meaningless.

I don't want to sound like a cheesy motivational poster or anything, but right now the stark reality of this truth is hitting me hard.

It should probably hit all of us hard every once in a while.

The worst part about a dream vacation? Not being on vacation anymore

One year ago today, my family and I boarded a plane and took off for a week in sunny Orlando, Florida, during which we threw large wads of cash at various reprepsentatives of The Walt Disney Company, in exchange for which they provided us with highly fun and memorable experiences.

It was a good trade.

We had such a nice time on that vacation. It was great for the seven of us to spend a week together, though having only two hotel rooms (in the name of cost savings) was at times a bit challenging.

Then we came home to Cleveland and there was snow on the ground. It was awful. And it was cold. Also awful.

And now that we've reached the one-year anniversary of that vacation, my thoughts aren't, "What a great memory!" They're more along the lines of, "I want to be in Florida again. Right now. My existence is horrible."

Any time you travel, you have fun while you're actually there. But after you get back, all you have are (with apologies to Jim Croce) photographs and memories. Both are nice. But neither matches the experience of actually being there.

Which is a terrible attitude to take toward anything, I realize. There you have it, though.

If only I could escape your judgment and condemnation by escaping to Disney World...

How strange is it that I don't like getting a massage?

One of the great aspects of being me is that there aren't many things I don't like. I eat just about anything and will try almost any experience at least once, which means life tends to be pretty enjoyable. I just kind of go with the flow.

But there are some things I just can't get into. For example, I've mentioned here before that I'm not a big fan of walking around without a shirt on. Not sure why, it's just not my thing.

I'm also not much into being touched by non-family members. That sounds weird in so many ways, but what I mean is that, other than my wife and hugs/snuggles with the kids, I'm fine with you, ya know, not touching me.

Which was one of the things that made my "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire" experience so strange. The host, Meredith Vieira, was extremely nice, which is a good thing when you're dealing with nervous people sitting under bright lights answering trivia questions in front of an audience for the chance to win thousands of dollars. But she was also very touchy feely. Every comment was accompanied by a hand on your shoulder or a rubbing of your forearm.

When she asked me (several times) how I was doing, I wanted to say, "Fine, Meredith, fine. I'd be even better, in fact, if you could keep your hands to yourself."

But I didn't. You don't want to risk angering the host when someone is willing to write you a check for five figures.

It's not like it's a phobia for me or anything. I hug people to whom I'm not related all the time and it's fine. I'm just not looking for it to go any further than that.

Which brings us to the subject of getting a massage. My wife loves massages. She gets them from a very skilled friend of ours named Meghan.

Meghan, it turns out, is extremely good at what she does. She's a borderline miracle worker, as far as Terry is concerned.

So, knowing I can always use any sort of stress reliever, Terry very thoughtfully last Christmas got me a gift certificate good for one 1-hour massage from Meghan.

And I gave it right back to Terry and told her to use it.

This is nothing against Meghan, you understand. This is nothing against practitioners of massage therapy in general. They all provide a wonderful service. It's just not a service I'm interested in.

I realize I don't have to be naked to get a massage or anything, but that's not the point. I could be wearing a parka and snow pants and I'm still not interested in having you knead my flesh. Terry can do it to me, that's cool. Just not you. Or anyone else you know.

Is that weird? Am I just a freak about this? Maybe I am. I've had a massage before, years ago, and it felt nice. But I couldn't completely relax at any point during the experience because: (a) stranger, and (b) touching me.

So there you go. If you're looking to buy me something, a massage isn't the way to go. Nor is jellied ox tendon. I ate that when I went to China 10 years ago and didn't like it, either. Just trying to save you and me both some embarrassment.

You're welcome.

At some point I'll learn to be content whatever the circumstances...

...but until then I can only envy the Apostle Paul, whose words I appropriated for the title of this post.

This Is Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Winter:

"Oh man, it's cold! IT'S SO COLD! I hate living in Cleveland. The winters here are terrible. It doesn't matter how many layers I wear, these January runs are terrible. This is so stupid. Why don't I just join a gym and exercise inside? IT'S SO COLD! My fingers are numb. And I can't feel my face. There's snow blowing directly at me, and as usual that west wind only kicks up when I'm running west. Why does this happen to me? Why? Why me? IT'S SO COLD!"

And Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Summer:

"It's so hot. I can't believe how hot and humid it is at 5 o'clock in the morning. I'm going to be drenched in sweat by the time I finish, and no matter how long I wait to cool down, I'm still going to be sweating after I get out of the shower. IT'S SO HOT! We need to move to Canada. Like, somewhere in Northern Canada. Somewhere where it never gets above 65 degrees even in July. IT'S SO HOT! I hate running when it's this hot. I love running, but I can't stand running in the heat. My life is terrible."

And so I constantly have to remind myself:

I'm 46 years old today and not even I care

Well, I mean I care. Forty-six is an age signifying the undeniable fact that you're beginning the second half of your fifth decade of life. Another year or two and you will no longer be a mid-forties person. You'll be a late-forties person.

That's all significant.

But you reach a point in life when your birthday is mostly just an interesting time for reflection and taking stock and all of that. You're not looking for any presents, unless someone wants to give you three hours of uninterrupted time in which you're free to do anything you want, including watching a football or hockey game without having to worry about a sink full of dishes, a bathroom shower that needs cleaning, or any of the thousand other things that occupy your mind at most hours of the day.

Or at least that's what I want.

But really, other than maybe a few homemade cards from the kids and a Starbucks coffee that someone is nice enough to pick up for me, I'm good. Save the presents for Christmas, which in my case is always 53 days after my birthday.

I honestly don't mind getting older. I really don't. It's going to get more and more difficult as time goes on, I realize, but for now there's little difference for me being 46 from what it was like being 45 or 44 or any other year in my 40s.

I'm not the only one, right? It's not a "Bah! Humbug!" attitude toward birthdays as much as wondering why we, in American culture, put such an emphasis on them. Other than the aforementioned caffienated beverage and a slew of very nice well-wishes on my Facebook wall, I'm not seeing the need to celebrate here.

I continue my inevitable march toward Cranky Old Manhood regardless of what the calendar says.

The best thing you can do for me is to get out of my way. (AND GET OFF MY LAWN, YOU PUNK KIDS!)

Are your kids equipped to handle it if they say "Trick or Treat!" and someone demands a trick?

From the time they're very little, kids learn that all they have to do on Halloween in order to procure a delicious piece of candy is walk up to someone's door, open their bag and say, "Trick or treat!"

Note the exclamation point there, because I think it's actually supposed to be a question mark. Yet no one ever says it that way. They say "trick or treat!" as a form of polite demand.

But I believe the way this whole thing started was that you were essentially giving the poor homeowner a choice: You either give me something good or else I'm going to retaliate by defacing your property or your person (or both).

I'm glad we've all decided to just go the "Treat" route because it saves time and confusion as well as potential bodily harm or vandalism.

But is there a single kid out there who would know what to do if confronted with a person who comes to the door and says, in response to the child's hearty "Trick or treat!", something like, "I'll take the trick?" Do kids prepare for this unlikely-yet-still-possible twist?

I know we didn't when I was young. We just assumed that everyone on whose door we knocked would give us candy. And with few exceptions (i.e., the old people who gave out pennies or Bible tracts), that's exactly the way it would go down every time.

All I'm saying is that if your child is trick-or-treating tomorrow night, you might want to clue them in on the fact that someone could potentially demand a trick rather than give out a treat. Rather than standing there dumbfounded, it would be awesome if your kid would, for example, respond by immediately pulling a can of spray paint out of their treat bag and asking, "Are you sure about that? Are you feeling lucky...punk?"

This would be the greatest thing ever. I will pay $100 for video evidence of any Halloween transaction like this. And it will be so worth it.

I had forgotten how much fun it is to wrestle with your kids

Years ago when my children were, well, a lot younger, we used to have evening wrestling matches in the living room.

These were very elaborate affairs, you understand. It was generally All Available Kids vs. Daddy in our living room. Every match would begin with a set of introductions in which the kids would cheer loudly for themselves and would boo just as loudly for me. They were brutal.

The matches would last three rounds and would almost invariably go nearly the full distance before the kids managed to pin me. Over the years I ended up winning a handful, just to keep them honest, I guess.

In the days when it was Elissa, Chloe and Jared, they employed a strategy of pummeling me into submission with pillows, then jumping on me repeatedly until they could flip me over and pin me (again, always in the third and final round in a dramatic finish).

After the match would end, sometimes I would just lay there on the floor and they would take turns jumping onto me from the couch. My back cracks just thinking about it.

Later on Melanie was old enough to participate, just about the time that Elissa wasn't as interested anymore.

Then came a period of some years when wrestling didn't happen. I'm not sure why, but it didn't.

Until recently, when Jack and I resurrected it.

Jack is a rapidly growing 9-year-old boy. Like his brother at that age, he grows about two inches every day.

And it turns out he's a lot stronger than I gave him credit for.

I can still toss him around when needed, but man, it's tougher than I thought it would be.

He still uses the pillow-pummeling approach, after which he'll dive on me and pin my shoulders to the floor. I could escape if I wanted to, but it's getting to the point where sometime soon I won't be losing on purpose. That boy is going to rapidly outpace my Old Man Strength.

Anyway, if there's a moral to today's little story, it's never to forget or abandon the fun rituals in your family. I'm glad Big Time Living Room Wrestling is back in the Tennant household, though I can't figure out why it was forgotten in the first place, nor do I think my aging body is going to survive it much longer.

But I still wouldn't trade it for anything.

There is no stink like how-your-child-smells-after-a-game stink

Back when I was a newspaper sports writer, I covered a lot of minor league hockey. This involved attending games and practices, interviewing athletes, writing game stories on deadline, and just generally trying to gather and disseminate the information that hockey fans would presumably want to know.

It also involved going into the locker room after games to talk to coaches and players. Anyone who has ever played hockey at any level, or who is the parent of a player, is familiar with the smell that pervades hockey locker rooms. It's an all-conquering stench resulting from weeks' or months' worth of sweat soaking into pads and jerseys. You don't ever really get rid of it so much as you just try and mute it.

I had forgotten abot this smell until recently when I picked up my son and two of his friends after they had played a high school football game. The three boys, none of whom had yet showered, got into my car, and the stink immediately assaulted my senses. Even though these weren't hockey players, they smelled just as bad as any group of hockey guys I had ever encountered.

Worse yet, the smell stayed in my car for a couple of days. I had to air the vehicle out for a few hours before I could stand driving it again.

You parents of young athletes know what I'm talking about, right? And it's not just limited to boys. The girls are just as bad. Driving home after girls high school soccer games can be brutal, especially if one of them decides to take off her stinky cleats in the car. Good gracious, it's bad.

Maybe I'm remembering this incorrectly, but I recall showering in the locker room after every one of my football games when I was in high school. Do kids not do that now? Do they prefer their home showers?

I don't know. All I know is that the aroma nearly knocks me unconscious sometimes.

Strangely, someday I'll miss that smell, I'm sure. But for now? I'm tossing a few cans of air freshener into each of the kids' stockings this Christmas.

Do you have a Chloe in your life?

(NOTE: I wrote this weeks ago, as I usually do, and only now – minutes before it gets posted – do I realize that it may not paint the most flattering picture of Chloe. Which wasn't my intention at all. She's really quite lovely. Honestly. I just wanted to say that before you read it.)


My daughter Chloe has always been a little different. If you're a parent of multiple kids, you probably have one somewhat like her: Does her own thing, follows her own path, dances to the beat of a different drummer. You know what I mean.

Chloe was, for example, the only one of our five children who came out of the womb on her own. My wife had to be induced for the other four. But not for Chloe. Chloe burst into the world of her own volition exactly 19 years ago today (on a full moon, naturally), and has been making me laugh, cry and gape in wonderment ever since.

She is somewhat of an overachiever, as was evidenced by her busy high school schedule and full-to-bursting college applications: Salutatorian of her class, student body president, MVP of her soccer team, captain of Academic Challenge, etc.

The thing I learned early on about parenting Chloe was that I shouldn't get in her way. Not because I wanted to give her the room to develop and spread her wings or any of that, but simply because otherwise she would run me over. I learned this in the interest of self-preservation, more than anything else.

Seriously, though, if you have a Chloe in your life, you should also get out of his/her way, because Chloes do best when gently guided but largely left to their own devices. They're independent, strong-willed, purposeful people, and while your advice is appreciated, they thrive when allowed to make their own mistakes (of which there will be surprisingly few, trust me).

All of this is to wish my little college freshman biomedical engineering major daughter a very happy 19th birthday. She is #2 in birth order in our family but #1 in all of our hearts, partly because we admire her and mostly because we fear her.

(This is true, by the way. Chloe had such a temper when she was a baby that my mom and sister were scared to death to babysit her. They saw her as a beautiful yet temperamental demon spawn who could and would explode at any moment...and they were right.)

Happy birthday, little Chloe. And please don't hurt me.

Is being where you're supposed to be when you're supposed to be there becoming a lost art?

I'm not normally a "quote guy," by which I mean I don't collect and/or share interesting quotes like a lot of people do on Facebook and Twitter. I find most inspirational quotes to be a little too simplistic to be of any real use.

But there is one that has stuck with me, and I honestly don't know exactly how it goes or even who said it for sure. The first time I came across it, it was attributed to Woody Allen and it read this way: "88% of life is just showing up."

I've seen other versions of the quote in which that percentage varies from a low of 80% to as high as 99%. And I've seen the quote attributed to other people. I have no idea whether Woody himself actually said it or if it was someone else. And I can't say to the percentage point how important showing up really is.

All I know is that, from my experience, it's really important.

This is one of those lessons I try to convey to my children. It's amazing how far you can get if you just show up where you're supposed to be every day. Work, school, home, sports practices, music lessons, whatever. If you make a commitment to be there, you should be there.

I'm not saying that showing up is all it takes. Once you get to work, for example, you have to actually, you know, work. But just getting yourself there puts you stunningly far down the path to success.

It sounds easy, and in some ways it is. But I'm always amazed at the number of people for whom showing up is a major challenge. They may be there, they may not be. These people seldom seem to reach their goals or achieve anything meaningful.

I think back to when I was in school. I never had perfect attendance, but I was close most years. Staying home from school seemed like a good thing in the morning when I didn't feel good, but then 3:30 would come around and I would see my friends getting off the bus from school and realize that I had probably missed a lot and would have to work twice as hard to catch up.

If you just show up, you avoid putting yourself in that kind of jam.

We all wake up some mornings and just want to stay in bed all day. But don't let yourself do it. Don't let yourself sleep through the half hour when you should be exercising. Don't keep hitting the snooze button and detract from getting yourself ready for a productive and successful day.

Get out of bed and do whatever you're supposed to do.

Again, I know that sounds a little obvious and even easy, but it's what the most successful people do. You and I should, too.

But I have promises to keep...revisited

NOTE: Here is this month's "Blog Rerun" entry, in which we resurrect a post from the past. This one originally ran on May 21, 2012. It is one of my favorites and still very relevant to my life.


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.

You're supposed to drink water and I hate drinking water

There's a rule of thumb that says you're supposed to drink 157 glasses of water a day or something, and I drink one.

Seriously, I drink one glass of water a day and I do it in the morning when I'm taking my vitamins.

Sometimes I have water with dinner, too.

Beyond that, it's pretty much coffee or nothing when it comes to beverages for me.

I realize what a bad thing this is for my body, and that we need to keep ourselves hydrated. I just don't like water. I have to force myself to drink it.

When I trained for a marathon 14 years ago, I downed water by the gallon because I had to. Now that my running schedule is considerably more tame, I've abandoned the water.

Again, I know this isn't good judgment. There just isn't anything about the water-drinking experience that I enjoy.

Let's set aside the whole "there's no taste to it" thing. That's bad enough in itself. Water drinking makes me go to the bathroom a lot. A LOT.

"That's OK," you might say, "your body will adjust. Give it time."

I have given it time before, and my body never adjusts. I drink one glass of water and I'm headed to the bathroom three times in the next 30-45 minutes. I'm not kidding. It's like I drink a small quantity of water, and my body uses it to spontaneously manufacture more water. It's the only explanation.

Do you drink water? How much? How do you do it? My dad used to drink huge cupfuls of water all the time. It just baffles me how people manage this.

5 things that must be true before I can fall asleep

(1) I must start out on my stomach, with my right hand under the pillow propping my head up just a bit. I inevitably end up on my back by the next morning, but I always start on my stomach.

(2) The room must of course be dark, but it also needs to be cool. Almost cold. If I feel the slightest bit hot, I throw the covers off (whereas my wife, upholding married couple stereotypes, will be freezing while I'm sweating).

(3) The kitchen must be cleaned up, including the dishes. This one gets violated from time to time, but generally speaking, I don't like going to bed knowing the sink is full of dishes. Terry has no problem with it, and I know she'll clean up in the morning if she promises to. But I like waking up to a clean kitchen so much that I'll usually just do it myself before bedtime.

(4) I must be in shorts. Going back to point #2, I don't like feeling hot (or even warm) when I get into bed, and long pajama pants unfortunately do that to me. So unless it's 10 below outside and our room is a literal refrigerator, I'm in shorts. And a t-shirt.

(5) Everyone in the house NEEDS TO SHUT UP. This is Phase 1 in my Inevitable Transition to Cranky Old Man. My children, assuming my wife and I are fast asleep and cannot hear a thing, make incredible amounts of noise in the kitchen and living room late at night (and our bedroom door opens right out onto both). BE QUIET, DO YOU HEAR ME? I GET UP BEFORE 5 IN THE MORNING AND YOU DON'T. DIDN'T I TEACH YOU SOME CONSIDERATION? QUIET!!

Sorry about the mini-rant. I'm going to bed now.

10 ways I'm different now than I was 20 years ago

(1) I love coffee and wine. I used to hate coffee and wine. Especially wine. Now I regularly consume both. There is no logical explanation for this.

(2) I lost hair on top of my head. Most days I forget this is the case, because I don't regularly look at the top of my own head. Then I'll see a picture of myself from the back and realize, "Oh yeah. That."

(3) I'm more careful about using the brakes on my car so they last longer. A few $600+ brake jobs will do that to you.

(4) I no longer sincerely believe the Cleveland Browns or Cleveland Indians will win a championship during my lifetime. I used to hold on to this belief because I couldn't stand the alternative. Now I'm more honest with myself.

(5) I don't talk as fast. Or at least I don't think I do. I used to talk fast all the time. Maybe my brain is slowing down. Or maybe I'm just generally a lot calmer.

(6) I listen to a lot of classical music. Much like coffee and wine, I was never a fan until a few years ago. Who knows why?

(7) I not only don't need to have a lot of money, I don't WANT a lot of money. I've seen the problems money causes. No thank you. (Nor am I looking to be poor, either, mind you. Just comfortable. How about that?)

(8) Twenty years ago my worldview was limited to North America, as I had only visited various parts of the U.S. and Eastern Canada at that point (well, I guess I also spent a few hours in Mexico when I was 8). Since then I have visited Germany, France, the UK and China. It's amazing what spending time in foreign countries will do to your perspective.

(9) I don't wear glasses anymore. Nor do I wear contacts. God bless you, Guy Who Invented LASIK Surgery.

(10) The number of children in my house has exploded by 400%. This is more of a wonderful thing than I can even begin to describe to you.

One day there will be no more kids in our house, and I have a hard time being excited about that

This year we sent one kid off to live on a college campus (Chloe), while another moved back in after spending three years living on a college campus (Elissa).

I was so happy that Elissa came back because, honestly, I missed having her around. But now I miss having Chloe around, and it makes me realize that eventually there will be no trades. They'll just all leave the nest one by one, and nobody will return to take their place.

It's a mixed blessing, I guess. Some days you come home to a messy house full of chaos and noise and you think you can't wait until they all grow up and live somewhere else.

Other days you come home and they're all out with their friends or at school or something, and you realize how oppressively quiet it is. It doesn't seem right.

And so I can't decide whether I'm looking forward to the day they all leave, dreading that day, or whether it's a little bit of both.

For two decades, there have been kids in our house. If all goes according to plan, that will continue to be the case for another decade more.

Beyond that there's...well, I can't quite envision what's there. It will just be us. Just Terry and me. And while I love the thought of being with just her, I realize the cost will be having to readjust to a home where no one is asking me for a few dollars out of my wallet, or to borrow the car, or for me to sign a permission slip she misplaced and she needs for a field trip tomorrow.

And that just seems so lonely.

The college experience affords parents a foretaste of what's to come in their lives, and thus it gives you chunks of time to adjust to the inevitable.

It's just that, for all the hassles and frustrations that come with living with six other people, it's really all I know at this point. And so I guess what I'm afraid of is the unknown.

Still, the fact is, it's going to happen whether I'm ready for it or not. So I might as well be ready for it. And I might as well enjoy what I have now, knowing there will still be days when I just can't bring myself to clean up one more mess in the kitchen that one of my offspring created.

I also know that some day, I'll do anything for one more of those messes to clean up.

As we've said before, c'est la vie, my friends, c'est la vie.