Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy, I want to hug you again.

Me: But, you haven’t hugged me yet.

Iz: I know. Before I hug you Again, I have to hug you first. So, can I?

Me: Of course, Sweetie.

She hugs.

Me: Honey, you can hug me anytime.

Iz: Ok, can I hug you again?

Me: Absolutely!

She hugs. Again.

Me: Do you want to hug me again. Again?

Iz: Um… No, I’m good.


This is my 450th post here at the Fun Time, spanning more than 5 years of Daddy/Daughter hijinks. I’m in a retrospective mood.

I don’t know why I keep this blog, because the traffic here is infinitesimal. I know I have a few subscribers, but still. I get so anxious when I haven’t updated the blog every few days. I don’t want to disappoint the two search engines that are scouring for “Hot Tub Daughters.”

What is wrong with me?

In the end, I guess this is the closest thing I have to a journal that I can leave to my kids. I mean, I would love to have known what my father thought as he was raising my brother and me. Now, my daughters can hear in my own words:

Kids are a pain in the ass. (I chide of course.)

I have never bought into that whole Children Are Miracles movement that doesn’t find any fault in kids. They are still wonderful, but just not in a storybook kind of way.

I see in my own daughters the beauty on the outside and the evil under the surface. And, I also see the same in myself. (Though, less beauty. More frustration. Higher blood pressure. More wrinkles.)

And, I guess that’s what this blog is about.

Because, the difficulty in raising my daughters is more than made-up for when an 8-year-old snuggles closer at bedtime because she wants her Daddy. “I love you Daddy.” “I love you, too.” “You’re a great Daddy.” “Thank you.”

“But, in the morning, please, put away your shoes.”

Mall Cut

Picking up the girls from school today, I thought I’d surprise them with my new haircut. They ran to the car in the pick-up line:

Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy! Daddy! You got a haircut!

Me: No, Honey. I got ’em ALL cut!

Julianna (10): Daddy… So, you went to the mall?

Me: What? No. I got ’em all cut.

J (matter of factly): At the mall…?

Iz: No. He means he got them ALL cut.

J: Oh! I get it! A joke! Where did they do it?

Me (sheepishly): At the mall.

J: I KNEW it!

Yoga Pants

Last week in the War on Women: Yoga Pants

And, this is not a joke.

It seems there’s a Montana state Representative who wants to expand the definition of “indecent exposure” to include any “device, costume, or covering” that is too form-fitting. This includes yoga pants.

Actual quote: “Yoga pants should be illegal in public anyway,” said the idiot. Sorry, said Rep. David Moore.

Rep. David Moore:  Yoga Pants!  But it is 1958!  Harlots!

Rep. David Moore: Yoga Pants! But it is 1958! Harlots!

A friend of mine asked: Then, what are Moms supposed to wear?

Good question, indeed.

Under the proposed bill, a third-time offense could cost a violator $5,000 and five years in jail. For wearing yoga pants. Again, this is absolutely real.

Fortunately, the Montana House of Representatives scuttled this plan. Because it is sexist. But mostly, because it is just plain stupid.

Ladies, if I should ever run for the office of State Representative in Montana (or any other state), I assure you that I am most definitely Pro-Yoga Pants. I’m a huge fan.

[Note: As we went to press, Rep. Moore declared it was all just a joke! His pandering to a select constituency was met with more ridicule than it was worth.

So… Hahaha! He was only kidding. And, all those wasted taxpayer dollars. Plus, the government overreach stuff…. Ha.]

[Another Note. This blog runs on WordPress through (yes, I’m cheap and possibly immoral). But, I can’t for the life of me get my links to work when I post them. Little help.]

Hand on Hip

I need some help here…

Lynn and the girls (and I) attended a screening of “Paddington.” By the way, it’s a wonderful movie. Give it a chance. It is much better than you would normally think of a cloying “kids” movie. You (grown-ups) will actually enjoy it.

But, here’s my dilemma…

Gwen Stefani.

The Singer, the Voice judge, the Celebrity, and the Songwriter (with Pharell!) was on hand for a meet and greet.

Before the screening, she did her PR person proud by taking pictures with music people like me. Also, my more-deserving and wonderful wife and kids.

Here’s the thing: Gwen was sporting 4-inch heels. My wife is four inches taller than me. For the picture, Lynn put her arm around Gwen’s back. I was “forced” to put my hand on Gwen’s hip.

Now, I don’t know rock-star etiquette. But, I put my hand on Gwen Stefani’s hip. Not in an ass-grabby kind of way. Just, hippy. It was an awkward 3 seconds.

After the picture was taken, she kinda looked at me like “you know your wife is right there.”

Tell me, was I wrong? Also, I put my hand on Gwen Stefani’s hip!

Cracking Jokes

Long-time readers know that many of Daddy/Daughter Fun Time posts center around bedtime. This is mostly because I can better remember things when the girls aren’t around. Then the martini sets in… So, before that happens:

Julianna (she’s 10): Watch me crack my fingers.

(crack crack crack)

Isabella (she’s 8): Here are my toes.

(crack crack crack)

Me: And here’s my butt!


J: I don’t get it.

Iz (her eyes light up!): Because his butt has a crack.

J: Oh! Hahahahahahaha!

Iz: Hahahahahaha!

And, yet, Child Protective Services is nowhere to be seen.

Other Butt

Minutes ago…

While snuggling up at bedtime.

Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy you have another butt.

Me: I’ll play… How many do I have?

Iz: Well, you have your Butt butt.

Me: Yeah.

Iz: Then, you have your face butt.

Me: Yeah, Honey. Two cheeks, So funny.

Iz: And, you also have a neck butt! Hahaha! It’s so fat! Hahaha!

Me (after the laughter): So, now… my neck is a butt? Because I wasn’t already feeling bad enough about myself.

Iz: Hahahaha!

Super Bowl Sunday Can’t Stop the Beat

I never thought that Super Bowl Sunday would be a day to discuss race relations with my 10-year-old daughter. And, I’m not even talking about the “Redskins.”

The E! Network is airing “Hairspray.” A movie based on a theater production based on a movie set in my adopted hometown of Baltimore. (Note to film-makers: Canada ain’t Baltimore, but I digress.)

Julianna (my lovely 10-year-old daughter): What is this about?

Music: You can’t stop the beat…

Me: Well, you know about Martin Luther King, right? This is a movie about that time.

J: So this is from Civil Rights?

Me: Well, no… This movie is more recent. But it is about that time.

J: When black people were bad?

Me: Honey, Black people were never bad. Crap, where do I begin…

J: Ha! That’s a man pretending to be a woman!

Me: Travolta. Ok, lots going on here. Black people and white people. Fat people and thin people. Gay people. (Disclaimer: I worked for Hairspray composer Marc Shaiman, a notable gay person. Further Disclaimer: I used to work for E! You can’t spell CHEAP without an E!)

J: So, it doesn’t matter what your color is. Because, my best friend in 1st grade (I don’t remember her name) was black. I really liked her.

Me: Exactly.

J: Remind me, what’s Gay?

8:30 on Super Bowl Sunday morning.