Why? Because I Said So.

Zoey has a new favorite word.

Why.

And while I respect and encourage her inquisitive nature, it can sometimes become frustrating when my explanations are met with further questioning. This evening, the four of us went out for a walk and Zoey saw a bird fly overhead.

Zoey: Can I fly?
Ella: No.
Zoey: When I get bigger and bigger and bigger?
Me: No.
Zoey: Why?
Ella: Because you don't have wings.
Zoey: Why?
Me: Because you're descended from apes.
Ella: Don't tell her that.
Me: Why?
Ella: You don't need to teach her about evolution yet.
Me: So when is the proper age to broach the subject of evolution?
Zoey: Mommy!
Ella: Yes, Zoey?
Zoey: Why can't I fly?
Ella: Because you're not a bird.
Me: Some insects fly, too.
Zoey: Why can't I fly?
Me: Because you don't have wings.
Zoey: Can I grow wings?
Me: No.
Zoey: Why?
Me: Because you're a person.
Zoey: Can I make some wings?
Me: Yes. But you still won't be able to fly.
Zoey: I want to fly!
Me: Zoey, since the dawn of time, man has looked lovingly at the sky, jealous of the winged crea-
Ella: Look, Zoey! A mud puddle!

Ella is always scolding me for giving Zoey too much information, as she likes to put it. Ella believes these things should be brought up at a later time, when Ella thinks Zoey's old enough to comprehend them. But since Ella hasn't given me a copy of this timeline, I'm at a loss. So I introduce topics to my daughter as the need arises. Like last night, when we had a discussion on intoxication, albeit brief.

A moped drove by our car.
Zoey: What's that?
Ella: A moped.
Zoey: A no-pad?
Me: Mo-ped.
Zoey: Mo-ped.
Ella: Good job.
Zoey: Why is he riding a mo-pad?
Me: Mo-ped.
Zoey: Why is he riding a moped?
Me: Because he drank too much. (This wasn't some EcoDude driving a Vespa. This was some guy driving a crappy moped that would've been jealous of my weed eater's engine.)
Ella: Chag!
Zoey: Why did he drink too much?
Me: He's probably married.
Ella: Don't listen to Daddy, honey.
Zoey: Why was he driving that thing?
Me: Because the police caught him.
Zoey: With a net?
Ella: Look, Zoey! A big yellow truck!

That's Ella's m.o.: when the conversation becomes a little too adult, she pulls out the "look, a shiny object" routine. Sorry, but if Zoey asks me a question, I answer it truthfully. I don't make up some story or pretend I didn't hear her or change the subject if the answer's not age-appropriate. Nor do I dumb it down for her. I speak to Zoey as I would an adult. I was never one to say, "Does Zoey-Woey want to ride her bikey-wikey?" Which is why strangers often comment, "Boy she sure does talk good [sic]." Yes, she does. Would you like her to give you lessons?

Sometimes we go through so many levels of whys, I forget what we were originally talking about. And I don't know if it's because I've been whyed to death lately or if I'm going through some sort of midlife crisis, but I have a lot of whys lately as well. So let me float the following questions out in the ether:

• Why can my daughter disrobe faster than a teenage boy prior to his first time and put on and take off various princess outfits with the greatest of ease throughout the day, but cannot seem to put her pants and panties back on after she's used the bathroom? She dresses herself at school after she uses the bathroom. Why can't she do it at home? I tell her to put on her clothes and she just stares at them like I've just given her a Rubik's Cube to solve (and yes, I realize I'm showing my age with that reference). And why does it seem the later we are for something, the harder it is for her to dress herself?
  
  
• Why has my taste in music gone to pot? There was a time when my indie cred rivaled that of any NYC hipster. Now? I find myself listening to top-40 radio and singing along (ugh!) to dreck like The Pussycat Dolls, The Black Eyed Peas, and Kelly Clarkson. Am I just getting old? Or is that after spending my days listening to sappy songs sung by purple dinosaurs, muppets, and various animated creatures, that anything remotely adult-sounding is a welcome change? Or is it a combination of the two?
  
  
• Why are there no diaper stations in most men's rooms or, if there are, why are they always in the handicapped stall? Are they passing judgement on me?
  
  
• Why is it that both children can perform things effortlessly one hundred times in a row when it's just Ella and I around, but when we try to get them to perform their latest tricks for someone else, they look at us like we're speaking Latin? Case in point: Zed's sitting up like a champ now but when I went to show his trick to my Mom last week, he acted like his head was a 2,000-pound lead weight. Why?
  
  
• Why are you still reading this?
  

GHS: 0 (but Ella might have a few after the intoxication discussion)

Civil Disobedience

First, a thumbnail sketch to keep you from nodding off from all the boring details: We live in a subdivision. Our subdivision's main road opens onto a very busy street. A developer wants to build a 500-unit apartment complex a quarter of a mile up the road from our entrance. This would add an estimated 3,300 car trips per day to the already congested road our subdivision empties onto.

Wasn't nearly as succinct as I had originally intended. My apologies.

Anyway, as you can probably imagine, the residents around here are up in arms over the whole thing. They will be attending a public meeting with the developer, the city's planning board, and the city's zoning board downtown tomorrow. And Zed, Zoey, and I will be there. Because you can't have a protest without a few crying/screaming kids.

So the lady who spearheaded the whole thing stopped by my house today at 2:15 PM. She told me the meeting would start at 3:30 PM. I told her I'd see her there, wondering why she just didn't call me since it's not until tomorrow.

You can see where this is heading, can't you?

Zoey awoke from her nap at 2:30 PM EXTREMELY CRANKY. Some days, she wakes up so sweetly it's like she's exhaling sunshine. And other days... you just say, "Good afternoon," put the TV on Noggin, and give her fifteen to thirty minutes of alone time. This was one of those days.

At 2:45 PM, the phone rang. It was the protest leader calling to tell me the boards were running early and the meeting would probably begin around 3:00 PM. That's when I finally realized the protest was today and not tomorrow. I can be such an idiot sometimes.

So that gave me fifteen minutes to pack two bottles for Zed, pack a snack and drink for Zoey, try to get Zoey in a better mood, and drive twenty minutes to downtown.

No problem!

Actually, all the years of being a professional procrastinator and dealing with Ella's chronic tardiness prepared me well for today. We entered the meeting room at 3:05 PM, although it had already started. The board members glared at me as I clumsily navigated the stroller and Zoey through the door. I could tell they were appalled I would dare show up late, let alone with two kids in tow.

So we sat near the door in case we had to make a getaway. I took a few toys out of the diaper bag for Zed when I realized I had not brought anything for Zoey. Zed's still at the age where he can be entertained by his own hands or your smile. But not Zoey. There was no way I was going to occupy her for an hour and still respectfully listen to the speakers.

Luckily, the lady in charge came over and gave me a nametag sticker sheet. "Put one on," she said, "and put one on the kids, too." I obliged and gave the rest of the sheet to Zoey, who l-o-v-e-s stickers. I figured this would be good for about ten minutes worth of amusement.

I was close. The fun lasted for nine minutes.

After that, Zoey began squirming around in her seat. I couldn't blame her. Hearing a developer drone on would've bored me too if I didn't have a vested interest. The jerk acted like he was doing us a favor, stating he only wanted to put fifteen apartment units per acre when the city ordinance in most areas (but not ours) allows for up to eighteen units per acre.

Let me preface the next bit by letting you know Zoey doesn't know how to whisper. She doesn't even have an "inside voice." So when she began talking, most everyone in the room could hear her. It started out with a simple "I'm bored, Daddy" before moving on to "Wear your sticker this way" as she rearranged my nametag countless times.

Every few minutes, she would wrap her arm around my neck and say, "I love you, Daddy," because she could see those actions were receiving favorable responses (smiles) from the protestors. Just give this kid an audience. What she didn't notice were the scowls she was receiving from the board members. This went on for about forty minutes, despite my hushed threats and bribes.

At 3:45 PM, the protestors were able to approach the microphone and voice their concerns about the complex to the board. At 3:50 PM, Zed decided to voice his concerns; he began screaming. I knew he was hungry, so I began preparing his bottle. I figured the board members would cut Zed some slack until I got his bottle in his mouth.

I was wrong.

One of the board members stopped the speaker at the time, turned to me, and said, "Sir, you and your children will have to leave." Wow. Seven months old and Zed's already getting thrown out of public forums. Is this kid going to be an activist or what? Damn the man, Zed! Damn the man!

So I took the gang outside and fed Zed while watching the proceedings on closed-circuit television. Zoey needed to "tinkle" and Zed was wet, so we headed off to the men's room. We entered the men's room and there was no changing table to be found. It's sad that even in this day and age, you're more likely to find a twenty-dollar bill lying on the floor in a men's room than you are a baby changing station.

So the three of us went into the handicapped stall. If you think I'm insane for piling toilet paper on a changing station, you should see what I do to a toilet. God only knows what vermin are lying in wait on those toilet seats (this is not a slam against the handicapped; it is a slam against people, particularly men, in general). I immediately set out constructing a layer of toilet paper so thick Zoey could've slept comfortably on it. I heard Zoey undoing the Velcro on her sandals so I immediately started screaming like Rainman, "We don't take off our shoes in public restrooms! We don't take off our shoes in public restrooms! We don't take off our shoes in public restrooms!" She looked at me like I was crazy (which I am), but at least she kept her shoes on. She still had to take her pants and panties off, though. Pick your battles.

I turned to change Zed's diaper in his stroller. Halfway through, Zoey yelled out, "Help me, Daddy!" I turned around and saw she had rolled half a roll of toilet paper onto the floor, as she was unable to cut it with the jagged edge on the dispenser. I gave her some fresh toilet paper and resumed my diaper duty. I was putting Zed's new diaper on when I heard the four words no father wants to hear (because they're never followed with anything good): "Look at me, Daddy!"

I turned to find Zoey hanging from the handicapped rail, naked from the waist down (except her shoes, thank God!), climbing up the bathroom wall so she could try to flip around the rail. It's times such as these I wish we didn't expose her to the things we do. So I pulled down the monkey, dressed her, and washed her hands for, oh, I don't know, fourteen minutes or so, and returned to the waiting area. I found out that the zoning board unanimously passed the developer's request while the planning board split their vote, which means the whole thing will have to go before City Council next month. Which means we get to do this all again! But at least I have a month to prepare. And I know the date this time.

Wow. 1,300+ words on taking my kids to a zoning board meeting and a public restroom. I need an editor.

GHS: 11 total (3 for preparing to go to the meeting, 1 for the actual meeting, and 7 for the men's room incident)

She. Could. Go. All. The. Way.

Zoey had her first soccer practice on Wednesday (yes, the poor child was thrown to the wolves into a game before she ever got to practice with a team; I'm a bad Dad.). She loved it. She scored three goals, laughed with all her teammates, and listened well to her coach. And didn't even look at us over on the sideline.

Good, I thought. Maybe the crying was a one-time thing.

Nope.

She had a game on Friday night. She played the entire first quarter. At the start of the second quarter, her team lined up for a corner kick (see, I'm learning these terms). Her teammate kicked the ball directly to her. She kicked it. And kicked it again. And kicked it again. She took it the length of the field and SCORED A GOAL!

The only bad thing? It was the other team's goal. Oh well, she's learning.

Then about two minutes later, she looked over to the sideline and saw us and instantly began bawling. She came out of the game and did not return.

The same thing happened during Saturday's game. She was kicking the ball well and was really paying attention to the game. But then she looked over at us and the crying commenced. And she was done. She went back in for a few minutes in the fourth quarter, but only because Ella held her hand while she played.

Are we doing something wrong? I sometimes feel like I'm pushing her, but when she asked me this morning, "Daddy, can I please play a soccer game today?" I feel she really does enjoy it. I would say a good thirty percent of the kids in this league cry at some point or another. I'm starting to think three is just to young to perform anything in front of an audience.

Sorry for the lack of humor today. But some days are like that.

GHS: 0 (although I may get an ulcer from the guilt)

Update: Wow. Two self-indulgent posts in two days. With all the recent hardships people in the southern part of the United States have had to incur (as well as the rest of the world), it seems extremely petty of me to bemoan a few gray hairs and whether or not my daughter like soccer. My regularly scheduled programming (humor, or at least my pitiful attempt at it) will return soon.

GHS: The Gray-Hair Scale

I've been noticing lately that my hair is turning gray. Not just a few strands here and there, we're talking g-r-a-y.

And though I realize each day I'm another day older, I can't help but feel Zoey and Zed (and in some cases, Ella) are accelerating the graying process. But Ella says it looks sexy.

She's lying, right? That's just something women say (like it's just right, I've never done that before, of course I'm eighteen, etc.) to make us guys feel better, right? Can I get some feedback from the moms in the audience on this one?

Anyway, I've decide to append each entry from here on out with the Gray-Hair Scale, a number from zero to ten that corresponds to the number of gray hairs I can expect to receive from that incident. Why stop at ten? Because I don't think there's anything traumatic enough to give you more than ten gray hairs (unless you're a character in a crappy Crash Test Dummies song).

But, hey, at least I'm not going bald.

Yet.

Update: Many thanks to Susan over at Friday Playdate for sending over her Mom Army to weigh in on the issue.

I Only Hope I Get Off This Cheap When It's Time For The Real Thing

On Saturday night, the four of us went to an adult party (no, not that kind; the kind with alcoholic beverages). I was ready to unwind given how I had spent the days leading up to the event.

See, I had spent all day Thursday, all day Friday, and all afternoon Saturday erecting the swing set from hell in our backyard with my father-in-law (in case you're wondering who was watching Zoey and Zed while I was doing all of this, Ella had taken two days off work). It has an eleven-and-a-half-foot clubhouse, a rock-climbing wall, a slide, and swings. 282 parts. 1,602 pieces of hardware. We only got about two-thirds of the way done. The sad thing is it's not usable. The big clubhouse is erected, but the ladder leading to it has not been installed. I was going to skip ahead in the manual to see if I could install the ladder, but Anal Retentive Chag wouldn't let me. "Steps must be completed in numerical order!" he bellowed.

So a night with adults after two-and-a-half days of hard work (and fighting with the voices in my head) was just what I needed. Zoey would be able to play with her friends and Zed would have more attention that he could handle from the other adults, giving Ella and I a rare chance to relax and have a few drinks.

After dinner, the host brought out glowsticks for the kids. Ella proceeded to tell the tale of one of my major public freakouts:

Zoey was a little over two and was at a Halloween party at a friend's house. The host brought out glowsticks and, after a while, Zoey's stick broke and spilled all over her. I lost it. I immediately thought they were toxic. I mean, how else would they glow if they weren't radioactive or something? I asked the host if she knew but she had thrown the box away earlier. So we left the party immediately.

I wanted to go straight to the emergency room but Ella, being the voice of reason she so often is, convinced me that since Zoey didn't seem to be sick or glowing (other than in the spots the stuff leaked on her), we should go home and research the toxicity of glowsticks on the Internet.

Guess what? They're not toxic. But I'm sure any rational personal knew that already.

Everyone got a big laugh at my expense. But I'm used to it. See, I'm the only guy in this circle of friends with a daughter (there are other girls in the neighborhood, but their parents are never invited to these functions). Because of this, all the dads (and most of the moms) like to give me a hard time. They know I'm the type of guy who would lock his daughter up for thirty years once she turned ten if he could have his way. Just call me old fashioned. Actually, after seeing The Village, I've been drawing up plans to create my own. If you're interested in joining, drop me a line.

And to make matters worse, Zoey is overly affectionate. On the first day of preschool last year she kissed a boy. She's also been known to regularly hold hands and hug her friends, most of which are boys. So I wasn't too surprised when an hour later one of the moms yelled, "Chag! Look at Zoey!" She was slow dancing with Elmo, which would've been cute to look at if it didn't involve my daughter.

It's bad enough the parents pick on me, but some of their kids do as well. I watched a six-year-old neighbor boy whisper in Elmo's ear. Elmo then kissed Zoey. The little boy then yelled, "Ooooh, Chag! Zoey's kissing Elmo," never realizing I had just observed him instigate the entire thing. It's sad when your neuroses are so transparent a six-year-old can pick up on them (and use them against you).

At 10:00 PM we left the party. I was walking Ella and the kids home with every intention of returning (and drinking, drinking, drinking). We got about two houses away from ours when Zoey said, "Daddy, me and Elmo got married tonight." I instantly doubled over in severe pain and nausea. Am I really so insane that the thought of my child's fake marriage can make me physically ill? I stumbled home the best I could. When I got in the door, I immediately went to the couch. I felt like I was going to throw up. Just think how I'll be at her actual marriage. But when my teeth started chattering, I realized it wasn't my mental health that was in jeopardy, it was my physical health: I was suffering from heat exhaustion.

I made it to bed that night without puking. I spent the next afternoon watching football recuperating while Ella took the kids shopping. But I'm better now. At least physically.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go talk to Elmo's Mommy and Daddy. I need to figure out if the kids are going to live with them or us (or perhaps they can live in the clubhouse if I ever get it finished). Elmo is also going to have to get a job. My girl's got needs: Hello Kitty stickers, Play-Doh, stuff like that.

There's No Crying In Soccer

Zoey played organized soccer for the first time on Saturday (as opposed to the usual disorganized soccer, which consists of Zoey and I standing at opposite ends of our hallway, kicking a rubber Dora ball back and forth). As the regular readers of this site (all three of them) know, we signed Zoey up for soccer awhile ago, only to have the YMCA drop the ball (pun intended).

So I went online and found a nearby soccer league for children under four. However, there were two big problems with this league:

• the league was already one game into the season and the site emphatically stated that no late applicants would be accepted
• Zoey was too young to play in the league (albeit only by a month)
  

The defeatist in me said, "Oh well. We'll try again in the spring." But not Ella. She called the league's Sports Director and gave him a sob story about how the Y league folded, how Zoey was only one month too young, and how she really, really, really wanted to play soccer. He called back early Friday evening and told us that not only was she on a team and would be playing on Saturday, but he was also waiving the $40 entry fee to entice us not to go back to the Y in the spring. Dude, I'll organize my own soccer league with kids in the neighborhood before I go back to the Y. We rushed out that night and bought her cleats, shin guards, socks, and shorts. I was kind of glad we didn't have to pay the $40 entry fee because we paid that and more for her equipment.

On Saturday morning, Zoey woke up all excited. I was a little apprehensive. I know what you're thinking: You big jerk. She's playing youth soccer, for God's sake. At this age, it's all about the kids having fun, not whether they win or lose. You're probably one of those guys that rushes the ref if there's a call against your child. I'm not. I was just a little worried because Zoey's view of soccer consisted of us kicking a ball down our hallway; unless they were to play the game in someone's home, I was concerned she wouldn't know what to do. I would've liked for her to attend a practice session with a coach before playing in an actual game. I really wanted to buy her a soccer goal the evening before, but Ella put a stop to the insanity. It's not like I would've had her out there until 2:00 AM practicing or anything.

Yeah, I worry way too much. Have I mentioned I've already started researching colleges for her?

In her league, they play three on three. The game is played in quarters. Parents can actually be on the field with the children, holding their hands if need be. Yeah, I know I'm giving you way more information than you ever wanted about Zoey's soccer league. It's called foreshadowing.

Zoey entered the game at the start of the second quarter. When her team lined up in the center to kick the ball (kick off? I don't know. I'm not up on my soccer terminology.), Zoey just stood there after one of her teammates kicked the ball. They dribbled the ball down the field while Zoey kept her statuesque stance. Finally, a light bulb went off, and she charged after the ball. But by that time, the other team had control. She actually kicked the ball twice before all hell broke loose.

All six kids were within a five-foot perimeter of one another. A girl on the other team emerged from the congestion and dribbled the ball down the field and scored a goal. I looked at Zoey and noticed she was bawling. Not crying. Bawling. We figured she had gotten kicked during the fight for control of the ball. The coach went over to her to see if everything was okay. She continued to bawl. And then she started screaming, "MOMMMMMMMYYYYYY!!!"

So Ella went out to the field and took her to the sideline. She continued crying. And crying. And crying. She cried the entire game. The coach tried to coax her back to the game, but she was not interested. Ella offered to go on the field with her and hold her hand. No way. She. Was. Done.

After the game, we celebrated her first soccer game by taking her for ice cream. I was concerned she didn't really like playing soccer and didn't want to push her into playing soccer if she wasn't interested. So I began my interrogation.

"Did you have fun?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Do you like soccer?"

"Yes, Daddy. I get to play again tomorrow." Which was wrong, of course. Unless she was referring to Dora Hallway Soccer™.

"Why were you crying?"

"Because that girl scored a goal."

Christ. Barely three years old and already this competitive? Maybe we should've signed her up for piano lessons instead.

Spreading The Love (And The Hate)

First, the love:

• Many thanks to Rebel Dad for mentioning me on his site on Monday. It was nice having someone read my site for a change that wasn't Ella, me, or someone looking for wiffle ball variations.
   
• Pampers recently began a customer rewards program (although they don't really advertise it). If you buy a box of diapers, you will find a sticker on each of the bags inside the box. The sticker has an expiration date (which might lead one to wonder, "Diapers expire? Go tell that to the landfills."), an 866 number, and a 15-digit code. If you go to their web site, you can enter your codes and receive merchandise once you've saved up enough points. And the best part? Unlike most programs like this that end before you're able to save up points for the big-ticket items, this promotion doesn't end until 12/31/2006. Of course, with the way Zed goes through diapers, we'll be able to have two of every item on the list.
   
• Much like a horrible automobile accident, I can't stop gawking at Parents Behaving Badly. I just hope you don't see me featured there one day.
   

Now, the hate:

• Zoey will not be playing soccer this fall. There was not enough interest in her age group; the YMCA was not able to even fill two teams. I have heard that the Y around here is going downhill fast. This is why.
   
• Pretend your six-month-old baby has a cold. It's 6:30 PM on a Sunday night and you decide to go to Target to buy some Infants' Tylenol Cold Plus Cough. It's in stock, but you can't buy it. Want to know why? Because people are using this medication and others like it to make crystal meth, Target only sells this medicine through their pharmacy. Pharmacy's closed? Too bad. Hope Junior feels better in the morning. Freakin' junkies.
   

Of Princess Parties And Candle Fellatio

Apple recently introduced the iPod Nano, an .mp3 player that Daddy Types states is "so small it'll fit in your kid's pocket." But when will someone start making PDAs small enough and simple enough for children to use?

Why am I asking this? This weekend, Zoey attended three birthday parties. That was not a typo.

The first party was at noon on Saturday. Despite the fact that we would need to eat lunch first (at McDonald's, our Saturday ritual (Don't chastise me for giving McDonald's food to my child. I'd like to point out that both Morgan Spurlock and Jared Fogle have both made lucrative careers out of eating nothing but fast food for extended periods of time)) before we could go, Ella decided to take Zoey shopping for shoes earlier that morning. They returned from their excursion at 11:15 AM, giving us forty-five minutes to drive to McDonald's, eat, and then drive fifteen miles to the birthday party. Impossible.

But that didn't faze Ella. She's one of those people who, no matter how hard they try, cannot be on time for anything. Ever heard of the phrase late for one's own funeral? Ella defines it. In fact, Ella's not only going to miss her funeral, she'll probably be late for the bus to the Afterlife as well.

Zoey has inherited the "tardy gene" from her Mom. Between the two ladies of the house, Zed and I will never be on time for anything ever again.

We left McDonald's at 11:55 AM, giving us five minutes to make a fifteen-minute trip. We got about two minutes away from the party location when Ella realized she didn't have her purse. Yes, she left it at McDonald's.

It wouldn't be so frustrating if it were a one-time deal. But no, Ella leaves her purse in a restaurant once every four months or so. But she's been lucky every time; some Good Samaritan turns her purse with its contents still intact in to the manager. This time was no different. Her luck's eventually going to run out, though.

We got to the party at 12:45 PM. It was a party at a kid's gym, so Zoey immediately went climbing and jumping on the various contraptions there. At 1:00 PM, it was cake time in the party room. Zoey was somewhat disappointed because she still wanted to play, but her love of chocolate cake trumped her love of playing, so she headed to the party room with everyone else.

Soon after we sat down, Zed became upset and started crying. This surprised me a little; this kid's a homebody and, while he likes people, he hates crowds. I just figured his tantrums wouldn't begin until the second party, much less twenty minutes into the first.

So while I was tending to Zed, I looked up and saw the birthday boy—how should I put this? He was sucking the icing off his candle in a manner that looked like he was pleasuring the candle. I looked over at his father, who had a look of sheer horror on his face as he immediately put a stop to the boy's fun. A few minutes later, I overheard one mother tell another mother, "Please keep that away from him. He's a crammer." Did someone have a mini Richard Gere on their hands? Nope. I looked up and saw that the mother didn't want her son to have popcorn. Apparently he crams food into his mouth. My mistake.

With the candle fellatio and talk of cramming going on around me, the scene felt more like a degenerate bachelor party than a three-year-old child's birthday party.

We left the party at 1:30 PM, giving us an hour to make the thirty-five minute trip to the next party. Gasp! We might even be early!

On the way there, we noticed the sun was shining on Zed's side of the car, so we stopped by the house to get his shade out of our other car. We then decided to let Zoey go inside to have a potty break before we left. When we got about five minutes from the guest-of-honor's house, we pulled over so Zoey could change into her clothes. See, this was a princess party, so Zoey had to get into her princess dress, shoes, and crown.

We got to the party twenty minutes late (hey, at least we were showing improvement). The princesses at the party were busy decorating mirrors while the knights were decorating shields. Of course, ten minutes later Zoey had rid herself of her regal attire and opted to make a shield instead. Her girlie side can only show through so long before the tomboy takes charge. Tell me, if you know, what it's like to have a daughter. Because I'm only able to see brief glimpses of one.

They had a piñata, a "dragon" egg hunt, and lots of fun stuff for the kids. Backyard parties are the best.

We got home around 7:15 PM that evening. Zoey told us, "I'm all wormed out." No, honey. Your imaginary dogs might be all wormed out, but you, dear, are all worn out. We all were. Especially poor Zed.

And in case you're wondering, we actually made it to Sunday's birthday party on time. Of course, it helped that it was only three miles from our house.

Get Thee Behind Me, Spawn Of Satan (An Exercise In Haiku)

Today in our yard,
Zoey and I played soccer.
She kicks the ball hard.

Sweaty and hungry,
Zoey and I came inside.
It was time for lunch.

Moving through our home,
I asked her what she wanted.
"Chocolate milk, please!"

Time and time again—
"You can't live on milk alone!"
I opened the fridge.

Standing on the stool,
She eyed the fridge's contents—
Leftover pizza!

After nuking it,
Made my way to the counter,
Knife and fork in hand.

Tiny little bits,
I cut and cut the pizza
So she wouldn't choke.

Something on my leg?
Had an itch but did not scratch.
Perhaps an insect?

Looked down, saw nothing.
Continued cutting her lunch.
Zoey came over.

She scratched my right leg.
"I will scratch your leg, Daddy.
You won't itch no more."

I had not given
A sign my leg itched, yet she
Scratched it anyway.

How could she have known?
Dropping knife and fork, I ran
To find our Bible.

A witch? Demon seed?
She had really freaked me out.
Possessed? ESP?

Perhaps the reason
Was that we spend so much time
Together, you know?

But there's a bright side:
We'll blow their minds during her
Preschool's Show and Tell.

So If She Plays Soccer AND T-Ball, Will I Ever See Her Again?

Today, we moved one step closer to becoming card-carrying members of Suburbia: we signed Zoey up for soccer. That's right, today I AM A SOCCER MOM DAD!

The only drawback to the whole thing? Zoey has practice one night a week and games two nights a week. Isn't three nights a week a little extreme for a three-year old? If they play this often at three, are they still allowed to attend elementary school if they're playing soccer at age eight?

I don't know who's more excited about her soccer games, Zoey or Ella and me (or possibly her Granny, who has already informed her boss she will need off work an hour early on the nights of all twelve of Zoey's games). I know quite well the soccer Zoey will be playing won't resemble actual soccer; we won't be watching any miniature David Beckhams or Mia Hamms (sorry, but my knowledge of soccer players is limited to Beckham, Hamm, Freddy Adu, that chick who took her top off after the US won the World Cup, Pelé, and Robert Hatch) out on the field. I realize her team of five will look more like the following:

• one kid sitting in the middle of the field, crying
• one kid standing in the middle of the field, picking his/her nose
• one kid waving at the crowd
• one kid running around in circles, totally oblivious to what's going on around him/her
• one kid actually playing soccer
  

But it'll be fun. Plus, since she'll be playing competitive sports at such an early age they won't be keeping score, she'll hopefully develop a killer instinct that will help her later in life learn how to be a good sport.