There are times as a single father that I think God is looking down at me and laughing his butt off. In so many ways, he really did play a cruel joke on me.
Four girls. Four of them. Not one little boy in the whole litter.
When I found out that I was going to be a father for the first time in 1997, I continually daydreamed of playing catch with "little Brett". Day after day, me and the little guy outside laughing it up while throwing around the pigskin.
Then, after nine months of playing out this fantasy, came Kern. A beautiful, healthy, blue-eyed girl. Disappointment was non-existent as I was thrilled to be a father. Besides, I had plenty of time to have a boy.
Then, came Savannah. Followed by Shelby, And, finally, Alani. Four girls for the football coach. There would be no more trying for the elusive boy. I was done after four.
I'd like to think that I have done a pretty good job of raising girls on my own. I do as much as any man can be expected to do to allow girls to be girls. The last thing I have wanted to do was to try and raise my girls as boys by only introducing them to what would typically be classified as "boy" stuff.
I have let them apply make-up to my face, have played Barbies with them, and have watched endless amounts of fashion shows. I have even participated in a conversation with them over who would be a better a boyfriend, Troy from the High School Musical trilogy or Jackson from the Hannah Montana television show.
I picked Troy because he was the better athlete, while they picked him because he was "cuter". Whatever.
So... Sunday morning I stood in the hallway watching my girls pretty themselves up on their own while getting ready for Church. They were facing a full-length mirror on the closet door, admiring their outfits and hairdo. It was one of the cutest things I have seen as a father.
With a great sense of pride, I continued to watch while thinking that I was actually playing a role in raising girls who would one day grow into beautiful women. I finally turned around and began to walk back to my room when Alani said something that made me stop.
"Hey Vannah," she said.
"Yea?"
"Fart on my face, then I will fart on yours. OK?"
"OK."
Damn. Looks like there is more work to be done.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Just keep swimming
Sitting in a bar last weekend with some of the top high school football coaches in the country, a coach with more than 100 career wins came to my table and asked me if he could sit down and talk for a few minutes. He was one of the presenters at the clinic and said he wanted to ask me a few questions.
What the hell would he want to ask me? I have won one game in the last two years. Does he want to know how to keep a head coaching job despite not winning?
"Yea Coach, ask me anything," I said.
"First, can I buy you a beer or anything?"
"No, thank you. I am good."
"Well, I overheard you last night talking to some other coaches about how you lucked out that your kids were with your ex-wive this weekend, allowing you to come to the clinic. My wife just left me and took my three kids. She told me she is going to fight for full custody because she doesn't think I can be a single Dad with all the responsibilities that come along with coaching.
"I don't know what to do. She is right in a way... football takes so much time. I don't know how I can do it all and yet still do what it takes to be a coach. But, I can't not be around my kids. I am seriously thinking about quitting football."
I was floored. I never imagined that this is what he wanted to talk about when he sat down next to me.
I have been exactly where he is now. Five years ago and two months after my youngest daughter was born, my ex and I officially separated. At that time, I wasn't coaching football and there was no way I could have coached at that time.
I was too heartbroken, too emotional, and too overwhelmed to do anything than other than survive. In a flash, my whole life was in disarray and I saw no way to overcome the state I was in.
The only thing that got me out of bed at that time was my kids. I had no choice. They needed me to function as mininmally as I was for their own survival.
Honestly, if I was given a choice of staying and raising my kids on my own or running as far away as possible, I might have chosen the latter. I'd like to be able to say that my love for my girls made me stay. But, what really made me stay was that those little girls needed me to.
I remember so many nights leaving work, rushing over to their daycare facility to pick up a four-month-old, two-year-old, and three-year-old, running to my piece of shit two-bedroom apartment (after leaving a beautiful five-bedroom, two-story house), feeding them anything remotely healthy, bathing them all, and then finally getting them to bed. That three-hour process was much harder and exhausting than the nine hours of teaching and coaching high school kids.
The things is, I always hated when I was complimented for being a good Dad. To me, all I was doing is what I had to do. Single mothers do it all the time and never get praise for it.
Instead of throwing kudos out to those men who remain Dads and do their share of parenting after a divorce, people should look down on men who don't do it. That is something I have no empathy for... men who turn their backs on the children when the marriage falls apart.
Reliving all that, I had an answer for the Coach.
"Coach... you have to decide how important football is and how important being a dad is to you. If they both are important and are worth fighting for... then do it. My kids are at football practices, games, and team functions with me. If I am there and it is their week to be with me, then they are with me."
"You can do this Coach. You can do both. It isn't always easy, but it is better than not doing it. And, you know what? My kids love being a part of it all. They feel like they are on the team and take the losses just as hard if not harder than me. But, they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
"Coach, this is going to sound stupid, but I have watched a million kids' movies over the last few years and one really helped me through this. You ever watch, "Finding Nemo"?
"Yea," the Coach said with a laugh.
"Remember when Dory and Nemo's Dad begin their journey looking for Nemo? Dory kept singing that song, "Just Keep Swimming". Didn't matter how far they had to go, the only way they they would get there was to keep swimming.
"Well, Coach... you may not always want to do it, but you got to keep swimming."
What the hell would he want to ask me? I have won one game in the last two years. Does he want to know how to keep a head coaching job despite not winning?
"Yea Coach, ask me anything," I said.
"First, can I buy you a beer or anything?"
"No, thank you. I am good."
"Well, I overheard you last night talking to some other coaches about how you lucked out that your kids were with your ex-wive this weekend, allowing you to come to the clinic. My wife just left me and took my three kids. She told me she is going to fight for full custody because she doesn't think I can be a single Dad with all the responsibilities that come along with coaching.
"I don't know what to do. She is right in a way... football takes so much time. I don't know how I can do it all and yet still do what it takes to be a coach. But, I can't not be around my kids. I am seriously thinking about quitting football."
I was floored. I never imagined that this is what he wanted to talk about when he sat down next to me.
I have been exactly where he is now. Five years ago and two months after my youngest daughter was born, my ex and I officially separated. At that time, I wasn't coaching football and there was no way I could have coached at that time.
I was too heartbroken, too emotional, and too overwhelmed to do anything than other than survive. In a flash, my whole life was in disarray and I saw no way to overcome the state I was in.
The only thing that got me out of bed at that time was my kids. I had no choice. They needed me to function as mininmally as I was for their own survival.
Honestly, if I was given a choice of staying and raising my kids on my own or running as far away as possible, I might have chosen the latter. I'd like to be able to say that my love for my girls made me stay. But, what really made me stay was that those little girls needed me to.
I remember so many nights leaving work, rushing over to their daycare facility to pick up a four-month-old, two-year-old, and three-year-old, running to my piece of shit two-bedroom apartment (after leaving a beautiful five-bedroom, two-story house), feeding them anything remotely healthy, bathing them all, and then finally getting them to bed. That three-hour process was much harder and exhausting than the nine hours of teaching and coaching high school kids.
The things is, I always hated when I was complimented for being a good Dad. To me, all I was doing is what I had to do. Single mothers do it all the time and never get praise for it.
Instead of throwing kudos out to those men who remain Dads and do their share of parenting after a divorce, people should look down on men who don't do it. That is something I have no empathy for... men who turn their backs on the children when the marriage falls apart.
Reliving all that, I had an answer for the Coach.
"Coach... you have to decide how important football is and how important being a dad is to you. If they both are important and are worth fighting for... then do it. My kids are at football practices, games, and team functions with me. If I am there and it is their week to be with me, then they are with me."
"You can do this Coach. You can do both. It isn't always easy, but it is better than not doing it. And, you know what? My kids love being a part of it all. They feel like they are on the team and take the losses just as hard if not harder than me. But, they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
"Coach, this is going to sound stupid, but I have watched a million kids' movies over the last few years and one really helped me through this. You ever watch, "Finding Nemo"?
"Yea," the Coach said with a laugh.
"Remember when Dory and Nemo's Dad begin their journey looking for Nemo? Dory kept singing that song, "Just Keep Swimming". Didn't matter how far they had to go, the only way they they would get there was to keep swimming.
"Well, Coach... you may not always want to do it, but you got to keep swimming."
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
When not to play with yourself
A conversation I had with my doctor Monday afternoon. What your about to read made me realize that there are people more stupid than me.
Doctor: "I really think it is best if we start you on a chemotherapy right away. You have a lot more spots on your face that are cancerous and I don't want to have to keep cutting you up."
Me: "You are the doctor. I will do whatever you think is best."
Doctor: "OK, good. You will apply the ointment every day for 30 days. Your probably going to break out all over your face and it won't be pretty. But, it will kill any cancer cells we can't see."
Me: "OK... let's do it."
Doctor: "Make sure you wash your hands after you put it on your face. I had a patient last year who had a serious problem after not washing his hands."
Me: "What happened? His hands swell up?"
Doctor: "No. He decided to play with himself a little after putting the ointment on and his scrotum swelled up. It was quite embarrassing for him to have to come back in here."
Me: "Good to know, Doc. No using the ointment when I masturbate. Got it."
Doctor: "I really think it is best if we start you on a chemotherapy right away. You have a lot more spots on your face that are cancerous and I don't want to have to keep cutting you up."
Me: "You are the doctor. I will do whatever you think is best."
Doctor: "OK, good. You will apply the ointment every day for 30 days. Your probably going to break out all over your face and it won't be pretty. But, it will kill any cancer cells we can't see."
Me: "OK... let's do it."
Doctor: "Make sure you wash your hands after you put it on your face. I had a patient last year who had a serious problem after not washing his hands."
Me: "What happened? His hands swell up?"
Doctor: "No. He decided to play with himself a little after putting the ointment on and his scrotum swelled up. It was quite embarrassing for him to have to come back in here."
Me: "Good to know, Doc. No using the ointment when I masturbate. Got it."
Saturday, November 21, 2009
My testicles and me
Hi. I'm Coachdad. I stop by every now and then and share a story or two. I usually throw something on here that relates to me and the crazy little girls that are with me when they are not with their mother.
Not this time, though. This isn't your typical post from me. Don't you feel lucky? Well, don't.
I want and need to write about my balls.
Those two little fuckers have given me so much grief over the last three years. And, this time I am not even talking about the four girls that they helped produce.
Seems my testicles don't like when another man starts touching them. I can't blame them. I wasn't all that fond of a 74-year-old man playing with my balls either.
However, if 30 minutes of his pulling, prodding, and cutting into my sack meant that I would be free of the worries of fathering another child, then have at it Doc. Do whatever you want with them, just buy me lunch the next time we see each other on the golf course.
The procedure wasn't all that bad. It was a little uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. Walking out of his office, I felt free to drop my seed anywhere without the worries if it developing into anything other than another relationship that would go wrong.
After three days of limping around, I was back to normal and ready to take them out for a test drive. Satisfied literally and figuratively, I was content with my decision and proud of what I thought was one of the first times that I actually acted like a responsible adult.
Fast-forward six months with me if you will.
It was Christmas morning in 2006 and I woke up to four little girls crawling all over me in my bed. I got up and started walking into the living room to watch them open their gifts when a sharp pain started shooting up the right side of my abdomen. From there, the pain turned into a dull, pounding sensation that never went away, only to be interrupted by more shots of pain.
Two hours later and after dropping the girls off at their Mom's house, I drove to the hospital and began to wait in a overcrowded emergency waiting room. After 45 minutes, I was led into triage and was told that I wasn't suffering from a appendicitis attack and that I should go back to the waiting room and wait to undergo some tests.
Sitting for 15 minutes and knowing that I had much to do before heading to my then fiance's house for Christmas dinner, I left the hospital confident that I wasn't going to die in the next 24 hours.
I didn't die that day, but I fucking wanted to after I found the source of my pain in a bathroom at the fiance's house. Unzippping my pants to piss, I saw what is and will always be the scariest thing I have ever looked at.
My right testicle didn't look like a testicle. It was three times it's normal size and decorated in a deep red and purple color. How the hell did I not see this plum-looking thing earlier?
I hobbled out of her house, drove back to the hospital, sat in the waiting room, went back into triage, underwent an ultrasound on my boys (which I actually enjoyed), and then finally got an answer from a young female doctor who looked like she just got out of medical school.
"You have a condition called Epididymitis," she said.
"Ok. How did I get it and what can I do to get rid of it?"
"It's an infection that is associated with syphilis, gonorrhea, and HIV. We can't test you for those here, so you need to go see your family doctor. You are free to go home now."
What? Merry Fucking Chritmas to you, too. Syphilis, gonorrhea, or HIV? Are you kidding me? Can't wait to call the fiance and tell her the great news.
I didn't tell her that that night, instead I went straight to Dr. Fuck-Your-Balls-Up the next morning with my medical report from the prior night. As soon as he glanced at the report, he looked at me and laughed.
"Relax, Brett. She was correct on her diagnosis, but not how you got it. Read this pamphlet while I go and get you some antibiotics."
It was a pamphlet that dealt with vesictomies and complications that could result from the procedure. The first one listed was epididymitis and it said:
"One of the more common of the vasectomy complications, epididymitis is a condition which occurs when the larger tube behind the testicle, connected to the vas, becomes inflamed and swollen. The application of heat and the use of anti-inflammatory medication with or without antibiotics usually clear this up within a week."
What the pamphlet didn't say is that it can come back every six months or so. Twice a year I am reminded of having my balls played with by an elderly man.
If you ever see a 35- to 40-year-old man in Southern California in obvious pain and hobbling quickly after his girls in a mall, or a park, or anywhere... take solace in the fact that he will never have more than the kids he has with him.
And, I will glady take that trade.
Not this time, though. This isn't your typical post from me. Don't you feel lucky? Well, don't.
I want and need to write about my balls.
Those two little fuckers have given me so much grief over the last three years. And, this time I am not even talking about the four girls that they helped produce.
Seems my testicles don't like when another man starts touching them. I can't blame them. I wasn't all that fond of a 74-year-old man playing with my balls either.
However, if 30 minutes of his pulling, prodding, and cutting into my sack meant that I would be free of the worries of fathering another child, then have at it Doc. Do whatever you want with them, just buy me lunch the next time we see each other on the golf course.
The procedure wasn't all that bad. It was a little uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. Walking out of his office, I felt free to drop my seed anywhere without the worries if it developing into anything other than another relationship that would go wrong.
After three days of limping around, I was back to normal and ready to take them out for a test drive. Satisfied literally and figuratively, I was content with my decision and proud of what I thought was one of the first times that I actually acted like a responsible adult.
Fast-forward six months with me if you will.
It was Christmas morning in 2006 and I woke up to four little girls crawling all over me in my bed. I got up and started walking into the living room to watch them open their gifts when a sharp pain started shooting up the right side of my abdomen. From there, the pain turned into a dull, pounding sensation that never went away, only to be interrupted by more shots of pain.
Two hours later and after dropping the girls off at their Mom's house, I drove to the hospital and began to wait in a overcrowded emergency waiting room. After 45 minutes, I was led into triage and was told that I wasn't suffering from a appendicitis attack and that I should go back to the waiting room and wait to undergo some tests.
Sitting for 15 minutes and knowing that I had much to do before heading to my then fiance's house for Christmas dinner, I left the hospital confident that I wasn't going to die in the next 24 hours.
I didn't die that day, but I fucking wanted to after I found the source of my pain in a bathroom at the fiance's house. Unzippping my pants to piss, I saw what is and will always be the scariest thing I have ever looked at.
My right testicle didn't look like a testicle. It was three times it's normal size and decorated in a deep red and purple color. How the hell did I not see this plum-looking thing earlier?
I hobbled out of her house, drove back to the hospital, sat in the waiting room, went back into triage, underwent an ultrasound on my boys (which I actually enjoyed), and then finally got an answer from a young female doctor who looked like she just got out of medical school.
"You have a condition called Epididymitis," she said.
"Ok. How did I get it and what can I do to get rid of it?"
"It's an infection that is associated with syphilis, gonorrhea, and HIV. We can't test you for those here, so you need to go see your family doctor. You are free to go home now."
What? Merry Fucking Chritmas to you, too. Syphilis, gonorrhea, or HIV? Are you kidding me? Can't wait to call the fiance and tell her the great news.
I didn't tell her that that night, instead I went straight to Dr. Fuck-Your-Balls-Up the next morning with my medical report from the prior night. As soon as he glanced at the report, he looked at me and laughed.
"Relax, Brett. She was correct on her diagnosis, but not how you got it. Read this pamphlet while I go and get you some antibiotics."
It was a pamphlet that dealt with vesictomies and complications that could result from the procedure. The first one listed was epididymitis and it said:
"One of the more common of the vasectomy complications, epididymitis is a condition which occurs when the larger tube behind the testicle, connected to the vas, becomes inflamed and swollen. The application of heat and the use of anti-inflammatory medication with or without antibiotics usually clear this up within a week."
What the pamphlet didn't say is that it can come back every six months or so. Twice a year I am reminded of having my balls played with by an elderly man.
If you ever see a 35- to 40-year-old man in Southern California in obvious pain and hobbling quickly after his girls in a mall, or a park, or anywhere... take solace in the fact that he will never have more than the kids he has with him.
And, I will glady take that trade.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Frustrations of fatherhood
(I have been asked by an organization who produces materials, books and magazines for Single Parents to submit posts I have written on what it is like to be a single father. After not much thought because I am quite busy right now, I chose one that may turn some people off. It is one that deals with the frustrations of raising little girls on my own. I love them more than anything, but damn do they drive me nuts.)
I remember being a kid and seeing a commercial with a woman having a rough day with her children. Her only escape was running to her bathroom, drawing a hot bath, and slipping deep inside with a smile spread across her face.
I never got that commercial. What could be so hard about spending the day with your children? You wanted them, didn't you?
Some 30 years and four daughters later, I get it. I get every fucking bit of it.
Kids are nuts and aren't satisfied until you are, too. Do they ever slow down and shut up for two seconds? If I wasn't the one who fed them every meal and snack, I'd wonder what the hell they ate to give them all that energy.
The energizer bunny has got nothing on my kids.
For those who want to offer me advise on how to control my kids or what activities would keep them better occupied without my constant attention, kiss off. I have tried them and they don't work.
Not with these girls. No, they can't seem to do anything without including me or allowing me to do anything without including them. What the hell do they do when I am work? Walk around the house all day calling, "Dad? Dad? Dad?"
They really are pathetic little things. In the four years of being a single father who has his kids fifty percent of the time, I think I can count four or five times that I have gone to the bathroom without one of them walking in and sitting down to have a conversation with me.
It really is a big joke to them. They seem to get so much pleasure out of watching me get so flustered by their actions.
"Dad, your funny. You always make me laugh," said to me today as I threw my hands up in disgust after the four-year spilled her cup of milk for the fourth time at one sitting.
"Yea, Dad," the oldest one piped in. "My teacher always says don't cry over spilled milk."
Alright, that was funny. We all laughed for a few minutes as I wiped up the mess. Again.
But, it was short-lived. They were right back to causing havoc within minutes.
Like I said, I now know what that old commercial was all about. I totally get it.
So, to the Calgon people and their commercials of women jumping into bath tubs, I challenge you to make a commercial for me. Something that includes a keg of beer, endless amount of pizza, big breasted women that don't talk, and a television that doesn't play Disney movies.
Oh, and no kids.
(For those who haven't read my blog, I love my kids more than anything, so forget about leaving me a comment about how lucky I am to have four beautiful girls. I know how lucky I am, so shut the hell up!)
I remember being a kid and seeing a commercial with a woman having a rough day with her children. Her only escape was running to her bathroom, drawing a hot bath, and slipping deep inside with a smile spread across her face.
I never got that commercial. What could be so hard about spending the day with your children? You wanted them, didn't you?
Some 30 years and four daughters later, I get it. I get every fucking bit of it.
Kids are nuts and aren't satisfied until you are, too. Do they ever slow down and shut up for two seconds? If I wasn't the one who fed them every meal and snack, I'd wonder what the hell they ate to give them all that energy.
The energizer bunny has got nothing on my kids.
For those who want to offer me advise on how to control my kids or what activities would keep them better occupied without my constant attention, kiss off. I have tried them and they don't work.
Not with these girls. No, they can't seem to do anything without including me or allowing me to do anything without including them. What the hell do they do when I am work? Walk around the house all day calling, "Dad? Dad? Dad?"
They really are pathetic little things. In the four years of being a single father who has his kids fifty percent of the time, I think I can count four or five times that I have gone to the bathroom without one of them walking in and sitting down to have a conversation with me.
It really is a big joke to them. They seem to get so much pleasure out of watching me get so flustered by their actions.
"Dad, your funny. You always make me laugh," said to me today as I threw my hands up in disgust after the four-year spilled her cup of milk for the fourth time at one sitting.
"Yea, Dad," the oldest one piped in. "My teacher always says don't cry over spilled milk."
Alright, that was funny. We all laughed for a few minutes as I wiped up the mess. Again.
But, it was short-lived. They were right back to causing havoc within minutes.
Like I said, I now know what that old commercial was all about. I totally get it.
So, to the Calgon people and their commercials of women jumping into bath tubs, I challenge you to make a commercial for me. Something that includes a keg of beer, endless amount of pizza, big breasted women that don't talk, and a television that doesn't play Disney movies.
Oh, and no kids.
(For those who haven't read my blog, I love my kids more than anything, so forget about leaving me a comment about how lucky I am to have four beautiful girls. I know how lucky I am, so shut the hell up!)
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Pics from last summer trip
I am dead tired from another day of teaching, football practice and normal Dad duties at the house. However, Savannah said she wouldn't talk to me again until I posted some pics of our last trip to our little getaway place on Lake Isabella.
While the thought of no mindless chatter from my biggest talker was tempting, I promised her she would see some pictures on my blog when she wakes up in the morning. So, here are some taken by a lifelong friend who brought his family up for the day.
That's all I got, though. I never promised to write anything about the trip and I need some sleep. Fast.
Two old friends enjoying a day at the lake with the kids.
Only catch of the day... rather pathetic!
Two of our girls having fun in the water together.
Shelby eying the camera!
Savannah making her move to jump in the lake.
So, there you go Savannah. The pics are up and I am ready to hear your same stories from school over and over again!
For more Wordful Wednesdays go to Seven Clown Circus.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Back to school
My girls and I started school this week. I started my fifteenth year as a high school teacher, Kern started sixth grade, Savannah is now in third, Shelby moved into first, and Alani is officially in school with Kindergarten.
We are now represented in the high school, middle school, and elementary schools in our town. All of us were both excited about the start of school and sad to see our summer of lounging around the pool come to an end.
On Tuesday, I skipped my first period of class to take the three youngest to their first day of the new year. With four daughters, I am often baffled by the differences in personalities that they all posses. One might assume that growing up with the same parents and same environment, there would be more similarities in my children.
Savannah was a veteran of the whole process, Shelby was terrified and crying the whole time, and Alani was... Alani.
She could not be more different than the other three. She is fearless, independent, incredibly intelligent, possesses a sense of humor way beyond her years, and has battled and overcome an addiction of using a foul tongue she inherited from her father. Basically, Alani has no idea she is 5-years-old.
When her mother and I walked her into the Kindergarten class on Tuesday, we were surrounded by other munchkins clinging to their father or mother's leg. Alani simply looked around the room, took a few steps away from me, and quickly turned back and looked up.
"You OK, baby?" I said.
"Yep. You guys can go now. I'll see you after school. OK, Dad?"
What? She didn't want us to stick around until class actually started like all the parents? She might have been ready for us to leave, but I wasn't ready to go.
"Well babe, I think your Mom wants to wait here with you for awhile. It is your first day of real school and all."
"OK Dad, but I am going to walk around and check it out."
After 20 minutes of waiting to meet her teacher, I left Alani and she didn't seem all that concerned with my exit. She sat down at her desk, opened a book, and started to thumb through the pages.
With that, my youngest and last daughter to enter school was ready to get started. It didn't seem to matter to her that I wasn't all that ready for her to move on to the next stage in her life.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
"Dad, I got a bra!"
The day I have been dreading for 11 years arrived yesterday. I knew it was going to happen, but just not this soon.
I had hoped it would never happen. But, at 7 p.m., my oldest daughter's mother called me and broke the news.
"Brett, I took Kern out and we spent all the money you gave her on school clothes. . . $250 on school uniforms, socks, underwear, and a couple bras."
I often have to ask Kern's mother "What?". I was never very good at listening when words came out of her mouth. That's probably one of the reasons why we didn't work out.
But, this time, I heard exactly what she said. It didn't stop me from asking her my favorite question.
"What was that last thing you said?", hoping I heard her wrong.
"Yea, we got her a few bras. We have looked at them before because she liked the patterns on some of them. Now, she actually needs them."
I was speechless. I couldn't believe what she was saying to me.
My little girl needing a bra. The same girl I spent two years staying at home with when she was a toddler watching Blues Clues, Sesame Street, and Little Bear. From a bottle-carrying blue-eyed girl whose life revolved around when she would get to go in our pool in the front yard, to a young lady who now sends me text messages and needs a bra.
How did this happen? I know days, months, and years going by is how. But, how did it happen so fast?
You are not supposed to have a favorite child. You are supposed to love them all the same and do your best to treat them equally.
But, Kern will always be special and different to me. She was the first one. The one that taught me how to be a father, how to truly love, and how to put someones' needs, wants and desires in front of my own.
Seems she isn't done teaching me things. Now, I get to learn about buying and washing bras. Took me three years when I was in high school to learn how to take a bra off my girlfriend.
I don't think I will get that same amount time to learn how to be OK with my daughter growing up.
I had hoped it would never happen. But, at 7 p.m., my oldest daughter's mother called me and broke the news.
"Brett, I took Kern out and we spent all the money you gave her on school clothes. . . $250 on school uniforms, socks, underwear, and a couple bras."
I often have to ask Kern's mother "What?". I was never very good at listening when words came out of her mouth. That's probably one of the reasons why we didn't work out.
But, this time, I heard exactly what she said. It didn't stop me from asking her my favorite question.
"What was that last thing you said?", hoping I heard her wrong.
"Yea, we got her a few bras. We have looked at them before because she liked the patterns on some of them. Now, she actually needs them."
I was speechless. I couldn't believe what she was saying to me.
My little girl needing a bra. The same girl I spent two years staying at home with when she was a toddler watching Blues Clues, Sesame Street, and Little Bear. From a bottle-carrying blue-eyed girl whose life revolved around when she would get to go in our pool in the front yard, to a young lady who now sends me text messages and needs a bra.
How did this happen? I know days, months, and years going by is how. But, how did it happen so fast?
You are not supposed to have a favorite child. You are supposed to love them all the same and do your best to treat them equally.
But, Kern will always be special and different to me. She was the first one. The one that taught me how to be a father, how to truly love, and how to put someones' needs, wants and desires in front of my own.
Seems she isn't done teaching me things. Now, I get to learn about buying and washing bras. Took me three years when I was in high school to learn how to take a bra off my girlfriend.
I don't think I will get that same amount time to learn how to be OK with my daughter growing up.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Girls, football and vacation home
OK. So, I suck. I haven't submitted a post in quite some time. Seems life sometimes gets in the way of doing the things that you love doing like writing.
My girls, summer school, and trying to get ready for the upcoming football season has made it next to impossible to blog on a daily or even a weekly basis.
I have received a number of emails asking me what has happened to me as of late. The fact is not much has happened.
My girls have spent the summer with me at football practice. When we are not on the field, we have been spending the weekends two hours away at our mobile home in Lake Isabella.
It is a small town community in the Western Sierra Mountains that has some of the best fishing in California. Already this summer, my girls have caught their first fish and have spent many hours swimming in the lake.
They love it and I love reconnecting with a spot that my parents and I went to nearly every summer when I was a kid. I frequented it during my 20s a number of times and even stayed in the same mobile home that I took over from my former head football coach two months ago.
I wrote about this spot in a prior post and shared the story of how I was mistaken in a local bar as the kid from "A Christmas Story." Good times for sure.
However, not as fun as spending time with my girls there. They have already decided that we would be spending the next holiday season up there.
Looks like another version of "A Christmas Story" will be in the making.
For more Wordful Wednesdays go to Seven Clown Circus.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
A family for me
There are few times where I have been envious of my married friends. I have been there, done that.
Twice. I am not in any hurry to do that again.
I think I have done rather well as a single father. In fact, I have no doubt that I am a much better father as a single parent than I ever was when I was married.
As a single father, I never walk on egg shells worried that I will upset or disappoint their mother, never worry about someone correcting my parental skills, never have my children see me argue with their mother like we did all too often when we were together, nor have they asked what I said or did to their mom when they see me in the morning sleeping on the couch.
I am certainly not a perfect parent. I have and will again get upset with my girls. When I do get upset, I tend to yell and there is no confusion that Dad is mad. However, after a few minutes, my girls and I are right back to our normal routine of being goofy together and having a good time.
They adore me and I them. I can’t even begin to describe how thankful and fortunate I am to have them in my life. I also can’t imagine that any of us could be any happier than we are now.
However, this afternoon while grabbing some groceries with my girls in tow, I saw something that made me wonder if my girls are being cheated by their mother and I no longer together.
Walking down an aisle in the store, a family of four crossed our path and I stopped and watched them interact with each other.
The father was pushing a cart with a toddler girl facing him firmly fastened in the seat. The two were cooing and cawing with each other with big grins on their faces. Nothing could distract the two of them as they were obviously having fun making funny noises and faces.
A few feet in front of the two, the mother was pointing out canned vegetables to her son who looked to be the same age as my kindergarten-age daughter. She was telling him the importance of eating healthy and he was asking questions about various kinds of vegetables.
After he picked out a couples cans, the mother grabbed them, turned around, and walked back to her husband and younger daughter at the cart. She placed them inside and then kissed both husband and daughter. She then gave them the sweetest, kindest smile as she walked back to the front with her son.
Seeing this, I could not help but wonder if my girls would ever know what a normal, healthy, loving relationship between two adults is about. I grew up with divorced parents and never saw either of them in a good relationship in the eight years that I went back and forth between the two.
I have to believe that has had a big effect on my own inability to make a marriage work. The last thing I want is my girls later in life to struggle over and over again in relationships like their parents.
Continuing to watch them, Savannah brought me back to my own family.
“Dad? What are you doing?”
“What?”
“Why are you just standing there looking at them?”
“Sorry babe. I was just watching them. They look happy together.”
“Yep. But, not as happy we will be when get home and get in the pool. We are always happy when you go swimming with us.”
She grabbed my hand and we headed back to Shelby, Alani and our own cart of food that we would be cooking later with their older sister Kern. May not be the ideal family, but it is our family.
Savannah was right. When we do things like swim together, we are happy.
And, I don’t need to be married to their mother to do that.
Twice. I am not in any hurry to do that again.
I think I have done rather well as a single father. In fact, I have no doubt that I am a much better father as a single parent than I ever was when I was married.
As a single father, I never walk on egg shells worried that I will upset or disappoint their mother, never worry about someone correcting my parental skills, never have my children see me argue with their mother like we did all too often when we were together, nor have they asked what I said or did to their mom when they see me in the morning sleeping on the couch.
I am certainly not a perfect parent. I have and will again get upset with my girls. When I do get upset, I tend to yell and there is no confusion that Dad is mad. However, after a few minutes, my girls and I are right back to our normal routine of being goofy together and having a good time.
They adore me and I them. I can’t even begin to describe how thankful and fortunate I am to have them in my life. I also can’t imagine that any of us could be any happier than we are now.
However, this afternoon while grabbing some groceries with my girls in tow, I saw something that made me wonder if my girls are being cheated by their mother and I no longer together.
Walking down an aisle in the store, a family of four crossed our path and I stopped and watched them interact with each other.
The father was pushing a cart with a toddler girl facing him firmly fastened in the seat. The two were cooing and cawing with each other with big grins on their faces. Nothing could distract the two of them as they were obviously having fun making funny noises and faces.
A few feet in front of the two, the mother was pointing out canned vegetables to her son who looked to be the same age as my kindergarten-age daughter. She was telling him the importance of eating healthy and he was asking questions about various kinds of vegetables.
After he picked out a couples cans, the mother grabbed them, turned around, and walked back to her husband and younger daughter at the cart. She placed them inside and then kissed both husband and daughter. She then gave them the sweetest, kindest smile as she walked back to the front with her son.
Seeing this, I could not help but wonder if my girls would ever know what a normal, healthy, loving relationship between two adults is about. I grew up with divorced parents and never saw either of them in a good relationship in the eight years that I went back and forth between the two.
I have to believe that has had a big effect on my own inability to make a marriage work. The last thing I want is my girls later in life to struggle over and over again in relationships like their parents.
Continuing to watch them, Savannah brought me back to my own family.
“Dad? What are you doing?”
“What?”
“Why are you just standing there looking at them?”
“Sorry babe. I was just watching them. They look happy together.”
“Yep. But, not as happy we will be when get home and get in the pool. We are always happy when you go swimming with us.”
She grabbed my hand and we headed back to Shelby, Alani and our own cart of food that we would be cooking later with their older sister Kern. May not be the ideal family, but it is our family.
Savannah was right. When we do things like swim together, we are happy.
And, I don’t need to be married to their mother to do that.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
My kids, students and the Luau
School is over in a week. The more years I pile on in my career, the quicker they seem to fly by.
With each year, I have become more and more thankful for the career path that I have chosen. I love my job and 14 years doing it has shown me that there is no better career for me.
What fuels my love for the job isn't the satisfaction I get from teaching kids about the positives of being physically fit for a lifetime. Rather, it is the joy of building relationships with the high school kids.
I love them. Each and everyone of them. Sure, there are times when they piss me off or disappoint me. But, there is no greater satisfaction than watching them come in as freshman and seeing them grow, mature and turn into young adults who appreciate the hard work that myself and the rest of the faculty, administration and other school employees do for the kids.
My favorite event at the end of each year is the Luau. Having graduated from the school that I have been employed at since 1994, I have missed this event only six times since 1985.
Yearbooks are passed out, carnival-like games are played, great food is eaten, and memories from the last year are reminisced. Since I spend so much time at the school as both a teacher and the school's head football coach, my daughters go with me so they can say goodbye to so many students who have watched my kids during football practices and games.
My girls love it. They dance with the students and eat more crap than any 4- to 7-year-old should ever eat. The students love to see them and take them from me for much of the night and teach them dance moves like the "Jerk". It is a move that has been a craze on our campus all year and is one that I could never duplicate.
While my girls are off having fun with cheerleaders and watergirls from my football team, I am able to walk around and talk to kids that I have spent so much time with over the last fours.
During this time, I run into a kid who was my quarterback during my first two years as the head coach. A kid that I would gladly and proudly call my own son.
With no reservations or doubts, I tell him that I will never coach a kid again who has his tireless work ethic in the classroom and football field. He was and is everything a coach could want from a player.
As easy as it was for me to Coach my quarterback, my Most Valubale Player from last season was without a doubt the most challenging athlete I had when I took over the program two years ago. I saw a kid who had more potential than any other player on the field who didn't work as hard as I would like, and he saw a 5-7, 150-pounder who looked like he never played the game.
We yelled at eachother, cursed at eachother, and sometimes went a week or two without saying a word to one another. He drove me mad as I tried everything to get him to see that all I ever wanted was for him to become to best player and person he could be.
I don't know when it happened, or how it happened, but, sometime during the last year the tension between us went away and we quickly became eachother's greatest ally. When I saw him at the Luau, we took a picture together and had a few words that I will never forget.
"Who would thought that you and I would actually like eachother after the start we had together?"
"I know Coach. I hated you when you got the job. But, I would do anything for you now. I can't thank you enough for everything you did for me. I owe you so much."
Little do his he know, that I owe him.
It has been kids like him over the last 14 years that has made a career, my passion.
Monday, April 20, 2009
My own National Lampoon's Vacation
For one day, I was Chevy Chase. And, not the good Chevy Chase who made America laugh on Saturday Night Live, or in his movies Caddy Shack or Fletch. No, I was Chevy Chase from National Lampoon's Vacation.
And, my girls will never let me forget it.
In the movie Vacation, Chevy Chase plays Clark Griswold, a family man who plans a cross country trip with his family to visit the fictional amusement park Wally World. After mishap after mishap, the family finally arrives to Wally World only to find it closed for a week due to repairs.
A great watch for the audience, however, in real life with four daughters in a car on a five-hour round trip drive, it's nothing short of hell.
I came up with a plan Sunday morning to take my girls to one of my favorite destinations as a child. Nestled under in the Eastern Sierra mountains, the Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery is one of the oldest in the state and one of the most visited.
I told my girls all about the hatchery during breakfast and tried to convince them that it was worth the long drive. They were skeptical to say the least, but agreed that it beat staying home on a beautiful Spring day.
We took off shortly after breakfast and it didn't take long for the 4-year-old to start doing what 4-year-olds do on long trips.
"Are we there yet?"
That was quickly followed by, "Can we stop? I have to go to the bathroom?"
When she wasn't asking one of those questions, the other three were in the back fighting over what road trip game we should play next. Twenty questions, I Spy, and Name that Tune were being played over and over again.
"Dad, I don't want to play that again,'' said Shelby. "They always win and get to pick what they want to play because they are older."
After hearing this, I morphed into my Dad when we used to go on long trips when I was a child. I couldn't believe it was happening, but there was no stopping it.
"Hey girls, why don't you play the Quiet game?"
"What's that?" asked Vanna.
"Let's see who can be the quietest the longest. The winner gets to pick the next CD we play. OK?"
For one minute, it worked. They were quiet and were doing nothing but looking at each other waiting for the other to crack. Then, it was over.
"Dad, this game sucks," said Kern, the oldest and less apt to fall for the trick. "All the CDs are yours any ways, so we don't want to listen to them any way."
With that, we were back to the, "Are we there yets?", "I am hungry,", and "How much longers?". I was about to scream when I finally saw what I was looking for:
Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery, 2 miles
The girls began to scream as I turned on the dirt road that led to the hatchery. After driving for a mile, we reached the entrance only to find the gate closed and locked.
"Dad, what does the sign say?"
"Alani, it says its closed because it is damaged from a flood,'' said Kern. "Well, Dad, that was worth the drive."
I couldn't respond to that the way I wanted to, so instead I unloaded the girls and we had lunch outside the gate while sitting on the dirt road. They asked a few questions about the surrounding mountains and it appeared as if I was forgiven.
Then, Vanna asked a question that she didn't like the answer to.
"Can we go to the mall here?"
"Babe, this is a little town. They don't have a mall here."
"Why did we come here?"
"I don't know, babe. I don't know."
And, my girls will never let me forget it.
In the movie Vacation, Chevy Chase plays Clark Griswold, a family man who plans a cross country trip with his family to visit the fictional amusement park Wally World. After mishap after mishap, the family finally arrives to Wally World only to find it closed for a week due to repairs.
A great watch for the audience, however, in real life with four daughters in a car on a five-hour round trip drive, it's nothing short of hell.
I came up with a plan Sunday morning to take my girls to one of my favorite destinations as a child. Nestled under in the Eastern Sierra mountains, the Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery is one of the oldest in the state and one of the most visited.
I told my girls all about the hatchery during breakfast and tried to convince them that it was worth the long drive. They were skeptical to say the least, but agreed that it beat staying home on a beautiful Spring day.
We took off shortly after breakfast and it didn't take long for the 4-year-old to start doing what 4-year-olds do on long trips.
"Are we there yet?"
That was quickly followed by, "Can we stop? I have to go to the bathroom?"
When she wasn't asking one of those questions, the other three were in the back fighting over what road trip game we should play next. Twenty questions, I Spy, and Name that Tune were being played over and over again.
"Dad, I don't want to play that again,'' said Shelby. "They always win and get to pick what they want to play because they are older."
After hearing this, I morphed into my Dad when we used to go on long trips when I was a child. I couldn't believe it was happening, but there was no stopping it.
"Hey girls, why don't you play the Quiet game?"
"What's that?" asked Vanna.
"Let's see who can be the quietest the longest. The winner gets to pick the next CD we play. OK?"
For one minute, it worked. They were quiet and were doing nothing but looking at each other waiting for the other to crack. Then, it was over.
"Dad, this game sucks," said Kern, the oldest and less apt to fall for the trick. "All the CDs are yours any ways, so we don't want to listen to them any way."
With that, we were back to the, "Are we there yets?", "I am hungry,", and "How much longers?". I was about to scream when I finally saw what I was looking for:
Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery, 2 miles
The girls began to scream as I turned on the dirt road that led to the hatchery. After driving for a mile, we reached the entrance only to find the gate closed and locked.
"Dad, what does the sign say?"
"Alani, it says its closed because it is damaged from a flood,'' said Kern. "Well, Dad, that was worth the drive."
I couldn't respond to that the way I wanted to, so instead I unloaded the girls and we had lunch outside the gate while sitting on the dirt road. They asked a few questions about the surrounding mountains and it appeared as if I was forgiven.
Then, Vanna asked a question that she didn't like the answer to.
"Can we go to the mall here?"
"Babe, this is a little town. They don't have a mall here."
"Why did we come here?"
"I don't know, babe. I don't know."
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Bested by a Kindergartner
As a parent, you always want your children to have more than you did and to be better than you. As far as being better than me, my girls don't have to do much to best me.
It took six months in Kindergarten for my second youngest to do something I never did as a student. She made sure I knew about it as soon as I got home from work Friday afternoon.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yea, baby?"
"Were you ever the Student of the Month when you were in school?"
"No, I don't think I ever was Shelby."
"Ha Ha. I was just name Student of the Month, Daddy! What do you think about that?"
"That's awesome, baby!"
After saying that, I scooped her up and gave her the biggest hug. While she was in my arms, she whispered something in my ear that I will never forget.
"Don't be mad at me, Dad. But, I am already better than you. And, I am six!"
Little turd. But, I couldn't argue with her.
It took six months in Kindergarten for my second youngest to do something I never did as a student. She made sure I knew about it as soon as I got home from work Friday afternoon.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Yea, baby?"
"Were you ever the Student of the Month when you were in school?"
"No, I don't think I ever was Shelby."
"Ha Ha. I was just name Student of the Month, Daddy! What do you think about that?"
"That's awesome, baby!"
After saying that, I scooped her up and gave her the biggest hug. While she was in my arms, she whispered something in my ear that I will never forget.
"Don't be mad at me, Dad. But, I am already better than you. And, I am six!"
Little turd. But, I couldn't argue with her.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
A word from a sponsor
A little warning before you continue reading: I am going to pimp myself out for little to next to nothing. I can't help it. I will do just about anything to get something for free.
Even if it something that I don't see myself using. Ever.
I received an email today from someone asking me to promote a "Save our Saturday" Program from the Krylon company. If I write about it, Krylon will send me a can of its' Wood Stain Spray. Huh? The only wood I work with is my own and I am not willing to spray anything on my "wood".
I am not the kind of guy who does "Tool Time Tim" type of work. If the there is anything that is needed to be done around my house I grab the local newspaper, find a handyman, call him, and then sit back and let him fix whatever needs to be fixed.
I know my limitations and I am OK with it. As Popeye said so eloquently, "I am who I am, and that's all that I am."
Nevertheless, promoting a program that helps guys getting their Saturday's back and limit the amount of time they are doing chores around the house is something that I have no problem doing. Men should have more time to drink beer and watch mind-killing TV on a Saturday.
Here is a detailed description about the program straight from the email:
"Krylon is launching a “Save Our Saturday” Program, which will have a sports trivia contest for free tickets to the World Series and a free HDTV on its site. The site will be promoting Krylon’s new Exterior Wood Stain Spray for refinishing old wood furniture, floors, fences, etc. The product is not so much for handymen or woodworkers, as much as it is for dads who want to SAVE TIME on their weekends (the spray takes about ¼ the amount of time that conventional wood stain takes)."
The email also stated that they hope their program will help men with the "dreaded" honey-do list. I must say, this is another thing that I can't relate to like other men can.
I have been on my own for so long now, I don't even know what having a honey-do list is like. What I have is a shit-to-do list. May not seem like there is big difference between the two, but the difference is huge.
A honey-do list is something you better get done on a Saturday or you will be spending the night on the couch. A shit-to-do list is the shit you are thinking about doing while you are sleeping on the couch all day long.
See the difference? I'd much rather have my shit-to-do list.
To the Krylon Company, I hope I did a good enough job promoting your new program. I want my can of Wood Stain Spray.
I can't wait to see the damage my daughters will do with it.
Even if it something that I don't see myself using. Ever.
I received an email today from someone asking me to promote a "Save our Saturday" Program from the Krylon company. If I write about it, Krylon will send me a can of its' Wood Stain Spray. Huh? The only wood I work with is my own and I am not willing to spray anything on my "wood".
I am not the kind of guy who does "Tool Time Tim" type of work. If the there is anything that is needed to be done around my house I grab the local newspaper, find a handyman, call him, and then sit back and let him fix whatever needs to be fixed.
I know my limitations and I am OK with it. As Popeye said so eloquently, "I am who I am, and that's all that I am."
Nevertheless, promoting a program that helps guys getting their Saturday's back and limit the amount of time they are doing chores around the house is something that I have no problem doing. Men should have more time to drink beer and watch mind-killing TV on a Saturday.
Here is a detailed description about the program straight from the email:
"Krylon is launching a “Save Our Saturday” Program, which will have a sports trivia contest for free tickets to the World Series and a free HDTV on its site. The site will be promoting Krylon’s new Exterior Wood Stain Spray for refinishing old wood furniture, floors, fences, etc. The product is not so much for handymen or woodworkers, as much as it is for dads who want to SAVE TIME on their weekends (the spray takes about ¼ the amount of time that conventional wood stain takes)."
The email also stated that they hope their program will help men with the "dreaded" honey-do list. I must say, this is another thing that I can't relate to like other men can.
I have been on my own for so long now, I don't even know what having a honey-do list is like. What I have is a shit-to-do list. May not seem like there is big difference between the two, but the difference is huge.
A honey-do list is something you better get done on a Saturday or you will be spending the night on the couch. A shit-to-do list is the shit you are thinking about doing while you are sleeping on the couch all day long.
See the difference? I'd much rather have my shit-to-do list.
To the Krylon Company, I hope I did a good enough job promoting your new program. I want my can of Wood Stain Spray.
I can't wait to see the damage my daughters will do with it.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Date night with Shelby
While growing up, I was a klutz who spent many nights in the emergency room. There was never a year that I didn't spend some time in the hospital.
There was a concussion after running into a pole while in a kindergarten, a broken rib suffered in a baseball game as a 12-year-old, a deep cut to my right knee from a bike spoke, and I almost cut a pinkie finger off while working as a slicer at an Italian restaurant as a teenager. Throw in four surgeries for various health issues, and it shouldn't surprise that many of the hospital staff knew me on a first name basis.
After each trip, my parents always had some gift waiting for me at home. It always made me feel loved when I walked into my room and found some present waiting for me on my bed.
On Thursday afternoon, I was able to do the same thing for one my own daughters. I received a call during my last class from her mother that Shelby split her chin open after falling on a toy box. I left work in a hurry and spent the afternoon with my six-year-old in a local urgent care.
The result was a night that neither of us will ever forget.
She received six stitches to close up a cut that the doctor said was one of the worst she had seen. My daughter was a trooper during the ordeal and I knew I had to come up with something to give her like my parents had for me after my hospital visits.
I had two tickets to a Los Angeles Lakers' game later that night and had troubles finding someone to go with me. While waiting to be seen, I had received a number of text messages from friends saying that for some reason or other they would not be able to join me to watch one of the best teams in the NBA.
Shelby kept telling me different friends I should try and invite to the game, but never came up with person I knew I should take.
"Hey, I know someone I can take to the game," I said.
"Who?"
"You!"
She smiled so big at my response that the doctor warned her about possibly reopening her cut. We both laughed at that and walked hand in hand out the door.
She talked endlessly during the two-hour drive and never stopped asking questions about what she was going to see. I have never seen her so excited, however, it would have been nice for a few quiet moments while trying to navigate through LA traffic.
As soon as we walked into Staples Center, she had to have a Lakers' t-shirt, a foam finger in the shape of the No. 1 sign, an ice cream cone, and a large bottle of water. She was quickly becoming an expensive date.
While waiting for the game to start, she asked me what I thought was an innocent question. It ended up being a dig at her old man.
"Dad, who do you think will win the game?"
"The Lakers are going to win for sure, baby."
"Well, that will be nice. Your basketball and football teams never win."
She is definitely my daughter.
Despite that comment, we had a great night and the Lakers did win. She stood up the entire game cheering and yelling "MVP" every time the Kobe Bryant got the ball.
As we walked out, she said thanks and that she had a great time. Shelby even said that she was glad that she got hurt and was able to spend the night all on her own with me.
I couldn't have agreed with her more.
There was a concussion after running into a pole while in a kindergarten, a broken rib suffered in a baseball game as a 12-year-old, a deep cut to my right knee from a bike spoke, and I almost cut a pinkie finger off while working as a slicer at an Italian restaurant as a teenager. Throw in four surgeries for various health issues, and it shouldn't surprise that many of the hospital staff knew me on a first name basis.
After each trip, my parents always had some gift waiting for me at home. It always made me feel loved when I walked into my room and found some present waiting for me on my bed.
On Thursday afternoon, I was able to do the same thing for one my own daughters. I received a call during my last class from her mother that Shelby split her chin open after falling on a toy box. I left work in a hurry and spent the afternoon with my six-year-old in a local urgent care.
The result was a night that neither of us will ever forget.
She received six stitches to close up a cut that the doctor said was one of the worst she had seen. My daughter was a trooper during the ordeal and I knew I had to come up with something to give her like my parents had for me after my hospital visits.
I had two tickets to a Los Angeles Lakers' game later that night and had troubles finding someone to go with me. While waiting to be seen, I had received a number of text messages from friends saying that for some reason or other they would not be able to join me to watch one of the best teams in the NBA.
Shelby kept telling me different friends I should try and invite to the game, but never came up with person I knew I should take.
"Hey, I know someone I can take to the game," I said.
"Who?"
"You!"
She smiled so big at my response that the doctor warned her about possibly reopening her cut. We both laughed at that and walked hand in hand out the door.
She talked endlessly during the two-hour drive and never stopped asking questions about what she was going to see. I have never seen her so excited, however, it would have been nice for a few quiet moments while trying to navigate through LA traffic.
As soon as we walked into Staples Center, she had to have a Lakers' t-shirt, a foam finger in the shape of the No. 1 sign, an ice cream cone, and a large bottle of water. She was quickly becoming an expensive date.
While waiting for the game to start, she asked me what I thought was an innocent question. It ended up being a dig at her old man.
"Dad, who do you think will win the game?"
"The Lakers are going to win for sure, baby."
"Well, that will be nice. Your basketball and football teams never win."
She is definitely my daughter.
Despite that comment, we had a great night and the Lakers did win. She stood up the entire game cheering and yelling "MVP" every time the Kobe Bryant got the ball.
As we walked out, she said thanks and that she had a great time. Shelby even said that she was glad that she got hurt and was able to spend the night all on her own with me.
I couldn't have agreed with her more.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Realizing a dream
Remember when you were a kid and someone would ask what you wanted to be when you grew up? I do. And, I lied every time.
I would answer with the customary pilot, fireman, teacher, or policeman response. Sometimes, to get a laugh, I would poke fun of my small stature and say that I wanted to be horse jockey.
All were bullshit responses, of course. I, unlike my classmates, knew what I wanted to be since I was a 5-year-old.
I wanted to be the head football coach at our local high school. My Dad took me to a game when I was in first grade and that night was all I thought about for days.
I kept bugging my Dad to take me again and he finally did. Over and over again. All I could think about while watching the games was one day playing on that field and then later coaching on it.
Ten years later, I did play on that field and would for four years. Unfortunately, God dealt me a cruel blow by stopping my growth in seventh grade. I played as a 5-6, 120-pound wide receiver who offered the team very little in my playing ability.
What I did offer was someone who gave it his all at every practice and game and one who became a spiritual leader. While my teammates were doing everything on the field to get us a win, I was on the sidelines rooting and waving a towel to get the crowd involved.
I loved every minute of it, but often was embarrassed about being nothing more than a cheerleader in pads. What I really wanted was the chance to make a difference on the field.
That never happened in high school. However, two years ago I realized my dream of becoming the school's head football coach. With the same enthusiasm that I had as a player, it is now my responsibility to bring the winning tradition back to the proud school.
It's the opportunity I always wanted.
For more Wordful Wednesdays go to Seven Clown Circus.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Calgon for men
I remember being a kid and seeing a commercial with a woman having a rough day with her children. Her only escape was running to her bathroom, drawing a hot bath, and slipping deep inside with a smile spread across her face.
I never got that commercial. What could be so hard about spending the day with your children? You wanted them, didn't you?
Some 30 years and four daughters later, I get it. I get every fucking bit of it.
Kids are nuts and aren't satisfied until you are, too. Do they ever slow down and shut up for two seconds? If I wasn't the one who fed them every meal and snack, I'd wonder what the hell they ate to give them all that energy.
The energizer bunny has got nothing on my kids.
For those who want to offer me advise on how to control my kids or what activities would keep them better occupied without my constant attention, kiss off. I have tried them and they don't work.
Not with these girls. No, they can't seem to do anything without including me or allowing me to do anything without including them. What the hell do they do when I am work? Walk around the house all day calling, "Dad? Dad? Dad?"
They really are pathetic little things. In the four years of being a single father who has his kids as much if not more than their mother, I think I can count four or five times that I have gone to the bathroom without one of them walking in and sitting down to have a conversation with me.
It really is a big joke to them. They seem to get so much pleasure out of watching me get so flustered by their actions.
"Dad, your funny. You always make me laugh," said to me today as I threw my hands up in disgust after the four-year spilled her cup of milk for the fourth time at one sitting.
"Yea, Dad," the oldest one piped in. "My teacher always says don't cry over spilled milk."
Alright, that was funny. We all laughed for a few minutes as I wiped up the mess. Again.
But, it was short-lived. They were right back to causing havoc within minutes.
Like I said, I now know what that old commercial was all about. I totally get it.
So, to the Calgon people and their commercials of women jumping into bath tubs, I challenge you to make a commercial for me. Something that includes a keg of beer, endless amount of pizza, big breasted women that don't talk, and a television that doesn't play Disney movies.
Oh, and no kids.
(For those who haven't read my blog, I love my kids more than anything, so forget about leaving me a comment about how lucky I am to have four beautiful girls. I know how lucky I am, so shut the hell up!)
I never got that commercial. What could be so hard about spending the day with your children? You wanted them, didn't you?
Some 30 years and four daughters later, I get it. I get every fucking bit of it.
Kids are nuts and aren't satisfied until you are, too. Do they ever slow down and shut up for two seconds? If I wasn't the one who fed them every meal and snack, I'd wonder what the hell they ate to give them all that energy.
The energizer bunny has got nothing on my kids.
For those who want to offer me advise on how to control my kids or what activities would keep them better occupied without my constant attention, kiss off. I have tried them and they don't work.
Not with these girls. No, they can't seem to do anything without including me or allowing me to do anything without including them. What the hell do they do when I am work? Walk around the house all day calling, "Dad? Dad? Dad?"
They really are pathetic little things. In the four years of being a single father who has his kids as much if not more than their mother, I think I can count four or five times that I have gone to the bathroom without one of them walking in and sitting down to have a conversation with me.
It really is a big joke to them. They seem to get so much pleasure out of watching me get so flustered by their actions.
"Dad, your funny. You always make me laugh," said to me today as I threw my hands up in disgust after the four-year spilled her cup of milk for the fourth time at one sitting.
"Yea, Dad," the oldest one piped in. "My teacher always says don't cry over spilled milk."
Alright, that was funny. We all laughed for a few minutes as I wiped up the mess. Again.
But, it was short-lived. They were right back to causing havoc within minutes.
Like I said, I now know what that old commercial was all about. I totally get it.
So, to the Calgon people and their commercials of women jumping into bath tubs, I challenge you to make a commercial for me. Something that includes a keg of beer, endless amount of pizza, big breasted women that don't talk, and a television that doesn't play Disney movies.
Oh, and no kids.
(For those who haven't read my blog, I love my kids more than anything, so forget about leaving me a comment about how lucky I am to have four beautiful girls. I know how lucky I am, so shut the hell up!)
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Surviving the weekend
Single father's survivor guide to a weekend with four girls. A weekend with the satellite TV down and my car out of commission.
Planning is in order to ensure that all five of us will be breathing at the end of the weekend.
1. Stay home on a Friday night and get much needed sleep before the crew comes home at 12 p.m. May be the only sleep you get all weekend. Check.
2. Find website to make packets for each child of coloring pages, ABCs and math worksheets, and word searches. The busier they are the quieter they will be. Check.
3. Find perfect DVD that can be on a continuous loop and keep them entertained while I try and cook meals without eight hands getting in the way. Pick up High School Musical 3 Senior Year on the way home from work. Check.
4. Pray for weekend with no rain. Giving the girls an opportunity to run around outside will tire them and hopefully and have them nicely tucked in bed at 8 p.m. and ready for sleep. Check.
5. Have mental health disorder hotline number on speed dial. Things may get crazy and I want to make sure I am not the one who is going nuts. Check.
6. Establish countdown on desktop that tracks time until bedtime Sunday evening. Being able to see the light at the end tunnel will help get me to the finish line. Check.
7. Create secret hiding spot that I can go to when we play hide and go seek over and over again. Finding the perfect spot may lead to not being found for hours and able to catch a quick nap. Check.
8. Make all important phone calls before girls get here. Nothing worse than starting a conversation with another adult only to be interrupted by having to scream at the girls to stop jumping from the top of the stairs, pulling each others hair out, digging for treasure in the fireplace, or anything that will lead to a trip to the ER or hours of cleanup. Don't want a friend or loved one thinking that I don't have control of my kids. Check.
9. Hide female roommates make-up products, scissors, and permanent markers. There will be no daddy makeovers, uninvited hair cuts, or art work on walls, tables, or hardwood floor. Check.
10. Offer incentive program to roommates to leave the house for the weekend. One took the bait of free utilities for the month by heading to San Diego, while the other will most certainly leave after a few minutes of seeing the chaos the weekend will offer. Can't afford to lose a roommate because they can't handle my kids. Check.
11. Have access to extra-strength Tylenol on hand at all times. Headaches are sure to come early and often. Check.
12. Continue to remind myself that my girls are the most important thing in my life. Their happiness depends on my behavior. Won't always be easy to remember, but I am counting on those moments when one of them says or does something that is so damn cute and perfect that I will have to scoop them and up and hold them as tightly as possible. Check.
Wish me luck as I proclaim myself ready for the weekend. Who knows what will happen, but I am sure there will be something to write about Sunday after they are in bed.
Planning is in order to ensure that all five of us will be breathing at the end of the weekend.
1. Stay home on a Friday night and get much needed sleep before the crew comes home at 12 p.m. May be the only sleep you get all weekend. Check.
2. Find website to make packets for each child of coloring pages, ABCs and math worksheets, and word searches. The busier they are the quieter they will be. Check.
3. Find perfect DVD that can be on a continuous loop and keep them entertained while I try and cook meals without eight hands getting in the way. Pick up High School Musical 3 Senior Year on the way home from work. Check.
4. Pray for weekend with no rain. Giving the girls an opportunity to run around outside will tire them and hopefully and have them nicely tucked in bed at 8 p.m. and ready for sleep. Check.
5. Have mental health disorder hotline number on speed dial. Things may get crazy and I want to make sure I am not the one who is going nuts. Check.
6. Establish countdown on desktop that tracks time until bedtime Sunday evening. Being able to see the light at the end tunnel will help get me to the finish line. Check.
7. Create secret hiding spot that I can go to when we play hide and go seek over and over again. Finding the perfect spot may lead to not being found for hours and able to catch a quick nap. Check.
8. Make all important phone calls before girls get here. Nothing worse than starting a conversation with another adult only to be interrupted by having to scream at the girls to stop jumping from the top of the stairs, pulling each others hair out, digging for treasure in the fireplace, or anything that will lead to a trip to the ER or hours of cleanup. Don't want a friend or loved one thinking that I don't have control of my kids. Check.
9. Hide female roommates make-up products, scissors, and permanent markers. There will be no daddy makeovers, uninvited hair cuts, or art work on walls, tables, or hardwood floor. Check.
10. Offer incentive program to roommates to leave the house for the weekend. One took the bait of free utilities for the month by heading to San Diego, while the other will most certainly leave after a few minutes of seeing the chaos the weekend will offer. Can't afford to lose a roommate because they can't handle my kids. Check.
11. Have access to extra-strength Tylenol on hand at all times. Headaches are sure to come early and often. Check.
12. Continue to remind myself that my girls are the most important thing in my life. Their happiness depends on my behavior. Won't always be easy to remember, but I am counting on those moments when one of them says or does something that is so damn cute and perfect that I will have to scoop them and up and hold them as tightly as possible. Check.
Wish me luck as I proclaim myself ready for the weekend. Who knows what will happen, but I am sure there will be something to write about Sunday after they are in bed.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Me and Hannah Montana
I still remember the day I realized that my Dad was no longer cool. It was heartbreaking, shocking, embarrassing, and funny all at the same time.
I was a sophomore in high school and was enjoying a Saturday morning of laying on the couch watching a college football game. My viewing pleasure was interrupted when I received a phone call from a classmate.
The first sentenced that came from him changed the whole perception I had of my father.
"Brett, your Dad is in your front yard washing his truck in speedos."
"What?"
"No lie, man. My Mom and I just drove by and saw him out there. She was laughing her ass off. Just thought you should know."
As I hung up the phone, I hoped that my friend was messing with me and my Dad was not wearing speedos. I knew he owned a pair, however, to actually where them out in public? He couldn't, could he?
When I get to the front window and peered out, I saw that he could. We lived in a neighborhood where so many of my friends lived and he was out there in something that looked like a bottom to a woman's bikini.
Just thinking about that visual causes my stomach to knot up. It is a memory that I hope doesn't come back to me again.
However, that moment made me make a vow to myself that I would always try to remain cool in the eyes of my future children. It is a mantra that remains with me today as the father of four beautiful girls.
In an effort to further my coolhood with my children, I fixed my head on the body of Billy Ray Cyrus in a picture with his daughter Miley over the weekend. I then placed the picture of Hannah Montana and I on the desktop of my computer and waited for my girls to notice.
Their reaction was perfect.
"Dad, Dad, Dad..." yelled Shelby. "When were you with Hannah Montana? Savannah, Alani, come here and check this out!"
As the three marveled at the picture, I played coy in the kitchen while making their lunch.
"Dad, this isn't real,'' said Vannah, the oldest of the three. "Can you do this with us and put us with her? This is cool!"
It worked. I am still cool in the eyes of my girls.
As far as my Dad? He lives 12 hours away now. He can wear speedos whenever he wants and still be cool to me.
For more Wordful Wednesdays go to Seven Clown Circus.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Ready for work
I am tired. Dead tired. Tomorrow my girls have the day off from school and I am glad I have to work.
They wore me out this weekend. I have nothing left. I can't believe that I am looking forward to teaching 200 high school kids tomorrow and not staying home with my precious angels.
There are days where the daily chores of being a single father can be more overwhelming than anything I face as a high school PE teacher. Today, was one of those days.
My girls wanted and needed everything. It never ended. At the end of it all, I felt like I was a pinata with my daughters taking turns swinging at me. They never missed.
Not with the typical baseball bat, but with request after request that hit me hard and often. By 7 p.m., I was ready to throw in the towel and cry mercy.
However, it was to no avail. Even a heart-felt plea fell on deaf ears.
"Girls, please, let me just have a break. I am done. I can't do it anymore tonight. Ok?"
My girls adore me and I really thought my little fit would get them to understand I had hit the wall. I was wrong.
Shelby put me in my place with her response.
"Dad, you are our Dad. You have to do it just like we have to clean up after we play. Why are you getting upset? You chose to have us, Dad."
"Shelby, I am glad I have you. But, I am tired. Can I just have a few minutes to sit down?"
"Sure. But, can you make our dessert first? And, don't forget, you promised we could all play Go Fish. And, I get to pick out the book you read to us tonight, remember?"
"Yea, I remember Shelby. Let's go. I'll rest when you guys go to sleep."
I also remember why having to work tomorrow doesn't seem all that bad.
They wore me out this weekend. I have nothing left. I can't believe that I am looking forward to teaching 200 high school kids tomorrow and not staying home with my precious angels.
There are days where the daily chores of being a single father can be more overwhelming than anything I face as a high school PE teacher. Today, was one of those days.
My girls wanted and needed everything. It never ended. At the end of it all, I felt like I was a pinata with my daughters taking turns swinging at me. They never missed.
Not with the typical baseball bat, but with request after request that hit me hard and often. By 7 p.m., I was ready to throw in the towel and cry mercy.
However, it was to no avail. Even a heart-felt plea fell on deaf ears.
"Girls, please, let me just have a break. I am done. I can't do it anymore tonight. Ok?"
My girls adore me and I really thought my little fit would get them to understand I had hit the wall. I was wrong.
Shelby put me in my place with her response.
"Dad, you are our Dad. You have to do it just like we have to clean up after we play. Why are you getting upset? You chose to have us, Dad."
"Shelby, I am glad I have you. But, I am tired. Can I just have a few minutes to sit down?"
"Sure. But, can you make our dessert first? And, don't forget, you promised we could all play Go Fish. And, I get to pick out the book you read to us tonight, remember?"
"Yea, I remember Shelby. Let's go. I'll rest when you guys go to sleep."
I also remember why having to work tomorrow doesn't seem all that bad.
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