Reader Mail

I received the following email from Jonathan L. of Pennsylvania:

I saw 2 of your last 3 blogs bashed parenting books. What do you have against them? I like them.

Let's go for three out of four, shall we?

First, Jonathan, thanks for your email. Second, I have no real problems with parenting books as long as they're used as guides and not the definitive word on a subject. These books are based on averages. No one has an average child. Hell, no one wants an average child. I'm sure we all feel our little angels (and devils) are w-a-y above average. Right?

Parenting books should not replace your pediatrician's advice and your own common sense. It's like using WebMD to see if you should go to the doctor. The other week I wasn't feeling too great so I plugged in my symptoms at WebMD. According to them, I was suffering from menopause.

I'm sure the kooks that read this site could answer parenting questions better than most of those books (Don't worry. I wasn't talking about you. I'm talking about everyone else that reads this. But don't tell them. It's our little secret.). And to prove it, I have a few parenting dilemmas of my own that I'm going to throw out to my readers. As always, comments and emails are greatly appreciated.

• Zed has very large cankles and very tiny feet. As a result, his socks keep sliding off. Most of the parenting books say that children should not wear shoes until they're truly walking. So what do we use in the meantime? Rubber bands? Super Glue? Staples?
  
  
• Is it wrong to use your newly crawling child as a vacuum cleaner? I'm not talking about sucking up glass or other dangerous items, just a few Goldfish crumbs, some dried Play-Doh, and the occasional dust bunny. He's already down there and he can get into corners far easier than our Hoover can. Or does the Five Second Rule apply to babies as well?
  
  
• When my daughter colors pictures in a coloring book, she has a tendency to draw black lines over the mouths and eyes of the characters. Couple this with her making blood, reading my mind, and collection of imaginary dead animals and I have to ask: We're dealing with a future serial killer, aren't we? Should we try to get her some help or just lock her in the basement and concentrate on the boy?
  
  
• This is not a parenting question, but I'm curious as to what you think. The following is a list of search terms people used to come to this site. Which is the most disturbing?
  
  
  • funny Al Roker songs
    Wouldn't any song about Al Roker be a funny Al Roker song?
    
    
  • stay at home dad alpha female
    Sounds like problems on the horizon for this couple.
    
    
  • can she put her but in the bed yes or no Zoey
    I really wish I knew what this person was trying to find.
    
    
  • defecating
    When you think of defecating, think of Cynical Dad. Maybe that should be my new slogan.
    
    
  • dead ballerina costumes
    What happened? Did your best friend steal your Goth cheerleader costume idea?
    
    
  • pet sematary cliff notes
    For Christ's sake, it's Stephen King, not Shakespeare. Read the book.
    
  
  

As always, comments and emails are greatly appreciated.

GHS: 0

Speaking Of Potty Training

I've been reading the trials and tribulations of potty training as told by Susan of Friday Playdate and Bets of Mother of the Year. I thought it was time to share my own misadventures in potty training Zoey.

Ella and I decided to start the ordeal last Thanksgiving. We figured Zoey was old enough (twenty-seven months), mature enough, and ready (she hadn't had a wet diaper during the night or during a nap in well over a year). We knew Zed would be coming in February, so we were hoping to get Zoey out of diapers before we had a new set of diapers to change. Plus, other girls at her preschool had been successfully potty trained. Life is all about keeping up with the Joneses, you know?

So we bought her a little book that made flushing noises. We bought her a video that taught, among other things, children to play with the potty (thankfully, it didn't teach the child to rinse out his own dirty underwear like Susan's video. The hell? I don't even rinse out Zoey's underwear if she has an accident. If it's bigger than a dime, it ain't worth my time.). The only thing Zoey took from her repeated viewings was a Rain Manesque "Front to back. Front to back. Front to back." Ella and I also read several books on the subject. Armed and dangerous with our newfound knowledge, we were ready.

So after two weeks of her book, her video, and us telling her not to play with the potty, we began the training. Most of the books we read told us to take a laid-back approach. We couldn't force her or rush her if she wasn't ready or apparently we'd be changing her diaper at her wedding. Let's just say if we were any more laid back, we would've slipped into a coma.

We bought her pull-ups ("Big girl pants!" we told her) and bribes positive reinforcement in the form of M&M's.

Didn't help.

Since I was home with her, I was constantly barraging her with a steady stream of "Do you need to go potty? Tell Mommy or Daddy if you need to go potty. You'll get some yummy M&M's!" She would go to the potty once every two weeks. We would break out the candy and all but throw her a ticker-tape parade. You would think all this fanfare would make her want to use the potty.

Nope. My girl's pretty stubborn.

Fast forward to May. Yes, I said May. We suck.

Anyway, preschool had come to an end. Zoey would not be allowed to go to preschool in the fall if she wasn't potty trained. We knew what we were doing wasn't working, so it was time for Plan B. We decided not to go anywhere for a weekend, pump her full of liquids, and dress her in panties.

Miraculously, it worked. She had one accident all weekend and has been potty trained (with a few accidents here and there) ever since.

And you know the great thing about being potty trained? No. More. Diapers. Duh!

But there is one small drawback. Now I have two females constantly berating me for leaving the toilet seat up. In fact, Zoey is so obsessive about the toilet seat that sometimes she follows me into the bathroom, waits until I'm finished, and shuts the lid herself. Ah, privacy. I knew ye well.

Of course, I realize I'm in for much more trouble when it's time to potty train Zed. I've heard boys are m-u-c-h harder to train. Plus, with the amount of diapers he goes through in a day, we'll probably have to live in the bathroom during the process.

Can't wait!

Update: There's another drawback to Zoey being potty trained: she has to announce it to the world. When the urge hits her, she screams, "I! NEED! TO! GO! TINKLE!" or "I! NEED! TO! GO! POOPY!" It doesn't matter if we're sitting right next to her, sitting in a crowded restaurant, or sitting in church (actually, we don't go to church, but if we did, I'm sure she'd yell there as well), everyone must know she NEEDS TO FIND A BATHROOM! She's like an air siren.

GHS: 1

Here's A Lil Gangsta, Short In Size

I heard some rather disturbing news today, oh boy.

The media has been reporting for some time that gangs are no longer a big-city problem. For years, gangs have been spreading out into suburbia and even some parts of rural America. And every year, gang members start out younger and younger. It's not uncommon to hear of middle schoolers carrying guns (packing heat, strapped, or whatever hip terminology youngsters are using nowadays) to school.

Today, Zoey attended her seventh birthday party (counting her own) since mid-July at that place with the inflatable jumping thingies. One of the moms came up to me halfway through the party and asked, "Do you know Zoey's in a gang?"

Apparently, her daughter, Zoey, and a third little girl have started a gang at school. And their turf is the sandbox, which they don't let anyone else enter. Not only that, they've named their gang as well. The Girl1-Zoey-Girl3 Gang. Not very original, but what do you expect? They're three-year-olds. The most surprising part to me is Zoey didn't fight for top billing.

I've got to tell you, I'm shocked. Zoey doesn't tell me anything about what goes on in preschool. If I'm lucky, I might find out what she had for snack that day. Her motto? What Happens In Preschool, Stays In Preschool.

Now I know why.

I figure Girl3 is the brains of the gang. After all, she nearly incited a riot a few weeks ago. Apparently, she wanted to go outside, only it wasn't time to go outside yet. She made such a huge fuss that soon all the kids were standing at the door, clamoring to go outside. The teacher put her in timeout. Teacher, you can't be hatin' on no gangsta. Unless you want a glue stick upside yo head.

Zoey must be the muscle of the gang. After all, she already knows how to use a bat.

I guess it won't be too long until the Girl1-Zoey-Girl3 Gang all get matching temporary tattoos and black leather backpacks. And then I suppose I'll be called in for a parent-teacher conference because the girls are shaking down the other students for their snacks and Show-and-Tell items.

Homeschooling is looking better and better with each passing day.

GHS: 2

Is He Doing Anything Yet?

Zed turned eight months old yesterday. To help celebrate this joyous occasion, a neighbor dropped by on his way home from work while I was mowing (God, it's almost Halloween. Grass, please stop growing!) to chitchat and, before leaving, asked, "Is Zed doing anything yet?"

First of all, what kind of question is that to ask of someone? I'm neurotic enough without people planting seeds of doubt about my child's development inside my muddled brain. And let's take a look at that question, shall we? There's the first part, "Is he doing anything," which implies that up to now, he just lies in the corner all day, drooling and defecating. And then there's the second part, "yet," which implies that this guy feels Zed should be doing more than the aforementioned drooling and defecating in the corner.

Second of all, how do you respond to a question like that? Sarcastically? Well, he does our taxes, can prepare his own formula, and reads at a fourth-grade level. Angrily? Instead of worrying about what my kid is doing, why don't you worry about who your wife is doing? You must have the best air conditioning service plan in town, because the guy's been there ten times in the past month. Or perhaps he's servicing something else? Diplomatically? He's doing fine. Thanks for asking.

I really wanted to go with either sarcastically or angrily, but I opted for diplomatically instead. The guy lives across the street and our kids are friends, so I decided to play nice.

Ugh.

But I guess I can't blame him. It's human nature to compare. Especially with kids. And God knows the child-rearing books don't help. For each month, the books tell you what your child can do, what your child should be able to do, and if he's really super duper, what your child might be able to do. How do they know? Have they ever met Zed? No. Then they need to keep their aggregated data to themselves.

You go through the lists, inventorying what your child can and cannot do according to the book's milestones, and fret yourself away to Ulcerland. You start feeling guilty if your child's not doing everything on the list. If the books really want to be helpful, there should just be a section at the beginning of each month entitled If Your Child Cannot Do This, It's Time To Call A Professional. It would prevent a lot of unnecessary headaches and worrying. At least for me.

I beat myself up over this all the time. It seems like Zoey progressed so much faster than Zed does. She was crawling by now. Zed does too; you just have to use time-lapse photography to see that he covers two inches in five minutes. I feel a lot of it is my fault, as I am not able to spend nearly as much one-on-one time with him as I did with his sister.

Enough with the self-pity! Instead of dwelling on the negative, here are some of the great things Zed can do:

• Laugh like a hyena. You should see this kid. Everything is funny to him. His whole body is one big tickle spot. Sometimes he laughs so hard, he rears his head back. And no one can make him laugh like Zoey. When Zoey was this age, we had to all but stand on our head to try to make her crack a smile. Not Zed.
• Flirt. When he sees a woman he's interested in, he lowers his chin, looks up at her with his big blue eyes, and flashes a coy little smile. It's like he's saying, "Hey, baby. You got plans for tonight?" And if that doesn't work, he grunts l-o-u-d-l-y until they talk to him. This kid is a pla-yah. Like father, like son. I have no idea where he gets this from.
• Say Dada. He says other things too, like gibberish that sounds remarkably like gabba gabba hey (what can I say; I start them down the punk road early). But this is the only "word" he says. And it's the best one in the world.
• Kiss. And I don't mean just pucker up and kiss you. This kid reaches out, grabs your ears or hair, pulls your face down to his, and plants one on you. You haven't lived until you've experienced one of Zed's kisses.
  

GHS: 6 (caused by my neighbor's question)

Memo To Myself

Things to do as soon as possible:

• Amass a stockpile of answers to off-the-cuff (and insane) questions from Zoey. Today alone I was asked, "Why can't I put pieces in my butt like Mr. Potato Head?" and "Are jack-o-lanterns boys or girls?" Rather than telling her things like "Because Mr. Potato Head is a plastic toy, not a person. People don't put pieces in their butts (unless you're a crammer)." and "Jack-o-lanterns can be whatever you want them to be. It's your chance to play God, Zoey," I'm leaning towards the catchall "Ask Mommy when she gets home." Pass the buck is my new motto.
  
  
• Post a list of parenting sites I read on a regular basis.
  
  
• Teach the world how to properly resize images before emailing them to me. You have a cute new baby? I'll have to take your word for it because there's no way I'm opening five images that total over 8 MB. I don't want to make my computer cry. For me to even think about opening 8 MB worth of images, someone had better be naked in the photos. And hot. And over twenty-one.
  
  
• Figure out a way to get by on less sleep. Ever since my bout with heat exhaustion, I've been going to bed around 10:00 PM. Before that, I would normally go to bed between 1:00-2:00 AM and be fully functional the next day. I should probably go to a doctor, but they have an affinity for poking and prodding and sticking their fingers in places fingers shouldn't go. Plus they ask too many damn questions.
  
  
• Stop writing about things going in people's butts. Twice in one entry! Egad!
  
  
• Before answering the doorbell while playing beauty shop with Zoey (I swear, it's like playing with a little old lady; I know no woman under the age of eighty refers to the place she gets her hair cut as a beauty shop), make sure all bows, ribbons, and barrettes are out of my hair. Yesterday, my neighbor dropped by to see if I was coming down to watch Monday Night Football. He added, "Nice bow." Some days I have so many bows and ribbons and barrettes in my hair, I look like Poseur Boy on his way to Lollapalooza '92. Between Zoey constantly pretending to wash my hair, cut my hair, paint my fingernails, and adorning my hair with various ribbons and baubles, I have to be the prettiest dad in the neighborhood!
  
  
• Write more frequently. And not fluff pieces like this one. Actually, it's all dreck. Why are you reading this?
  
  
• Get some self-esteem before it rubs off on the kids (see above).
  
  
• Something tells me I don't need to worry about it rubbing off on the kids (at least not Zoey). We were watching a video for Laurie Berkner's I'm Not Perfect. Zoey turned to me and said, "I'm perfect." Yes you are, dear. Yes you are.

GHS: 1 (Why can't I put pieces in my butt like Mr. Potato Head?)

Sounds Like Someone's A Little Too Ready For Halloween

Today, I was feeding Zed a bottle while Zoey was making bread with her Play-Doh toaster.

Zoey: Daddy, will you help me?
Me: Daddy's feeding Zed right now, honey. You're doing a fine job of making your bread.
Zoey: I need help making blood.
Me: WHAT?
Zoey: I need help making blood.
Me: Blood?
Zoey: Yes.
Me: Did you say blood?
Zoey: Yes!

Her reply was accompanied with a look that said, "Dude, what's your problem? Are you dumb, deaf, or both?"

Me: What are you going to do with the blood?
Zoey: Stick the bread together!

Of course! What was I thinking? I seem to recall the use of blood as an adhesive agent on an episode of Martha Stewart Living.

All kidding aside, I think it's time to line up a kiddie shrink. Between the blood sandwiches and her reading my mind, we're running out of time.

GHS: 5

When In Doubt, Pass The Buck

Zoey woke up last Thursday morning with a fever. The next morning, the fever had gone but a cough and raspy voice showed up in its place. On Saturday, we took her to the doctor and he informed us, "Just a virus. Keep doing what you're doing." I can't tell you how many times we've spent $15 just to have a doctor tell us, "Keep doing what you're doing." I could've put myself through medical school with that money. Of course, judging by my doctor's response, one might think I already had.

Sunday morning rolled around and her fever made an encore appearance, so I ruled out school for Monday. See, I'm one of those parents that keeps his kid home from school if she's sick (had a fever in the previous twenty-four hours, sneezing, etc.). I like to think I'm in the majority, but I'm not so sure. I have an acquaintance that has sent her child to daycare with pinkeye.

Zoey was supposed to bring the snacks to school on Monday. Since I'm a caring parent head case, I emailed her teachers and offered to meet one of them and give her the snacks on Sunday. I was told there was an emergency snack for such an occasion (is it behind glass?) and I could just bring my snack on Wednesday and my snack would become the new emergency snack.

By Tuesday, Zoey was doing much better (no fever since Sunday, only coughing once ever two hours or so). As she put it, "The frog jumped out of my throat! I can go to school!" Plus, she needed to go back to school. We were really beginning to butt heads. She was questioning everything I told her (when she wasn't completely ignoring me) and I was putting her in time out for every little thing she did. It's hard to say which one of us was looking forward to school more.

It's time to let you in on another one of my dirty little secrets: because I am neurotic and anal-retentive, I need a certain amount of structure in my life. And if my routine gets off for a few days, I'm screwed. Needless to say, yesterday, I was lost.

Normally, I can get Zoey ready and off to school blindfolded (me, not her). Yesterday, I didn't even seem to know what a backpack was. It's not like it's that difficult; I have an hour to make sure she finishes her breakfast, brushes her teeth, washes up, goes to the potty, gets dressed, and finds something for Show And Tell. Not exactly rocket science. But because I hadn't done it for a few days, it was like I was doing it for the first time. Plus, as an added bonus, I had to get the snack together and write this month's tuition check.

God help me the week after Christmas break.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I got everyone together and we were heading out the door when Zoey noticed I was carrying bags of juice and snack.

Zoey: Am I taking snack to school today?
Me: Yes.
Zoey: Oh good! I get to be the Snack Leader!

In Zoey's class, when it's your turn to bring the snack, you're the Snack Leader that day. I don't know what duties this honor entails, but I do know allowing my daughter to be leader of anything is like giving the fox the keys to the henhouse.

Me: Well, Zoey, it's not the snack per se... I think it's for a party.

We were running late, my mind was already shot, and I did not want to deal with a tantrum on the front porch, so I lied. I know, no Father of the Year Award for me.

She didn't buy it anyway.

Zoey: You mean I'm not the Snack Leader?

She was beginning to cry.

Me: Ask Ms. Smith when you get to school.

When in doubt, pass the buck. All I know is I had a peaceful drive to school. Not too sure about Ms. Smith's morning, though.

GHS: 2

My Daughter Wants Her Daddy Dead (Redux), My Son Wants To Maim Me, And My Wife Wants A Divorce. But Other Than That, Life's Just Peachy.

The title of this post could end up being longer than the post itself. And probably funnier, too. For this, I apologize.

My Daughter Wants Her Daddy Dead (Redux)

Yesterday, Zed was napping and Ella was out shoe shopping. Zoey and I were playing with Play-Doh while I was watching football. A cheerleader came on the television screen.

Me: Look, Zoey! A cheerleader!
Zoey: She looks like me!
Me: That's what you're going to be for Halloween.
Zoey: That's what I'm going to be when I grow up.

Kill me now. Seriously, she's going to give me a heart attack soon anyway. It's better to get me out of the picture earlier so it'll be easier for her to forget about me.

My Son Wants To Maim Me

Zed does not want to sleep during the daytime anymore. I guess life's too exciting to be hanging out in your crib. And as a result, whenever I try to get him to sleep during the daytime, he retaliates.

He's known the rear-the-head-back-and-try-to-break-the-nose move for some time. But now he has a new plan of attack. Whenever I rock him, he'll start squirming. The squirming turns to crying. The crying turns to screaming. Finally, he gets so furious with me that he actually pinches me! At seven months old! And it hurts like hell!

God help us when he starts getting teeth.

My Wife Wants A Divorce

I came home yesterday morning after an extremely stressful trip to Wal-Mart (like there's any other type of trip to Wal-Mart). I walked into the kitchen to find Ella letting Zoey feed Zed.

Me: What are you doing!
Ella: Letting Zoey feed Zed. She's being very careful.
Me: Do you know what you've done? Do you realize what precedent has been set?
Ella: Are you finished, drama queen?
Me: Every time we feed him from now on, she's going to want to help.
Ella: So what if she helps?
Me: She could jam the spoon down his throat!
Ella: Do you want to buy a bubble for him?
Me: I'm not joking!
Ella: Me either.
Me: Not only that, but soon she'll want to feed him the entire jar! And then, she'll want to give him his bottles as well! Look what you've started!
Ella: Maybe she can feed you some Valium.

But Other Than That, Life's Just Peachy

At least it was until I saw someone came to my site via this search. And I'm the #1 result. How depressing.

GHS: 20 (10 for Zoey wanting to be a cheerleader when she grows up, 0 for Zed pinching me (no gray hairs, just bruises), and 10 for seeing Zoey feed Zed)

My Daughter Wants Her Daddy Dead

Halloween has always been very special for me. Ella and I moved into our first home on Halloween. We spent the evening eagerly awaiting trick-or-treaters, but since ours was only the third house built at that point in our subdivision, we only had two spirits visit all evening. A year later, I proposed to her on Halloween. And since I brought it up, here are the gory details:

I bought a trick-or-treat bucket, filled it with candy, and buried the ring box deep inside. I then went over to my neighbor's house and asked if he would bring his two-year-old daughter over with the bucket of candy and give it to Ella and I under the guise of "She got too much candy today. You guys have some." He did and when they left, Ella immediately went through the bucket, inventorying the booty, until she found the ring. The rest is history.

Foolish girl. She should've opted for the candy instead.

This will be Zoey's fourth Halloween. For the first two, Ella and I took turns selecting Zoey's costume. For Zoey's first Halloween, Ella chose a ladybug costume, as Ella has always had a thing for ladybugs (no, I don't even begin to comprehend the attraction). For Zoey's second Halloween, I chose a cow costume. There was no longstanding emotional baggage concerning cows; it was simply a cute costume.

Last year, Zoey was twenty-six months old, so she was able to pick out her own costume. And what did Daddy's little girl chose? A princess? Nope. A ballerina? Not even close.

A gorilla.

I wasn't surprised. Since day one, my daughter's always had a punk rock mentality. She's going to do things her way, when she wants to do them. She's not going to do something just because all her little friends are doing it. So at her preschool's Halloween Parade, amidst all the little Minnie Mice, fairies, Disney princesses, Doras, ballerinas, and kitty cats, stood one lone gorilla with a pink bow in her hair (Ella's feeble attempt to feminize the costume and to keep people from thinking she was a boy). I love Zoey!

But over the past year, Zoey has become more and more enamored with sugar, spice, everything nice, bows, ribbons, and all that girlie stuff. She's still got her tough tomboy exterior, but her softer side shines through more and more. Which is why I like to call her my Punk Rock Princess. She loves the name as well.

Yeah, I'm a big dork, especially when it comes to the kids. But you knew that already, didn't you?

Last week, Zoey told us she wanted to be Stephanie from LazyTown. For some insanely naive reason, Ella and I both thought Ella would have to make this costume for Zoey. Let's see, it's a show that's on daily on Nickelodeon and Noggin (and CBS on Saturdays) and it's been out for over a year. Yeah, there's no way Viacom would try to capitalize on their product. I looked on Ebay the next day to see if anyone was making their own Stephanie costumes and that's when I found official costumes were for sale all over the place.

Sometimes I really need to crawl out from under this rock and take a look around.

But the next day, Zoey decided she wanted to be a princess instead. Despite the fact that she has six or seven princess gowns, various tiaras, and several pairs of formal shoes, we were prepared to shell out the bucks for a brand new outfit. Hey, it's Halloween!

That is until yesterday morning, when she decided she wanted to be Stephanie again. I told Ella, "You're taking that child to the store tonight and letting her pick out her costume."

So when they came home from the costume store, I asked Ella, "Did she pick the Stephanie costume?"

"Nope," she replied.

"So what kind of princess did she chose?"

"She's not a princess, either."

"So what is it?"

"It's a surprise. Hang on and I'll put it on her. You're not going to like it."

"I'm sure I'll love whatever my lovely daughter chose to be on Halloween."

"Whatever. You're going to be eating those words in a few minutes."

After ten minutes (and a lot of giggling from the kitchen), my daughter walked into the room.

Dressed. As. A. Cheerleader.

Ella was right!

It would've been nice if Ella had warned me. Maybe then poor Zoey wouldn't have been met with a look of sheer terror from her Dad as she proudly pranced around in her cheerleading outfit. Were they trying to kill me? What happened? Weren't there any Catholic schoolgirl uniforms available? Did they miss the French maid section?

I know. I'm overreacting. I know she's only three and everyone will just think she's cute (although I know all the neighborhood fathers will be giving me major crap when they see her). But I also know firsthand what kind of response cheerleader outfits elicit in the loins of a young male. In the immortal words of beloved poet laureate Bret Michaels, "Where's the girl I knew a year ago?"

All kidding aside, I have no problem with her becoming a cheerleader when she's a teenager. Just as long as she's attending this little Amish prep school I have picked out for her in south central Pennsylvania.

GHS: 4 (10 every time she wears a cheerleading uniform when she's 13+ (if I still have any non-gray hair (or any hair period (or if I'm still alive))))

The Most Spectacular Discovery Known To Man

Last night, I experienced something so amazing, something so incredible, I feel compelled to share my findings with my faithful readers (all three of you).

It's called a date. D-A-T-E. Rhymes with great.

First, you enlist the services of someone called a babysitter. Don't let the name fool you. This person will stay with toddlers and older children as well. Not only that, but they'll do more than just sit with your children. They'll feed your kids, play with them, change diapers, bathe them, and, most astonishingly, put your kids to bed.

I know what you're thinking: where do I find one of these babysitter persons you speak of? That's the only problem. You won't find them in the yellow pages. Ask a friend (no, not the one who always finds the best drugs; ask the one with kids that doesn't look frazzled all the time).

Once the babysitter arrives, you and your significant other leave the house. Alone. Without the kids. Yeah, it sounds crazy. But just trust me.

So what's the first thing you should do on your date? I suggest going to a restaurant. Were you aware that there are restaurants that do not have playgrounds, toy surprises, crayons, balloons, or even kids' menus? I've heard tales of such places throughout my travels, but until last night had never seen one with my own two eyes. In fact, there exists an entire subculture in America that doesn't revolve around children. Hard to believe, but it's true.

Be forewarned: you may experience a strange sensation in your mouth while you're dining. Don't panic. You are actually tasting your food for a change, instead of shoving it frantically in your mouth before your daughter successfully climbs over the back of your booth and into the adjoining one.

You will also notice the two of you will be able to talk uninterrupted. It may seem foreign and somewhat difficult at first, but stay with it and the conversation should begin to flow effortlessly. Resist the urge to talk about the kids.

After your meal, head to a place called a movie theatre. Upon stepping inside, you will notice the concession stand (just ignore the throngs of thirteen-year-olds and their clumsy mating rituals). But this isn't like the concession stand found at your child's soccer complex. Here you will find such delicacies as nachos, hot dogs, soft pretzels, popcorn, candy, soda, and, if you're really fortunate, beer and wine. Resist the urge to mentally calculate how many bags of Goldfish and bottles of Juicy Juice you could purchase for the price of a medium coke and popcorn. This is your night.

So what does one do at a movie theater? You enter a darkened room and they show a movie like the ones found on DVDs and HBO. I don't know where the movie theater buys their movies, but I need to find out. I can't find any of the movies they were showing last night at Blockbuster. Weird. And I almost forgot: the screen is humongous, larger than anything you'll ever see in a Best Buy.

After the movie, drive home slowly. Cherish the last few moments you have together. Sure, you spent a lot of money, but isn't your freedom your sanity a little bit of fun worth it?

(Can you tell it's been a looooooooong time since we've been on a date?)

GHS: 0 (actually, this could reverse the process)