Love in the Disney Store

Recently my 9 year-old son's lacrosse coach was teasing him about having a girlfriend, to which Sean immediately protested that he does NOT! While many fathers joke about not being able to deal with their daughters dating (I am one such father), the idea of my son starting to develop crushes, eventually dating, falling in love, is all a bit much to wrap my head around. I was reminded of something that happened years ago when he was little. The following story took place on April 22, 2010 - Earth Day. I know that because I took my son, just over 3 at the time to the Disney Store where we turned in aluminum cans for a free hat.

Back then my son and I had a tradition. Once a month we’d drive up to Woodfield Mall for lunch at the Rainforest Cafe. After we ate, we of course went upstairs to the Disney Store to nose around. Sean would always make a beeline for the Cars section and tell me we needed to buy EVERYTHING!

After a few minutes I’d convince him that we couldn't buy everything “this time” and he’d accept that and move on, always to the two displays near the checkout counter. Every Disney store has them. Essentially two point-of-sale "junk" towers meant to trick us parents into spending another $3 - $5 bucks before we leave. They're full of balls, wind-up toys, key chains, etc.

One side geared toward little girls, housing mostly Princess merchandise. The other tower held the more traditionally boy-centric stuff. Sean would spend hours there, if he could. Taking out each little toy, pulling the cars back and letting them race across the store, oblivious to the many reasons he shouldn't.

One afternoon as I stood there leaning on my empty stroller (Sean could walk of course, but that was the problem – he had a tendency to wander off) I happened to look up and see a mom around my age also piloting an empty stroller. Actually in hers sat a pile of shopping bags. I looked over to the girls' toy tower, and there was this little Princess. Literally, a little brunette toddler dressed in a puffy turquoise dress and slippers. She was twirling absently around the store, smiling and singing to herself.

And it turned out I wasn't the only one who noticed. I glanced over at Sean, who moments before was on his knees engrossed in every kind of plastic Buzz Lightyear, Handy Manny, and Stitch he could find. Now he was on his feet, fingers in his mouth, grinning with wide-eyed wonder at this little girl.

A new music video began to play on the large screen at the back of the store. The song, I would learn was "When I Look At You" by Miley Cyrus (back before she officially assassinated her wholesome, Hannah Montana persona.)  

Go ahead, press play. You know you want to.

The little Princess began to dance circles around my son. His big brown eyes never fell away. I’d never seen him like this. The girl stopped in front of him as the music played and said "I'm Princess Ariel, and you're Prince Erik."

The mother and I looked up at each other and smiled. I don't know which of us had the glossiest set of eyes at that moment.

She danced around Sean again, and he just kind of swayed to the music a little. When he was little like that he was seldom afraid to dance if the mood hit him, but in that moment it was like he was discovering something new. He wasn't sure what it what it was, but he definitely seemed to like it. His smile made that apparent. Again she said, but this time directly to me, "I'm Princess Ariel and he's Prince Erik."

I found myself actually speechless. And to be honest, on the verge of getting emotional. It wouldn't do for a grown man to come to tears in the Disney Store.

Finally the song ended and the girl and her mother moved on, but I caught both kids stealing glances at each other as we made our way around the store. I wasn’t sure if they were just kids being kids, or if those two little ones had formed an spontaneous, innocent bond.

It was a strange moment where I felt like I should do something. But what do you do? Ask for a strange, married woman's number so your kids can have a play date . . . or we can set them up in 13 years? That’s not creepy at all, no matter how innocent the intentions.

The truth is there was nothing to do. It was just one of those moments – a beautiful moment of childhood innocence between two sweet souls. Few and far between, they are, but when we are given them we're meant to just step back and take it in.

For a few minutes, my son had the perfect relationship. The purest love there ever was or will be.

I vowed to remember that day, and when he's old enough, tell him about it, as I’m sure he doesn’t remember. I think it impacted me more than him. He'll probably tell me I'm crazy, but I hope he finds it. Not too soon, of course.

 

Is this racist?

Sincere question.  Is this racist?


I am by no means some social justice warrior or hipster. Quite frankly, I think this world has gone way overboard with the political correctness. I have an extremely inappropriate sense of humor. I like to push the envelope as much as possible without crossing the line from "naughty" to straight-up terrible human being.  That said, I am very sensitive to the plight of other races, religions, etc. I believe we should all be able to joke and have fun, but be aware of the lines and not intentionally hurt or offend people. That’s not PC, that’s just being a decent human being.

So that’s why I’m asking a serious question. My daughter has decided she wants to be Mulan for Halloween. My wife’s cousin lives in Hong Kong where she is a teacher. Or artist. Honestly, I’m not really sure. But she does live in Hong Kong. They are home for a visit and she gave both of my girls authentic Chinese dresses. Dresses everyone else in the family keep calling Kimonos not caring that kimonos are Japanese, not Chinese. What my cousin-in-law (that’s a thing, right?) gave my daughters is actually a cheongsam, or Mandarin gown in English. It is a traditional, body-hugging Chinese dress.

See, cultural sensitivity . . . and Wikipedia.

My older daughter Maya, who is 5, and I might add seems to have an affinity for Asian things as it is, immediately fell in love with it and announced she wanted to be Mulan this year come Halloween. To which I said that is a great idea. However she went on to say she needs white face paint and makeup. After all, in the movie when Mulan is dressed formally she wears the white makeup and bright lipstick common to the Chinese upper-class who valued pale skin as a sign of wealth and stature (again, thanks Wikipedia!) I suddenly grew a little uneasy.

I have Japanese friends. I have Korean friends. I don’t know that I have Chinese friends that I could ask. Would it be offensive if my daughter who comes from Irish / Swedish heritage put on Geisha-like makeup and paraded around the neighborhood? When I expressed concern about it, I was told I'm being silly. Plus, now that Halloween has become about how young is too young to dress as "slutty Minnie Mouse" I guess her wanting to dress in Chinese white face might not be so bad. I don't know . . .


Also, there is an issue of dumb Americans who immediately associate Geisha with prostitution, which is incorrect and ignorant. That I knew even without Wikipedia . . . sort of. I'm really not interested in dealing with that.


So I’m left wondering what other parents think. Is it unintentionally racist? Should I just give her the dress, maybe a black wig, and Mushu plush and let her explain who she is? Or am I overthinking it?

That should clear it up, right?

Tryin' to reason with tornado season

“Well, the wind is blowin' harder now
Fifty knots or thereabouts
There's white caps on the ocean
And I'm watchin' for waterspouts” ~ Jimmy Buffett; Tryin’ to Reason with Hurricane Season

Three-quarters of the year or so I spend much of my time daydreaming about living in the Southeast. I’ve had an attachment to the Sunshine State in-particular since I was 9 years-old, and not only because it’s where Walt Disney World is located. Although I admit that is a big part of it. I love palm trees and lizards and the idea of ocean only a short drive in either direction. However, this is that rare time of year when I DON’T envy all my friends living down in Florida. And the news the last couple days is reiterating that feeling.

Not that we don’t get our share of rough weather here in the Midwest, especially in the summer. Summer brings heat and humidity and with it, the very real threat of tornadoes dropping out of the clouds with little warning. In an earlier blog post I mentioned how my youngest daughter was not a fan of mine the first month of her life, and it was only after an "act of God" that she and I found peace. It was in late-June, only four short years ago.

My wife had taken the two older kids to her sister’s house about an hour north of us for a day of swimming and frolicking. I’m not a fan of public pools and volunteered to stay home with the baby who was on a strict nap schedule and didn’t need to be out in the hot sun anyway. In truth I just wanted to spend a Sunday planted on the couch. Early that afternoon I was doing just that, lounging on the sofa watching a movie while the baby napped. I wasn’t even paying attention to the scene just outside the patio door a few feet away, until I noticed some strange movement from the corner of my eye.

If you have kids, you’re probably familiar with the red and yellow Little Tikes Cozy Coupe. It’s every child’s first car. I suddenly became aware that my kids’ Coupe was flying across the cement patio just outside the door. I thought “well that’s peculiar.” Then I also noticed the sky had gone from sunny and blue to a muddy shade of green, and our neighbors' trees were currently sideways. I flipped over to the regular television in time to hear the Emergency Broadcast System finishing a sentence with “. . . hurricane force winds” followed by my county and “get to the shelter of a basement.” I clicked it off and bolted upstairs, grabbing the sleeping baby (who would be pissed at me, but what else was new?)

I headed down into our cold, concrete basement and held her tight in the corner as what little light usually crept in the subterranean windows faded to darkness. The rain was coming down in sheets so loud I could hear it hitting the roof, three levels above. I thought to myself “as long as we don’t lose power, we’ll be okay.” No sooner did I finish that thought then everything went dead. The lights. The air conditioning unit. Everything. Welcome to the stone age. I rushed over to the corner of the basement and peered into the sump pump using my phone as a flashlight, holding the still sleeping (thank God) baby in my free hand. The water level was surprisingly low. We had time before I really needed to worry. If that thing overflowed, I’d have a real problem. If the rain continued, the basement would flood. No question.

That’s when water in the basement fell a few rungs on the ladder of my concerns. It suddenly sounded like a locomotive was rushing through our backyard. You don’t hear a tornado – you feel it in your soul, and it’s terrifying. Especially when you’re standing in a dark basement clutching a newborn to your chest, with no clue where the rest of your family is at the moment.  I could feel the ground vibrating below me. Thoughts flood your brain like “what if this isn’t the safest spot in the house? What if the whole house collapses on top of us?”
I’ve grown up my whole life seeing horrific news footage of post-tornado devastation here in my own state. Plus, I’ve seen Twister about a hundred times. That’s when my daughter woke up and began to cry, not happy to find herself out of her crib and in the clutches of the hairy one! I tried my best to be calm and comforting, even though there was nobody to do the same for me. Those are the moments you regret any immature ounce frustration or resentment you ever felt toward those little ones for waking you in the night, spitting up on you, or keeping you from any semblance of a social life. You are once again reminded they are all that matters to you. Those are also the moments you find yourself trying to negotiate with your maker.  

Thankfully, while it felt like an eternity, it wasn’t but a minute or two before the rumbling and howling was gone. The pitch black at the top of the basement windows gave way to green, and then gray as a little light found its way down to us again. I breathed a deep sigh. Then rain began pelting the windows again. I looked back into the sump pump. The water was literally kissing the edges of the tank. Panicked, I looked around for anywhere to put the baby since I hadn't thought to grab her carrier. I grabbed a Rubbermaid container of hand-me-down clothes and gently placed her in it, surrounded her with a wall of soft pajamas and winter coats. Then I grabbed another, much bigger Rubbermaid; this one filled with Gorilla Blocks we’d bought our son a few years before and he never played with. They’re essentially enormous foam Legos. I dumped them out across the floor and pulled it to the well, along with an empty plastic wastebasket and began bailing water. For a solid ten minutes I stood there hunched over, trying to stay ahead of the rising water before it was covering the linoleum tile.


Eventually the rain stopped and I realized the water level was staying where I’d left it. Thank God, because the giant Rubbermaid was nearly full of brown, leafy water. I went back to my daughter and held her to my chest. This time she didn’t cry. She just snuggled into my neck. We went upstairs where sunlight was now flooding the kitchen. I nervously peered out into the backyard, expecting to see mass devastation. Miraculously all we’d lost was an old wooden privacy fence that had been erected next to the patio. If fact, later my wife would be upset we hadn’t suffered more damage in order get the fence replaced. I put the baby in the stroller and we toured the neighborhood. It seemed impossible we’d been so spared. There were giant trees completely ripped out of the ground, laying on their sides with thick roots in the air. Cars had been hit by heavy branches. Fences were downed all over the place. Neighbors were emerging from their homes, dragging rolled up carpets to the corner, ruined by the flooding. There was marble sized hail all over the grass that had pelted our aluminum siding, as well as my car, yet still no damage.  

To add to the block party, the temperature began steadily rising into the 90’s. Once everyone was home, and I plugged in the generator we’d borrowed from my brother-in-law to get the refrigerator and a couple fans running, I ran to get more fans. We'd need them. By time I got home to our personal sauna, I was greeted by three crying, miserable children and an overwhelmed wife. I loaded all of them into the minivan with instructions to drive to my parents’ house where there were plenty of beds and the central air was cool and crisp. I stayed home to man the generator and protect the homestead (with a baseball bat and steak knife under the pillow – but at least it was something I guess.) By ten o’clock I found myself lying on top of the covers in a pair of shorts, with two fans blowing on me like a modern King Tut. I began chuckling at myself and the situation. Finally, as I drifted off to sleep, the generator ran out of gas. As I began the internal debate about getting up to refill it or wait 'til morning, I zonked out from exhaustion.

In the morning, I woke to a beautiful day. I ran an extension cord from my coffee maker, out the backdoor to the generator on the patio.

Priorities, people.

I headed off to work, as neighbors began to put their houses back in order.  It was ultimately another day before we got power back, and many more days for other neighborhoods in our area. Even the annual Independence Day parade had to be rescheduled.


After that day, the baby and I became best friends. She’s my little peanut. Never cried again when I picked her up, and even now when she falls or her siblings do something that hurts her (real or imagined) she wants Daddy to comfort her. I don’t believe for a moment she remembers a moment of that day, but still, who knows? Maybe it’s somewhere, stored away in her subconscious.

Now every summer, while I welcome the sun and heat, I always get a little concerned when they start showing that cloud & lightning icon on the news. When I was young I loved thunderstorms. Now, as a parent and a homeowner, storms just make me pace nervously. It’s the reason this morning I woke up, took a walk, and made sure to send messages to my friends down in Tampa and Jacksonville who seem to be right in the storm path, making sure everybody’s okay. The A/C is on up here and we’ve got room on the couch, if you need to evacuate for a few.

Divorce

Last night I happened across one of those rare social media posts that, as a parent, restore my faith in humanity and give me hope for the future. For whatever reason, I wanted to share it. Perhaps as a cautionary tale to any readers considering divorce.

No, it wasn’t some uplifting news story or an inspirational meme. It was a picture and post that included someone I know only casually. My family owns a DJ business and I used to regularly pick up shows in bars at night for extra money. While dealing with drunks and bad singers on karaoke night – particularly drunk bad singers – can be a test of one’s good graces, it did make for fun people watching.

At one such establishment I got to know the staff to some degree and found them all to be a fun, if not a little misguided bunch of kids. Part of the mystique of the job was being a regular fixture enough that they let you in to the private goings-on without you really becoming a part of it. I was like a silent observer, watching the weekly soap operas unravel.  One of the servers, a terribly cute, wild child of sorts started dating a guy that at the time I thought “I wouldn’t let my daughter (ironic since I didn’t have one yet) date a creep like that.” She soon ended up pregnant and they had a quick courthouse wedding. When I heard all this I thought “well that’s a mistake” but as I was just the weekly DJ and not an actual friend or any part of her life, I didn’t voice my opinion.

Didn’t take long until that mistake played itself out. They got divorced, and with the advent of social media I again quietly observed the drama now from the comfort of my newsfeed. My opinions of the guy did not improve. It was not an easy or friendly divorce, although I’m convinced those only happen in movies. He began pulling stunts like waiting until the day his child support was due and leaving a box of pennies (or some denomination of wrapped coins) on the doorstep.

She recently got remarried. As I said, I don’t know her well but was very happy for her as the guy seems like the real deal. Takes care of her and her daughter, as well as his own from a previous relationship. I’ve been happy to see their wedding photos appear in my Facebook feed. This week a new photo appeared. It shocked me. It was the young woman, her new husband, and her ex and another woman, all together with the little girl in the center. They were all smiling, and it was recent. Strangest of all, it had been posted by her ex, who is not on my friends list. He tagged her in a post titled something along the lines of “two years ago I never would have believed this picture would happen.”

He went on to confess of his (and her) douchbaggery throughout their attempts at being a family and the ensuing heartache of divorce that followed. He said how foolish he’d been, constantly fighting with her, thinking of horrible things to say to her, just because he was hurt and upset. Then he told of how meeting his new now-wife made him begin to see how stupid it all was. That they should have accepted they just weren’t meant to be together (as they have now that they’ve met their true soulmates) and they should have only focused on loving  their daughter and giving her the happiest life possible.

Upon reading his words, I actually felt guilty for my quiet judgement of this guy I didn’t know at all and had only seen casually in a bar (rarely where anyone’s finest hours are on display.) The level of mature introspection and mea culpa he was putting forward was refreshing and humbling. Even to a guy whose parents divorced 35 years ago. I wanted to reach out to him and say not to be too hard himself. That we’re all human, and any damage they may have unintentionally inflicted on their child would likely not be permanent. She was very young in the bad times and now she will have more memories of their detent, and hopefully shared happy times together as one big dysfunctional family.  

In a manuscript I once wrote but will likely never share, except among the few friends who have read it, I was very candid about my own parents’ divorce. There never was such a “moment of clarity.” I am no learned expert or psychologist, but in that book I wrote: 

“And as an aside to any parents out there considering divorce, consider this.  How you handle yourselves in those proceedings and for years after will profoundly affect your children.  Don’t kid yourselves.  Divorce will hurt your children.  Hurt them irreparably.  Hurt them permanently.  No matter what you do or say, nothing will change that.  But you can still decide if that hurt is a scrape, a bruise, or a complete @#$% massacre.”

I am optimistic that with this path they seem to be on, that little girl's scrape will soon heal as to almost be undetectable at all. Here's to a good man and a good dad.

Married Single Parent

I’m a single parent.

I mean, I’m married and all – 14 years in fact. What I meant to say is I’m a “married single-parent.”

My wife and I both work, and work completely opposite schedules. I work a 9 – 5’er, Monday through Friday in a typical corporate American office environment. I’m also a published author and working on expanding my oeuvre. No that doesn’t require surgery. Oh, and I host two podcasts and will happily accept the occasional public speaking gig. Why not? Like that song in Zootopia, I want to try everything. Eventually I'll get something right.

My wife is a self-employed hair stylist, and a successful one at that. However her days tend to start late-morning or early afternoon and run into the night. She’s lucky if she gets home when one of our three kids is still up.

That means we’re both on our own, and dreadfully outnumbered most of our lives. The little time we get together during the week is usually after 10 PM and I'm ready to crash, having been up by 6 while she's wired and ready to catch up. We try to communicate pertinent information throughout the day, although that is often made harder by the fact that she’s working with her hands and can’t pick up the phone for hours at a time. I on the other hand am a “pencil pusher” by day and leap at any excuse to avoid real work.

Just kidding.

No, I’m not.

Mommy blogs have taken the world by storm, and even I find myself turning to a few I’ve come to follow for ideas, tips, or just commiseration. Odds are there are dads out there like me, who work all day only to come home to work again for another 3 – 4 hours, getting kids fed, washed, and into bed. All the while trying not to snap at them for wanting you to play when you just want 5 minutes to veg out (knowing full well that’s never going to happen.)
We have a 9 year-old son, Sean, who has already charted his course from Notre Dame to the NHL – where he gets the athlete gene I’m not sure because it isn’t from me. He’s also good at math. Another reason I’d demand a DNA test if he didn’t look like me.
Then we have two little girls, Maya (5) and Macy (4). One of them was a cherubic surprise. The other, her older sister, is a brunette agent of chaos sent from another world to wreak havoc on mankind as punishment for global warming and the music of Justin Bieber. They are all three the loves of my life – and I have to remind myself of that all the time.

Fortunately, my kids tend to be really funny too. Yes, every parent thinks that. Either their kid is funny, or their kid is a genius, or worse, their kid is a comedic genius. Well I’m not claiming any of mine are the reincarnated George Carlin, but people do tend to tell me I should compile a list of my funny kid stories and write a book. Well, I’m already elbow deep in book writin’ so a blog will have to do, for now.

Welcome to my world. Keep your hands and feet in the vehicle and remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop.

                                                     

Tablet addicts - The struggle is real

Six years ago, Steve Jobs stood before a crowd of shareholders, and really the entire world and introduced the next “big thing" – the iPad. I was skeptical.

One of his big highlights was the ability to download books. As a writer, I’m still in love with the feel of paper and biding in my hands. I love folding over a paperback to hold in one hand, or shoving one in the pocket of my cargo shorts on vacation. In my 30-something brain, I saw eBooks as the end of the civilized world.

Admittedly now that I’ve had a couple books in the marketplace and sold a fair share of digital copies, I’m less resistant. Funny how that works. Still, I’ve tried to limit my use of iPads and tablets. I have sausage fingers so I prefer an old-school keyboard. And being in my 40’s now, I have to admit reading on a screen isn’t’ always the most comfortable experience. Its bad enough I have to stare at one for every single one of my jobs.

However, all of my children discovered tablets at an early age. I don’t even know how it happened. They’d see one at a friend’s house – maybe a Leap Pad or some other form of educational toy device. Then it became the inevitable “can I play a game on your phone?” To which you think “well if it will keep them in their seat long enough for us to eat, sure.”

Now each of my children has their own tablet. My son has an iPad, and my daughters both have Samsung tablets (with matching pink cases and their names on the back.)  They are at once the bane of my existence (the tablets, not the kids) and often times my savior as I try to get dinner made for the three of them, or change out of my work clothes (I can only handle so many hours in business casual before my head explodes.)  Quite frankly sometimes I’m just tired and want to sit down and not play baseball or lacrosse or push someone on the swing set.

So yes, call me a bad parent. I sometimes allow more tablet time than I should because it makes for a good babysitter. I know, that’s probably the thing you wouldn’t want to admit in a proper parenting blog, but I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one guilty of it.

I know they should be outside getting fresh air and exercise, especially now that it’s spring. If they have to be inside, they should be reading (kryptonite to my son – don’t get me started) or playing some kind of game. Something that requires them to think and be creative.

But then I remember that when I was a kid, I had a screen for a babysitter too. You see my folks split when I was 5. I was primarily raised by a big wooden floor television with the silver knobs that “clunk-clunk-clunked” when you changed the channel. The only exercise I got was walking from the couch to the TV to change it. Kids today wouldn’t believe the inhumanity.

While I’m not defending such an upbringing, it was what it was. My mom was working her butt off to raise two boys in-between the occasional support check. On her day off, you know, the day she had to do laundry and clean, she would drop my brother and me off at the movie theater with a $20. We’d stay there pretty much all day, hopping from movie to movie. Truth be told, from age 5 to 18, I spent a huge chuck of my free time staring at screens, absorbing other peoples’ creativity.

While it did not create in me an athlete (or even someone with abs) it actually did fuel the creative side of my brain. Hence, two books in the market, full-time and freelance jobs in creative fields, and I’m kickass at trivia!  

Maybe that’s why at some point last night, or maybe early this morning (I was too tired to lift my phone and look) I heard rustling in my daughters’ room which is right next to ours. I could hear the muffled but all too familiar sounds of YouTube.  Even my sleepy, two-cycled weed whacker engine of a brain figured out quickly that my older daughter, Maya, had woken up, grabbed her tablet, and was in bed watching videos and playing her dress-up games. My brain told me I should get up, go yank it out of her hands and order her back to sleep.

But I didn’t.

I could tell you because I was still half-asleep and just too exhausted to move. And that is definitely part of it. But the truth; she’s my creative one. Her brother is a jock (don’t know where he got it) and her little sister, well, we’re still not sure. Maya is my artist. She paints, she draws, and she dances. As I often say, she is all my child. I see so much of myself in her, good and bad, that it terrifies me. Yet it also created a special bond in us. As much as she is responsible for 80% of my gray hairs, she is my girl, 110%.

I know how much she loves those silly videos of people opening weird plastic eggs with toys inside, or singing “Mommy Finger”, or creating crafts. As much as I should have, I could not take it away from her. How do I know where she will go with that information one day? Sometimes you just don’t want to sleep, so why not let her download some more brain food, even if some of it is just candy?

Frozen Question

I don't want to exaggerate here, but I've seen Frozen 7,232.6 times.

No, this is not an anti-Arendelle rant. I like Frozen. I think it's a great movie with a good message about the bond between sisters who are very different. I have two little girls at home. One only hopes his daughters will love each other the way Anna and Elsa ultimately displayed.

That said, I do have a problem with one major plot point. It will seem nit-picky to many; just a minor detail that I should get over. Nope. Can't get over it.

It isn't the snowman they made as children being resurrected years later, this time alive and sentient.
I have no issue with the boring rock trolls - other than the design was boring. Come on. You know it is. I think they were either in a hurry to get the movie made or running out of money.

The thing that bugs me about that movie, popular as it is around the world and in my living room, happens very early on, and it sticks in my craw the duration of the film.

How did Anna pay for all that stuff at Wandering Oaken's? She rushed out of the castle, hopped on her horse, and away she rode. How likely is it she had a few spare kroner stuffed in her dress? I've heard people try to explain it away as Oaken knew she was the princess and therefore would give her anything she wanted on credit, or even for free.

Really???

How would he know she was the princess? Did he see her on TMZ or in Us weekly? Oh right, no, because there was no electricity back then! Even if she identified herself after we left the store to follow Kristoff, what are the odds he would believe her? Why would the next in line to the throne be out in the wilderness, during a blizzard, alone?

I'm just saying . . .

Bath time

Our youngest, Macy, is about to turn 4 at the end of this month. She loves taking baths . . . except for the whole cleaning part.

She sits there wailing, screaming bloody murder while I simply attempt to wash her hair. I realize I'm strong but I make a point to use almost zero pressure. And I know it's not from soap running into her eyes - I'd sympathize with that familiar burn of youth. She just hates it. The very act of it. I don't know if it's due to her thin, blonde hair. Maybe she has a sensitive scalp. But she never complains of pain. Just the act.

Is this normal???

Her big sister, Maya, who inherited her follicles from me and has thick, brown, shampoo sucking locks doesn't mind it a bit. I'm the one crying because it takes so long to rinse her hair out. It holds onto the suds like there's a shortage.

The only way  I can get the little one to stop crying while I wash her hair is to agree to let them wash mine next. So once both of them are clean, and after I drain most of the dirt soup they're soaking in out of the tub, I refill it with fresh water and lean in up to my elbows, head hung over the tub.

It thrills them to no end. Oddly enough, while Macy always claims to want to follow in her mother's footsteps and be hairstylist (Maya often claims she wants to be a unicorn - that child is all mine) it is the older one who leads my beautification ritual. I get my hair washed and conditioned no less than three times. Sure, it's a waste of shampoo, but it makes them happy, and quite frankly my wife gets it at cost.

Then comes the styling, for which I'm not allowed to dry my hair first. That's all part of the package apparently. So I sit on one of their little beds while my hair is brushed back and forth, sideways, then back again. Ultimately I end up looking like a drowned rat, but sometimes I get a bow. #dadlife