If you follow this checklist, you should have a really cute sleepover.

There is a time and a place for everything.

On any given day, when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are spoken out of context by an 8 year old child, it would most likely warrant a bit of disciplinary action on the part of the parent.

But when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are used to communicate some of the finer points of the English language and all of its intricacies…

You have an extremely powerful teaching tool.

I did not learn the English language as taught by Mrs. Fox in the 3rd grade.

I learned it from Mad Libs.

Home schooling’s got nothin’ on me.

And for the record…

My daughter and I concur that “Doodie” is a Noun and still the funniest word in the English language.

I’m not so sure Mrs. Fox would agree.

Shameless plug:

Buy my Children’s Book, “Do Witches Make Fishes?” by clicking on the over-sized cover art below. All profits from the sale of the book go to charity, so buy often.

Much love abounds.  ON SALE NOW!!!

I don’t see them a whole lot during the week.

In the mornings for an hour.

Maybe less.

It’s hard to be a Dad when you’re always on the clock.

Always running here and there.

Never standing still.

I try to get home from work before my kids go to bed.

I tuck them in and we have conversations in the dark…

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Right?  Anyone?  Bueller?  crickets…

The oddest thing about my self discovery has been analyzing the place that I appear to be dwelling in now. It seems as if I’m stuck in a purgatory of growth. Like I’m going through some sort of metamorphosis of some kind.

I liken my current state of being to that of Jeff Goldblum in the movie, “The Fly”.

In “The Fly”, Mr. Goldblum is struggling with the notion that he might be shedding his human exterior in favor of a hideous vermin. The transformation happens slowly and dramatically. At first he is disturbed and concerned. Then he becomes fascinated and even intrigued by the sheer science of it all. Finally he realizes that he is leaving his true self behind and he mourns his own passing until his last waking moments.

I feel a tremendous amount of identification with Brundlefly.

This morning after I sat down to pee, I stepped into the shower. As I put down the Dove body wash and reached for my Loofah Brush, I found myself thinking about all of the things that are different about me these days. None of them seem very extreme but rather subtle. In fact, I find that I can’t really even put my finger on most of them.

This often confuses me.

When you’re a man living with three ladies, it’s important to maintain a strong sense of self awareness.

Young girls must recognize positive character traits in their fathers; for it is the first and definitely the most influential male role model in their lives.

You know the old saying: “Women pick their husbands like dear old dad.”

In other words…

I can’t be a dickweed.

So when I’m not busy baking various types of light, puffy, flaky pastries or simply dusting around the house, I try to spend quality time with my daughters.

For instance, we love to watch the Food Network together. Programs like Giada or The Barefoot Contessa can be fun and interactive.

I also try to teach them the importance of exercise, so that they may achieve a sound mind and a healthy body. They witness me doing my daily fitness routines that include light stretching, Jazzercise, speed walking and pilates.

I teach them to eat healthy foods like rice cakes topped with Nutella and plain Greek yogurt, loaded with live cultures.

I always feel inspired when exposing them to the arts. We watch some of my favorite films; Beaches, Dirty Dancing, The Joy Luck Club, Bridget Jones’s Diary and Fried Green Tomatoes.

Having this sort of relationship with my girls brings me great joy. I love being able to expose them to a male point of view. Even though I’m much different now that I am married with daughters, I’m quite sure that my positive male presence will contribute to the ever developing fabric of their character.

It doesn’t bother me that we don’t watch a lot of professional wrestling or that they don’t read my comic books. It’s not about that for me.

There’s only one thing that matters.

When I stare at my reflection in my vanity at night, as I’m about to tweeze my eyebrows, I want to know that I can look at myself in the eyes and say, “Hey, you don’t need to bleach your mustache to show your girls how beautiful you are. All you need to do is be yourself.”

If I can say that honestly, then I deserve to make myself a nice cup of hot peppermint tea and curl up under my flannel sheets with a good Danielle Steele novel.

And maybe even treat myself to a facial and a Brazilian…

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God’s country.

We stayed with our best friends and their parents.

They have a time share at a very high end Resort and couldn’t have been more gracious hosts.
Aside from running around and taking in some of the most breathtaking landscapes this great country has to offer, we were also able to kick back and enjoy the pool at the hotel.

Again, this is a pretty fancy joint.

As a parent, I’m keenly attuned to my children’s behavior when we’re around other people; Especially other people at a fancy hotel, sitting poolside, eating grilled jumbo prawn and avocado salad, sipping Arnold Palmers and thinking about how birth control, might be the most ingenious invention since Ron Popeil spray-on hair.

I do my part.

With that being said, I wholly expect other parents to do their part.

What happens if they don’t uphold the unwritten law?

WE ALL LOOK LIKE INCOMPETENT ASSHOLES!!!

Nothing pisses me off more, than when someone else’s child, performs an act so insolent, so uncouth and so discourteous, that it completely destroys the countless hours of steadfast, hard work that I have put in, to try and establish good will between myself and the pool goers that are sans kids.

*breath*

In other words…

Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.

That’s right. You heard me.

Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.

I don’t think this is too tall an order.

Just put a damn diaper on his or her ass.

If your kid shits in the pool, I’m guessing it’s probably not the first time this has happened to you.

My family is trying to swim over here. We’re messing around in the water. I’m playing shark dad. I’m throwing those stupid diving toys all over the place, so my kids can retrieve them like Golden Retrievers. They’re batting around a beach ball. We’re enjoying some good old fashioned Marco Polo.

Marco.

Polo.

Marco.

Polo.

I hate that game.

Now I have to step in a pile of wet shit laying at the bottom of the pool? And because we noticed it, everyone is gonna think it was my kid?

Now, it’s like a game of CLUE and I’m Colonel fucking Mustard, walking around, trying to figure out whodunit, with kid pellets lodged between my toes.

Come on dude. It was hilarious in Caddy Shack but not here.

Get your shit together.

Actually, it was pretty damn funny…

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I think I’ll name the one with the funny webbed feet, “Webster”, the big brown one, “Neptune”, the little brown one, “Olivia Newton John” and the big green one with the spots, “Poseidon”.

What’s in a name?

A person’s name can be a very telling.

A name can say volumes about a person’s character. A name doesn’t always seem to “fit” the person it is attached to. Sometimes you have to grow into a name. Sometimes the name has to grow into you. There are times that a name doesn’t live up to the person. Other times, the person doesn’t live up to the name.

Most of the time it’s a crapshoot.

Unless you’re a Greek God or a Prince, it’s hard to persuade the masses to accept a name that doesn’t fit.

Look at Fonzie. His birth name was Arthur. He ran away from his name and probably struggled his whole life. Eventually, he was able to escape the stigma that was needlessly, saddled upon his leather draped back.

Look at Hercules. His parents were obviously very intuitive. They sensed a strength in their young boy and bestowed upon him a name that became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

How about Alice Cooper? This one doesn’t make much sense at all. In fact, you would think that Mr. Cooper would do whatever was humanly possible to steer clear of his association with this name. Alice is traditionally a girl’s name. It’s a name given to a protagonist in a fairy tale or a sensitive but tenacious, single mom waitress that tirelessly, works twelve hour shifts in a Truck Stop Diner, in order to support her young son. But oddly enough, it fits Mr. Cooper. The name grew into his persona. His persona grew into the name.

Absolutely fascinating.

These theories and musings, only seem to apply to names and people that border on or go to the extreme.

For instance, if your name is Bill, Anthony, Jane, Louis, Lois, Jeff, Phil, Mary, Steve, Thomas, Cheryl, Dawn, Craig, Tim, Linda, Mike, Dave, Jennifer, Scott, Rory or Pat, no one gives a fuck.

In the fore mentioned examples, it’s easy to carry a name. These types of names are simple and quaint and often play second fiddle to the person that inherits them. Most of the time, the name is inconsequential.

The point is, when naming someone or something, it is imperative to consider the circumstances at hand and the long term consequences of these sometimes hasty decisions. You might be making some one’s life way more difficult than it needs to be.

Therein lies the rub.

This past weekend, I bought my oldest daughter her first pet.

Its species comes from a genus of lizards called the Pogona.

It is more commonly known as The Bearded Dragon.

It is generally a docile creature but its features are unmistakeably reptilian.

When they mature, they can grow up to two feet in length and appear quite menacing.

A creature of this heritage certainly is deserving of a name suitable of its stature.

My daughter has chosen its moniker.

Allow me to introduce to you…

COOKIE MONSTER: AKA “CUTIE”

Sorry pal. Welcome to my world…

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Things like going to work, taking the kids from place to place, shopping, cooking, cleaning, car repairs, mowing the lawn, paying the bills and whatever else comes up on a daily basis.

It can be terribly stressful and overwhelming.
So much so, that we forget to take a moment to breathe and appreciate some of the little things that I like to call, “life’s little treasures”.

Things like bending down to pluck a dandelion without throwing your back out or getting through a meal without your little one needing to take a dump or having morning sex on a Saturday without having to lock the door.

There are so many countless treasures that we ignore.

What does this mean in the big scheme of things?

Should we try and let go of all that other stuff?

Is it in our best interest to re-prioritize our lives?

Why is it that way back when we were kids, the only thing that mattered was riding our bikes until the sun went down? Everything was about having fun.

Kids know how to live in the moment.

Living in the moment might be the secret to a happy and joyous life.

Because there’s nothing you can do about the past and we certainly have no control over what happens in the future.

We as adults need to start being more spontaneous for our kids. We need to show them that the fun doesn’t stop when the training wheels come off.

Dandelions and morning sex…

This past week, my family and I spent some time away in Lake Tahoe together. It’s almost impossible to deny the sheer beauty that surrounds you. Quite frankly, it’s awe inspiring.

God’s country.

One morning, my wife and I were eating breakfast outside and our girls were frolicking a few yards away on a grassy hill.

It was a perfect day.

Bright sun, clear skies and Blue Jays singing their morning love songs.

Time and time again, my girls would run to the top of that hill, only to roll all the way back down to the bottom.

There was so much laughter.

They didn’t need any Blackberries. No Ipods. No Nintendo DS necessary.

Just a grassy hill and the moment.

My oldest daughter ran up to me out of breath and invited me to come rolling down the hill.

I said no.

She came back a second time and pleaded with me to join her but just once.

I said that I really shouldn’t.

She wouldn’t let up. She was euphoric about her moment and she wanted me to be in it with her.

I told her that I needed to digest my food and then maybe I would give it a try.

I thought she might forget.

But no…

She came back one more time and begged me to partake.

So I took one last bite of my butt steak and sunny side up eggs and swigged one last sip of my black coffee.

She took my hand and led me to the hill.

And we ran together, breakfast and all.

We had our moment…

After having this one precious, spontaneous moment, I started to sweat. I had a terrible allergy attack, my arms and legs were marked with cuts and scrapes and I couldn’t breathe. My brain felt like a lost ship on a stormy sea. I sat dry heaving at the bottom of that hill for almost five minutes, until I had a panic attack.

I learned that there is a reason why we now choose to watch our kids live in the moment, as opposed to us living in it ourselves.

It is because we are old and vulnerable.

We can actually have a stroke from rolling down that hill or possibly even die.

From now on, I’ll just sit here with my Blackberry, eating my butt steak and eggs at the top of the hill and watch…

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No more fighting about which pretty dress to wear.

No more arguing about which comes first, Sponge Bob or brushing your teeth.

No more pleading for last minute trips to the potty.

No more missing the train.

No more wrestling with car seats.

No more Jonas Brothers > Howard Stern.

No more ponytails.

No more sunscreen application.

No more wiping boogers on the back of my leather seats.

No more “I HATE YOU!” or “YOU’RE SO MEAN!” before 7am.

Today I take my freedom back.

I proclaim it like George Michael.

I will wear it proudly, like Rupaul would don a tube top and a pair of pink hot pants.

I will stake my flag of manhood in the ground like a suburban Iwo Jima.

Today the kids go to Camp.

Ahhhh sweet camp, how I love thee.

Camp… Home of lice infested follicles, wort riddled little fingers and toes and bathing suits soaked with urine. You have rescued me. You have plucked my soul from the dark and hopeless vortex of parenthood and fireman’s carried it back to this fleshy vessel of self that it once inhabited.

Camp, you complete me.

You had me at “$4,000? what are you fucking nuts?”

How could I have measured the importance of your arrival. What a gross miscalculation I have made. I apologize for balking at the cost of your services. I am ashamed but grateful. I feel humbled to kneel at your feet.

You are the Messiah of summer.

The little yellow bus makes it’s rounds like the angel of death, claiming all of the neighborhood’s first born children.

It shuttles them to a summer wonderland, filled with dirt and tether ball courts. They run free without leashes, like a giant dog park for kids.

They eat $4,000 cheese sandwiches and Italian Ices.

They sing songs that make no sense. They learn how to make houses out of Popsicle sticks.

They see other kid’s wieners, big and small.

Camp builds character.

Camp saves lives. Our lives.

Camp gives parents their freedom back.

48 days of dignity.

Camp RULES! Kids DROOL!

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That is why this blog is called Out-Numbered.

Get it?

I want to make something perfectly clear to all of the people, past, present or future that will inevitably ask my wife and I if we’re going to try for a boy.

NO FUCKING WAY!

We are 100%, completely and utterly content with what we have. We consider ourselves blessed to have had two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope.

We also can’t imagine having another child.

These two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope are also a colossal pain in the rump roast. We’d have to be out of our collective tree to even consider another child.

Let alone a boy.

When our first daughter was born, I hadn’t even considered the fact that we might be having a girl. I didn’t think it was possible. I’m not sure why my brain worked that way.

I remember the day she was born, one of my friends said to me…

“Dude, when you have a boy, you only have to worry about one dick. When you have a girl, you have to worry about 100 dicks.”

I remember pausing for a moment to contemplate this wisdom that had been put forth before me. I pictured 100 teenage boners lined up outside of my daughter’s window. I imagined smashing each one of those boners with an aluminum baseball bat. Kind of like that game “Wack A Mole” but with boners.

This is how men think before they have girls.

When my daughter was still less than a year old, my Grandmother said something to me as I held my daughter. I’ll always remember what she told me, for it is her words that completely sum up the simple but divine truth about having a daughter.

“There is nothing quite as wonderful, as the smile a little girl smiles, for her Daddy.”

These are the words that best describe the gifts that I get daily from my daughters.

I have often searched for a way to explain how these smiles make me feel inside. Lately, I have been experiencing a certain physical sensation that sums it up completely.

Have you ever felt yourself starting to cry but just as your eyes well up, that feeling is met with the perfect synchronicity of inexplicable joy?

I suppose this is called, “Tears of Joy” and my tears of joy could fill a well right about now.

I don’t worry about the boners anymore. There’s nothing I can do about them. But my daughters bring out the best in me.

They make me want to be a better man; Every day, every week, every year, for the rest of my life.

They say that a girl always marries a guy just like her Dad.

If this is true, then I have a lifetime of work to do.

I can’t control the boners but I can hopefully influence which ones they choose to hold on to.
Fuck. That totally wasn’t what I was trying to say…

Just to be clear, I am not claiming that having a daughter is better than having a son. I have no way of knowing what it’s like to have a son but I know I am a son and I can’t be half as awesome as my daughters have been. They also say that you should have a daughter first. This way you know that she will take care of you when you are old, drooling and your wrinkled ass is hanging out of you nursing home gown. Supposedly the sons just take off and go wherever the pussy goes. Who knows? This is what I have heard.

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My wife and I have an ongoing debate about who our oldest daughter takes after.

Physically it’s a no brainer.

My wife is stunningly beautiful; or as my 3 year old would say, “stumming”. She has long dark hair, eyes as dark as a moonless sky and she carries herself with the poise of a runway model.

She wins that one.

Temperament however, is the real point of contention.

My daughter is short in patience. She gets frustrated very easily and she likes to yell.

A lot.

The two of them fight constantly about everything under the sun. They fight about clothing. They spar about food. They bicker about homework. They even argue about arguing.

They seem to feed off of each other.

Sometimes I think they should open a button pushing business.

I’ve heard this is pretty normal with mothers and daughters. I hear about it all the time from friends that witness the same occurrence. I’ve watched a lot of hockey over the years and as a result, I’ve learned to get out of the way. It’s easy to see that when you try and break up a scuffle, it’s more than likely, you’re going to get punched in the face.

Occupational hazard I suppose.

Even though the fighting makes it a bit tense from time to time, we have a pretty good rhythm in the house and it’s clear that we all adore one another. Most of the time.

When it comes to the similarities between my daughter and myself, it becomes a bit more complicated in some areas.

There are a few things that are painstakingly obvious.

We both love to be the center of attention. No spotlight is too bright. No stage too big.

We are both silly. We love to goof around. We love to ham it up.

We both have a very short attention span. We’re pretty smart but we have trouble sticking with one thing for too long. We use boredom as an excuse but it’s deeper than that.

Neither of us know how to listen. We love to talk but we hate to listen. We’re really good at making you think we’re listening but we’re really just thinking about talking.

We are both control freaks. We are truly convinced that no one can do anything as well as we can. We qualify this as leadership.

As a parent, there is the selfish part of me that wants my kid to grow up to be just like her Dad.

Then there is the part of me that is terrified of my baby girl inheriting all of my shit.

The way I see it, most of it is poison.

Over the years, I have come to discover that I am broken. Broken to the point of which I thought I could not be fixed. The kind of broken that you can only see from the inside. All of the spotlights, all of the silliness, all the goofing around and all of the leadership…

All just decoys.

Impostors, masquerading as something else to hide the brokenness underneath it all.

So to see myself, any part of myself, festering in my little baby, makes me weary.

I’ve wrestled with my demons. I’ve done my best to protect the ones I love from them.

I’ve been sick but I didn’t think I was contagious.

My traits are not the cause of my pain. They are only a symptom.

I am not a Doctor. My daughter is not my patient and this is far from a diagnosis.

Most parents can lovingly stare into their child’s eyes and take pride in seeing a bit of themselves staring back at them.

I just get scared.

I’ve been doing a shitload of demon slaying as of late and for now I seem to be winning the battle.

As soon as I build the mote to protect my own castle, I’ll turn my attention to protecting the princess from the demons that inevitably will try to scale those castle walls…

I hope she takes after her mother…

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I love my kids more than a 58 year old, white male, with a micro sized wiener loves his new Corvette.

I love my kids more than a dog loves the smell of his own shit.

I love my kids more than Joanie loved Chachi.

But God dammit, I hate that fucking Father’s Day boutique.

Does anyone know what I’m talking about?

Anyone?

The Father’s Day boutique is basically a shitty little indoor garage sale that takes place in elementary schools all over the world. OK, maybe just on Long Island. I can’t say for sure. Anyway, they had it when I was a kid and they have it now.

What happens is right before Father’s Day, the school sets up a bunch of tables and garnishes them with what seems to be a bunch of items that were made in China but not good enough to make it to the 99 cents store.

The worst part of this horrible tradition is that my kid comes to me with pretty much the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen and says…

Daughter – “Daaaaaadddddy. You know what today is?”

Out-Numbered – “No”

Daughter – “Today is the Faaaaattthhheeerrrrssss Day Boutique.”

FUCK ME.

Out-Numbered – “Oh. Awesome.”

Daughter – “Yes. Mommy gave me $10.”

$10? That’s all I’m worth? What the fuck?

Out-Numbered – “Is that enough?”
Daughter – “I think so. It’s for you and Pop Pop.”

$10 for Me AND Pop Pop? Screw Pop Pop. That’s bullshit.
Out-Numbered – “Are you sure you don’t need anymore money?”

Daughter – “No I’m good.”

Yeah. You’re good. You’re not the one that has to wear a cheap ass, wool tie in the middle of the fucking summer. You’re not the one that needs to walk down 6th Ave with a paper towel, constantly wiping your neck sweat on the way to work.

Out-Numbered – “OK great!”

And off she goes…

Now these gifts are cyclical and they all suck. You start to realize this when they begin repeating themselves. In the past, I have been given…

A #1 Dad Coffee Mug

A #1 Dad Key Chain

A Velcro Mets Wallet

A #1 Dad Money Clip

A #1 Dad Glow In The Dark Pencil

A Wool Tie

A #1 Dad Key Chain. Again.

I even think I got an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe one year.

What sick bastard in China makes an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe.

It’s just wrong.

So I wait. I wait for next Sunday to come and if my calculations are correct, the spinning wheel of Father’s Day Boutique Death, will give forth unto me…

Yet another #1 Dad Coffee Mug.

Hallelujah!

Oh and you can bet that my sweet wife will be mocking me the entire time. Snickering with jubilant glee.

Go ahead my love. Laugh all you want.

But remember.

Pay back’s a bitch.

Eleven months from now I will scornfully place a $10 bill in our precious little daughter’s hand and tell her to bring you home a beautiful plastic rose.

Or perhaps a sparkling, faux gold necklace with an even more faux green gem, set perfectly off center.

Or maybe, just maybe I will encourage her to pick out the shiniest of all snow globes. And this snow globe will profess…

I LOVE MOM.

And nothing says Happy Mother’s Day, like a snow globe…

P.S. In the spirit of complete transparency, I thought Father’s Day was this Sunday and that is why I wrote this post last night. My wife made me aware of the real date and of the fact that I am a complete and utter Jackass. Because of this, I have changed one of the lines to make it seem as though I knew it was next Sunday. As if anyone cares…