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):  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.

2 thoughts on “The Last Word

  1. Aw…. i’m going to miss you and your girls antics! But I also get it and realize they are growing up and have to be free to do their own thing. it’s been great! See you on Facebook:-)

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