Parenting Advice for Fathers: Part II

So you think you're ready to have a child, or children.

Considering the fact that this post is directed towards fathers, you're going to be a bit limited here, unless you are all ready married. This is also assuming you and your... Significant other have discussed the topic of offspring. Babies are not like fishing rods. You can't sneak them in past your wife.

First of all, don't worry about the number. You might say you want six kids now. But at approximately 3am one night, when the first baby has finally gone back to sleep and you're still mopping throw up off the walls and floor, that projected number will decrease considerably and quickly!

Of course, next you have to ask yourself why you want to have kids.

Perhaps you're hoping for someone to perform yard work, or someone who can drive you around town. Sadly, you have a lot of work and a long time before you get to that point. And besides, by the time the get to that point, they go through a phase where it's not cool to be near their parents.

Maybe you just want a reading buddy. Or you might want a little one, or a few, to round out the family. Maybe you even like kids and enjoy watching them learn, grow and develop.

Regardless, children of all ages get sick. Prior to 13 years old, they don't care who or what they toss their cookies on! You have to change diapers, or else they get smelly. Really smelly. Babies cry. They cry in planes, trains, cars and anywhere else morning, noon and/or night. Keep in mind that is how babies communicate.

There is much more that can be said, both positive and negative, about having children. If I've already scared you or sown serious seeds of doubt for you, then you're not ready for rugrats in your life!

If I haven't scared you off yet, then stay tuned for my next installment. We'll either chat about prepping for the baby or coming up with names, two very important topics for expectant parents!

New Diet Means No Pizza!

You know something is not right when your new doctor tells you that you need to have a blood test done. Immediately.

"But I just had a blood test done with my previous doctor, doctor," I told her, attempting to lighten the moment.

What's even worse is, post-blood test, when your doctor tells you your cholesterol is elevated and you'd best be taking medication in order to bring it down. How elevated? Am I going to die in the next 27 minutes or 27 days?

It turns out that it's only 'slightly' elevated. Loosely translated, that means there will be many more blog posts to come, my esteemed readers! It also means I'm 'mostly' healthy, but that is me paraphrasing the doctor's words just a wee bit.

So now my new doctor has called in a prescription that will reduce my cholesterol quickly and efficiently. There was no talk of weight loss, diet or exercise. We jump straight to medicine. Quackery.

Luckily, my father is a doctor. I had him look into my numbers and the medicine that has been prescribed to me and, as these things often are, it's quite problematic.

Why is it problematic? Allow me to tell you. Some of the side effects of Pravastatin, the medicine the doctor was so quick to prescribe, include general pain, fatigue and chest pain. News flash -- at my age, those are the same symptoms of exercise, which is supposed to have a positive effect upon my cholesterol.

Some of the other side effects include dizziness, cough, rash and diarrhea. And these are just the common reactions. I, the English major, can't pronounce or spell many of the less common side effects! What the heck is lupus erythematosus, anyway?! How do you say that?

And yet another side effect is cognitive impairment! I certainly don't need any medicine to impair my abilities to make my subjects and verbs agree. Or, even worse, the medicine could cause me to split my infinitives!

The saddest part of this whole sordid affair is my diet. I've been told that I may... Okay, delete 'may.' I will have to change my diet. And, unfortunately and most grievously, the first thing to go will be my beloved pepperoni pizzas and hot dogs!

Fuzzy, Soapy, Black Dogs

I'm a horrible and mean dog owner. I don't starve my dogs. I don't beat them with the garden hose. I don't stick their noses in it when 'accidents' occur in the house. I do something even more nefarious and cruel. I bathe them!

The staging area for bath time is the walkway that goes from the front of my house to the road. Translation -- fuzzy, black dog baths are a spectator event for all to see in my neighborhood!

Just so you know, bathing one dog really isn't so bad, depending on the dog, of course. If you've got more than one dog, though, you have to keep going, obviously. Bathing two dogs could be best described as a debacle. Three dogs, and one of those dogs just happens to be a spaniel, could be best described simply as a chaotic frenzy!

Dog bath prep time is considerable. First I have to change into a swim suit and an old t-shirt. Then I have to kennel all three foul smelling quadrupeds. This merely prevents escapes. Then the leash and shampoo must be located and placed in the staging area. And, finally, I have to dredge out the dreaded garden hose.

Once the garden hose is out and the water flowing, it's game on! There's pulling, tugging, whining, cuts, scrapes, bruises, leash burns and fur and water flying. And the dogs even cause some of that!

My wife likes to watch. She's even been known to help out. She helps by reminding me that I'm outside and there are neighborhood kids when the muttering and cursing reaches an audible level.

And the dogs? They put up with it, mostly. They always survive bath time, albeit without the stink.

Ace, my best bath dog, dutifully deals with it and doesn't give me a hard time. Lilly, the orneriest of the bunch, gives me an icy stare like she'll sever my jugular vein in my sleep.

And Bob, the water spaniel who hates water and bath time, has learned a new trick.

He stops and gives me that cute, sweet spaniel look and edges closer to me. As soon as our noses are inches away, he utilizes his long floppy ears. He shakes quickly, slapping my face with his now wet, soapy weapons.

Luckily, it's summertime now. Dog washing is so much easier in the summertime. No walls to clean. No floors to mop. No plumbers to call to pull hair clogs. No evil hair-dryers.

Until I win the lottery and can pay someone to groom the fuzzy, black dogs, I'll just have to do it myself. In fact, I'm looking for my swimsuit right now.

Surprise! Happy Father's Day!

I love the month of June. It usually means warmer weather, swimming and other water sports commencing for the season. It also means Father's Day, which ranks as pretty cool in my book!

I'm a little worried about Father's Day, though. The spousal and teenage units in my household have not asked me what I want to do. They haven't even asked me what I want! This worries me.

"Don't worry," they both tell me. "We've got everything under control. It's planned out and ready to go."

Like I said, I'm worried. What's planned out? What's ready to go? My Karman Ghia ragtop I've dreamed about now for... Well, I don't know how many years!

Perhaps the plan includes a publisher. And a kidnapping scheme. They'll tie him up and hold him hostage until he agrees to publish one of my incredibly cool children's stories I've written. But that could backfire, so probably not.

I feel certain that it involves dinner, though I'm not sure where. Instincts, and the fact that I've whined about wanting to go for more than a year, tells me that we may be eating dinner at Shane's Rib Shack in Greensboro. I certainly hope so. However, my wife and son can be quite unpredictable.

Sadly, I have not put 100% effort in to extracting this information from either my wife or my son. It just wouldn't be fair to pit my considerable wit and intellect into such a nefarious scheme. I like a challenge, but sometimes I actually like to be surprised, too.

Regardless, I'm sure it will be most enjoyable since it's been planned and in the works now for more than a month. If my son or wife ask me about tying knots, then I'll start to really worry.

EOG's Test... Knowledge?

It's EOG (End of Grade) testing time again. Boy are those tests grueling. But I don't think the tests were quite as bad for the kids.

This year's test results were phenomenal! In the classroom that I proctored, we recorded no less than 73 yawns, 16 audible snores and only one seemingly self-induced coma. While we're not exactly allowed to talk about the test, I can tell you that it's a lot different from when I was in the fifth grade.

When I was that age, we called the tests... Never mind. I won't print that. However, the teachers and administrators called them the CAT's, otherwise known as the California Achievement Test.

Thinking back on those tests, I have since discovered why they were called the CAT's. First, I think I read that the questions were created by some free-spirit from California who was probably smoking crack. Second, the rows of "bubbles" to fill in were so incredibly long, you felt you'd actually achieved something by making it through the test without passing out. This is especially true if you made it all the way to the end of the test before "time's up! Pencils down," was yelled. I never did.

And third, it seemed like they only tested one's ability to read and answer questions quickly, but not necessarily accurately.

I actually remember the teachers telling me (many decades ago!) that the CAT's will reflect the sum of our knowledge we have gained throughout the school year. Judging from my own personal math portion of the test, my knowledge may not have been added correctly.

Also, judging from my incredible ability to mentally freeze up under a test with a timed deadline, it's a miracle I even got halfway through the test before the teacher yelled her announcement, "time's up! Pencils down!"

I'm glad to report that I'm still alive and kicking. And those CAT's didn't mentally damage me... Too badly, anyway. And, perhaps, there's a free-spirited Californian on crack who has summed up all the knowledge I gained in school. I hope to meet him one day so I can find out what I learned.

Field Trips, or Crazy Meets Insane

It was about time to let the inmates out of the asylum, so to speak. Or, in plain English, we finally took the first-graders on another field trip. That poor strawberry farm never knew what hit it!

We visited that same strawberry farm last year. Now THAT was interesting!

Last year, one child asked about the giant dogs by the side of the road. They were goats. Another refused to pick the strawberries. He was really worried about the bugs hidden under the leaves. They might be deadly, after all.

Considering that and other things that happened the previous year, this last field trip dropped considerably low on the weirdness scale.

This time we lost two kids. No worries, though. We replaced them with two red, juicy strawberry monsters. We teachers were hopeful the two giant, walking strawberries were our missing kids.

The only other major snafu involved bathroom doors. In other words, the bathrooms at our lunch destination were locked tighter than Fort Knox!

"Mr. Haworth," came the cries. "I can't hold it!" "Why is it locked?" "Can I go in the woods?" "Can you break the door open, Mr. Haworth?" "Why don't YOU unlock it Mr. Haworth?!"

If I had a key, I would have opened the door. That would have been the only thing that could have stopped the miniature dancing flash mob that was taking place just outside those locked restroom doors.

There were other incidents that aren't even worth mentioning here. However, suffice it to say, this teachers assistant is field tripped out until next year! Ciao!

To Mom. Happy Mother's Day!

Today is Sunday, May 12, 2013. Today is, obviously, a very special day. Today is the day dedicated to mothers the world over for having to put up with kids like me who will, ultimately, turn into outstanding adults like me.

For this oh-so special day, this post is dedicated to and about the poor, unsuspecting woman who unwittingly brought me into this world!

Mom, thank you for saving me from those killer bannister bars. Those things hated me and trapped my young head at least... Well, numbers are irrelevant. Thanks for freeing me!

Even though I didn't believe you at the time, thanks for using nonpoisonous mushrooms in all your recipes. I still question, though, the number of recipes that really call for fungi as an ingredient.

There was a time, some decades ago, that I wished I was an only child. Regardless, thanks, Mom, for my two sisters. They taught me that life is not always fair. Through them, I discovered that allies and alibis mean the same thing. They also taught me that leaving the toilet seat up can be really painful.

A heartfelt thank you is also in order for your touching sense of humor. I've laughed many times over your humorous suggestions to give me up for adoption or sell me to the circus when I decided to shave my head myself. I didn't get your humor at that age and thought you were serious! Ha ha!

I suppose I should also thank you for the small messes I made that you cleaned up. There were a few little blood splatters from my skateboarding phase. Perhaps there were a few from my stuntman phase, too. And the bike-turned-flyer incident. And, perhaps, just a few other small mishaps.

On top of all that, you managed to keep your cool despite the crazy phone calls. I only hope you realize now that the neighbors were merely exaggerating. None of the streaking, fireworks explosions or "go-cart accidents" were reported accurately.

So, Mom, a great big happy Mother's Day to you! I hope it's an awesome one! And you know that dent in your car? Not my fault, but we can chat about that later.