Matching Wits

"Better a witty fool than a foolish wit." - William Shakespeare

Peanut should have a new name. If I were still blogging regularly and chronicling our daily interactions and experiences, I would have renamed her “Tweenut” by now.

You see, our dear Peanut Tweenut recently turned 12. TWELVE! And she is every bit the aloof, dismissive, self-centered know-it-all that we you were at that age.

Don’t get me wrong... I still love her to pieces.

And every now and then, we get to experience the Peanut we know is in there. The Peanut that will one day grow into a mighty oak. (Do peanuts grow into oak trees? I digress.)

Sweet, funny, intelligent Peanut.

This is the story of one of those times.

Tweenut said something so witty, so clever, that it prompted me to wipe away the cobwebs from DKL once again and fire off this blog post. We were in the car, just me and her. I was so proud and impressed that I had to call My Director from the car to tell her what she had said, after I was done laughing.

Luna and Matey now watch over us from
on top of the cabinet in the living room.

It all starts, as many of our stories so often do, with our dogs. Now, I haven’t shared this - or anything, for that matter - with you yet, so we’re gonna do it right now, fast and painful like ripping off a Band-Aid. Here goes: our two beloved dogs, Luna and Matey, have gone to the rainbow bridge. Luna in November. Matey in January. It was a very difficult couple of months. We still love them and miss them so very much and sometimes can’t believe they are gone. They were sewn into the fabric of our family. Still are. Despite their being gone in body, they remain with us in spirit. Always. And here’s an example.

So Tweenut and I were in the car, going from soccer to lunch to lacrosse on a typical busy suburban Saturday. Even though I was following the GPS, I was unfamiliar with exactly where we were and shouted, in Matey’s voice, “Where are we?!” (You don’t give your dogs voices? Shame on you.)

Matey’s voice is best described as laid back and matter-of-fact, like Thomas Haden Church’s character on Wings. But with a lisp. (Because when he lost his eye in a knife fight before we adopted him, it affected his speech. What, your rescue dogs don’t have a dark, made-up back story? Shame on you.)

“Where are we?!” I shouted in Matey’s lispy voice to make Tweenut laugh. Then I proceeded to remind her of a joke My Director and I made the previous weekend about Matey posthumously. (They still amuse us from beyond.)

Since Luna died first, and since she was the one true love of my life (apologies to My Director. She's aware), we asked our priest to come to the house to bless her ashes. It was a sweet little ceremony, if you could even call it that. I cried like a toddler who’s upset at the color of his fork.

Recently, Tweenut asked why we hadn’t come around to getting Matey's ashes blessed. (Typical second child syndrome is why.). This was refreshing thoughtfulness from Tweenut so I reached out to our priest again. But this time I told her she didn’t have to come to the house. She said just bring his ashes to church on Sunday and she’d do it after the service.

The first weekend after that we were away. The second was Tweenut’s Sunday birthday party with our families. The third we were just being lazy and didn’t want to go to church. And that is where our Matey shenanigans begin.

My Director had recorded all of the Jurassic Park movies for us to watch. So instead of going to church, we decided to lay on the couch and binge a little. (“Binge a little” being an oxymoron, of course.)

At one point during our sloth in this season of Lenten sacrifice, my Matey madness kicked in. So in full throated Matey voice I proclaimed, “Guys....” (Matey always starts his proclamations with “Guys...” I hope the PC police don’t take offense that he’s being hetero-normative or whatever. If they do, shame on them. He is a dead one-eyed dog, after all. Give him a break.)

“Guys,” Me-Matey said. “My ashes are sitting here in this cabinet, a shelf below Luna’s, mind you. Unblessed. That’s ridickerous.” (Matey couldn’t pronounce “ridiculous.” Another consequence of the pre-adoption knife fight.)

Matey's right. His ashes are on the bottom shelf.
Luna is perched on the shelf above him.

“And instead of getting me blessed today, you’re watching Jurassic Park?!,” Matey continued. (Jurassic, of course is pronounced “Jurathic” in Matey’s voice. Just so ya know.)

But he wasn’t done. “A movie that’s 25 years old! Daddy was a senior in high school when it was in theaters! Again...ridickerous.”

He was upset. And he had good reason to be. He sits there unblessed and physically and spiritually below Luna in the pecking order even in death. My Director and I had a good laugh at that one. I love that our dogs still bring us such joy even though they’re no longer with us. (And I admit, we’re a little crazy.)

Fast forward to the aforementioned Saturday suburban car ride. After my impromptu, “Where are we?!” in Matey's voice I reminded Tweenut of the Jurassic Park gag with My Director and me and Matey's ashes. Like a true Tweenut, she had gone out with her friends by that point in our Lazy Sunday.

I started doing the gag and she chimed in immediately, adding in Matey’s voice without skipping a beat: “Monstey would be so offended.”

Monstey, you see, was Matey’s favorite toy. It was a dinosaur. He slept with it, played with it, he adored it. He even made sweet love to it one Christmas morning: (You can also hear My Matey voice in this video.) And therein, my friends, lies the genius in Tweenut’s comment. She advanced the story. She used wit and improvisation to do it. She was smart and clever and didn’t miss a beat.

I told her this. I then explained wit to her. “It’s humor with intelligence,” I said.

“Anyone can make a fool of themselves and be a clown,” I told her. “It takes brains to be witty. To be truly funny."

This may be a small thing. You may be reading this and asking me, “This is what you re-emerged from blog hibernation for?”

Yes. Because it’s up to me as a dad to recognize the little things that are actually big things. Because Tweenut is trying out her sense of humor. She’s pushing the envelope sometimes and crossing the line others. We tell her when she crosses the line. When she's decidedly not funny.

And I need to tell her when she gets it right. I need to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Especially when she’s the one being extraordinary.

I’m not saying I'm going to hand out participation trophies. But as she navigates these awkward and sometimes unforgiving years, I'm the one who needs to realize that she’s still a child, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Even if she doesn’t act like it because she’s not my baby anymore.

Especially with “Tweenut” in full force.

You see, a dad and his Tweenut don’t have a lot in common. At least, not this one. One thing we do have in common, if I may be so bold, is wit.

I am so proud of my witty daughter.

“Monstey would be so offended,” is proof that Tweenut is not going to be the clown. It's easy to be the clown. To get the cheap laugh. But she’s smart. She gets it. Wait for your comedic moment and pounce without compromising your self-worth.

I should stop and celebrate more when the future comes out of my child’s mouth and it’s a bright one. If I don’t, then shame on me.

PS: Our newest member of the family arrived for Christmas. Meet Mocha:

She has brought laughter and joy these past few months and even has her own voice already. 

We just came upon the anniversary of Matey joining our family, which reminded me of THIS POST.

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The Guilt Trip of a Lifetime

"Every time you go away you take a piece of me with you." -Paul Young

"She's old enough," we said. That's how we justified it. She's old enough to be without us for a couple of weeks. Sure, she'll be aware that we're gone. She'll definitely miss us. But she'll be just fine. Most important, she'll still have a lot of fun. Without us.

There we are. Young and in love. Venice 2004.
(I still have that shirt.)

So My Director and I went ahead and followed through on a promise we made to each other on our honeymoon. Our favorite place on that whirlwind Italian odyssey was Venice. But we were there for just two days. "I wish we had more time here," we said at the time. So we promised each other we'd come back for our tenth anniversary. We even shook on it. Or pinky swore. I can't remember exactly. There was definitely a lot of wine involved.  Either way, it was clearly a binding agreement.

You never know where you're going to be ten years from now when you make promises like that with your spouse. Financially, physically, or professionally. You can never know. Peanut wasn't even a glint in our eyes when we made that promise to each other, and ourselves.  So as we sat on our couch shortly after New Year's this year, contemplating whether we should follow through, it was she who weighed mostly on our decision.

Every time I think about her, talk about her, choose to write about her, or do anything at all in fact, it is with Peanut in mind. And anytime I think, talk , write, or do, it dawns on me that she will be this age only once. I want to savor every last moment in time with her and of her. All through her life I've done this. Not so much lamenting. But enjoying. Documenting. Mentally, pictorially, and verbally. Beaming with pride and amazement. We recently watched some videos of her from when she was a baby. What a wonderfully magical yet simple time. How much joy she brought us. How truly blessed we are to have witnessed her discover this awesome world, and for us to rediscover it along with her. Reliving these memories didn't make me sad. It made me thankful. It also made me realize how many times I must have squealed a high-pitched, "yay!" during Peanut's babydom.

I am also thankful to have had those two weeks in Europe with My Director. From Venice we went on

Paris 2013. Still young. Still in love.
(I wear glasses now.)

to Geneva and then Paris. I like to think our marriage is strong, but I also believe all couples need time away. Alone. To reconnect, rekindle, and have an actual conversation during a meal without someone who is either complaining about their dinner or forgetting basic details of their day. All of that being said, I am sad to not have had those two weeks with Peanut. While in hindsight I do not think this trip was for her (a subject for another blog post), that doesn't mean we didn't think of her. Especially during down time and on travel days, we both found ourselves missing her a lot.

The one time we managed to connect via Skype a few days into our trip (communicating was much more difficult than we had anticipated), we could tell by the look on her face that she was so excited to see us. She was missing us, but putting up a strong front without us. That's my girl. She stayed with my sister and her family at what we called "Zia camp." (Zia is aunt in Italian.) Her second week was spent in Wildwood, NJ on vacation with my extended family. A vacation we normally attend. Besides that shaky Skype call that cut out after five minutes, her only true contact with us for two weeks was a daily letter we each wrote her, one for every day we were gone. We wrote them before we left. Some were funny. Some were informational. Some were sentimental. And some were accompanied by gifts inspired either by where in the world we were or she was. Turns out, this was a very good idea. Peanut loved her letter every day and looked forward to that little bit of interaction with us.

My sister said Peanut was very well-behaved. A pleasure. A true joy. This came as no surprise to us. She also adopted our policy of not saying no on vacation, so Peanut never had to wear what she didn't want to wear. Those dresses My Director packed for dinners out, for instance, stayed in the bag. (Peanut currently prefers an active chic look.)

Back-at-home-for-first-tim-together selfie

When we returned, Peanut looked so different from when we left her. Her hair was more blonde from the sun. She was tanned from her vacation. She looked older. Rarely one to be outwardly affectionate, she hugged us both very hard and buried her head into My Director's chest when we first saw her. And because she comes from a long line of guilt trippers, every time we asked her about her vacation she would say, "But you guys went on an adventure. I didn't get to go on an adventure." Way to lay it on thick, kid.

Later that weekend, Peanut and My Director baked a birthday cake for me. We had a belated celebration since we were in Paris on my actual birthday. Peanut knew exactly how she wanted to decorate it with icing in my favorite color - green. She wrote the names of my favorite sports teams on it and spelled "Happy Birthday Dad," too. When I blew out my candles, I told her I had made a good wish. In following tradition, I didn't tell her what I had wished for. But she was quick to tell us she also made a wish and that it was for "you to never break up our family again."

How cute is this cake she made for me?

Ouch, babe.

We had an amazing time in Europe. But I couldn't help but miss her, and I can't help but think of what I missed. And lament. She is at such a great age. An age of learning and understanding. Of critical thinking and reasoning. Of giggling and joking. Of exploring and discovering. And she's just so adorable. I feel this summer has come and gone like every other before it and all of the ones that are yet to be. Too quickly, yet jam-packed with great memories. We made the most of our time with Peanut. A lemonade stand. A dinosaur park. An amusement park. Camping in the backyard. But more often I feel her drifting away. Already.

At age six she has such a busy social life. Between after school activities and play dates, I could go days sometimes without quality Peanut time. There are days where I'll skip the gym to come home early if the weather is nice, only to find her at a friend's house or with a friend over at ours. It's our own little real-life "Cats in the Cradle." And then I lament some more. Then again, there are few sounds I enjoy more than Peanut and a friend giggling at each other in some far off corner of the house. Or even better, hearing her channel her mom's diplomacy and settle a difference of opinion without drama, making her guest feel at home.

As Peanut grows older I realize I want her involved in our once-in-a- lifetime memories from now on. Soon enough she will be making those memories on her own. Our choices cost me some of the best and most precious days of her lifetime. As much as we may try there is no getting them back. I realize this is a nice problem to have. That I am complaining about an otherwise awesome vacation with My Director. Still, no more leaving Peanut behind. I miss her too much. There will come a time where she'll leave us behind. I'll miss her then too. At least I won't have the guilt.

Oddly enough, last summer I wrote a post about being away from her for ONE NIGHT and missing her. You can read it HERE.

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We Took the Road Less Traveled

"Where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me."- from Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed. (I'm sure this comes as no surprise.) This was not my idea of a vacation. This is not how we had said we would spend our 10th Anniversary celebration. My Director had totally hijacked our day and dedicated it to shopping. No...looking for the perfect gift to repay my sister and brother-in-law for watching Peanut for the two weeks we were away. This is one area where we, and I believe most men and women, differ. Shopping. I don't look for things. I think of what I want ahead of time and I set off to buy things. Or, I see something and impulsively say, "I'm going to buy that," finances willing. But I never say, "I want something like this so I'm going to go look for it." That's just a waste of time. Nonsense.

Yet, here we were. Immersed in nonsense.

This is 1 of nearly 6,000 identical stores.
But look at her in her cute hat. I can't stay mad at her.

We were on the island of Murano, the place in Venice famous for its hand-blown glass. And My Director had taken a one-way boat to Nutsville, obsessed with buying a set of glasses. We went into every store, on a mission. It was maddening because all of these stores are the same, except for infinitesimal differences in each figurine, light fixture, or piece of jewelry. I was stuck in Venetian Groundhog Day and I needed out. So I threw a bit of a tantrum. Albeit, a strategic, impassioned, but sympathetic tantrum. To my surprise, it actually worked.

Still, I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed as we boarded a boat to head back to mainland Venice, Piazza San Marco. First we had to make one last stop at "Murano Faro." This is the only place where you get a boat to the island of Burano. One of my wishes for our trip was to go to Burano, because it's little known, quiet, far away. But at this point, in the state I was in (the "done with shopping" state), I felt defeated and resigned to go back.

This selfie proves there were actually more happy
moments on Murano than not. (And that I am terribly bald.)

"Last chance," My Director called to me. "If you want Burano we have to get off here. Now."

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The Empire Strikes Back

"If I ever lose my faith in you, there'd be nothing left for me to do." -Sting

We started with a couch. A three-seater sofa. That's the first thing My Director and I owned together. We took a major plunge, moving in together after she graduated from college. My dad and I picked it up from the furniture store in my hometown. When we got back to my parents' house, I called her on the old land line. (Cell phones weren't quite a thing yet in 1999.)

There's the old couch. in the middle of
our old condo.

"This is it," I told her. "We're building our Empire."

Our Empire. I have always referred to our life as that. I haven't shared that on this blog until now. We've built quite the little Empire in the fourteen years since we bought that couch, if I do say so myself. But it all began with that couch, which first sat in our one-bedroom roach motel of a railroad apartment.

It moved everywhere with us over the years. Two apartments, a condo, and our house. We had to get rid of it last year. It was getting pretty beaten up. Had our basement not been wet at the time, we could have stored it down there. That would have been nice. As much as you tell yourself you don't want to become attached to things, this couch was special. It represented the start of our Empire.

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Mean Girls

"It's not about aptitude. It's the way you're viewed. So it's very shrewd to be very very popular. Like me." -From Wicked

Kids really do say the darndest things. Sometimes we'll have a conversation with Peanut and the words that come out of her mouth are so hilarious, whether intentional or unintentional, I bury my hands in my face to avoid embarrassing her. Just last night at dinner, for example, she was trying to explain to My Director what she thought the cause of My Director's "g.i." issues were. I sat in stunned disbelief, chewing my food while subconsciously holding my nose as Peanut described in great detail what causes certain types of bowel movements.

I don't want Peanut ending up in a garbage can.
Or walking away from someone who did.

Other times the conversations are more serious in nature. Like being nice to others, accepting those who are different, and feelings of exclusion and inclusion. These conversations revolve mostly around girls. Sometimes, mean girls.

Little boys can be obnoxious. For the most part, they're rough-housing, insensitive little jerks. I should know. I used to be a little boy. But I don't worry about Peanut being able to handle herself with the boys. They push and she pushes right back. She stands her ground. Defends herself. Peanut has established herself as the boss. The alpha female. It's the other girls I'm most worried about. Because while boys might engage in physical combat, girls are all about mind games. And being popular.

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Kids These Days

"These people marched and were hit in the face with rocks to get an education and now we've got these knuckleheads walking around." -Bill Cosby
Kids these days are a lot more coddled than when I was growing up. I say that at the risk of sounding like my parents and grandparents, something we as parents try to avoid one way or another despite its inevitability. As far as coddled children go, Peanut is no exception. We cheer her every success, no matter how insignificant. Whether she reads a sentence in a new book or writes her capital letters neatly, I'm right there saying, "Good job." I'm giving her a high-five and telling her how proud I am of her.

I'm not sure why we do this. Why we applaud and reward the ordinary. Maybe it's because our parents - my parents - were tough on us when all we wanted was the occasional pat on the back. It is with our over-abundance of pats on the back in mind that I read about a study that shows college-aged kids consider themselves more special than ever before. They have a record level of self worth. But with that feeling of accomplishment, even though they've accomplished very little if anything, comes a feeling of entitlement.

That's because growing up, they got spoiled. They received trophies and ribbons for just showing up. They received over-stuffed goody bags for attending overly-elaborate birthday parties. They never learned how to lose. They rarely if ever felt what it's like to work hard and still lose.


In January, Olympic swimming champion Missy Franklin returned to high school swimming instead of turning pro. Missy is a bit of a hero in our house, for shattering the only-child stereotypes in Olympic fashion. She is the teen who won four gold medals and five overall last summer in London. She decided she wanted to be a kid as long as she can, go back to school and swim with her friends. Parents of some of her competitors were crying foul. Unfair, they say. She's too good. Their children deserve a chance to win. Since when do we exclude qualified people from competitions because they're too good? When we're raising a generation of entitled brats. That's when.

Entitled brats who have access to technology at very young ages. (I'm not judging. As I write this, Peanut is watching a show on My Director's iPad.) We are raising a generation that spends a lot of time with its head down, immersed in a virtual world when the real word is passing them by right in front of their blank faces. We live in an age when entire relationships, real or fake, can exist only online. (As a blogger, I admit to having people I consider friends even though I have never met them in person. But at least I know they're real. I think.) We live in an age where people find it acceptable to post an apology via social media or on their websites. An apology that says, "I'm sorry you were offended" or "I'm sorry I was caught," but never simply says, "I'm sorry."

This is a society for which even the extraordinary is not good enough; one that yearns to believe the unbelievable. We crave fantasy and yawn at reality. Many of our children who do possess extraordinary talents are told so from a young age and grow up thinking the world revolves around them. They are coddled, protected and molded. They think tweeting an apology is acceptable. They think online relationships are more valuable than real ones. They value things more than people, except for themselves. We can not allow the art of the face-to-face conversation to become lost and antiquated like the handwritten letter. If our children possess some extraordinary talent, we must be careful not to over-inflate them. Keep them grounded. We need more Missy Franklins. The more the better.

There are times when My Director and I placate Peanut just to avoid the drama. At bedtime, for instance, we might overlook her whining and chalk it up to her just being tired. But then there are times when we don't. When we beat her at a game on purpose because she needs to know what it's like to lose. Like when she can't find Waldo and wants to move on to the next page and I refuse to let her. She needs to feel what it's like to work at something and achieve it. There is no better feeling.

One weekend afternoon recently she was being particularly whiny and lippy. I didn't like how she was talking to or acting towards us. I gave her a stern warning. She whined to me, "Don't talk to me like that." I sent her to her room. On her way, she told me, "Now you made me mad at you." That's fine. She can be mad all she wants. If she's not getting mad at me, then I'm not doing my job. Someday, she'll thank me. Maybe even apologize for acting out. She definitely won't be tweeting her apology.

This post originally appeared on Barista Kids in January. One game helped me teach Peanut how to lose. Click HERE to read that post. And to read about why we love Missy Franklin, click HERE.

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Tough Egg to Crack

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be." -The Beatles

Peanut is indeed her father's daughter. Sometimes, like in the case of her cartoonishly large feet, it's to her detriment. Often times, however, it is to mine. Ya see, you can't hide a personality flaw in a pair of snazzy shoes. One of the biggest challenges I have faced and continue to face as a parent is raising a child who is just like me in so many ways. For even I have no idea why I do some most of the things I do. How am I expected to know how to react when my daughter does the same thing?

While Peanut has inherited many of my positive attributes: humor, intelligence, good looks (ok her mom has a lot to do with those), she's unfortunately also picked up my most negative one. No, not narcissism. But thanks for your concern. Peanut and I both have the ability to affect the mood of a room - of a house - all by ourselves. If one of us is in a bad mood, everyone knows and feels it. The worst part: there is no getting us out of it and very little if anything we can do about it. How charming.

Ouch.

Her most recent mood swing took place when we were dying Easter eggs at my mom's house on Saturday night. Peanut was having a great time with her cousins and her Mema, creating works of art on this rare medium. My nephew was playing some festive music. Syracuse had just clinched a spot in the Final Four. All was right with the world. Then the mood dramatically came crashing down with one act of clumsiness. Peanut was meticulously placing stickers on a purple-speckled egg she had patiently waited to dry after coloring. Instead of completing this oblong and delicious masterpiece, she dropped it. The sounds of holiday merriment were unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling thud of hard-boiled shell on ceramic tile.

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Pre-School Stress, Part II

In the town where we live, we have what is called a Magnet system for the public elementary schools. Each school has its own specialty. (Environmental studies or global studies, for example.) There are seven elementary schools. Each spring, parents whose children are entering Kindergarten in the fall get to tour the schools, rank them in order of preference, and in theory get one of their top two or three choices. This all started in the 1970's as a way of integrating all of the schools and making sure each one is as good as the next, since our town is so socioeconomically diverse. This is the second in a series blog posts I wrote for a local website last year, as My Director and I went through the process:

It's taken me two weeks to collect my thoughts and decide what I took out of the first round of school tours, and what I wanted to share. That's right. I said "first round." Since my wife and I both work, we were only able to tour the schools at night. So we'll be taking a day off to visit our favorites while school is in session. Because we're gluttons for punishment.

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Pre-School Stress

In the town where we live, we have what is called a Magnet system for the public elementary schools. Each school has its own specialty. (Environmental studies or global studies, for example.) There are seven elementary schools. Each spring, parents whose children are entering Kindergarten in the fall get to tour the schools, rank them in order of preference, and in theory get one of their top two or three choices. This all started in the 1970's as a way of integrating all of the schools and making sure each one is as good as the next, since our town is so socioeconomically diverse. This is the first in a series blog posts I wrote for a local website last year, as My Director and I began the process:

"My head is swimming."

That's the sentence I texted My Director after spending an hour listening to parents who've been through the Kindergarten selection process. Peanut's daycare was nice enough to set up this informal meeting, featuring at least one parent from each school. I sat. I took it all in. I asked questions.

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You Can't Fix Stupid

I've been having a little fun with the New York Jets' Facebook page recently. You see, I'm sort of a stickler for grammar. (I hold myself to the same standard here on DKL and kick myself when I catch a mistake in a published post.) The reason why I've been having fun with the social media team of my favorite football team is for none other than pure amusement. Few people dislike their favorite sports teams more than I do. When it comes to the Jets, after years of frustration and disappointment with their losing, or coming this close and still losing, or not coming remotely near the neighborhood of close and losing badly while doing so, I've revolted. And the way I do it is by calling them out for grammatical and punctuation errors on their Facebook page. Very passive aggressive, I know.

Last week they posted this image with a misplaced apostrophe on it and I pounced:

Seriously with this? I really hate them.
Or, I hate to LOVE them.

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Criminal Minds

"Never rat on your friends. And always keep your mouth shut." - Goodfellas.

Young "Hendry" gets pinched and learns
the two most important things in life.

There is a code. It's a mostly unspoken code among Italian-Americans. Robert DeNiro's character in GoodFellas did speak it, though.  (I posted it above.)  He said it right after Ray Liotta's character got arrested for the first time. Called them the two greatest things in life. (In the scene depicted on the left.) Peanut, herself half-Italian, subscribes to the code. I guess it's genetic, because I never taught it to her.

Haven't you ever made your friends promise to keep a secret? It wasn't a bad thing, right? When we learned Peanut made her friend pinky swear something, we were mildly concerned at worst. It wasn't that she made her pinky swear, it was what she made her pinky swear. In true mafioso form, our little angel told her friend, "not to tell her mom anything about her anymore." That's right. Peanut's friend got pinched, see. While Peanut generally keeps quiet to us (the code), her friend - not Italian - sang like a canary to her mom.

Turns out, Peanut was tired of us finding out about her exploits at school, no matter how innocent they were, through her friend's mom. So she went to the source and told her to pinky swear... to basically keep her f*cking mouth shut. And guess what the friend did? Told her mom about the pinky swear, who in turn told us about the pinky swear. Vicious cycle. This is what happens when you bring non-Italians into your inner circle.

Here is the anatomy of the crime:

1. Peanut and friend interact at school.
2. The friend tells her mom the story.
3. Peanut tells us nothing.
4. Friend's mom tells My Director.
5. We tell Peanut.
6. Peanut tells friend to keep her mouth shut.

What this little girl who was unwittingly ratting on Peanut doesn't know is there is no witness protection in Kindergarten. This friend - or should I say consigliere, is playing with fire. She's risking getting Peanut pinched. Or worse, herself whacked. While Peanut lawyers up faster than you can say cannoli, her friend spilled the beans with very little effort on the prosecution's part. So she quickly became our source of information. Our stool pigeon. It's mostly funny stuff. But this pinky swear business had us worried.

My Director didn't want Peanut becoming a mean girl. Worse, a sneaky mean girl. Someone who likes to keep secrets, both from us and among her friends. Someone who was perhaps bullying her friend to keep things from us. (Really?! She's five.) I understood her concern, but I also understand the code. (I'm Italian. My Director is NOT.) Sometimes secrets have to be kept. Then again... do they have to be kept in Kindergarten?

While I found all of this mildly amusing, I don't like the idea that my daughter is a schemer. Already.

We've had several conversations with her since the "pinky swear" incident. We've been sure not to be accusatory. We told her we want to hear everything about her day - the good and the bad - no matter what. That it's ok if something or someone bothers her, or if she doesn't like someone or something. We  just want to know anything and everything. Open the vault, kid. We might not always agree with her, we might not always like her decisions, but we will always be on her side.

That was out mini-intervention. It seems to have worked. Lately, Peanut has been spilling the beans herself, to us. Often she volunteers the information without prompting. After all, the code begins and ends with family. We're the best at keeping secrets. And the best at making sure our little princess doesn't turn into a mean girl.

Sometimes when Peanut acts up, it's my fault. I learned that the hard way and wrote about it HERE.

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Unnecessary Toughness

"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." -Thomas Edison

It seems every day, Peanut will say or do something that shows me just how much she's grown up. Not big things, mind you. Little things. Nuances, if you will. Like when she says something that perfectly - if not dramatically - communicates her true feelings...

Take, for instance, the night we told her she could watch a half hour of a movie before bed. "But at 7:30," we warned her beforehand, "we're turning it off and going right upstairs." My Director concluded with a firm, "No fooling around." Fast forward to 7:30. We turn off the movie. Cue Peanut joking around. She's laying on her mom, pretending not to hear her when she asks her to get up. General silly procrastination that we told her would be unacceptable. I snap. "Peanut, stop it right now and let's go to bed."

She immediately stops, stands at attention, furrows her brow and shouts, "Why are you always yelling at me?!"  In the moment, I shot back by telling her I wouldn't have to yell at her if she just listened. But put aside the fact that her use of the word always stabbed me, really making me feel like a jerk of a dad. Peanut is now more capable than ever of expressing her feelings effectively, without crying or whining. Her use of always was deliberate. And timely. Just a couple hours earlier, I snapped at her for lollygagging when she was putting on her shoes for our walk with Luna. (A walk she didn't want to go on but I forced her to because she hadn't been outside all day.)

Sometimes My Director rightfully
throws a penalty flag on me.

My Director perfectly describes it as "piling on." Peanut will do something wrong. I will correct her and if necessary, punish her. Nothing wrong with that. It's called parenting. But I don't stop there. I will then proceed to recall every similar wrongdoing she has committed since the beginning of time, point it out, and use it is as an opportunity to punish her for those prior offenses as well. Because obviously if she's repeating the offense, the prior punishment wasn't effective enough. (At least in my mind.) So I feel the need to "pile on." Or I don't give her a chance to correct it first, before I discipline her. It's my whole ready-fire-aim mentality of parenting.

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Holding Out For a Hero

"Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?" -Bonnie Tyler

Now that Super Bowl XLVII is over, we are finished with the Ray Lewis farewell tour as well. Lewis is the linebacker for the Baltimore Ravens, arguably the best at his position ever to play the game. He has received a lot of fanfare since announcing that this season would be his last. There has been no shortage of bouquets thrown his way, including a victory lap around the stadium at his final home game last month. A victory lap that was replayed ad nauseam the next day. Lost in the celebration of a football career in our sports-crazed society, many forget or choose to forget that Lewis was accused of murder not too long ago.

Lewis pleaded guilty to a lesser charge and avoided jail time. He paid an undisclosed settlement to the victims' families, but the murder for which he was charged was never solved. His "image" has undergone such a meteoric rehabilitation that he now endorses several products and will serve as a football analyst on ESPN upon retirement. Lewis even cited that it's, "time to be a daddy" to his children - six of them with four different women - as his reason for retiring. Excuse me for not being overjoyed with his newfound commitment to fatherhood. No one is arguing that Lewis is an outstanding football player. As a football fan, a dad, and a human being I just have a hard time with the celebrating and hero worship.

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#PayItForward: Guest Post from @CrazedKitchen

Returning to my #PayItForward series after a long break for the holidays, with a writer whose blog I've been enjoying for quite a while. Molly, who calls her blog Crazed in the Kitchen, is a stay-at-mom of two with a third on the way. She is the whole package: funny, sincere, and will tug at your heartstrings when she wants to. Recently, we were talking about the annoying things non-parents say, and it inspired this post from her.

Enjoy:

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Knowing Your Roles

"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else." -Judy Garland

We all have a job as parents. Moms and dads. No matter how our families happen to be constructed. No matter which roles in the family we hold, we are responsible for teaching our children. Showing them the way. Whether we like it or not, they are watching us. Watching us for how to be and how to act.

My parents had traditional roles. My mom was a housewife for most of my childhood, before they opened their swimming pool business. Before that, my dad worked a lot to support us. There were a lot of late nights where I remember him coming home as I was laying in bed.

To a certain extent, My Director and I have turned those roles around. We both work. We divide cleaning evenly. The kitchen and bathrooms are my responsibility. She handles the finances and is even better than me at fixing certain most things. I do the cooking. We don't follow traditional roles for a mom and dad.

Two examples from Christmas, one past and one present, tell the story...

My Director fixing the tree.
(Me taking picture.)

A couple of weeks ago, our Christmas tree fell down while we were at work. My Director was the first one home and didn't hesitate to jump in and assess the tree stand situation. Meanwhile, once I arrived on the scene, I took pictures for the blog and attended to the more pressing matter of figuring out how to save Googily, our Elf on the Shelf. Googily was sitting in the tree at the time it fell. (The big thing about the Elf is if you touch him he loses his magic. You can read more about this hilarious and potentially catastrophic adventure HERE.) I was also concerned about how long this disaster would delay dinner.

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The Words We Use

Words can injure. We all know this. Like me, I am sure you've been on both the giving and receiving ends of nasty language, spoken or written. In light of recent events, perhaps an examination of how we talk to each other, and how we teach our children to talk to others, is in order. Small steps.

Something that happened with Peanut prompted me to examine the words she chooses, but more important, the words I choose. She came home from school with a note from her teacher one day this week. Apparently, she had used some inappropriate language towards another student, then lied about it. A big double no. So her teacher let us know. Always one to assume the best of my otherwise angel of a child, I immediately imagined the possibility that the other kid deserved it. As I snapped back into reality, I knew what she said wasn't right. But I was conflicted about how big of a deal we needed to make of it. (It sparked quite a conversation with plenty of strong opinions on my blog's Facebook page.)

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Calling All Dads

"There is no such thing as a perfect parent. So just be a real one.”~ Sue Atkins

There has been a considerable amount of outrage lately throughout the dad community, particularly the dad blogging community, over a label. In its “Who’s Minding the Kids?” report, the U.S. Census Bureau refers to stay-at-home dads as “child care,” even though those dads are obviously the primary care providers in the family. Essentially, babysitters. The report also lists moms as the “designated parent” if both a mom and dad exist in the household, or in single-parent homes. But dads, stay-at-home dads in particular, are not happy.

Of course, moms have been the traditional primary caregiver pretty much since the beginning of time. Over the past decade or so, a small shift has occurred and more dads are staying home with the kids. Still, we dads have a long way to go before we catch up in the child-care street-cred department.

Just be the best parent you can be.

But that’s not stopping involved dads from circulating a petition to put us on equal footing with moms when dads are the “designated parent.”  I signed the petition in solidarity with the dads I know and admire. Dads who stay at home and take care of the family. Or Dads who, like me, work but are active participants in the lives of their children.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: If a Tree Falls in the House

Some unexpected traffic on the bus ride home meant I would be a little later than normal. So I texted My Director with some basic instructions on how to get dinner started. This way, I could get a jump start on cooking as soon as I got home:

"Can you put some water on for brown rice and heat the oven to 350 please?"

I was planning to make pan-seared tilapia over brown rice with baked Brussels sprouts and bacon. Yum. Her response was quick, and unexpected:

"Our tree fell over. Have to deal with that right now."

I have to admit, I laughed a little when I read that. Have to deal with that right now? Ya think? A classic line from my straight man. When I got off the bus, a stunned Peanut met me at the corner. "Daddy, you're NOT going to believe this." She escorted me inside. My little girl was beside herself. But not because of this:

Yes. That's My Director working on the tree
while I snap pictures for the blog. Priorities.

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Kindergarten: You're Not in Daycare Anymore

"The universe is one great Kindergarten. Everything that exists has brought with it its own peculiar lesson." -Orison Swett Marden

Kindergarten, where have you been all my life? You mean to tell me all we had to do to avoid the nightly bedtime tug-of-war with Peanut was send her to school? This just seems too good to be true. Most nights she's in bed - and willingly - by 7:30. Read it again: 7:30. Some nights she ASKS to go upstairs. Amazing. But when you listen to Peanut, it's easy to understand why she's so tired.

On a recent cranky morning ride to school she informed My Director that she wants to go back to daycare. Those were the days, I guess. "The work is too hard," she complains. Turns out, learning is taxing on the mind and body. It's a good thing they give her two opportunities to feed her mind and body, right? Wrong. If you ask Peanut, she's not fed enough. "In daycare we had two snacks and we only get one in Kindergarten," she protests. My poor baby.

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#PayItForward: Guest Post from @Dumbsainted

Today I am pleased to feature a wonderfully talented writer and blogger. "Dumbsaint," as I will call her because she likes to keep a certain level of anonymity, brings humor, passion, and insight that you don't find many places. Her blog is called Crazy Dumbsaint of the Mind. She is unafraid to tackle any subject, always putting herself and her opinion out there. Whether I agree or disagree, I enjoy reading her posts because they always make me THINK. When someone is passionate about something, and presents their argument with grace and humor, along with that passion, I listen. Sometimes, it even makes stubborn old me change my mind.

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