The Last Word

It looks like Daddy/Daughter Fun Time has reached its Final Episode.  After nearly 600 posts, the public has had its fill of my familial commentary. And, frankly, I am getting tired of my children, too.  (I kid, of course.  I suppose.)

It just doesn’t seem right for me to talk about my daughters when they understand the medium better than I.  (One is a teen and is blah blah blah on Instagram or whatever.)  They actually deserve a life that is free from being scrutinized for their every foible.  And, those foibles are what this blog has specialized in. Life is hard enough without everything being publicized in a Daddy Blog.

For me, fortunately, diaper duty (Ha! He said Doody) is over.  I hope I’ve encouraged my beautiful daughters’ wide-eyed innocence to ask questions (Isabella, obviously) and artistry (Juianna and her drawings.)

But, it is time to go.

The name of this Blog originated from the many times I strapped my first daughter (Julianna) then the second one (Isabella) in a stroller and proudly walked the sidewalks of West Hollywood, CA.  Just to give Mommy (my beautiful, wonderful wife, Lynn) a brief break after hours and hours of mommy-ing.  Daddy/Daughter Time?  No!  Daddy/Daughter FUN Time.  Because, Dammit!  This is going to be FUN!

So, after all of my stories, complaints, and observances, I, your humble Daddy, wish you a very good night.  And, pleasant dreams.  You are my sunshine when skies are grey.

Iz:  But, Daddy, how can it be sunny at bedtime.  It’s night, so by definition there’s no sun…..

(Occasional updates are very possible…)

For Old Time’s Sake, a last Christmas gift to you:


Isabella (the 10-year old) has a bit of a cold.  Mommy has been fighting it for days.  It is starting to spread throughout the family domicile.

But, it is time for gymnastics pick-up.

Iz (again, she’s 10):  Daddy, I have a sore throat, so I won’t talk too much.

Me: Ok, sorry.  Don’t talk.  It will help.

Iz: I just said that I won’t talk.

Me: And, I said “Good, rest your throat.”

Iz: You didn’t say that.  You said, “Don’t talk.”

Me: Thank you for the correction. I wasn’t being literal.

Iz:  Because that’s not what you said.  I’m not going to talk anymore. Because my throat hurts.

Me: Ok, fine.  Be quiet.

Iz: I hate when you tell me what to do.

Me: Ok.  Well, it’s your throat.

Iz: I won’t talk anymore.  My throat hurts.

Me: I understand that. Stop talking.

Iz (getting feisty): I am stopping talking.

Me: And yet…  You are still talking.  Stop talking.

Iz:  Dad!  Stop it!  My throat hurts.

Me (a little annoyed):  Then.  Stop Talking.

Iz:  Why are you yelling at me.  My throat hurts.

Me: Honey, I am not yelling.  Please stop talking.

Iz (starting to cry): Why are you yelling at me to stop talking when you know my throat hurts.  Now it hurts even worse.  Waaah.

Me:  No one is yelling.  Just stop talking.

Iz:  But my throat hurts.

Me: And, it is probably because you have to have the last word.

Iz: No I don’t.

Me: Then, stop talking.

Iz: Ok, I will.

Me: And, you still have to have the last word.  Always.

Julianna (she’s 13, from the back seat):  Dad, I liked when you said that she had to have the last word.  Because it is true.

Iz: I heard that.  And…  No I don’t.

So it goes.


Good night, Fun Time.  I will miss you.

The Dent-ist

On the way in to gymnastics practice, Isabella (she’s 10) and I are behind an older model Ford pickup truck.

Iz:  Daddy, that’s an old truck.

Me: Yeah, it looks like it’s from the ’60s or so.  So, it’s about as old as me.

Iz:  Wow, that is old.  But it’s in Great shape.

Me:  Just like me!

Iz (fact-checking):  Dad.  You are definitely NOT in great shape.  You have a LOT of dents.

I soak in her words, and say,

Me (mostly to myself):  Yeah, Honey…  So many dents.


Sitting in my Draft posts from years ago (April 2013).


Mere minutes ago, at bedtime (while it is still fresh in my mind…). I’m snuggled with Julianna (she’s 8).

J: Daddy, ghosts aren’t real, are they?

Me: No, Honey. Not real.

J: And, Heaven is a place in the sky that is dead.

Me: Um…

J: And, ghosts come out of your body when you die.

Me: Uh… Huh? Well…

J: My friend Adam said so. He’s a vegetarian.

Me: A vegetarian?

J: Yeah. He says you should pour flour over them so you can see them better. He’s a vegetarian.

Me: Flour?

J: Yeah. But, ghosts aren’t real. Right?

Me: Um. No.


I’m not sure who’s going to need psychotherapy more: Me or Julianna. Or, Adam.

[Editor’s note… To my vegetarian friends: Personally, I am making absolutely no judgement here. Huzzah to you for your commitment. But, these are the (almost) verbatim quotes from an 8-year-old. Julianna may very well end up being a vegetarian herself. I really don’t care, as long as she gets enough protein (and not too much roughage). But, seriously… How do you pour flour over a ghost?]

iPhone 7

If you’ve been following my saga, I bought a brand new iPhone 7 to replace my dead iPhone 5. They tell me it is great. “They” being my 10-year-old Isabella. Who can’t wait for the slow-motion camera. And, “Daddy, you know it is water resistant.”
Me: You are not getting in the pool with it.
Iz: Of course not. Just in case you spill your soda on it.
Me: I’m not spilling my soda. You cannot take my phone into the pool
Iz: But, slow-motion.
Me: No.
Iz: Awww.


So, Isabella (she’s 10) is taking July off from gymnastics to heal up her knees, but the coach wants her to keep conditioning. Today’s task is to do 300 crunches. She demonstrates. I stop her after about five.

Me: Honey, those are not crunches.

Iz: Yes they are.

Me: No, that’s like me trying to get out of bed. And it takes me a good while.

Iz: Then, why are you so fat?

Me: Like, I said. Not exercise. Because, if it were, I’d have double six packs, instead of a keg.

I’ve Reached a Plateau

After another astonishingly lengthy bedtime struggle (because it is summer and there’s freedom, and one is now a full-grown teen).  But, there’s still bedtime.  I’m your father:  Go to bed.

Isabella (She’s 10.  Teeth brushed.  Dentist on Thursday.  So, we’ll see if her story holds true):  Daddy, come snuggle with me.

I straighten her sheets and adjust the mattress.  She climbs in.

Julianna (the 13-year-old, in a bed in the same room):  Why do you always fix her mattress?  Why don’t I have as many covers?  Why do the dogs always want to sleep with her?

Me: I’d fix your disaster of a bed, if you’d let me.

Iz:  Because, they don’t like you.  You’re too rough.

J: Yeah, but that’s because they sleep in your bed.  With all the covers!

Blah, blah.  The fight continues.

At this point…

Me:  Ok, girls. Cut it out!  Stop! Goodnight.  I will probably love you more tomorrow.

Semi-closing the door.

Iz:  Probably?

J: Yeah…  What do you mean?

Me:  Because, right now, I’ve reached a plateau.  With the yelling and the fighting.  We’ll see about tomorrow…  Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

5 minutes later, I hear slight snores from both beds.  So, yeah, an uptick in the love.

That’s what tomorrow brings.

The Length of Time

As difficult as it is to get the children into the shower, it is almost impossible to get them out when we are on a deadline.

Me (banging on the bathroom door):  Honey, you’ve been in there for 45 minutes.  Give someone else a chance!  Tick-tock, Sweetie.

Julianna (she’s 12):  Dad!   You know I don’t know how long time takes to happen!

Time keeps on ticking into the future.

Pirate Booty

Since some (or one) of you have asked, here’s a rough draft from a year ago.  This is why we can’t have nice things.:


For this post I will need a life-line.  A life-vest.  And, probably the Coast Guard.

Mommy is heading off to a Bingo game at a local Catholic church school. I am driving Isabella to gymnastics (she’s 9, by the way).

The pre-practice snack: Pirate Booty.

Iz:  Daddy, I’ve finished the Pirate Booty.  What is Booty anyway?

Me:  Well, popcorn, cheese and salt.

Iz:  No, I mean “Booty.”  What does that even mean?

[You see how innocently things start.]

Me:  It was a term that Pirates used to mean “treasure.”

Iz:  Oh, Booty is a Prize?  So is Mommy trying to get some Booty tonight at Bingo?

Me:  Um…. No, I hope not, but Yes..   I hope so.

[You see me now, squirming.  Asking for a life-line.]

Iz:  I’m confused.

Me (under my breath): That’s the idea.

Iz:  What is booty?

Me:  Well, in Pirate days, booty was gold and silver.  Stuff they stole.

Iz:  But…  What about  Butts.  What’s that about.  Butt.  But.  ‘bout.   Hahaha.

[Reminder, we’re in a car. Driving.  Highway speeds.]

Me:   Nowadays, Booty means Butt.  I don’t know how that happened, but Booty means Butt.

Iz:  So, you are a butt?

Me:  Yes.  I guess.  Are we good?

Iz:  No, wait.

[I’m needing that life-vest about now…]

Iz:  Why would someone want your booty?

Me:  Trust me, no one wants my booty.

Iz:   Obviously.

Me: [snap] (Good one)

Iz: But you wanted Mommy’s, right?  Her booty.

Kill me now.

No Treble

As is typical, on the drive in to school, the radio is an issue.  Julianna (she’s 12) is riding the presets.

Sweet Home Ala … flip … Donald Tr … flip … Welcome to the Ho … flip … Baby, We were Born to R… flip ..  Welcome to the Ju…  flip … Dun-dun-dun Duuu… flip.

Me: Honey, stop.  There was at least one good song that you skipped.  Maybe two.

The dial ends up on:

Carly Rae Jepsen:  Hey I just met you / And this is crazy / But here’s my number / So call me maybe

Julianna:  Wow, this was a big song YEARS ago, when I was in like the fourth grade.

Me: Yeah, I suppose so.  Years ago.  A lifetime ago.

J: So, Daddy, is this an Oldie?

Me: Like the Drifters or the Platters or the Buddy Holly?  Ummm.  No.

J:  No, Like “All About that Bass.”

Me: Well, then I guess, to you, it’s an Oldie.

J:  Cool.  I’m old enough to have Oldies.

Isabella (she’s 10) whispers to J:  But, Daddy has more.  Because he’s OLD!

Me: You know I can hear you.


Holy Zeus in a Backpack

Last night’s argument: Bedtime!

Julianna (she’s 12): Dad! Stop!

Me: It’s 9:30. Brush your teeth.

J: Every 5 minutes you yell! Hrrrrrgh!

Me: Yes, until you are in bed. Then, you are not my problem.

J: Then, whose problem will I be?

Me: I don’t care, Honey. Zeus.  Come on.  Let’s go.

J: I learned about him in school. Wait, it’s in my notebook. Hang on…

Me: Jesus!

J: Well, which one, Daddy? They’re both in my notebook.

Me: Crap!

J: Which one is he?