The End is Nigh…?

I’ve been churning out the Daddy/Daughter Fun Time posts for six or seven years now. But, truth be told, there’s a limit to the hilarity that can be had. Because, real life is not nearly as funny as I make it sound. Parenting is really, truly hard work. There’s yelling, crying, screaming, yelling, hugging, crying, worrying, diapers, mocking, joking, yelling. Police are sometimes dispatched.

But, really, my 11-year-old deserves her private space. The 8-year-old doesn’t need her every gymnastics run analyzed. Because, she is a kid.

And, of course, my ever-loving wife never asked to be a part of this blog which I foisted upon her, and that is my fault. I am so, so sorry.

So, I don’t know if I’ll make it to my goal of 500 posts. (so close…) Because, everything gets repetitive. Shoes. No! Cereal. No! Pants. No! Backpack… wait, where’s my notebook? Car. No! Wait.. Oh, There it is! Let’s go. Backpack! I want Cheerios. No, Honey Nut Cheerios. If I can’t have Honey Nut Cheerios, then I’ll never go to school again! Aaaaahh!

Darth Vader: Get your ass in the car.

Also: Daddy, you need to sign this form. To donate a kidney. (While merging onto the highway.)


It all makes for hahaha Posts. But, for those of you beginning the journey, it is a cautionary tale. For those on the other side, breathe at last. But, my journey is coming to a close.

Meanwhile, I have to figure out what Nightcore is and why they sound like Chipmunks.

Julianna (the 11-year-old): Daaaad! They’re not chipmunks. You ruin everything!


Editor’s note: Ok, I’ve done some research. It’s what the kids are listening to. Nightcore is a form of dance music, where the “composers” (ahem) take pre-existing recorded songs, speed them up, and take all the credit. Oh, and they add a drum-machine. (I’m sure they compensate the original musicians. Or, not).

Anyway, the result is a high-speed, chipmunk-sounding song. (Daaad! They’re not chipmunks!) Alvin and Theodore and Simon be damned.

Also, most nightcore videos are accompanied by Japanese anime characters. One Urban Dictionary post describes it thusly: “A collection of remixed top 40 pop songs fawned over by 11 year-old females that discovered the internet, anime, and music the night before.”

Apparently, this person lives in my house.

When I tried this in school 25 years ago, I was reprimanded. Tone Loc did not nightcore well. Ahead of my time, I guess.

So far, my daughters have favored vanilla pop music nightcores like Disney-safe Britt Nicole and Emily Osment. Even nightcored, there’s little to complain about. Other than, you know, the actual music.

Has anyone nightcored the Sex Pistols? Oh, look. There goes my Saturday afternoon.

Church rally Tuesday at 7:00. Stop This Scourge!

Latitude and Crap

Last week, Isabella was recovering from both a sprained foot (gymnastics!) and a nasty cold. Crutches and Kleenex. X-rays negative. Fun times at the old homestead. No not really.

On the TV was a Republican debate… We ignore it.

Homework requires that she catch up as best she can. In class, they are talking about Latitude and Longitude. Coordinates. Something I understand!

We draw a circle, then some curvy lines.

Iz (she’s 8): It looks like a pumpkin!

A basketball.  With, you know, Billions of people involved.  Go Blue!

A basketball. With, you know, Billions of people involved. Go Blue!

Iz: Wow, is that the earth?

Me: Well, sort of. It’s not complete.

Iz: So the people in Africa are below us?

Holy Crap!! Actual discussion. Up/down… North/South. East/West. Not better/worse. I didn’t think this was going to be an issue.

Me: Well, Sweetie, no one is above or below any other people. No one is better than anyone else. Native Americans. Chinese. Mexicans. Syrians. Everyone is equal.

Iz: But, African people were slaves to white people.

This is an actual conversation. She’s 8. And, I dig deep.

Me: Yes. Some people thought that people from Africa were not as good as white people. Even in America.

Iz: Is it true?

Holy crap. Parenting in the moment. You may disagree, that’s your right.

Me: No Honey. Absolutely not. We believe that all people are born equal. No one is better than anyone else. Some babies may have rich parents, some may have poor ones. Some people have blonde hair, others have brown. It doesn’t matter. Every baby is as good as any other. Boy or Girl. It truly doesn’t matter.

Iz: Yeah, but. Why are there 9 boys and only one girl on the TV at the debate?

Again, I have no answer.

Iz: And, only one is a black man.


And, this Bird You Cannot Change

You can take the boy out of the South, but, … you know, The South can’t take the boy…

So, on the way to pick up the girls from school, the FM radio offers up…

“If I leave here tomorrow…
Would you still remember me?”

My hand instinctively reaches for the Volume knob. And turns it… Up.

“For I must be travelin’ on now
There’s too many places I got to see”

Rocking happens next. In a Prius. At 70 MPH.

Picking up Julianna (she’s 11): (Guitar Solo plays): Daddy, I am changing his radio station…

Me: If you do, I will BREAK your fingers… There are other


[Editor’s note. Sometimes, your resident Wordsmith intends to click the the Save Draft button, but instead, hits the Publish button. And, you can’t un-ring a bell. That’s what happened here. That’s why you saw this half-written, unproofed post.

And, at this point, I have no idea what “There are other…” alludes to. I’d love to know. I’m sure it was hilarious. Also, no one ended up with broken fingers.]