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.