Dofi Doesn't Live Here Anymore

That's pronounced DOUGH-fee, by the way. He's Brady's imaginary friend, and until recently, he lived in our basement.

Dofi has two brothers, Diffy and Daffy, and Brady has had many adventures with his friends over the last couple of years. Dofi has been the convenient scapegoat for many a mess or pushed-down sister. After all, he can hardly defend himself, given that no one else can see or hear him. "No, Dofi did it, daddy!" Of course he did, buddy. Now I'd like you and Dofi to disarm and dismantle that nuclear weapon, please.

Last year, Dofi's escapades were a regular topic of conversation at our house, whether he was taking the blame for a mysterious crime or flying copilot with Brady on a trip to the moon, but the other day, I realized I hadn't heard about our subterranean friend in a while. I asked Brady what Dofi was up to these days. Without any real emotion or taking a break from his burrito, Brady said, "Dofi doesn't live here anymore." As in, "No big deal, dad. Imaginary friends are SO last year." Ho hum.

Now I'm not an overly sentimental person (most of the time), but I don't love how fast these stages of growth go by, how fast kids grow out of them. They learn the correct pronunciation of words and stop using cute interpretations like "garbage exposal" and the like. Brady's only four, so it's not like he's going off to college tomorrow, but sheesh, kid, slow down a bit. Let dad enjoy this for a while. Before you know it, he'll be in school and then beyond. Some people look forward to their kids growing up and leaving the house so they can enjoy their freedom again, but I love this stuff. Why would anyone wish it away?

From what I can remember, I never had an imaginary friend as a kid, so having Dofi and his alliteratively named brothers around was really fun. He's probably sitting in a beach chair at some all-inclusive tropical resort for imaginary friends, sipping a fruity drink, rehashing good times he and his brothers enjoyed with Brady. I foiled his fun more than once, so I don't expect a postcard, but the truth is, I kind of miss him.

Take care, Dofi. You're welcome back any time.

Stats and Numbers

I'm a sports nut. I get as excited about crunching obscure baseball stats like WHIP (walks and hits per inning pitched) and VORP (value over replacement player) as some people get about actually being at the game. I play fantasy sports. I'm a pretty normal dude, but when it comes to sports, I'll be the first to admit I'm a major geek. I'd like to share what I think are some pretty cool sports stats and numbers. Here you go:

~5714: the number of career strikeouts for Nolan Ryan, the most in the history of baseball.
~123,000: the number of calories burned by the average rider in the Tour de France.
~$18 million: average annual salary of Tom Brady, the highest paid player in the NFL.
~$25 million: 2009 earnings of Brady's wife, supermodel Gisele Bundchen. Now there's a healthy household income.
~150,000: seating capacity of Rungrado May Day Stadium in Pyongyang, North Korea, the largest stadium capacity in the world.

Now let me give you a few of my personal stats, the ones that would be on the back of my baseball card if they made baseball cards for guys like me. These are a few of the ones that really matter to me, the ones that I'll be thinking about when we go around the table before we start our Thanksgiving feast tomorrow. They're the ones I'm thankful for.

~10: the number of fingers and toes each of my kids have.
~2: the number of active duty tours in Afghanistan my brother served while in the Army; also the number from which he returned home alive and whole.
~38: the number of years my parents have been married (I think).
~1: best buddy and love of my life, my wife.
~5: the number of pounds I'll likely gain eating my in-laws' awesome Thanksgiving feast. Yum.

What are your Thanksgiving stats? Everyone's got 'em, so whatever you're doing tomorrow, ponder them and spend a little time being thankful. Joyful or painful, they make you recall what really matters.

And finally, remember the "5 F's" of the Thanksgiving holiday: Family, Friends, Football, Food...and later, Flatulence. Sorry folks. It's unavoidable.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Epic Nightly Battle

7:06 PM. An eerie stillness lies over the rubble-strewn battlefield. Tension builds, an uneasy anticipation gripping the foes. Each side casts furtive glances at its opponent as they prepare for the inevitable, calculating the perfect moment for action.

The rugged commander glances gravely at his watch, dreading the moment in which this storm will break. He knows he must make the first move, yet he hesitates. Perhaps this time it will be different, he thinks, a faint hope in his heart. Perhaps this time, the enemy will surrender without a fight. Yet he knows this will never happen. This foe will fight bitterly to the end, as always. The hollow circles under his eyes betray the fatigue of battles past. He sighs, resigning himself to the impending struggle, mere moments away.

Another glance. The commander gathers his resolve. The time to act has come. He rises slowly, facing the enemy.

Then, with fire in his eyes and authority in his voice, he issues the dreadful command:

"Okay, time to get ready for bed!"

And so begins the nightly titanic clash of wills that we call bedtime.

The rubble-strewn battlefield, of course, is our living room, where by this time of the night, toys cover every square inch of the floor to a depth of two feet. The kids are playing quietly, trying to draw as little attention as possible in the hope that they can somehow avoid clean-up and bedtime.

When the announcement is made (usually after several warnings and the kitchen timer being set), the kids still manage to act shocked and outraged, and when they realize they'll need a bulldozer, backhoe, and dump truck to clean up the mess, they conveniently realize they really have to go potty. After all, if they can leave the room without having to clean up, they just might get out of it, right? My wife and I have tried bribery. We've tried choosing a "magic toy" (they have to put away ALL the toys to find out which toy it was; the kid who puts it away gets M&Ms), and that works sometimes. But these little guys are smart. They change tactics. One night you do something that works, the next, they change up the game plan, dragging their feet again. Granted, M&Ms would only motivate me so far, but we're doing everything we can here. And all of this is just clean-up. We haven't even gotten to the tough stuff yet.

After we're cleaned up and potty and jammie time is announced, we get to have a foot race. The little speedsters think it's funny to run away from mom and dad. I know they think it's funny because they laugh at us while they run. If we're lucky and they're still wearing their socks, the pursuit is pretty short due to slippage on the hardwood floors. But barefoot? Look out, Usain Bolt.

Next, we dig in for the repetitive directions portion of the night. "Go potty, please."...take away toy...repeat four times. "Okay, brush your teeth."...footrace, capture...repeat twice. "Put your jammies on, Brady."...pick child up off the floor where he says he's been frozen by the evil emperor Zurg and can't move (classic stalling tactic; everyone knows Zurg has a death-ray cannon, not a freeze-ray.)...repeat instructions a final time before just dressing him myself since we're on a schedule and I don't have time to haggle anymore. He grins smugly the whole time. I'm unashamed to admit that sometimes they win this little part of the skirmish. Whew.

Finally, we start story time, a deceptively innocuous little term for what is actually a complex multi-step ritual that must be observed to the letter. I usually put Brady to bed, and his routine goes like this: First, I tell him a fantastic story that's usually based on his current favorite Disney movie in which he plays the hero, but it usually involves multiple interjections such as, "No, tell it where Peter Pan flies in through the window and the kids are surprised again.", so it's really him that tells his own story. Then we read Bible stories because, as Brady often reminds us, it's important to read the Bible. Next, he has to be told "clues", in which we describe loosely related things and he has to guess what they are. Exactly five clues; no less, no more. Finally, it's prayer time and off to bed, but then he has to go potty again. Then he needs another kiss. Anything to drag out the process another moment. It's simultaneously aggravating and endearing, but mostly endearing. In the parlance of parents: you pick your battles.

8:47 PM. The battlefield is silent again, the storm has passed. Another battle, another victory.

We look in on our peacefully sleeping little combatants and kiss their sleepy little heads, breathing in that divine smell which is the sole province of little kid hair. All the fuss seems like a dream. The bedtime rites have been observed and we know the process will be repeated tomorrow night, of course, but we don't care. Just look at those rosy cheeks and that tousled hair. This nightly struggle is a privilege to live out.

After all, we always win.

Birthday Spankings

OK, I lied - this post has absolutely nothing to do with spankings, but it is actually my birthday. To those of you who were excited to hear about the spankings: we need to have a serious talk. This is a family show, people.

I'm 33 today, but in many ways I feel simultaneously older and younger than that. You probably know what I mean. Honestly, when does someone ever really feel their age?

I feel older than 33 because, like most parents of young kids, I actually live a full two hours more per day than the average person. Seriously. Not by design, of course; normal people are sleeping during those two extra hours, but not me. I'm spending that time comforting, wiping, and rocking kids, and as much as I moan about being tired, I wouldn't trade it for anything. That's bonding time...I can sleep later.

I feel younger than 33 because it seems like just a couple of years ago that I was playing Nintendo and listening to MC Hammer with my brothers and friends. It was just recently that I was graduating from high school and having no stinkin' idea of what the heck to do with my life. It seems like I just got married, and I can't believe I've been a parent for over four years. Wow.

The years really do fly by, but if you think back to specific events, they seem to be in the very distant past. Time is funny like that. Older people will tell you that time only goes faster the older you get, and I'm starting to grasp the truth of this. Gone are the endless summer vacations of childhood; in their place, we have responsibilities that almost never take a three-month break.

To date, however, I guess getting older hasn't really bothered me. Older people will say, "Oh yeah, youngster? Let's see if you feel the same way at 40", and they could very well be right. But honestly, I don't think I'll ever be bummed to reach a certain age, even though 40 will be here in no time and I'll find out for sure. I guess I'd rather look forward to what's next than wish I had or hadn't done something in the past. I only have one regret that haunts me, and it's this: I really wish I'd gotten more leaves raked before the snow fell. That's gonna be messy.

Just call me Pollyanna; after all, my wise and beautiful wife does, in a good-natured way. To be clear, this means that I'm an optimist, not that I enjoy wearing pretty gingham dresses. And once you've moved on from that disturbingly humorous mental image, consider this: it's inescapable that the past will color the present and future, but worldview and perspective are a choice. As long as you know who you are, who you aren't, and who's important, you'll be just fine, and getting older isn't such a big deal.

My name is Pollyanna, and I approve this message.

Bambi Beware

I'm going deer hunting for the first time this weekend. My brother-in-law is an avid hunter and owns enough rifles to equip the Peruvian army, so he is graciously allowing me to borrow one. I've enjoyed getting outfitted for the trip, picking up the blaze-orange parka, snow pants, hoodie, hat, and gloves, as well as the long underwear and heavy socks. Come Saturday morning, I will be the definition of haute couture, ready to stylishly enjoy nature and look for that 16-point buck. Should be a blast.

Of course, telling my kids about the hunting trip is not as fun. Brady and I were talking about dinosaurs last night and he said he wanted to go to the museum and see some. He likes to watch a show called Dino Dan in which 8-year-old Dan has computer-generated dinosaur friends to play with, so Brady thought that the dinos we see at the museum would lick his hand like a dog. He was crestfallen to learn that dinosaurs have been extinct for a little while now, and when I told him that the dinosaurs we see at the museum will be fossilized bones, he got a little teary-eyed and asked, "Are they all dead?"

It's a matter of course to us grown-ups, but how do you break this stuff gently to kids? As parents, we have to walk the fine line between sheltering our kids and overexposing them to life. They have such big tender hearts, which is just one of the many things that make them so dear. I know it's part of the deal, but I surely don't love taking any of the wonder out of their world.

So needless to say, I probably won't be telling Brady the purpose of the hunting trip, at least for a few more years. For now, I'd rather he see Bambi as a cute cartoon than white-wrapped packages in the freezer.