My new favorite teacher

I'm not going to bury the lead, I'll just come right out with it. My new favorite teacher is Mr. Hayashino. I say new favorite, because I just met him tonight for the first time at my daughter's high school Back To School Night.

If you don't have kids you may not be familiar with Back To School Night. Almost every school has one. It happens at the beginning of the school year, usually on a night there's a major sporting event or a television program you've been waiting three months to see.

Parents follow their child's curriculum, going from class to class between bells, cramming ourselves in the students' chairs and listening to their teachers give an overview of who they are, what they teach and what they expect from both us and the students.

They have ten minutes to do it before the bell rings and everyone hustles onto the next class.

Tonight, I met my daughter's chemistry teacher, Mr. Hayashino. I know, I said chemistry. I'm sure for those of you who follow this blog with any kind of regularity, you already see where this is going. And it's going exactly where you think it is.

I'm not sure what Mr. Hayashino was saying during his allotted ten minutes. I was busy looking at the Periodic Chart, trying to find the element symbols that spelled Felina, which as I'm sure you know was the name of the series finale episode of Breaking Bad.

When the bell rang, I went up to Mr. Hayashino, introduced myself and asked if he'd watched Breaking Bad since it's required viewing for chemistry teachers. He said he saw the series - all of it - for the first time this summer. I told him I'd binged it six times. He was duly impressed.

We immediately started talking about chemicals, cooks and how we have to get together and talk some more about the show. Twist my arm.

So this semester, I'm going to be taking a keen interest in how my daughter is doing in school. I'll monitor her progress, and talk to the teachers when necessary.

When I get to her chemistry class again, I'll ask the teacher, "Who the hell are you?"

And if Mr. Hayashino's the chemistry teacher I think he is, I'm pretty sure his answer will be, "You know who I am. You all know. Now say my name."

Daughter's choice

Tonight, I decided to let my beautiful, smart, funny and giving daughter choose the subject of this evenings' post.

Shockingly, she said it should be about her. Specifically, her unbelievable and unrelenting work ethic. A deal's a deal so here we go.

In the past few weeks, I've wondered just who's daughter she actually is. She's been sequestered in her room, night after night, studying history, english, biology, geometry, Spanish, bible (Christian school, hello?) with friends on FaceTime.

It's not that she was lagging behind. Some of the subjects she already had an A in, and some a B+. But settling just isn't part of her DNA from either side of the family.

So she's worked relentlessly this semester to bring all her grades up to an A or A+ (which by the way she's doing with well-deserved success).

It's the part about working relentlessly that makes me think we're not really related. As you know by now, my idea of working relentlessly is watching all three seasons of House Of Cards in one sitting. I know what you're saying, but if you think it's so easy let's see you do it smart guy. Here's a tip: take your bathroom breaks during the credits.

Anyway, all this is to say I'm beyond proud of my girl for developing a work ethic that'll serve her well in life, and propel her on to make her mark on the world in a spectacular way.

Which she'll need to do to take care of me. Cause watching all this TV isn''t getting me anywhere.

Giving her away

Despite what it looks like from the picture, this isn't a post about the movie Father of the Bride. It's about what I learned at a wedding tonight about being one.

Someday my baby girl is going to get married, and I'll be the one who walks her down the aisle and gives her away. Well, I hope I'm walking. I could be rolling down the aisle in my wheelchair with my oxygen tank clanging behind me. I prefer to think that won't be the case.

Anyway, as my daughter will testify, I've been known to say some wildly inappropriate things sometimes (I know! I'm as shocked as you are). On the (frequent) occasions when that happens, my beautiful, brilliant daughter just rolls her eyes and says in a stern, reprimanding way, "Dad. So wrong." I'm sure I've embarrassed her more than enough in her life.

Tonight I learned that I will never do it on her wedding day.

The father of the bride this evening gave a speech before the father/daughter dance. He talked about how "dramatic" she was growing up. He mentioned all the things she'd wanted to be but never managed to accomplish. He went into some story about how one time she'd cut her eye on the zipper of a sweatshirt she was taking off and started screaming for a plastic surgeon. He told the groom he hoped he could deal with all the "drama" that follows her.

He stopped just short of saying, "Good luck. She's your problem now."

It was a genuinely cringe-worthy speech, and everyone at the reception was praying he'd stop talking. I imagine no one more so than his daughter. And eventually he did, thanked everyone for coming to the wedding, and had his dance with his daughter.

As I was listening, it became clear with every word he was focusing on all the wrong things.

He didn't say how grateful he was to have a daughter as loving, beautiful and smart as her. He neglected to say what a lovely young woman she'd grown up to be. He never mentioned that his heart was breaking because his little girl was getting married, and even though he'd always be the man in her heart, he wouldn't be the first one anymore. He left out that the happiest day of his life was when she was born. And he never told the groom he'd better treat her like a queen, or he'd have to answer to him.

In other words, he didn't say all the things I will.

Heaving her Christmas cookies

I can hear the season laughing at me, and it sounds like Ho Ho Ho.

Until now, this Christmas seemed to be shaping up nicely. It wasn't nearly as hectic as ones in the past. The lights were up in time. We found everything we wanted shopping wise. And it all managed to get here in time.

We still haven't gotten Christmas cards out, but the bright side is now they'll turn into New Year's cards. Yet another Christmas miracle.

We were going to have family over to our house on Christmas Eve, then visit more family on Christmas day. It was shaping up to be a Christmas full of fun, merriment, egg nog and family. And lots of bourbon in the egg nog.

That was right up until my daughter, through no fault of her own, started heaving her own cookies when we got home today.

She'd been complaining of a bad tummy all day, but she has that every once in awhile and it usually passes and then we move on to more important things- like what's for dessert.

She was a trooper today in spite of feeling bad. I took her to our dentist in Santa Monica and had her teeth cleaned (something she might be needing again). We had lunch at The Counter, although she really didn't have much appetite.

But once we were home, she asked for the bucket and started spreading a little Christmas cheer of her own into it. Very thankful her aim is true.

So it looks like our Christmas plans are in a holding pattern until we see if she's feeling better.

But as Christmas' go, sitting on the couch with my girly next to me, looking at our beautiful tree and watching tired Christmas movies isn't a bad deal.

The bad deal is having to empty the bucket.

Parents, prepare for takeoff

Like her brother before her, tomorrow morning my daughter will be going with her eighth-grade class to New York, D.C. and a few other stops on the eastern seaboard.

The wife and I will be getting up at 3a.m. to take her to the school, where she'll board the bus to the airport with her friends as she gives us a cursory wave goodbye and heads off on her Big Apple adventure.

Of course we're happy for the time she's going to have, the things she's going to learn and close friends she'll be even closer to by trip's end. What we're not happy about is the fact she'll be away from us for a week. Three-thousand miles away from us.

It's every parent's dilemma: how to let them go without worrying about them the second they're out of your sight. The answer of course, as any parent can tell you, is you can't.

In a book about her daughter, author Joan Didion said, "Once you have children, you're never unafraid again." As a parent there is the continuous loop of white noise, playing at a very low level in the back of your brain always wondering if your kids are alright.

I know my daughter will be fine back east and have the time of her life.

I also know I won't be fine until she's back home.

UPDATE: This was originally written in June. My daughter went on the trip, had a great time and returned safely to me. When she came down the escalator at the airport, she ran into my arms and held me so tight I thought she'd never let go. For my money, best way for both of us to end her trip.

My kind of kid

As the kid lottery goes, I think I hit the jackpot. I have two extremely incredible kids who never cease to surprise and amaze me.

Like magicians, except with fewer bunny casualties.

I've already posted here about how crazy proud I am of the poem my daughter wrote. Now I want to relay a little anecdote about her brother.

My son is currently on a trip to Chicago with his school choir group. They have scheduled performances and competitions for the next few days. They also have plenty of extra time to tool around Chicago and take in what makes it such a great city.

Anyway, I was taking him to school yesterday, the day he was leaving, and he asks me the question I get almost every time I take him to school - "Can I play you a song?"

Now, when he asks, I immediately roll my eyes, let out a deep sigh and assume I'm going to be held hostage to one of the bands he likes that make me want to blow my brains out.

It's a very mature reaction to have in front of him. I'm nothing if not a role model.

So I said, "Sure, go ahead."

He plugs in his iPhone, hits play and out comes the last thing I would've expected: Sinatra singing My Kind Of Town.

I was smiling, but I felt like crying tears of joy. At how beautiful Sinatra's tone and phrasing are. How perfect a song choice it was. How much he loved surprising me with it.

And how much I'll miss him until he gets back Monday.

Emotionally loaded

It's 2:30 in the morning on a starless, black night.

You're suddenly awakened out of a deep sleep by the harsh sound of shattering glass - a sound you intuitively know means nothing good is about to happen. As you get out of bed to see what it is, extreme unease fills you. Your heart is pounding, all senses are on high alert. As you get to the bedroom doorway, you discover an intruder, a stranger you immediately recognize as a very bad man, moving quickly with very bad intentions down the hallway towards your daughter's room.

You see him, but he doesn't see you. Yet.

The question is what would you like to have on you at this moment. A phone to call 9-1-1 in the hopes they'll get to you faster than he'll get to your daughters' room. Maybe a baseball bat, so you can run up behind him (which he'll hear) and engage in physical combat with him. A flashlight so you can shine it on him and let him know you're there and exactly where you're standing. How about a whistle to blow, so you wake everyone in the house up making it easy for him to know where they are, and who the most vulnerable one is.

For me, the answer is a gun.

If this were the scenario in my house, I'd have no qualms about taking the guy out before he ever reached my kids' room.

I have friends who disagree strongly on this viewpoint. In fact, one of them recently posted on Facebook that you're a moron if you even own a gun. Obviously a much more emotional response to the issue than an informed one.

But that's what the emotion on both sides of the issue drives people to do: paint in broad strokes, and make assumptions that simply aren't true.

Everyone who owns a gun is not a moron, or a killer waiting to happen. I know people who own guns. In fact I know people who own arsenals. Their weapons are legal and registered. They're well trained, responsible people who secure them when not in use. They know and practice gun safety.

In the light of the Newtown tragedy, both sides have a hair trigger when it comes to the other. And it's irrational fear that's driving both of them.

I don't think there's any one answer, but we have to start somewhere. The 23 items Obama put forth today - from assault weapons ban to increased and in-depth background checks - is as good a place as any. I believe monitoring and follow-up should also be part of the mix.

It's ridiculous and ignorant in equal parts to think all people who own guns are morons, or all guns are going to be banned, or the government is going to raid your house and take your guns. What all this talk does is drive gun sales. And the most fearful people who are doing the buying are probably the ones who shouldn't have them.

Do we have a gun culture? Are our children exposed to too much violence? Does it have a detrimental effect? I don't know. Does playing with toy fire trucks mean they're going to grow up to be firemen?

These are all appropriate questions that deserve considered and thoughtful answers.

Right after I take out that guy on the way to my daughters' room.

Where she's from

No snarky commentary, pithy insights, agency-slamming editorials or self-indulgent rants today. Nope, just a poem written by the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, most caring, lovliest daughter who's obviously picked up her good looks from her proud dad.

It's times like this I have the feeling I may have done something right.

Where I'm from

I am from pink woobies and hot chocolate
Early morning volleyball tournaments
And late night concerts
I am from grandma and grandpa spoiling me
And my brother always fighting with me

I am from Wendy sharing her crazy stories
And her house that is full of loud animals
I am from beautiful German shepherds
And big Herman Leopards
And family that's always there for me

I am from friends who care
And leaders that share
I am from a tree with heart shaped leaves
And roses that never forget to bloom
I am from a vegetable garden that is full of color and some things as big as balloons

I am from "Go to your room!" and "Great job!"
Making monkey bread on special days
And having yummy challah bread on Hanukah in honor of my dad
I am from sleeping in too late and waking up with God's blessings
And keeping all my blankets close to me
And staying strong with my faith

I am from memories that I keep
The ones that are in a box under my bed
On scrapbook pages
And in my head
I am from memories I will never forget

Humerus ain't it

The top step strikes again.

When you come visit our house, there's a winding, brick walkway from the sidewalk to our front door. You climb four stairs from the street, then two more at the front door.

Those last two are the ones that get you.

A few years ago I personally tripped on the top step, went flying into the door jamb and cracked my head open. When I got to the ER, because the head is so vascular, I looked like I'd been at the scene of the murder. After a quick exam, the choice the doctor gave me was stitches or staples. I took the staples. I thought it would be some high tech piece of equipment that seamlessly and painlessly stapled the wound together so it could heal quickly. Not so much. It felt like a Swingline from Office Max.

Medical technology isn't nearly as sophisticated as you'd hope.

Anyway, last night, the top step claimed another victim.

My mother-in-law had picked up my daughter and was bringing her home. My daughter went into the house first, and Grandma was behind her when she caught her shoe on the top step and went flying into the door jamb with her full weight propelling her. She hit her right side hard, and broke her humerus bone just above the elbow.

The x-ray above isn't hers, but it's about what her injury looks like.

She's 85 years old, and tomorrow morning she'll have surgery to repair her arm. Then both her and her dog Barnabus will stay with us a bit while she recuperates.

Her outlook is good and she's in good spirits. Her blood pressure is 120/70, and despite her age she's never taken a pill for it a day in her life. Plus her side of the family usually goes to around 100, give or take.

Essentially what I'm saying is the door jamb didn't try hard enough. It's going to take more than surgery, healing and physical therapy afterwards to keep her down. She's going to be around a long, long time.

Which is exactly the way we like it.

Buckle up

I used to be terrified of my son getting his driver's permit. Then after giving it some thought, I couldn't wait. It would mean the time when I could hang up my chauffeur's hat would just be that much closer.

Well, he has his permit now. And turnabout fair play, he's become my chauffeur.

First off, let me say he's a very conscientious driver. He takes it seriously, and he's earned my trust behind the wheel.

Of course, having the parents that he does, unfortunately he has a hereditary condition called "lead foot." We'd hoped it would skip a generation as these conditions sometimes do, but no such luck.

Anyway, whenever anything has to get done that requires driving, he drives me there. The market. The dry cleaners. The Lexus dealer. To and from school. Every minute behind the wheel is a learning opportunity for both of us.

Since all the rules of the road are fresh and top of mind to him, it serves two purposes: to make him a better driver, and to make me one as well. I've acquired some sloppy habits over the years (rolling stops, not signaling as often as I should, that "lead foot" thing) that I'm now much more aware of thanks to him. And it's not that he's pointing out my mistakes - it's just me noticing how good he's doing and seeing where I can improve.

In a couple years, when my daughter gets her permit, I have no doubt she'll be a great driver as well.

At the end of the day, all you can do is put them in a safe car, know they're paying attention, and hope they don't have a target on their back.

And making sure they're an excellent driver doesn't hurt either.

Home alone

This weekend is going to be awesome. It’s the kind of weekend a guy who’s been married as long as I have with two kids dreams about. And it doesn’t happen very often.

This weekend, the wife and daughter are away at a mother/daughter retreat they go to every year. My son, a student-council vice-president, is away on a student council overnight planning session/beach party. That can only mean one thing.

Saturday night belongs to me, and me alone. (rolling hands together) Muahhhhhh!

Here's how this weekend goes in my rich fantasy life. Since I have the place to myself, I decide to invite over 1500 of my closest friends for a wild, drunken, too-loud music, cigarette burns on the furniture, wine and beer stains on the carpet, cops have to be called kind of party. For reasons best left unsaid, there are hoists and pulleys, whipped cream and garden hoses involved. It goes until sun up.

Now here's how this weekend usually goes in my real life.

I have to make the important decision about dinner. It usually comes down to In-N-Out or Five Guys. I'm thinking this might be a Five Guys kind of Saturday. Then once I'm home, I catch up with the two nights of America's Got Talent and a week's worth of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report that have been sitting on the dvr. I'll finish my Gillian Flynn book. I'll somehow find the energy to get up off the couch and walk and feed Max, world’s greatest dog. Once that's done, I'm back on the couch and asleep by 9, a 48 Hours Mystery blaring in the background (Spoiler: the boyfriend did it).

I hope the family doesn't wake me when they come back. I'll need the rest after the weekend I'm going to have.

Let's do lunch

Like most parents, I want my kids to realize all of their dreams and have all the things I never did. I want them to have a really good life, one that brings them as much happiness as humanly possible.

I also want them to be better people than I am. From the looks of it so far, that's going to be a cakewalk for them.

The other morning was my turn to drive the kids to school. They go to school seven and a half miles from our house, which for those of you keeping score is a fifteen mile round trip. Don't get me started. Anyway, at the freeway offramp we use to get there, there's always a homeless person sitting there. It's not always the same one. They, along with the standard-issue sad-eyed dog and cardboard sign, usually work the ramp a few days in a row before the shift change.

I call it Homeless Depot.

This particular morning my son had to bring a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts to school. We bought two dozen, because we wanted to have a few for ourselves on the way up (we love donut mornings around here). By the time we reached the red light at the top of the offramp, we had half a dozen extra donuts left.

My daughter said, "Dad, give him the donuts."

It took me a minute to realize who "him" was, but then I handed the donut box out the window to the homeless man who gratefully blessed our day and took them.

The next day before she left for school, my daughter put together a lunch for our homeless friend. A real lunch - sandwich, plenty of snacks, several water bottles. My wife took her to school so I didn't actually get to see her give him the lunch, but I heard all about it. He was visibly touched. My daughter and him exchanged God-bless-you's at the same time.

One of my daughter's many strengths is her kind and caring heart (definitely from her mother's side). It's hard to conceive how so much love can fit in one little girl.

But it does. And it only goes to prove what I've known since she arrived.

That she's as beautiful inside as she is outside.

Unseeing things

As a parent, you always wish you could control everything your children see. It's the part of you that wants to protect them from the images of ugliness and hurt in the world that once seen, will affect them deeply as they involuntarily replay them over and over.

My daughter saw a dog get hit by a car today. Not that there was anyway it could be good, but it was particularly bad in its violence and suddenness.

We'd just picked her up from winter camp. She'd had an awesome weekend, and was riding high on the fresh memory of it. The one thing she wanted to do when we picked her up was visit her grandmother, and her grandmother's new dog Buddy. (It's been a bad week for dogs: grandma had to put down her 14-year old Andrew earlier in the week. My daughter loved him and was with him at the end.)

After that visit, as we were leaving grandma's house, we saw a smaller - and we thought younger - German Shepherd wandering grandma's block. It had apparently been tied to something, because trailing behind it was a rope that had either been broken or chewed off. We tried to get the dog to come over to us, but it was scared and looked lost. We called grandma, and asked if the neighbors had a German Shepherd. Two of them did, but the dog we saw wasn't either of theirs.

The dog was heading towards a busy main street that borders grandma's neighborhood. We tried to head it off but couldn't.

It managed to cross the street, and we thought it would stay over there. We called Animal Control and the police department to let them know.

Unfortunately, the dog decided to go back across the street. As it walked to the other side, a car in the left lane slowed to let it pass. But a car in the right lane, that was going about 50, didn't. From the opposite side of the street where the dog had just come from, my daughter and I both saw it get hit and pinned under the car.

Many, many cars stopped to help, and the police received several calls. My daughter was hysterical, with full waterworks that would not be stopped.

I'd do anything to turn back time so she didn't have to have that image in her head.

It's times like these you come face to face with the adult hypocrisies you have no choice but to perpetrate. We told my daughter help was already on the way, explained how they would lift the car off the dog and then people who knew how to move injured animals would take him to be cared for.

Sadly and cruelly, the dog was still alive when we left. I have no doubt the first thing Animal Control did is put him down when they got there. Those weren't injuries he was coming back from.

Because we have a 7-year old German Shepherd we're beyond crazy about, we got emotionally invested in this lost dog almost instantly. I can't honestly say we would've made the same effort had it been a different breed (apologies to chihuahuas, but you're on your own).

So tonight, knowing this too shall pass, our daughter will sleep with us, feeling safe in the big bed while her mind works against her and her broken heart tries to mend.

And instead of celebrating her great weekend, we'll be saying prayers hoping the dog didn't suffer long and has found peace wherever he is. We'll also be saying prayers for the driver.

Although I have to admit I might be praying for something a little different for her.

Apparently child killers have feelings too

The first thing I have to say is I feel sorry for the dog.

If you can stomach watching the first installment of child-killer Casey Anthony's video diary, you'll be interested to know that she adopted a dog. She says she loves the dog as much as any family she's ever had. Which of course means we're only days away from finding out Rags is missing, only to be later discovered in a ditch with a band-aid on his forehead and duct tape around his snout.

Let's all take a moment to say a big goodbye to the dog.

She also mentions at one point that she doesn't like having her picture taken. I think it's good that she brought it up, because if you looked at these pictures of her partying while her daughter Caylee was missing, you might get the mistaken idea that she's just an attention-whore-party-girl.

Which she's not. She says as much in the video.

What she never mentions is Caylee, her murdered daughter. Probably best not to bring that up. It'll only remind people that, like OJ, despite all the evidence beating a path straight to her door, she was acquitted. Doesn't matter. There's not a person alive who doesn't know she did it.

I don't know what makes me hate her more (aside from the obvious): that she was out partying while law enforcement officials and concerned citizens were out combing every inch of the countryside around the clock for her missing daughter, or the fact she completely threw the only person who still liked her - her father - under the bus at trial.

If there's any silver lining here, it's that she's so universally hated I don't think she can even pull off a reality show at this point. Or at least a reality show that isn't produced by her for YouTube.

While Casey makes all of this about her, let's take a moment to remember the reason she's even a topic of discussion: her beautiful, too soon departed daughter Caylee. If there's a YouTube in heaven - and there should be or else it wouldn't be called heaven - I'm sure Caylee is watching the video and thinking three things:

1. I can't believe I drew the short straw and got her for a mother.

2. I think I'll stop watching YouTube.

3. At least I know I won't be running into her here.

My friend Rich just started a series on his blog called People We Need To Kill.

I'd like to nominate Casey Anthony.

Those three little words

Nothing says Merry Christmas like the subject of poop.

Ever since my daughter was a little girl, we've had our own father/daughter jokes between us. They often send us into hysterics, while innocent bystanders wonder what time we'll be taking our medicine. Some of them are quite funny and tasteful, perfectly acceptable for telling at the Christmas dinner with family gathered all around.

Some not so much.

There's really no way to explain this gift she got me for Christmas without getting into way more detail than I'm sure any of you want or need to know. Suffice it to say I laughed harder than I have in months when I unwrapped this little gem.

It's an awesome gift, based on a particular joke - one of our less savory ones - that goes way back. Maybe right there is a good place to leave it (figuratively speaking). Except to say that the three little words referred to in the title aren't the ones on the mug.

They're "neat and clean." Enough said.

The bucket stops here

What you're looking at to the left might seem like simply a large plastic bucket.

Actually, it's a security blanket.

My daughter came into our bedroom at 12:30 this morning with a bad stomach and feeling a little clammy. She decided maybe she needed to - with out getting too clinical here - empty the chamber.

But being the little multi-tasker she is, she also thought she might have to toss her cookies. And whenever she feels that way, she asks for the bucket.

Just holding the bucket makes her feel better. It represents a unique kind of okay-ness whether beets are heaved or not. For my daughter, knowing it's there is almost as comforting as having us there reassuring her everything is going to be fine.

When the feeling finally passed, she came into our room and spent the remainder of the night with us, just in case.

While most kids would cling to their teddy bears to make themselves feel better, she had her bucket right where she wanted it - within arms reach at the foot of the bed.

As I think about having to wash our duvet cover at three in the morning, I realize she's not the only one being comforted by it.

The Talk

All too quickly there comes a time in every parents life where you have to sit your children down and have "the talk." Which is ironic, because I'm still waiting for my parents to have the talk with me.

Anyway, today my wife and I had "the talk" with my daughter. Like most parents, we were trying to avoid it for as long as humanly possible. But there was a catalyst we just couldn't ignore: this week she's going to see "the film" that her school show girls when they begin the sex education part of the curriculum.

Before they show "the film", the school sends home a permission slip for parents to sign.  I imagine a lot of parents sign it with a huge sense of relief that the school will now be doing a job they're too embarrassed to do.

We didn't see it that way. We thought she should hear it from us first.

As we started to talk to her, my ten-year-old daughter turned red, pulled the blanket over her face and laughed a whole lot while we explained how things work and where babies come from. But a little while into it, she quieted down and really listened. Then she asked questions. Then she understood.

My invaluable contribution was teaching her important phrases, like "put it back in your pants", "zip it" and "I don't care if you're happy to see me."

So right about now the wife and I are feeling pretty proud of the mature way we tackled "the talk." If it hadn't gone so well, I was ready with Plan B.

But I guess now I can put the donuts and hot dogs away.