Coaching -- The greatest "hassle" you'll ever enjoy

"I just don't have the time." ... "There are plenty of parents who are more qualified than me." ... "Who needs all that extra hassle with practices, games and drama."

I said all of that when it came time to consider coaching my daughter's basketball team three years ago. Life and work were hectic.  I loved playing basketball, but had never really coached a team. And, there are always potential headaches and tension around bad calls, playing time, etc.

The truth is ... coaching Emma and her friends was the greatest "hassle" I ever enjoyed. As their 8th grade season ends this week, I reflected back on coaching the last three years and couldn't help but feel a bit nostalgic.

A Great Experience

First, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to coach when the spot opened up three years ago. Not every parent has that chance. I was also incredibly lucky to work with a head coach and fellow father who was dedicated, experienced and good-hearted. We made it work.

It was very satisfying and rewarding to teach a game that I had been playing for 40 years.  It brought back so many memories and lessons about basketball and teamwork that I learned on the courts and gyms of my youth.

The girls were enthusiastic, respectful and upbeat. They gave the loudest cheers in the gym, "1-2-3-Assumption."  Always quick with a "thank you, Mr. Price" or a shocked look when they may have fouled the other team.

We never won more than a handful of games in a season, but our girls developed skills, had fun and learned how to play the game. To be honest, the other schools and teams were simply better. Over the years, we learned to savor the small victories -- a terrific pass, a made shot, a defensive stand and fighting to the end. I look back and see the progress each girl made, growing as players, as teammates and as young women, and I am so proud of them all.

Five Reasons to Coach Your Kids

For those parents who may be struggling with the decision to coach their kids, I would offer these benefits that you should never sell short:.

1. Show them "Coach," not "Dad" -- My daughter Emma got to see me in a very different light as Coach, not Dad -- even if just for a few hours a week. At home, I am the one hounding her about cleaning her room,... taking away her phone when she hasn't done her homework,... working on my computer at all odd hours of the night or weekend. At the gym, I was fun. Making jokes, running drills and smiling. Emma and I would tease each other, share laughs and have a special place where we could relate to each other in a whole different way.

2. Share Your Passion -- I love basketball! I have been playing since I was a little kid, and I still play today in regular pick-up games with friends. My kids knew how much I loved the game, but until they started playing it was hard for them to understand why. Emma and Tess both play now. They know why people get excited about a great play or the swish of a jumper. They appreciate all the hours of practice that go into improving your skills. When I drove Tess to her game a few weeks ago, she was telling me all about the defensive scheme they were being taught by her coach. I could hear her starting to grasp the game and have a passion for how the parts can come together when a team is working well.

3. Keep Fit and Have Fun --  As a coach, I loved practice. I didn't want to be passively barking orders from the sidelines or giving long lectures.  I was running around the court. Dribbling. Shooting. Showing them defensive stances. It was a workout and kept me energized. I had to stay in better shape, so I didn't embarrass myself racing up court -- or collapse during our defensive drill to Cotton-Eyed Joe. I also had so much fun seeing the pleased and proud look on their faces when they would make a steal, hit a shot and win a game.  They always made me chuckle and smile in their own goofy, girly ways.

4. Meet their Friends -- It's always been hard for parents to get a glimpse into their kids lives and know their friends. When I was a kid in Jersey City, your friends were all in the neighborhood and you called the house or rang the doorbell to ask if "Jimmy could come out to play." Nowadays, the only people who call my home phone are my parents and telemarketers. It's harder to know who your kids are spending time with and what is going on in their lives. Spending a few hours with Emma and her friends every week gave me a glimpse into their world, a better perspective on what mattered to them, and a greater appreciation for their problems and concerns. I would always ask them what they thought was working in practice ... what did they like ... what did we need to work on. I think they were surprised that I asked what they thought and also that I listened.

5. Precious Time -- The greatest regret most parents have is, "I wish I could spend more time with my kids." Well, if you're lucky enough to coach their teams, you get that time commitment. You have the drive time to games, weekly practices, pizza party celebrations, etc. You also have a common interest and topic that you can talk about -- something that isn't schoolwork or why they torture their sister.

Hassles Can Be Treasures Once Unwrapped

Emma will be moving onto high school next year and probably won't be playing basketball.  Tess has a great, committed set of dads coaching her 6th grade team already.  And, Will is still young and a wild card, not sure if sports are for him. My coaching run may be over... but the memories and bonds over basketball will never end -- not for me and I hope not for them either. Emma and her friends taught me a lot about coaching, parenting and "hassles" that are truly treasures once unwrapped.

R.I.P. Telephone Conversation

When was the last time you had a real conversation on the telephone?

I don't mean the last time you picked up that randomly dialed marketing call and felt like taking a 10-minute survey to see if you could really win a trip to the Bahamas.

I don't mean the last time you took a polite call from a fundraiser, and you didn't want to be rude, so you listened... and listened ... and listened ... until you agreed to some kind of pledge.

I don't mean the weekly call to your parents to hear the latest on their health issues, their house problems and the latest obituaries in The Jersey Journal.

And, I don't mean the five-minute call to your sister to commiserate about the weekly call to your parents about their health issues, their house problems, etc.  That doesn't count.

I mean a real bona fide conversation on the phone. A "Gee...I've been thinking about Joe/Janet...I wonder how they are doing...I should give them a call" conversation. The kind where you might actually sit down in a comfortable chair and your sole activity is making that call and having a -- conversation.  Who does that any more?

The telephone is dead and technology has ruined the art of conversation.

Talking at Each Other, Not With Each Other

Much has been studied about the impact technology is having on conversations and how we interact with each other. Sherry Turkle, a professor in Science, Technology and Society at M.I.T. and the author of 'Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age," has studied this phenomenon for 15 years. Her conclusion is not that we aren't talking any more.  We are "talking" all the time in texts, emails, etc., but we are talking at each other, not with each other. Fascinating research that you can read more about here, here and here.

Where I notice it most is in the death of the telephone conversation. My thirteen year-old daughter Emma has a cell phone, or should I say a smart phone. She texts.  Watches videos. Snaps photos for Instagram. I am certain that I am the only one who knows her phone number and has ever actually called her (even her mother only texts her).

When I take Emma's phone away for a few days, she is incapable of communicating with her friends. "Dad, can I have my phone back? I need to find out something for homework." When I suggest that she actually use our house phone to "call" her friend about the night's homework you would think I had suggested she suggest she send a letter via Pony Express. "I can't do that!"

A Nervous Rite of Passage 

I used to call my friends' houses all the time. It was an adventure and an art form.  I can still see the AT&T TrimLine phone hanging on the kitchen wall. You had to stretch and unwind the phone cord into the room next to the kitchen and close the door for privacy. Two minutes later you were yelling at your parents for picking up on another line. The phone was the communications hub of a house.

You never knew who would actually answer the phone when you called a friend's house.  You actually had to introduce yourself to someone, show some manners, maybe even have some brief chit chat with an adult. My friend Karen came from a big family, and in high school we talked on the phone all the time (Well, I called her all the time, but that's another story). As a result of those calls, I got to know her parents and her whole family after four years of high school and they got to know me.

My kids will never know the teenage torture of "calling a girl."  A nervous rite of passage when I grew up. There was the time you spent thinking about what you would say ... why were you calling? Was there some point to the call ... homework, gossip, weekend plans? There was the preparation for whomever might answer the call.  Her father... mother... brother.  It could take a whole night just to work up the courage to call a girl -- only to get her father on the other end who might tell you sternly that she was sleeping, in the shower or out with her friends.  Ugh!

And, do you remember how long people would talk on the phone. In the days before "call waiting," teens actually had to fight over phone time with their siblings and their parents, or be told, "You've been on the phone for an hour, Mary Jane.  Hang up and do your homework."

Reach Out and Touch Someone

The truth is my kids don't really know how to "use" a telephone or what it is really for.  They exchange information -- or moronic jokes - in short bursts of texting, not conversations. They use mini-computers called smart phones -- they're not really phones. The telephone has become a relic for direct marketing calls, political campaigns and confirming dentist appointments.

I may be in the minority, but I still get excited when the phone rings, actually rings.  Do you remember those AT&T Reach Out and Touch Someone commercials?

I always enjoy the mystery of who might be on the other end (damn Caller ID ruined that). And, on less hectic days, I enjoy the time to sit down, talk and catch up with friends. That happens a lot less often nowadays.

This week, maybe I'll "go retro," pick up the phone, and call an old friend just to talk. Wouldn't that be nice?

Now, where is Karen's phone number? I am sure I must have it somewhere in my smart phone.  :)

Apple Trees Make Apples

You may be familiar with the the saying "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," which means children are very similar to their parents. My friend Mark likes to twist that adage and say, "Apple trees make apples." He usually says it to me when I am complaining about one of my kids' less-than-flattering displays of stubbornness (Will), impatience (Tess) or inability to hear someone when they don't care what they are saying (Emma).  Imagine that?

I find myself thinking about "apple trees" more and more as I see Will growing up.

Will is a rule follower just like his dad.  Tell us the rules.  Paint us the box. And we will live with them, no matter how stupid or unfair they might be.  We usually try and negotiate a fair set of rules in advance -- or in Will's case he might evolve the rules to his advantage in the games he makes up. But, if there are rules we can usually live with them.

Chess Rules

Recently, Will has been learning to play chess with me.  Lots of rules to learn there.

He has been very quick to pick up the game.  He clearly thinks a few moves ahead, sees the whole board and is beginning to grasp the implications of each move he makes (today, he was even coaching sister Tess).

The first few times he played he was still getting familiar with how each piece could move differently.  However, one rule he learned right away was that once you let go of your piece, you couldn't move it again -- even if you then realized it was going to be taken.

So one game, he moved his knight three spaces and over one, instead of two spaces and over and he took my queen.  He then quickly let go of the knight.

I told him, "Will, you can't do that.  The knight only moves two spaces and then over one. It should be here."  He knew he was caught, but he also knew the rules and quickly retorted -- "But, Dad, your rule is once you let go of the piece... you can't move it again! So, he can't go back to the other space."  Gotcha, Dad! A rule is a rule.

We discussed the merits of which rule really counted in this case, and Will decided he would no longer play that day if I wasn't going to play by the rules.  

A Rule Is A Rule

At this point in my blog post, my mother is chuckling to herself and thinking you got what you deserve. She is also beginning to recall stories of her own son, who liked rules and had his own strong sense of fairness.

When I was in 8th grade, my teacher was getting very frustrated with our class at the end of one very long day. Spring fever had set in, graduation was on the near horizon, and students weren't as studious or prepared as our teacher would've liked.

She announced that she was going to ask one more set of questions from the chapter, and she expected someone to answer them -- besides Billy Price who had been answering all the previous questions -- or we would all be staying after school.  Well, when no one else could answer her questions (except me whom she wouldn't call on), the last bell rang, and she kept everyone after school -- including me.

Well, that wasn't fair.  She was changing the rules -- and I told her I shouldn't have to stay after school.  The teacher didn't appreciate the merits of my argument this day and sent me to the principal's office. Now, I didn't go to the principal's office very often in my eight years at Our Lady of Mercy, but on this day I knew I was right and I was ready to make my case. Certainly, the principal Sr. Rose Mary would be on my side.  She knew the rules.  She knew what was fair. I knew the answer to every question our teacher had asked, but she wouldn't let me answer them.  Why did I have to stay after school?

My train of logic derailed with Sr. Rose Mary, too, and so I went back to class to serve time with my classmates.  Another loss for the rule follower.

Will the Negotiator

Will has become quite the negotiator of what is fair and isn't fair in his own right.  For the last year, going to Sunday mass has become an unbearable torture for Will, usually ending in tears, crying and slamming doors.  No manner of persuasion or argument can convince him this is a good use of this time.

Most Sundays in the battle of wills (or Wills, in this case), I would win the battle, but lose the war.  He would go to mass crying, tear-stained and seething, and I would also go to mass ticked off -- and not in the most Christian mindset, other than praying to God for more patience.

When his grandmother came to stay with us for a few weeks, she would go to the early mass, and for a couple of Sundays, I took the path of least resistance after arguing with him, and just left him home with Grandma when the rest of us went to mass.  This was not a long-term solution, but it certainly made for more peaceful Sundays.

There is nothing -- other than his mother -- that Will loves more than his electronics -- Nintendo DS, iPad, XBox, etc.  So, one Sunday, I told him, "Look here is the deal, if you don't go to mass like a good boy and without any screaming, then you will not be able to have any electronics for the entire day.  It's one hour at Church or a whole day without any electronics.  That's the rule."  He agreed begrudgingly.

The next weekend I told him the same rule that we had established.  He turned to me and said, "Well, Dad, you don't leave for Church until about 9:30, so I can keep playing my games until then, since I COULD go with you until you leave.  But, I am going to stay home with Grandma, and once you come back from Church I will give up my electronics the rest of the day. I am not going to church."  Gotcha, Dad! A rule is a rule.

And so, the truth is apple trees make apples -- even rotten ones some days.  :)

The Perfect Place to Show off Inept Parenting? The Doctor's Office

If you ever want to feel inept as a parent just take your kids to the doctor's office.  The doctor's interrogation -- I mean questions -- are quick to reveal what a negligent, inadequate and careless parent you are.  Or at least it will make you feel that way.

Can You Repeat the Question?

When I was about nine years old, I was sitting on the living room floor with my dog Buddy watching television.  Buddy was a black Lab and terrier mix.  He must have had a sore ear that night as we watched television because when I rubbed his head, he yelped, turned quickly -- and bit my face.

It wasn't a Cujo, horror film kind of bite.  He snapped at me and because we were sitting so close, one of his sharp teeth went right through the skin under my bottom lip.  Clean through. A nice bloody mess.  You could've stuck a straw through the skin to my teeth.

My father got the unenviable task of taking me to the Greenville Hospital emergency room alone.  Standing at the counter, talking to the nurse who was filling out the paperwork, poor Dad almost got stumped on the third question.  "Patient's name?" she asked.  Got it.  "Address?" OK.  "Birth date?" ... "Uhm," said my Dad as he turned and looked down toward me.  "What's your birthday?"

We got through that and when they told us it could be a long wait (someone came in right before us with 21 stab wounds -- that's a whole lot of stitches), Dad decided my cut didn't look that bad.  We could always come back in the morning.

It's funny the things you remember.  The truth is medical interrogations bring out the worst in any parent.  You feel like you are on trial, facing a cross examination from a mix of the SuperNanny, Judge Judy and Alicia Florrick from The Good Wife.

The Inquisition

Flash forward to my own recent parenting gem in the doctor's office.

I know my kids' birthdays -- or at least I have them readily available in my smart phone so I can avoid such scarring moments for my own kids (just kidding, Dad).

I took Emma and Will to the doctor recently during the height of this winter's germ scourge. Their school friends were dropping like flies, and they soon succumbed to the bug.

As we sat in the exam room, I first had to face the nurse and explain why we were there.

"Will has been home with a sore throat and a bit of fever this week, and Emma woke up today with a 102 fever, glazed eyes and sore throat," I explained.

"Are you really this child's father? 

"Well, her temperature is perfect now.  98.6," said the nurse, brandishing a temporal scanning thermometer that looked like something Dr. Bones used on Star Trek. How could that be? How did she not have a fever?  Betrayed!

Truth was I hadn't even checked her temperature since that morning.  Once her mother decided she could stay home from school, the battle was lost. Why would I take her temperature again.  My orders were simple: "Keep them alive.  Get them to the doctor.  Pick up their medicine."

The doctor came in a bit later and had questions of her own.  No problem. I had this figured out now. I wouldn't look like "inept, know nothing" dad.  I would look like nurturing, "father knows best" dad. I wanted my kids to be strong and independent -- they could answer the questions themselves.

"Go ahead, Will.  Tell the doctor how you're feeling," I said.  Will did a nice job in his sad, soft-spoken voice, describing his sore throat when he swallowed.

I played the supportive dad, helping him out a bit, sharing what I knew about his allergies and asthma.  Whew.  Not bad.

Then came more questions.  This doctor was RELENTLESS!  Is this the Inquisition?

"What did you have for breakfast, Will?"  Oh, crap.

"I had Cheerios and chocolate milk," he said.  Not exactly high-protein eggs, nutritious oatmeal and orange juice, but hey it was better than the cinnamon buns his mother usually gave him.

We got our orders, and the doctor was actually very nice. She spoke to me very slowly when she gave me instructions, wrote it down for me, and didn't give me any stern, disapproving stares.

Full Circle

Bringing things full circle, my dad recently accompanied me on a trip to the Urgent Care with Will. My dad didn't want to go, but my mother made him. Maybe he was scarred by the trip to Greenville Hospital for the dog bite, too, and he didn't want to be questioned about his grandson. He probably doesn't know his birthday either -- and he doesn't have a smart phone.

Will was under the weather.  Poor little guy had strep.  As we sat in the waiting room, my dad fell asleep in the chair before we even saw the doctor. With age comes some privileges. He never had to answer a single question.

The Walking Dead and Parenthood -- It's All About Family

I am a long time fan of the television show Parenthood, the sappy, award-winning drama about the everyday trials, tribulations and tragedies of the Braverman family. Every week, I record the latest episode on my DVR and then sit on my couch and sniffle over all the heartwarming and gut-wrenching moments.

Kristina's recovery from cancer. Hank's and Max's struggles with Asperger's. Joel and Julia's marital problems.  Amber's struggle with growing up and finding her way. Adam's stressed out existence as the one everyone depends on. Zeek's heart trouble and mortality. It all gets to me. I am a sensitive guy.  And my wife kindly reminds me, "It's just a television show. What is wrong with you?"

Parenthood is one show that my wife and I would make time to watch together. I would watch so I could  get all sentimental and think about how I hoped someday I would sit on a porch like Zeek with my daughter and have her tell me I was a "the best" father (sob... sob...). My wife Elena would watch the show so she could sit and laugh at me for acting like an idiot on the "crying couch" with my daughter Emma (also a sniffler).

Now, switch gears. I have recently become addicted to a different kind of show: The Walking Dead. This hit show with a cult-like following portrays people's struggle to survive in the weeks and months after a zombie apocalypse engulfs the world.


Skulls smashed with axes. Gun shots to the head. Herds of mindless zombies walking and devouring live victims in their path. The base reality of survival -- kill or be killed -- in all its raw glory. I sit there on my iPad watching episode after episode, cliffhanger after cliffhanger, addicted to this show.

As I watched the final episode of Parenthood tonight, I got to thinking, "How could the same person -- me -- love these two vastly different shows?" And the truth is it's all about family. The strength we find in family. They ways we define family. The bonds and commitments we have to each other.

It may seem odd, but here are a few of the family lessons, these shows share:

Family always has your back -- In Parenthood, no matter how many fights they might have or how much they might snipe about who was their parents' "favorite," in the end they always made up and stood up for each other. Adam and Crosby disagreed about the future of the business they started together, and things got very ugly. But in the end they were brothers and that trumped being business partners (eventually). In The Walking Dead, they were always willing to put their lives on the line for their group. When T-Dog got bit by a zombie, he didn't hesitate in sacrificing himself to the zombies to help Carol escape. Family means making sacrifices, making apologies and always having each other's back.

Cherish those "moments" -- Don't lose sight of the simple family moments -- the points scored in a basketball game, the excitement over a report card, crazy singing in the car... Or, the beauty of nature you can share -- the sunrise in your yard, the walk on the beach, the snowmen that you build. When Adam successfully bakes a souffle with a student with special needs, and neither of them had ever done it before, that was awesome -- a small victory against the world. When amidst all the death and hopelessness created by the "walkers," little Carl talks about the peaceful looking deer he got close to in the pasture, that is rejuvenating. The fact he could still see beauty in all that despair was cool. Don't let those "moments" pass unnoticed.  Enjoy them and remember them, always.

You don't choose your family -- or maybe you do -- At the end of the day, he's "my blood" is what redneck, arrow-slinging hero Daryl says about his choice to stay with his evil, racist, masochistic brother Merle. At the same time, their group is a band of strangers who bond like a family to survive and would do anything for each other (even chop off a friend's leg with an axe to save him from "turning"). In Parenthood, when Amber sleeps with her cousin Hattie's boyfriend, or when little Sydney screams at her newly adopted brother Victor, you know it will all work out. You're family -- for better, or worse.

I know this all may sound crazy and farfetched, but there has to be some reason I find these two insanely different shows so fascinating and enjoyable. If it's not the common theme of family, then I may have to admit that I am a weepy, emotional sap who cries at Hallmark commercials, while secretly wanting to enjoy the adrenalin rush of decapitating a crazed zombie with an old, rusty bread knife.

The Secrets of Super Heroes -- and Families -- Through the Eyes of a Seven-Year-Old

My little guy Will is a shy 7-year-old boy. He doesn't have whole lot to say to most people. Probably like a lot of little boys.  Words are just an unnecessary disruption between butt smacks, ear flicks and tickle fights.

Will speaks in brief sentences and one-word responses (Hi ... Bye ... Thank you...  Chicken fingers, please... More ketchup... I'm bored... Next question... Can we go home now?).

Light Him Up!

He fidgets and mumbles a bit when strangers try to speak with him (this means anyone who is not his mom, dad or sisters).  But once in a while, someone can hit on a topic that will get him excited. You see this little boy literally light up and give you a glimpse of all the wheels that are churning in that mind of his.

This week, we were in Ohio visiting with family and having to talk to lots of people.  Will was his usually quiet self, floating in and out of rooms of adults and older cousins to build Legos, watch an iPad or play video games by himself.

I had been teasing him all week that Batman wasn't really a superhero, just a rich guy with a bunch of gadgets and no superpowers (see this YouTube video).  Well, we visited with his Aunt Rita and she knows a whole lot about superheroes and comics (could be that she lives in Seattle, or that she owns a movie theater in Ohio. Not too sure how she gathered such knowledge). They compared notes on superheroes I had never even heard of, and he was quite excited to talk to her about all the members of the Justice League, their back stories and what made them superheroes.

Every Superhero Team Needs Key Players

Tonight, I decided to see what else he thought about superheroes and I got quite an education from my little genius.  He is actually quite a philosopher and I think he already has the makings of a doctoral thesis in the works.

According to Will, every good superhero team needs a few key players, and he can describe them and draw examples if you ask. As I listened to him, I was impressed with the characters he named and the traits he identified. The truth is I started to think about how his traits were needed in any good team or family.

• Every superhero teams needs a "strong guy, Dad." The Hulk. Thing. Maybe a Three-headed Dragon (see drawing).  Every family needs that "strong" person, too.  A family protector.  The emotional anchor. The person who can make the sacrifice, take the hits and just keeps on coming at you.
   
  
• He also said every team needs someone who can make things (see drawing). Weapons. Swords.  Someone who can use a frying pan (it's not a shovel or a mushroom, Dad), a drill, or a chainsaw to make important stuff for the team. They might even "have telekinesis, Dad." This might be the family member who cooks the meals, fixes the backed-up toilet, or can assemble an 800-piece Lego set.
  
  
  
   
• Every team also needs someone "who can control people's minds," according to Will (see drawing).  What? They "can make little people like themselves and control them with their hat." I think, in more politically correct terms, this might be someone who can "influence" people to do what they want.  The talker. The peacemaker. The diplomat. Or if you're more sinister, quite possibly, Rush Limbaugh or Taylor Swift.
  
  
  
• And, every superhero team needs a leader.  Captain America. Someone who rallies the troops, sets the plan and leads them into battle.  Someone who has the final word -- and can use arrows and a fire sword to provide clear direction.
  
  
  

• And, this one may surprise you -- but it may be the most insightful point of all.  Every team needs a "weird guy," too.  Someone who is a little different, or maybe funny like stretchy Mr. Fantastic or "the Green Goblin. He is crazy and funny, Dad." Every team and family needs that person who brings something unique to the mix. That laid-back person who sees the humor in life, keeps everyone smiling and loose, and keeps life and battles in perspective. In most White Houses, I think we call that person Vice President.

It was a great conversation that I may visit again with Will.  He has more points of views on animal-based superheroes and super pets, he tells me.

I learned a good deal about superheroes, power and teamwork from my conversation with Will. And, I learned a whole lot about a little boy who may just be my superhero.

I Wish We All Were Morning Persons

This morning -- after two weeks of getting back into the school routine with the kids -- I shared an observation with my wife, Elena (She really loves my observations -- especially in the morning when she is in the midst of packing lunches, dispensing inhalers and serving Cinnabons).

I told her, "In my experience, there are clearly two types of people in this world.  Those who wake up in the morning, get all their jobs done, and then relax until they need to leave ... and those who wake up in the morning, relax a bit, and then race to get all their jobs done before they have to run out the door."

"Good Morning, Good Morning, to You..."

You can probably guess that I am in the first category. As Sutton Foster likes to sing -- and now Emma serenades me with, too -- "I've always been a morning person."  For those, who like the classics, you can enjoy Gene Kelly, Deb Reynolds and Donald O'Connor here.

I have always been someone who likes to get the unpleasant stuff out of the way first and then get my reward. I eat all my corn first, so I can enjoy that delicious steak and butter-soaked baked potato as the last prize on my taste buds.  I'd rather unpack the car, the bags, etc., before I crash on the couch. Exercise before I eat the Dunkin Donuts Boston Kreme.

A delayed reward brings greater satisfaction in my mind.  You get all those other nuisances out of the way and enjoy yourself with a clear conscience.

That is my thinking, but I know it's not universal -- as evidenced by our morning family routine.

Up and At 'Em

On a weekday morning, I will get out of bed after one hit on the snooze.  I hit the shower, get dressed and do the first round of wake-up calls upstairs.  Then I feed the dog, let her out, start the breakfast prep for the kids, clear out the dishwasher, go back upstairs for the second round of wake-ups -- and then I am done.

I could throw on my coat, jump in the car and head to the office in the next second.  So, now, I get my reward. I can take a deep breath, watch Tom & Jerry with the kids, and read the newspapers on my iPad.



This drives my wife crazy.  Don't you think?

She gets up about a half hour later than me.  She checks her email in bed, makes sure everyone's clothes are laid out and brings our son Will downstairs for breakfast. She makes the kids lunches and checks that their backpacks are loaded.  Class notes and instructions (Bus rider ... car rider ... dance class ... volleyball, blah, blah, blah) are conveyed to our sleepy-eyed crew who stumble downstairs in various states of grumpiness.  Somewhere in between all this, Elena goes back upstairs to gets herself dressed for work, settle any bathroom wars between Emma and Tess, and comes back down to eat her own breakfast.

Training The Kids 

My son Will is being trained to understand his dad's wisdom.  He finishes his breakfast, brushes his teeth, gets dressed and tries to spend some time on the XBox without anyone bothering him.  Tess generally gets up, dressed and stays locked in her room until I complete a few yells to get in the car (or unless she feels the need to battle with Emma).  Emma, meanwhile, lopes downstairs, nice and relaxed and goes quietly through her routine.

On weekends, it's a whole different ballgame.  Saturday is "live and let live" day. No wake-up calls.  No orders.  Dad can get up at 7 a.m. and do whatever crazy routine he has -- and Emma snooze until noon.  On Sundays, we invoke "Sunday rules."  No one can turn on a TV, XBox or iPad until they are up, fed, cleaned, dressed and ready for church (this means socks and shoes on -- see this post on the Sockless Life).

I could argue until I am blue in the face why "my way is better" -- (and my wife might argue you that I don't do half of what I described myself doing on a weekday morning).  That is not the point, people. :)

The truth is ... people are wired one way or the other.  You're either a bounce out of bed, bring it on, morning person.  Or, you're an ease me into my day, what is the rush, person.

It can make for some bumpy mornings when these two worlds collide -- but peaceful coexistence is the basic goal... maybe one day a week.
  

Ticket Stubs Are Bookmarks To My Life

I am a 45-year old man, and I have a treasure box.  There, I said it.

It's a pretty ordinary wooden box.  It has a whale carved on the top and comes from Maine. About 25 years ago, it was sitting empty on my dresser collecting dust.  Then it became a resting place for my treasures.

It doesn't contain money, jewelry or gold coins.  It doesn't have baseball cards, photos or antique watches.

It holds a lifetime of memories.  A lifetime of memories in the form of ... ticket stubs.

The Bookmarks To My Life

These  pieces of paper mark more than 100 events in my life.  They are from concerts and comedians.  Broadway shows and basketball games.   Dance recitals and plays. Aquariums, zoos and gardens. The truth is these tickets stubs are the  bookmarks to my life.

When I was younger, I thought it would be cool some day when I was old to sit on my porch in a rocking chair, take out my treasure box and walk down memory lane.  A cheap and restful form of entertainment for an old man.

I wondered if a particular ticket would make me laugh?  Remind me of an old friend? Perhaps bring a song to my mind?  Conjure up images of the kids?  What would I remember when I looked at this assortment of decorated pulp?

This week, I took out my ticket stubs to see what I would find.

The Kids

The kids tickets marking
adventures and milestones.

There was a large group of tickets that will always remind me of the kids:

• Saturday afternoons with the kids at the Shriner Circus in Mennen Arena where cheap popcorn, cotton candy, elephant rides and acrobats made us laugh and cheer
  
• Tess' dance recitals and  Emma's performances in Willy Wonka and Hairspray
  
• Days at the Liberty Science Center, Sesame Place, the Bronx Zoo, and the Aquarium in Boston


• Long walks up the Cape Hatteras Light House every summer
  
• Spending a Daddy day with little Emma and Tess at a production of Cinderella.  A great idea until little Tess got a spontaneous gushing, bloody nose in the parking lot two minutes before the curtain.  I can still see the red handkerchief,... hear my most soothing "you'll-be-fine, Tess," ... and thinking "I hope they don't call DYFS," as we ran through the parking lot to make the curtain.  :)

From the Community Theater
to Broadway

The Shows

In another stack are the shows that remind me of great performances, lots of laughs and endless evenings with friends:

• Howling at Bobby Collins, Drew Carey, and Colin Mochrie and Brad Sherwood -- the two funniest men alive by my account.  Check out this video and wet your pants.
  
• The first time we took Emma to see Wicked and would hear Popular sung 10,000 times by our little starlet
  
• Les Miserables, Lion King, The Producers, Chicago, Riverdance and Rent

The Concerts

One more group for the concerts that set the musical score for my life and embed all those "old" songs in my head to this very day.

• Going to Bruce Springsteen's last show at Giants Stadium and screaming out Thunder Road.
  
• Seeing Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden and at Yankee Stadium.  My favorite performer ever.
  
• James Taylor at the Garden State Arts Center.  Is there any better way to spend a summer evening in NJ? (My wife would say there are hundreds of better ways, but she is from Ohio -- and thinks Dave Matthews is far better)

• Going with my wife to see the Irish group, the Chieftains, one week before my daughter Emma was born. We had to leave early because little Emma was kicking like crazy and enjoying the music a bit too much for her poor, uncomfortable mother-- and then getting lost in Newark on the way home.  Aaah, the bliss of impending parenthood and panic.

The Games

And, finally, The sporting events that brought me together with friends and family -- and were far less about the game and more about the gathering and camaraderie:

Gathering at games over decades

• Tailgating at countless Kickoff Classics at Giants Stadium.  No better way to end the summer and start the fall.
  
• Nets games at the Meadowlands -- especially for that brief moment when the Nets were good.
  
• Minor league baseball games in Bridgewater -- where summer reunions with the old colleagues never got old.
  
• The Rose Bowl in 1997.  Jake the Snake and Arizona State against the Ohio State Buckeyes in a thriller.  The culmination of a "boys" trip up and down the California coast with my Prep crew.
  
• Saint Peter's College basketball games against Seton Hall at the Meadowlands.  We rarely -- if ever -- won, but spending the night with my dad feasting in a VIP box as special guests was always priceless.
    

Dwindling, but Precious Treasures

Today, there are fewer ticket stubs.  We print them off our computers on cheap disposable pieces of paper.   In some cases, a sticker or a wrist band will do. Soon they'll just be digital certificates on our smart phones and stamps on our hands.  

I will miss ticket stubs.  They are dwindling, but precious treasures.  The memories they store will be a wonderful gift when my rocking chair calls and memory lane is awaits.

Always Leave with I Love You

When my daughter Tess turned two years old, she quickly got into the stage of talking -- and she has never stopped.

She was no longer just repeating phrases.  She knew when to say thank you, when to say please.  She knew when to ask for what she wanted – and unfortunately she knew when to scream and whine, too [At age 10 today, she is still pretty good on the "please," and she can still whine with the best of them].

A Late Night Visit

One night, when I was typing away and working in the basement at about 10 p.m., this little toddler came downstairs.  She was still in the mode of coming down one stair at a time on her butt.

As she got to the bottom, I said, “Hi, Tess,” to my little surprise guest.

“I want you, Daddy” was the reply.  She came over sat in my lap and we talked a bit.  I showed her what I was doing, and when she couldn’t play on or crash the computer herself, she became bored (a trait she inherited from her mother), and said, “I want Momma.”

So I told her Mommy was upstairs and she waddled back to the stairs.  She got to the bottom of the stairs and turned to me and said, “Bye, Daddy.”

I said, “Good night, Tess.  I love you.”

12 Steps to a Father's Heart

What happened next was one of those moments you know is a treasure for the memory bank.  It wasn’t something they would play on “America’s Funniest Home Videos” or that would win an Oscar for “Best Short Film,” but it was a moment I recognized then as a memory I would want to capture and replay in my head on days in the future – days when she would be mad at me, or when she would leave for college, or be walking down the aisle at her wedding.

Tess grabbed the banister and walked up one step.  Then she turned her head and yelled in that sweet Tess, child-like voice, “Good night, Daddy.  I love you.” And I said, “I love you, too.”

And then she went up the next step, and turned and said, “Good night, Daddy.  I love you,” and I responded.  Each step another turn, another sweet message.

There were 12 steps from our basement to the first floor in that house, and 12 times Tess grabbed a little piece of her father's heart in a way only a daughter can.

The truth is exits can be tough, but there aren't many better ways to leave a room than with a heartfelt "I Love You."

I remember that night I woke up at 4 a.m. from a dead sleep and went back to the basement.  I typed the original version of this essay that late night, hoping to capture for myself and for her – one moment, one memory that might last forever.  On that night, I could still turn and look at those stairs, walk into her room and see her in those blue pajamas and hear her sweet voice.  Today, it is a fading memory that I hold in my heart and in these words.

“Good night, Daddy.  I love you.”

“l love you, too, Tessie.” …  And I always will.

Editor's Note: This post is based on a series of essays I wrote from 2005 to 2009 and updated for Truth Is...

Values Should Be More Than Something You "Have"

I admire people who have clear moral convictions in life.  Those who see the world as black and white.  It must certainly make life a lot easier.

I am a bit more of a gray guy on many issues.  I tend to listen to lots of perspectives and usually find some virtue in arguments on many sides. My wife would tell you that when I am in a "mood" I will over think everything.

In the end, I may just have a gut feel that makes me lean one way or the other on an issue.  And ashamedly, at times, I may just make the easy choice and go along with my crowd. I might stick with a long-held belief, without any fresh examination or justification, and choose a side simply "because."

What's for Lunch?

Recently, we were on a trip to South Carolina and one simple dining choice got me to thinking about what issues would really stir me to take a stand -- and did my morality or values have a price?

We were driving down 95 South  looking to stop for lunch.  With three picky kids, that means finding the right pizza,pasta, chicken fingers and french fries -- or some combination thereof.

My wife and I were indecisive, and we kept stumbling upon Chick-Fil-A restaurants.  They looked very nice and clean from the outside.  I had a vague recollection about the food being good.  We loved the funny billboards with the cows.  And, the parking lots were always full.

We finally pulled into a Chick-Fil-A, but then my brain decided involuntarily to regurgitate a memory about Chick-Fil-A having been in the middle of a controversy over gay marriage.

I was fuzzy on the details, but I recalled that the CEO made some comments about his personal views on gay marriage and his entire company became embroiled in a messy situation and litany of protests.  You can read more about the situation in this recent USA Today story on the company.

And, so there I was at this mini-moral conundrum.  I have friends and co-workers who are gay, and I have supported gay marriage for a host of personal reasons.  So would I park and partake of some delicious Chick-Fil-A, or would we keep on driving?

If you are Catholic, you can probably relate to those Fridays in Lent when you go to the cafeteria and stand in-line for 15 minutes to get that hamburger special you love, only to realize as you are standing there that it is FRIDAY IN LENT and you aren't supposed to be eating meat.  Do you pretend you forgot that rule and enjoy that carnivore's delight anyway?  Or, do you groan and head to the salad line with your Catholic soul and good standing preserved -- at least for this week.

In the case of Chick-Fil-A, I couldn't do it.  We drove around the parking lot and headed back out onto the road.

Morality of Convenience or Conviction?

It made me think about what other issues would drive me to take an action and how far would I go to stand up for something I valued?  Was my morality one of convenience or conviction?  

There were another dozen fast food restaurants within spitting distance of Chick-Fil-A.  My family certainly wasn't going to starve because of my "stance" on Chick-Fil-A.  It seems even a columnist who is gay has written about having faced a similar conundrum.

I raise this question because the truth is that sometimes your "values" need to be more than something you "have" -- like an old book on the shelf -- they need to be something you "do" and "demonstrate."

I have a good friend, who to this day will not buy gas from Exxon.  It has nothing to do with the Exxon Valdez, which most of us are familiar with.  It dates even farther back to some controversy he recalls from his childhood, which I have long since forgotten.  He would drive the extra blocks for another gas station, and I remember thinking when I was younger, "This is crazy.  It's all the same gas."  But for him, it pushed a button.  It was one demonstration of his values.

Taking a Stand

The Chick-Fil-A turnaround made me think about when I had made a moral stand on anything (this certainly wasn't it)?  How strong were my convictions and values?  What actions do I take that really demonstrate my values?

• Had I ever walked out of a meeting or spoken to a colleague who made a racist joke in my presence?
• Did I ever march for a cause that would try to right some social injustice?
• Had I given my seat on the bus or subway to an older person?
• Did I ever stand up to a boss who was not acting appropriately? 
• Had I ever supported a candidate because of their position on one issue I deeply valued?

And, most importantly, do I teach my kids about my values?  Not only with lectures (you can imagine the eye rolls), but more effectively with my actions.  Do I explain to my children not just what I hold as values, but why I hold them?

I think that may be part of the lesson.  Take time to think about your values.  Examine them.  Question them. Understand them.  And, find those cases where you would actually do something to demonstrate them.

Then pick the opportune time to talk about them with your family, your kids ... maybe even for longer than the thirty-second u-turn out of the Chick-Fil-A parking lot.

God looks out for fools, children -- and stupid fathers (a.k.a., fools)

You may have heard some form of the old adage, "God looks out for fools and young children."  Some versions say he looks out for drunks and the United States of America, too.  

Whatever the source (The Bible or Otto von Bismarck), I would amend this saying.  In my case the truth is ... God often looks out for fools by another name -- stupid fathers.

Eleven years ago, we adopted a dog named Sadie.  She was a mutt who had been living on the street in Montclair, N.J., and we took her into our home.  She was about 40 pounds when we got her, mostly white fur with brown and black markings on her face.  Long pointed ears like a bunny and a long tail.  One blue eye and one brown eye.  

Sadie today.  About 12 years old.
Older, slower and lot calmer.

A unique dog in her looks, she was even more "unique" in her antics.  You see, Sadie was also certifiably crazy.  Just ask her vet and behavioral specialist at the time.

I could tell crazy Sadie stories for days -- and have to most people who will listen -- but this post is about one lesson she helped teach me more than 10 years ago.

Dopey Daddy Daycare

I had come home at about 8 p.m. one evening when my daughter Emma was about one-year old, and I had to take Sadie and Emma out for a walk because my wife was running late for an appointment.  I got Emma all packed into the ultra-cool, rugged jogging stroller with knobby tires, hand brakes and racing blue colors. I put on Sadie’s leash, grabbed a flashlight and rolled out.

Classic jogging stroller
with classic fit dad 

Everything was going fine.  We lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood.  It was dark outside, so none of our neighbors would be out walking and very few cars just drove up and down our block.  Emma was happily drinking her bottle and Sadie walked calmly next to her stroller with her leash in my hand.

Now, Sadie wasn’t crazy like a vicious, rabid killer.  She was crazy like a scared-of-her-own-shadow, extremely anxious and nervous pup.  When she saw a stranger or another dog she would go nuts, jumping around, barking, trying to get to them -- or away from them -- it was hard to tell which in all the panicked, frenetic movement.

On this night, when Sadie left a "deposit" on our neighbor’s lawn, it presented me with a bit of a dilemma.  With a flashlight in one hand to see what I was doing and a bag in the other hand to do what I was doing, I had one last piece of the puzzle to figure out.  What to do with Sadie and her leash?

I had one of those big discerning moments that you think about later in life.  You reflect and wonder, "What were you thinking?"  I remember thinking that this wasn’t a good idea at the time, but it would only take a second. And, then I proceeded to clip Sadie’s leash to the stroller’s handle. CLIP!

I looked around and didn’t see anyone.  As I bent over to pick up the dump, I heard a sound behind me down the road from where we had come.  It was a man and his dog out for a late night walk about 50 yards down the street. 

In an instant, I turned my head back to look at Emma, the stroller and Sadie.  It was already too late.  Sadie had heard them, too, and had been spooked.  She took off down the street at full speed with Emma’s stroller flipped over like a dragster on a raceway and careening behind her.  I screamed at that dog words and sounds I have not spoken since.

Sadie stopped dead in her tracks.

As I ran about 15 yards down the block, I was prepared for the absolute worst.  Emma was crying hysterically and Sadie sat there frozen -- for the first time in her life.  Luckily, Emma had been strapped so snugly into that stroller that when it flipped she didn’t get dragged on her head or face.  She was scared , but not scraped.  Sadie and I were just scared.

The lesson here is that when you get that little twinge in the pit of your stomach that says, “This isn’t a good idea,” go with that feeling and stop what you’re doing.  On that night, God gave me a pass. A near miss on a potentially devastating accident.  A wink, a nod, and a big "this one is on me" gesture from heaven. 

The truth is sometimes we get a little more help than our actions would deserve...

Editor's Note: This post is based on a series of essays I wrote from 2005 to 2009 and updated for Truth Is...