How Do You Handle Pre-Teen Angst?

My daughter is eleven years old but wants to be sixteen.

She doesn't want to join in on any type of family fun (whether it's with me or if it's with her mom) because it's just "not cool" to do and it might hurt her "school rep".

Honestly...I don't remember having a "rep" going into the sixth grade other than being the class clown. Have times changed THAT much?? (they haven't for me, but that's another story)

She wants to dress older (tight jeans and a scarf around the neck when it's 90 degrees outside?). She wants to be treated like an adult. She wants to get her own way because that's what grown ups do.

So how do I cope with this? How does a single dad influence his daughter without it going in one ear and out the other?

Tell me...honestly...how bad does it get when she eventually goes to high school???

Driving Under The Limit!!

Having a daughter who has been driving for a few years and a son who is about to get his permit…and watching their friends drive has gotten a bit under my skin lately.

As we live in a country with the lowest driving age (shared by Canada and parts of Australia - 16) and I know that some back-assward states let kids get permits at 14…

I started to look at some statistics. They frightened me!

• There are more than six million car accidents each year in the United States.

• A person dies in a car accident every 12 minutes and each year car crashes kill 40,000

people.

• The leading cause of death for individuals between 2 and 34 years old is motor vehicle crashes.

• Someone is injured by a car crash every 14 seconds and about two million of the people injured in car accidents each year suffer permanent injuries.

• Over 25% of all drivers were involved in an auto accident in a five-year period.

• Excessive speed is the second most common cause of deadly auto accidents, which accounts for about 30% of fatal accidents.

• Car crashes cost each American more than $1,000 a year; $164.2 billion is the total cost

each year across the United States.

• Car accidents are the leading cause of death for kids between 2 and 14; About 2,000 children die each year from injuries caused by car accidents.

• Each year, almost 250,000 children are injured in car crashes, meaning nearly 700 kids are harmed every day.

• Car accidents are the leading cause of acquired disability nationwide.

Now why can’t we get on board with the rest of the world and raise the minimum driving age to 17 or even 18 ?

When I see things like this….

I get furious! (Fine…I may be prone to road rage….but this is why)

Your thoughts?

Childhood Adventure

Perched atop a rocky point, overlooking the northern Atlantic, was the majestic house that he called home every summer. He and his sister were always excited when summer began growing near. They were going to stay with their father, step-mother, uncle, aunt and grandmother, in the ‘castle on the beach.’ This is where he had some of his fondest childhood memories.

The house itself was enormous…but he enjoyed his time outside more than anything else. He’d always climb down the cliff to the beach, as opposed to taking the weathered stairs. It made a great start to his day of exploration. Heading north along the white sandy beach…there was not a house to be seen…it was ‘his beach.’ It took him only about ten minutes to make it the next outlying cliff – his destination. Getting closer, he could see the odd shapes and black holes in and around the upper edges of the cliff. His excitement grew, increasing as he got closer…because this day he was going to explore farther and deeper than he ever had before.

As he began climbing up the steep embankment, his eyes began to hone in on anything and everything that he could add to the little bag that was draped around his neck. Scrambling to the top, he rested for a minute and then did a full 360 to take in his surroundings and gather his bearings. Knowing that he was embarking on a journey that no other 11 year old boys had ever been on, he smiled and took a deep breath, which he held in for a moment, as if to not let his fear or anxiety surface.

Looking inland from the cliff top, he marveled at what lay before him. The old fort, abandoned by the Marines more that a decade ago. He eyed the reinforced trenches, gun turrets, crumbling stairwells that seemed to lead nowhere…he did not know where to start. He’d been there once before with his sister, but she was scared and they did not explore the way he planned to this day. Mentally flipping a coin, he started walking north along the cliff.

When he came to the first of the seemingly endless bunkers, he walked around it, searching high and low for the doorway…he found none. He did, though, find several spend shell casings from a machine gun. The shells quickly went into his bag. Moving on he came to a spot where he would have to cross the trench. It was not deep, but there was still a certain level of fear that began to creep up. He turned and lowered himself into the trench. Once inside he realized that to get out…he’d have to find a fallen rock or a spot where the wall had broken. He began his journey along the trench. Comforted by the ever present sun on his head and the familiar sounds of crashing waves, he proceeded. After a few minutes, he saw his opportunity to climb out of the trench…a large piece of the wall had fallen inside. It was just enough for him to climb up and then pull his way out.

Right there in front of him was another bunker. He had to find a door on this one. Scurrying all the way around the 10’ X 10’ bunker, jumping up onto the earth-covered top and then back down, he still found no way in. He wondered for a moment how the soldiers got in and out. Scratching his head, he walked around it once more. This time more slowly and eyeing everything. About ¾ of the way around, he saw where the 10” window, which encircled the bunker, was broken. It could have broken from decay in the salt air or from a fallen rock…but he was going with a missile blast…yeah, that’s what made the hole.

He first peered inside. Not seeing much of anything, he remembered his difficulty in getting out of the trench. Finding a few large rocks that he could roll, he one by one, rolled them into the bunker to use as a ladder if he could not find a door. Then he dropped to his belly and began descending into the bunker, feet first. Inside the bunker it was dark, the air was still and…he had no flashlight. Walking around the room feeling the walls for a door, he noticed that there was a bunch of stuff on the floor. In the dim light he could not make everything out so he lifted items, one by one into the light from the sliver of window. This room was a gold mine for shell casings…he even found 2 belts of shells…where they were all held together by little metal pieces. These, he knew, were used in the large machine guns.

Finally he found what seemed to be a mini door in the wall that opened to a stairwell. He could see nothing in the stairwell. It was pitch black. He sat there for a moment, contemplating whether he would brave the stairwell or go back the way he came. The internal argument was brief…he’d come back another day with a flashlight for the stairs. Climbing up on the rocks that he’d pushed down into the bunker, he was able to emerge from his first explored room with ease. Once back on solid ground, outside the bunker, he searched for something to mark the bunker with so that he could come back to see where that stairway led. The only thing that he could find was a bunch of rocks. He grabbed them, one by one and piled them on top of the bunker, in a pile that he’d be able to see from a ways off.

At that point, he decided to head inland from the cliff to see what was there for him to explore. Passing by several flat cement circles, each with a few sets of holes in them, he noticed huge amounts of spent shell casings and knew that there must have been machine guns mounted there. He took a few minutes to pretend that there were still guns mounted in their positions. With his hands up in front of him, he shook back and forth and turned back and forth, making machine gun noises. With that, he thought to himself what a great vantage point that spot was. He had a great line of sight up and down the beach…as well as the ocean to the east.

Moving on, the boy came to a set of stairs which led down about fifty feet to a large open area. Seemingly an old staging area for the military personnel, to him it looked like an un-kept playground …with no equipment. Reaching the open area and turning to look at the hillside toward the ocean he marveled at the number of stairways, doors and open passageways that riddled the embankment. As if he were a trained soldier, he squinted his eye, peered back and forth and then seemed to KNOW which direction to head.

As he started to the north-East, he noticed something that stood out to him. It was not the shape of all of the other things he was finding…and it looked to be halfway stuck into the ground. Crouching down in front of it and brushing some of the dirt away from the sides…it became clear what he had found.

The tarnished metal sticking out of the ground was making his eyes widen and his heart race. Grasping his hand around his new found treasure, he pulled with all of his might. After a few seconds of pulling he found himself falling backwards, landing on his rear and holding, up in the air, what would be ‘the find on the day.’

Lowering his treasure to eye level, he carefully studied it. Knowing very well that he’d found an old bayonet, he was anxious to get it cleaned up. Vigorously rubbing the handle up and down the leg of his jeans, spitting on it and rubbing some more, he began to clean away the dirt and grime. Holding the weapon by its semi-clean handle, he wondered what to do about cleaning the blade. What if it had blood …or something cool like that on it? He put the blade into his bag to clean up later…when he could take the time to do it right.

Continuing to the north-east, jumping, happily, over pieces of broken cement blocks and mounds of dirt, he came to an incline that would bring him up the slope of the hillside fort. He began up the cement stairs and after a few of the stairs basically crumbled under his feet, he moved to the left and on all fours, continued up the overgrown embankment. Around the midway point there was a small landing where he found a small open doorway. It was pitch black inside and he was a bit scared. Poking his head in, he barely made out that the room was quite small and it had two doorways that he could see. He was frightened, but the excitement of exploring this forgotten fortress was too much to handle. He sat for a minute before it hit him…he would make himself a torch. Backing out of the doorway, he turned and scanned the hillside for a stick that could serve as a good torch. He spotted one, grabbed it and sat on the small landing. Taking his bag off his shoulder, he sunk his hand in, to the bottom and quickly pulled out his pocket knife. Setting it on the ground beside him, he stood and reached into his pocket for the book of matches that he’d stolen from next to the fireplace. Happy that he had all of the tools that he needed, he began to cut a long strip off the bottom of his T-shirt. Carefully wrapping the cloth around one end of the stick (yes, he was an Indiana Jones fan) he slung his pack back onto his shoulder, stood up and stepped into the doorway to the darkness.

Holding the stick between his thighs, with the cloth-wrapped end sticking out in front of him, he struck the first match. Not able to ignite his torch with the first match, he tried again, and then again. Frustrated, he struck two matches at once and held them underneath the torch head. It lit! Smiling to himself, he quickly shoved the matches back into his pocket and proceeded into the room. In the flickering light he decided to head through the door to his left. It was a narrow hallway and he was now surrounded by cement walls and darkness…all except for his circle of safety within the orb of flickering light. The smoke-filled hallway soon opened into a larger room. As he entered the inner room, he noticed that his torch would not be burning for long. He knew that he’d have to keep moving.

The room was seemingly empty, except for a set of stairs on one side of the room. He quickly headed for the stairs. He was about half way up the stairwell when his torch flickered and burnt out.

At first he was consumed by fear. He did not know where the stairway was going to lead him…and he did not know if he’d be able to find his way back the way he came. Suddenly, as if being guided by some supernatural force, he closed his eyes and with an uncanny sense of ease, pushed through any and all of the fear that was lurking in his vulnerable head. While still midway up the uneven staircase, he blindly took off his backpack, removed the rest of his shirt and would it around the charred end of his torch stick. Operating as if he had no need for eyes, he quickly ripped two matches from the book in his pocket and had his torch relit in a matter of seconds.

As his eyes began to adjust from pitch blackness to the blinding light of his new torch, he began to survey his situation. He decided that he would explore just one more room before heading back. Continuing up the stairs he finally reached the top. Standing on the top landing and using his torch to see, he noticed that there were two ways he could go. There was a closed doorway to his right and a hallway to his left. Looking at the hallway, he noticed that it seemed to be inclined…heading up towards the surface. Thinking for a moment he proceeded up the inclined hallway, sure that it would lead him above ground.

Stumbling over a few loose rocks on the floor and noticing small little doors in the wall which were all locked. His guess was that they were storage areas for food or ammunition. Now he knew that he would have to find a way to map this maze of tunnels and rooms, marking where he had been and the things that he had found. On his next trip, he would undoubtedly bring some supplies such as; bolt cutters, flashlights, a clipboard and paper for his map, etc.

The inclined hallway led him up and around a corner and into yet another room. This room was large and had big wooden doors on the floor of the room. There was obviously something below him. He tried to lift 2 of the doors and he could not budge them. He mentally added a crow bar to his list of items to bring back with him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a light poking through a small crack in a wall. After examining the wall for a door, he found a small crawl space that seemed to be an exit. Knowing that he only had a minute or two of light left on his torch, he proceeded to crawl through the opening. The opening led him to a very narrow hall that became almost too small for him to get through with his pack on. It got brighter and brighter as he pushed forward. Finally he reached the small opening into the natural sunlight. Looking back at where he had just emerged from, he saw that it was an almost unnoticeable opening between a large tree and a big boulder. He was sure that he’d just found one of the fort’s secret entrances.

Snubbing out his torch in the dirt, he thought it best to leave a few of his things there so that he did not have to carry as much. He left scraps from his T-shirt, his torch stick, and a few other items right next to the base of the tree. After looking around and thinking for a minute, he picked up the T-shirt scraps and hung them over one of the low hanging branches…as an indicator of where his gear and the fort entrance was.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Racist Kids And The Chameleon - 2

It was never one on one and I could no longer just try to defend myself…I had to think of something to get out of the fights. Being outnumbered the way I was…I knew that I had to find another way. The fights …and hiding continued through 4th grade and that is when I finally figured that if I could not beat them, I’d have to find a way to join them. I spent that summer trying to figure out a way to make everyone like me …or at least put up with me.

Mid summer, it came to me. Now, I had 5 brothers and sisters and at home, I was a pretty funny guy and I also found that I had the ability to “change.” I could adjust my attitude and personality to fit well with the person that I was with. I spent the rest of the summer honing my chameleon-like skills…as well as my humor. It was going to be all or nothing this year. I could not continue hiding bruises, bloody nooses and fat lips on top of lying about the cuts and scrapes that I had gotten used to over the past few years.

At the arrival of the first day of 5th grade, I was waiting for the bus with my brothers and sisters. I was overrun with anxiety about the day ahead of me. With the recent years of practice I had become a pretty tough kid, but there was only so much I could do while outnumbered. I got frustrated, thinking of how I might be able to avoid the impending beatings that day. Just then, the bus pulled up. After watching my siblings hurry onto the bus and find seats with their friends, I realized that once again I would have to sit alone in the back seat.

Staring out the window, seeing a miserable little boy in the reflection in the glass, I knew that I had to change things…NOW. Hearing the laughter and fooling around in the seats in front of me made the silence and solitude of the back seat that much more intense. The 20 minute ride to school usually seemed like an eternity, but that day …it was different. By the time the bus pulled up in front of the school the reflection that I saw in the window had changed …to one resembling that of a scientist discovering the cure for a deadly disease. I had an idea and with all of the courage that I could muster…would try it today.

Making my way down the long corridor to class, I noticed the usual dirty looks, snickering and racist comments following me as I walked. I quickly took refuge in my classroom, which was empty for the moment. I sat at a desk and put more thought into the details of my plan. Smiling to myself, I was startled when the door opened again. It was Mrs. Brooks, my new teacher. As she walked in and closed the door, she looked over at me and greeted me with a smile and “good morning.” After putting her things down at her desk, she turned and asked me if everything was OK. Now I knew Mrs. Brooks from last year…she was one teacher that had always treated me fairly…and now I was going to ruin that. I, trying to hide the unfamiliar mischievous smile on my face, told her that everything was fine.

Just then, letting my eyes move back down to their normal position…staring at the front of my desk, as to not attract any unwanted attention. I watched as the other kids in the class started to file into the small classroom. All of the chatter and moving around ceased as Mrs. Brooks rose from her desk. My anxiety was high and I know that I was sweating profusely. I was lost in my own head, trying to decide when I should put my new plan into action.

I knew that my attitude change could not be too drastic – I needed this to work. After about 15 minutes, I found my first opportunity for my plan to start. After the class was done reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, the class was silent, waiting for our teacher to sit down and prepare for class. All of the sudden a fart erupted and echoed throughout the entire room. The whole class began to burst out into laughter…all except Mrs. Brooks. As the other kids in the class saw the extremely irritated look in her eyes, there were suddenly about a dozen fingers pointed directly at me.

Mrs. Brooks marched through the classroom and stood over me, with her hands on her hips. The look on her face was one of complete disgust and anger. This was a new side of her…one that I had never seen before. Her daunting presence gave off a very unfamiliar air of unemotional superiority from her…which was far different than the empathy and safety that I had felt …until now. Mrs. Brooks instructed me to stand up. As I did, she barked, “Why did you do that? It disrupted the entire class.” My planned response, an attempt to make my classmates laugh again – “I only burped…it just came out of my ass.”

Mrs. Brooks grabbed me by the back of my neck, obviously not worried about the fingernails that were working their way beneath my skin. She stormed me down the hall to the principal’s office. Upon entering the outer office, Mrs. Brooks informed the secretary that I had disrupted the class and was being vulgar and rude. On her way out the door, she glanced over her shoulder and added, I don’t want to see him in my classroom until after lunch.”

The secretary pointed to a row of hard wooden chairs across from her desk and instructed me to “sit.” She then quickly picked up her phone and whispered something …while glaring at me. Perched atop one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, my eyes surveyed the room. There was a mixture of pictures, certificates and school rules pined to the textured walls. Until now…I had never noticed anything about this office…I had been here before, but generally stared at the floor. Time seemed to stand still, but it was really only a matter of minutes before the phone buzzed. The secretary looked at me and said, “He’ll see you now.”

Racist Kids And The Chameleon

Stemming from my adoption…I will give you a bit of a back story on me.

My natural mother is white and natural father is black (making me…an Oreo.) I was adopted in 1967, when I was 10 days old by a very loving couple (both white.) They already had one daughter and then had a miscarriage, so they decided to adopt me. Now, I can’t say how I felt then…cuz I was tiny little thing that only knew to cry, poo and eat. What I can say is that we lived in rural New Hampshire…where everything (except the leaves in the Fall) was white. Oh….but not me…I was/am more of a caramel. Anyway, life was good, at least from where I sat and in my baby world.

As I got a bit older (5 or 6), I started to experience racism…and this was even before I really knew what it was. I obviously knew that I looked different than EVERYONE…but I just thought that everyone WAS different…some pale, some pinkish, some fat, some skinny, some had black hair, some blonde, etc. I guess that I never really brought it up cuz I thought my skin was a bit darker. Boy it would be great if everyone had my 6 year old attitude. Soon after going into first grade and coming home from school with stories of people being mean and not seeing anyone else that looked anything like me, my mother sat me down for a discussion.

My mother told me that (in a longer, more descriptive way) that I was adopted and that one of my natural parents was black. At the time…I guess that was enough…now I knew why I was different. The community that we lived in was completely white. Iwas the only person of colorin the entire school at that point. My mother then told me that if people were being mean to me, that I should immediately tell my teacher or the principal. At the time…that sounded good to me, figuring that the teachers would straighten things out.

As time went on, kids were still mean and basically ignored me…unless they were picking on me. I told the teachers a few times, but the message that I got from them was, “kids this age can be mean…you have to just get used to it.”

In second and third grades, things got worse. There was more of the same nagging and kids making fun of me as well as a lot of pushing and instigating trouble. It was in third grade when I got into my first real fight. It was not what one would think of third graders, it was me trying to defend myself against several boys throwing punches and calling me “nigger.” After I thoroughly got thrashed, I did go to the principal’s office to report the fight and the boys who were responsible. The principal flipped through a book and then looked over at me before stating that there have been a lot of “reports” of trouble that included me. Then he proceeded to tell me that I would be in serious trouble if there were any more.

I knew, from that point on that the teachers and the principal would be of no help to me. I did not want to tell my parents because I knew that they would call the principal and then I would be in worse trouble. Now, looking back on this…it was some pretty intense thought for a 9 year old. After that first fight, the fights became a regular thing. I came to expect that I would spend my recess either hiding or fighting. At that point, I did not want to call on my older sister or younger brother for “back up, cuz I did not want them to have to endure what I was going through and did not want them to have to fight my battles for me. I knew that this had to be figured our by me…and me alone.

TO BE CONTINUED….

TentCamper's Beatdown

I know that it is going to go against my ‘manly’ reputation as a Hot Dad, but I have to level with you all.

I have been holding back for quite some time. Stuffing my feelings and playing the tough guy role…when the reality is that I am crushed. I feel like a broken man.

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here…I love Mariah and her kids and the rest of her family. I want to be with them forever. The thing that is missing is MY boys. This past Monday morning is the first time I’d seen them since January 3rd. I have only spent 2 weekends with them since the end of November.

I am sickened. I feel like crying, throwing up or curling up into a little ball. I miss them so very much that it hurts to think about. I try to put it out of my mind and go on with things until the courts get things straightened out, but I am only fooling myself. Every day I want to just sit and cry. I know that I can’t keep up this charade for long.

On Monday I only saw them briefly as we were all at the court house for a custody evaluation and the joy that overtook my whole body was overwhelming. I almost burst into tears…but I did not want them to think something was wrong.

Now I know that with Mariah and her/our kids, my job search and coaching high school lacrosse, my days get busy and things have a tendency to be hectic. It seems to be easy to busy myself with things enough not to dwell too much or hide in a closet to cry and feel sorry for myself. But I can’t seem to be able to shake the feeling of teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

I know that I am needed in this house and that Mariah and the kids need me. I can’t let things fall apart. I hold it together and push on. The sad thing is that every minute of down time or times that I am not running around…all I do is think about how much I love and want to be with my boys.

Now, I know that I have been on here bad-mouthing my ex and talking about how she is to blame for me not seeing the boys…I am done with that. I know that I have done wrong and I understand why she hates me. I get why she is not a fan of Mariah…but I want things to be better. I want to be a big part of my boys’ lives and want to put all of this hostility, emotional strain and mental anguish behind me.

I know that I am rambling (in circles) but I truly feel lost within myself. I don’t feel that I have the strength to fight all of this much longer. Fighting with my ex, the nauseating pain I feel not seeing my boys, being 100% there for Mariah and the kids, lacrosse, etc. I sometimes feel like I am losing the battle and that I’d be better off choosing one or the other.

I know that that is not a valid thought, but it is there anyway.

I know that I am a good man. I know that I am a good and capable father. I know that I am doing my best. I know that I am able to bring happiness to many people in my life….all of this and I still feel ….beaten.

Life Is A Mess!!!!

Sorry that I have been away from the whole Twitter and blog thing for the past week…I am just feeling a bit off these days.

Even though my lazy ass is not working right now…I feel run-the-fuck-down. With 6 kids…even the smallest chore, like keeping the house clean is a tough one. But kids aside…I have been spending 10 to 12 hours a week on the Lacrosse field as I was appointed one of the coaches for the new high school lacrosse team. It has been a bit tough as I personally know a handful of the boys and disciplining them has been quite the chore.


On top of that…Mariah was attacked by a pole in a parking lot. Well…the pole did not actually do anything…but it was definitely the pole’s fault.


The puppy is chewing everything and seems to enjoy making a mess.


The guy (a friend) living out back is getting on my last nerve and doing all the right things just as we are about to ask him to leave.

**No pic...Just imagine me puking!!**

Our son Cody had his 15th birthday party with some of his closest pals...and gals.


I have divorce court (again) coming up in about a week and a half.

Basically…I have been feeling like a house-maid with no purpose in life.

I am ... On the ball

I am going to start by saying that I am a firm believer in organization, preparedness and all around just having my shit together.

With the kids in school and the house quite during the day...I thought that I’d get back into the swing of our ‘school year schedule.’ The kids are gone from 8AM until about 4 every day and we finally have time to get things done. Well… at least that is what is supposed to happen. Between our work, after school sports, homework, play dates and our (collectively) new addiction to the blogosphere, shit is still slipping through the cracks.

While grocery shopping the other day, I seem to have forgotten to buy cereal. When I noticed this last night, I went into “the back up storage” to fetch a box to put into the kitchen pantry. Smiling to myself, I was pleased with my preparedness…I actually HAD back-up. I rock…and the kids will eat some tasty Kellogg’s Honey Smacks!!!

13 year old Cody walked into the kitchen this morning to grab some cereal for breakfast and then he looked over at me and said, “ Um…I think this cereal is…a bit old.” I looked over at him, expecting to explain that they are NOT old and that if he wants breakfast…just to eat them. I did not say that…All I could do was laugh. Actually I burst into laughter…after spitting a bit of coffee across the room.

This is what Cody showed me.


Right...that cereal is OUT OF ITS BAG.

I guess one needs to be careful in what items go into the “back-up storage.”

What a great start to my day!!!!

Whattya Mean You Don’t Know Your Age?

My son turned three back in September. Let me just stress right now that he is the apple of my eye and I love him more than words could adequately explain. He has truly changed my life and even though his mom and I are no longer together, I want to continue to be a positive influence in his life as well as a constant…always being around for him.

I say that because I'm about to complain and get some frustrations out, and I really don't want anybody believing that I think any less of my son. He is my world.

Okay…the kid can't talk. He says words from time to time, but they're mumbled or muffled or don't make any sense at all. The Ex and I both believe that he needs tubes in his ears (he sees a specialist later this month) and that the talking will develop ten-fold once he can truly hear and understand exactly what he's saying. His hearing is fine, too…he's already passed hearing tests and seems to know what we tell him most of the time.

When sitting with a picture book, asking him to find objects like turtles and oranges and ducks are a joy because the kid seems to be able to pick out just about anything. It's quite impressive, actually.

But over the weekend we were playing Chutes & Ladders. Obviously, it's a bit of a stretch to get him to understand the concept at this point…but I thought it'd be fun to try. So I'm spinning the little dial and asking him to tell me what number it lands on (it was a 3). He doesn't know. No worries, I think. I tell him and get him to repeat it out loud and we continue to play.

He lands on the same number. He has no idea what it is.

Okay…how about if I count out loud? Maybe he just can't recognize the numbers on a page. Surely he can count to five, right?

"One…two…"

"Eight?"

Sigh.

"No, buddy…there's no eight. How old are you?"

Shrugs.

"Well, you knew your age on your birthday. How old are you, buddy?"

"Eight?"

"No, buddy. One…two…"

Silence.

I was a bit stunned. I really thought that between the babysitter he's with every day and his mom (who has custody) that surely NUMBERS would have entered into the equation at some point. I mean, it's awesome to know colors and I don't expect him to know the alphabet yet (especially where he can't even pronounce words correctly), but why can't he even count to three yet?

Am I expecting too much out of him? Am I expecting too much out of him mom? Should I take it upon myself to be his numeric teacher? I know I shouldn't be frustrated, but am I really out of line by feeling this way?

Explaining Bad Things

My 11-year-old daughter lives a plane ride away. She visited me over the Christmas holidays and we had an amazing time. During her visit, there was an attempted terrorist attack on an airplane that was flying into Detroit. It was extremely difficult attempting to explain how the world had changed in just a few days.

We watched a bit of the news about the event and I tried to explain just what had happened. I tried to explain how carry-on luggage rules had changed because of what this man had done. I tried to explain how her plane was safe because it was just a short plane ride and terrorists normally target larger planes (probably not the best explanation in the world, but I didn’t really know what else to say at the time).

So the question I have is…What should I have said to her?

And it doesn’t stop there. How do you explain the earthquake in Haiti? I mean, you can explain the science of earthquakes and explain that many people but how can you adequately explain the devastation and horror and death? Maybe the question is: should you?

One of the responsibilities of being a parent, especially in a world where EVERYTHING is at a child’s fingertips, is attempting to put all things into a certain frame of reference so that they understand. The real difficulty, I think, is trying to find a happy medium between scaring the crap out of them and making them immune to the world around them.

How do you explain a crazy person who shoots up a military base in Texas? How do you explain the war in Afghanistan? How do you explain how bad the economy is and how people are losing their jobs on a daily basis? How do you explain the situation with NBC, Jay Leno, and Conan O’Brien?

Okay…scratch that last one.

Seriously, though…what do you do to explain the bad things that go on in the world to your children?

Is Sharing Caring?

How much do you want to share of yourself when your kids grow up? A generation ago, this question would have probably been irrelevant. The lines between parents and children were a lot more defined. But in this touchier, feelier age in which we live, parents are friendlier and closer with their offspring. Add to that the transparency of social media and blogging, and it becomes seemingly harder to stay opaque. So when it comes time that your kids are going to start to get into the same kind of trouble that you did, stare down the same demons, what are you going to say?

I’m a long way from this, but I think about it a lot. I’m fairly confident that my parents, especially my dad, had their share of shenanigans growing up. Yet when it came to the inevitable talks about using substances or sex or any of the other things that keep parents of teens up a night, my folks never shared anecdotes. That was probably for the best. When it comes to learning about your parents, there are many things better left unsaid.

As for me, I was not a real troublemaker, but I was no angel either. Let's just put it this way, I'm really glad there was no such thing as Twitter when I was in college. As per usual, my teenage years included lapses in judgment that sometimes resulted in trashcans filled with puke or walks of shame (every once in a while, both).

At the end of the day, I don’t think my kids need to know everything about me. Just like I don’t know everything about my parents. I love my kids, but they are not my friends. Even though I call my son "buddy" all of the time, he is my child. Knowing the trouble I got in to, or narrowly avoided, would probably give him license to do the same things. Right?

What say you? Do you acknowledge your past in the present?

Dear Santa

Those of us with children have to understand the annual Dear Santa letters. These are the letters that we ask our children to write to Santa well before Christmas asking for a few very special things. We do this NOT to reinforce the belief in Santa Clause but for our personal gain.

This is how we, experience and knowledgeable parents get a reasonable list of what the kids want for Christmas. If we ask the kids to make a list for us of what they would like for Christmas…it would read something like this;

I want: a pony, plasma TV for my room, a new laptop, Uggs, Vans, Xbox 360 (with Internet connection), gift cards (to A & F, American Eagle, Vans, AMC, Baskin Robins and Blockbuster) the new iPod, the Blackberry Storm and some cash. (or something like that)

The dear Santa letters look something like this:

Dear Santa –

I know that you must be very busy this time of year, but I wanted to write to you to tell you that I have been very good this year and I have kept my grades up.

There are only two very special things that I would like for Christmas this year and they are; a new bike (because mine is much too small for me) and some new clothes……oh and…for mommy and daddy to have the best holidays ever…and I love them.

Love, Kid

There is a significant difference in what is wanted when talking to parents vs. the infamous Santa Clause…no kid wants to be seen as selfish or too needy to Santa.

Get them to write letters!!!!!!

And that is my wisdom for the day.

Being Aware Can Save a Child's Life

Hot Dads is one of approximately 100 blogs helping me today raise awareness of juvenile myositis, the autoimmune disease my daughter has. Why today? It was seven years ago on this date that we found a doctor who figured out what our daughter had. It also happens to be my wife's birthday. This is our story.

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, part of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

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To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit the Cure JM Foundation.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to my personal FirstGiving page or the Cure JM donations page.