A Series of Fortunate Events.

My daughter graduated from high school last Wednesday.

Loaded statement, that.

How, in a word, would I describe how I felt as the winding rivulets of Columbia Blue and white entered the stadium from the far end and slowly engulfed the track's north turn? How can I accurately portray in a single word, the intensity of my emotion as Pomp and Circumstance ushered the graduates in front of the bleachers, most wearing grins you'd be lucky to see once in a lifetime of Christmas mornings?

I think the word  is "rocked."

As soon as they turned down the home stretch toward their seats on the fifty yard line, I could make out faces. Parading slowly by was a group who'd encapsulated the past eighteen years of both a childhood and a parenthood. I gazed upon the procession, a surreal documentary streaming through my mind as each face unearthed a memory nugget, however small, from earlier days.

Most commencement ceremonies end with the hurling of caps into the air. Not this one. Didn't have to worry about Great Aunt Eufagenia's bloodshot eye being impaled by an errant mortarboard and leaking gelatinous goo onto the toupee of the guy in front of her. Nary a grad wanted any damage done to this or her custom-detailed head covering.

She spent two hours decorating that thing, ensuring that most of the rooms in our house had been lightly dusted with a sparkly reminder of where she'd be going in the fall.

Here she is with one of her best friends,Trevor. 

We love Trevor—and his parents. He'll be a Husky soon, bless his heart. I'm going to encourage my girl to keep in touch with Trevor, maybe grab some frozen yogurt or catch a movie when they're both home. And if, you know, they eventually find themselves with college degrees and jobs and having some sort of children together, that wouldn't suck at all.

She and Jake chose to walk together.

Jake's also highly awesome, as are his mom and dad. As an added bonus, these two will together tread the mossy climes of Western Washington University this autumn.

Grandma and Grandpa came. 

These people have cowboyed up, rain or shine, for just over twelve thousand of her t-ball, soccer, volleyball and basketball games, as well as miscellaneous performing arts and school pageants.

We know how those can be. 

And how could I neglect mentioning the two or three times per school year when they'd drop everything and motor up from Puyallup to care for a pink-eyed tot? Yeah, gold cord for the grandparents.

Last Wednesday was ridiculous in its riches. Here's what happened on June 12, in chronological order:

1. After a six-week construction period, our remodel was completed.

2. My wife was offered and accepted a teaching position she'd been pursuing for months.

3. Did I mention the whole high school graduation thing?

And finally, as I reclined in the living room that night waiting to drop my kid off at her grad night, I scrolled though the usual websites on my iPod. A single email popped onto the screen in the bold typeface of a message not yet opened. In the preview pane, the words read, "Thank you for your query regarding Ben's Fall…" 

That's the name of my book. For the past month or so, I've been sending query letters and sample chapters to literary agencies who are currently accepting submissions. I received a handful of prompt rejections, most saying things like, "It's not really for me, but good luck finding a home for it."

I tapped the screen and the remainder of the message appeared: "…I would like to take a look at the full manuscript. Please forward it as a Microsoft Word document, and I will get back to you as soon as possible."

As if the day hadn't proven to be enough of an emotional meat grinder, apparently Wednesday wasn't quite done making sausage. I read it and then read it again and then read it about nine more times.

Someone who works in New York City wants to read the whole thing! OMfreakingG.

Being of Irish heritage, I grappled with the idea of divulging item number four, since I don't want to jinx anything. But what the hell, if it happens it happens, and if it doesn't it doesn't, right? It's a step closer, after Wednesday.

Thursday was a little boring.

My Top Five Dream Destinations.

My most common dream subjects:

1) New York—Most weeks, it's once or twice, but sometimes I'll dream four nights a week about living in New York City. "What's the attraction?" I wake up wondering, "is it the allure of living the footloose American ideal in the Big Apple? Could it be the omnipresent magnetism of the city's creative energy?"

Swim to shallower waters, deep thinker. It's the pizza.

2) Airplane crashes (jets, to be more precise)—This one's creepy. I'm sure it contains gallons of twisted Freudian significance, especially since it occurs so frequently.

I'm standing outside in a large field ringed by forest. Someone stands beside me, but I never look at them and I couldn't tell you if they are male or female, they're simply a voice in my ear.

We watch as a large jetliner descends above us. Everything appears to be running smoothly, yet the plane seems louder than it should be.

"I think it's landing," the faceless, genderless voice says.

The thunder of the engines grows loud enough to shake the ground and pound in my ears. The aircraft begins swaying from side to side., its nose tilting further downward. "I'm not too sure about that!" I reply.

We yell something like "Oh, my God!" or "Holy shit!" and watch the monster plane disappear behind the tree line.

Silence. There's an explosion, but no noise, if that makes any sense whatsoever.

Thick black smoke billows upward, a few long flickers of flame stabbing above the forest. The sky darkens and that's where it always ends.

3) Whoa.

On a lighter note, it's the fall of nineteen-eighty-something, the weekend before classes begin. I'm returning to Theta Chi, my fraternity, after living at home for the summer, reuniting with guys I haven't seen for a few months and giddy with excitement about the year ahead.

My roommate Fritz and his brother Sam alternate between leading and supporting roles.

4) Playing in my final high school football game—I make sure to tell my wife immediately after I have one of these dreams. She seems annoyed when I wake her up to tell her, but I know deep down how much she loves to hear about how awesome I used to be.

5) I'm naked in public—The strange thing is, it never seems to bother me that much. For whatever reason, in that time and place, it makes sense for me to be freaking nude and everyone else fully clothed.

Just call me David.

Something I Learned From a Kid.

We leaned against the double doors, prying them open as a chilly gust engulfed our faces. It's a sensation to which I've grown accustomed—the sharp contrast between a gym's pungent humidity and the cold desolation of a January night.

The basketball game had ended ten minutes previous, yet my daughter's cheeks still flushed with the remnants of her exertion. She walked beside me, still in her uniform. I put my arm around her shoulder—the one not draped with her "seasoned" athletic bag, and I could tell she was still sweating a little under her "Hawks"-emblazoned shooting shirt.

I chirped open the Hyundai as we approached it. "Why don't you guys ever shower in the locker room?" I asked.

"Dad, I've told you this so many times. Nobody does that. Gross."

"I know, but here you've got this brand new school with brand new locker rooms and brand new showers and no one uses them. It's bizarre."

"Dad, things are different now. We don't parade around naked in front of each other, okay? Hey, can we stop for a Blizzard?"

"Mmmm," I thought, "Mud Pie Blizzard from Dairy Queen. Wait a second, you're not Homer Simpson, for God's sake. Plus, you're on Weight Watchers, Day Eight. Show some self-control."

"Nah," I answered, starting the car and cranking the heat, "We should get home."

Maybe this has happened to you before. You're discussing a subject you've covered a million times before, yet another topic somehow mixes in to form a profound flashback. It happened to me last night, when my mental bartender whipped up a frothy PTSD cocktail whose main ingredients were fear, embarrassment and ultimately, redemption.

For most of the fourth graders at Chinook Elementary School during that winter of 1973, excitement ruled the day as Mr. Van Epps passed out the permission slips. But not for everyone.

"Okay, listen up. You guys have to remember to have these signed and returned as soon as possible. We're doing a week-long swimming unit down at the new pool in two weeks. If you're parent doesn't sign this, you don't swim, simple as that."

"Whoa," I thought. "For a second there, I thought he said the class is going swimming. That's crazy. No one swims at school. He must have actually said we're doing a 'skimming unit' or a "trimming unit' or something."

Then Janice, a girl who'd weighed in at thirty-six pounds on weighing and measuring day, handed me the paper. I scanned it:

Chinook Elementary School
Permission Slip for Fourth Grade Swimming Unit
King County Forward Thrust Pool

Unbelievable.

"It's going to be a lot of fun, and don't worry if you aren't a strong swimmer. You'll be tested and put into groups," Mr. Van Epps shouted above the din of giddy chatter.

My guts churned. "Oh, that makes me feel a lot better," I thought. "Not only will I have to show my entire class my boy boobs that are even bigger than Cheryl's (the tall girl who'd already started developing), they'll also get to watch me flail around like an idiot and then drown."

The class buzzed with excitement. Boys and girls hopped in their seats in anticipation of hurling their wiry little Gumby bodies off the new ten-foot high dive.

A handful of larger kids sat quietly and pretended to scan their permission slips.

During that first ten years, even though I'd spent most of it at least thirty percent over the recommended body mass, I'd somehow managed to stay relatively active without displaying my naked torso. Running through the sprinkler or wading into a lake could be pulled off in a tank top with minimum ridicule. And even my mom and dad hadn't seen my shirtless body since they'd stopped bathing me five years prior.

This was unacceptable. In a fully clothed world, I could rely on my wit or artistic ability to level the playing field when stacked up against the more physically appealing young men. But now, who would care if that beached whale they were looking at could tell a joke or draw the best Fire Prevention Week poster?

Um, that would be no one.

Avoiding the permission slip was also out of the question. My mom knew everything about everything and thus, my fate was sealed.

Dread enveloped me. Although I never knew the feeling of being drafted, that two weeks of waiting felt like waiting to parachute into the swampy minefields of Da Nang...without a shirt on.

Finally, the day arrived, the Monday to end all Mondays. My classmates and I filed out of the bus hauling water-proof bags, into which our soggy suits could be stuffed later. I couldn't even visualize what "later" would look like.

The sterile, steamy stench of chlorine still makes my stomach lurch, just as it did that morning. Mr. Van Epps escorted the boys into the locker room. "Okay, no messing around. Put on your trunks, take a shower, walk out to the pool and line up."

Trunks?

By now, I was numb. My eyes focused on the puddled floor tiles as I stripped and positioned my swimsuit so that I could peel off my underwear and pull on the suit with maximum speed and efficiency.

Other boys were yelling and shoving each other as they showered, but I just doused my hair a little and ambled slowly to the pool area, alone. I folded my arms to shield my flabby front and nestled into the line for the swim test.

Religiously fixing my gaze downward, I finally reached the front of the line, where a high school kid stood in the waist-deep shallow end.

"Hi!" the freckly-faced red-head barked. "Go ahead and climb in."

I sat at on the edge, my arms still crossed.

"It's okay, it's not deep."

I slid in awkwardly, scratching my back and giving myself a swimsuit wedgie.

"Do you know how to swim?"

I shook my head.

"Do you know how to float on your stomach?"

I shook my head again.

"Okay, just give it a try. It's easy. Watch me." He fell forward and effortlessly floated on the water's surface. He stood and flicked his long hair backward. "Now it's your turn. What's your name?"

"Tim."

"Okay, Tim, give it your best shot."

I unfolded my arms and extended them, slowly easing myself face down into the lukewarm pool. My chest and stomach felt buoyant. I was doing it! I was floating! I stood back up  and smiled proudly at the freckled dude.

"Tim, you've got to make your legs float, too. I'll tell you what. We'll put you in the beginners group. You'll learn a lot there. Just go ahead and get out of the pool and stand over there with those kids." He pointed to a group of boys and girls standing at the other side of the shallow end.

I needed to find a ladder to hoist myself out of the pool, so for the first time, I looked around. The intermediate group had accumulated about halfway down the pool and it looked like the advanced kids were way down at the deep end.

But no ladder in sight. I lumbered back to where I'd dropped into the pool, where the rest of the students were still queued up for the test. Not powerful enough to even hoist myself onto my knees, I slapped my chest on the ledge and slithered sideways like a Walrus eager to sun itself.

My entire body lay on the pool deck before I could pull my knees under me and stand up. For the second time that day, I looked around.

Three boys and a couple of girls in the intermediate group stood about thirty feet away.

The were laughing.

And pointing.

At me.

I wanted to die, and that's not a euphemism. I really did, to just cease existing as a human being. There I stood, in front of my entire universe, naked, humiliated...

...and resolved to never let it happen again.

It's been forty years since the swimming unit, but when I think about that fat ten-year-old boy, he's the guy I've always aspired to be. Whenever I'm faced with a challenge like getting healthier or choosing perseverance over self-pity, that's who I summon.

While we strive to evolve and improve, sometimes we take for granted that our future self can only be better than our past self.

I'm not so sure about that.

Between fourth and fifth grade, that kid joined Weight Watchers, lost twenty pounds and learned to swim. And as an eleven-year-old, he passed the swim test for the intermediate group.

On the last day of the fifth grade swimming unit, he jumped off the high dive into the deep water.

I'm thinking he really did it on the first day.

What Am I Going To Be Like At Her Wedding?

She's twelve-and-a-half.

I know, that whole "and-a-half" thing usually gets jettisoned before a kid's tenth birthday, but in her case, twelve and-a-half is closer to fifteen than it is twelve, know what I mean?

I don't consider my daughter a "tween" anymore; she's a bona fide, one hundred percent, USDA certified teenager. Numbers schmumbers.

We're spending the weekend together, just the two of us, mano e womano, or however the saying goes. My wife and older daughter fled to the windy brushlands of eastern Washington, touring the brick-and-ivy-encrusted campus of Central Washington University along with a friend and her daughter.

It's been a father-daughter Saturday.

If you were to enjoy slightly more than one cup of Sanka in the presence of our nuclear family, you'd understand that our younger daughter must have swum in amniotic fluid stocked with more of my characteristics than there are fat grams at Costco.

We share a love of art, food, drink and music, but not in that order. Food would probably be number one. We're a little too sensitive and we take things a bit too personally. We can sit or lie down for long periods of time, often only shuffling about after our lungs begin retaining fluid.

We like sleeping. Mmm, do we.

But since her road trip to adolescence has reached the Midwestern states, she's become like an ant beneath a magnifying glass. Each school day is a Shakespearean comedy or tragedy. The same friend on Wednesday may play the role of Portia, the plucky and insightful heroine in The Merchant of Venice, yet on Thursday, transform into the betraying Brutus from The Tragedy of Julius Caesar.

Every emotion is raw and intense, and my challenge as her father is to plow a straight line through these sine waves of sensitivity.

This morning, her soccer team lost another hard fought battle. In fact, they've lost every battle this fall; they're zero for autumn. After the game, she broke down. She waited until we had walked safely out of sight of her teammates and their parents, and then opened the floodgates.

"Dad, I'm just so tired of losing. And those girls were so rough and number sixteen played really dirty and I just want to win a game." Tears rolled down her frosty red cheeks.

My first inclination, as usual, was to solve the problem, then and there. I wanted to say, "Look, you guys have improved so much this year. You used to get blown out every week, but now you've been playing everyone so tough. Just hang in there. Good things will happen eventually."

But I didn't. For once, I just listened.

You see, she really wasn't asking Mr. Alpha Male to solve her problems. She just wanted me to shut up and hear her out.

My twelve-and-a-half-year-old vented her frustrations as the car heated up on the drive back home, and by the time we rolled into the driveway, she'd put the soccer game in the rearview mirror.

"Hey," I said, unlocking the mailbox, "how would you like to go see the new James Bond movie?"

"Yeah!"

"Okay. I'm going to do a little yard work. How about if you take a shower and then we go?"

She calls me Tim on random occasions. "Yeah, Tim. That sounds great!"

The mall parking lot was packed. As the movie time creeped up on us, we still couldn't find a parking spot. Her emotions again ran rampant.

"Dad, I don't even want to see this movie! This is just too stressful!"

"It'll be fine." I tried to reassure her. "The movie doesn't even start until the previews are done, and that's, like, fifteen minutes from now. And if it's already started, we'll just go to the next one."

"Okay."

By the time we'd parked somewhere around Iowa and traipsed into the carpeted lobby of the googolplex cinema, James Bond was one secret agent we realized we wouldn't be seeing. The lines were massive, even for the screening which wouldn't begin for another ninety minutes. We slumped against a brass railing.

"What do you think?" I asked. "How about if we take the money it would have cost to go to the movie and just shop around for something that costs twenty dollars?  Hey," I remembered, "Nordstrom is having their half yearly sale. Maybe we can find something there. We can look in BP."

"Okay, yeah," she said. "Yeah, that's even better than a movie, Tim."

And then she melted me...again. "Dad, thanks for bringing me here. I know you tried. Can I have a hug?"

This young woman is not the hugging sort, so, boy, did I hug her. She didn't even seem to care if the cool police had posted its elite mall surveillance team, but she still had to finally pry me away.

We shopped and talked and smelled stuff at the bath shop. And then, at Nordstrom, she found the prettiest dress which satisfied the twenty dollar requirement—give or take five bucks. I waited as she tried it on, and wondered if she'd actually walk out and show me how it looked, remembering her self-conscious nature.

As I sat outside the dressing room, I felt my phone vibrate and expected it to have been a message from my wife or other daughter.

I slid open my phone and read the message—"What do you think?" I pressed the "OK" button to reveal  a self-portrait of my girl, in front of a three-way mirror a few feet away, wearing the dress and the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.

"It's fantastic," I punched in. My eyes welled ever so slightly.

 It's been a good day.

Lance, What Did You Tell Your Kids?

Twenty years ago, Nike aired a television spot featuring Charles Barkley. As the camera framed his round face in an extreme black and white close-up, Barkley proclaimed, "I am not a role model...just because I dunk a basketball doesn't mean I should raise your kids."

True enough.

But if Swoosh and Company's aim was to evoke emotion in its audience, mission accomplished. Even though I was still two years removed from being a parent, I recall thinking:

Screw you, Chuck. First of all, you're shilling for a company who's made its fortune selling overpriced merchandise to children.

Secondly, your employer, the National Basketball Association, an organization that has secured your future and likely several generations of your descendants, currently sells a jersey with the name "Barkley" scrolled across the back for around $39.95.

And if I'm not mistaken, it's offered in kids' sizes.

So, whether you like it or not, you've chosen a profession which renders its employees role models. Don't agree, Chaz? Then be a mail carrier or a life insurance salesman, because you can't have it both ways.

A few years later, my six-year-old daughter discovered the allure of professional athletics and its personalities, deciding to hitch her wagon to Alex Rodriguez, then a young shortstop on the Seattle Mariners.

We spent countless summer evenings watching him play, discussing his work ethic and his respect for the game. Toward the end of that season, in jagged, unsteady words betraying her new found literacy, she scrawled A-Rod a note, proclaiming her admiration for him and his playing style. 

Before his reply could grace our mailbox, Rodriguez jumped the good ship Mariner, signing a two hundred million dollar contract with the Texas Rangers. In his parting press conference, he emotionally maintained that Texas was a better fit in his quest for a championship; money was not a factor.

Until that moment, I hadn't held an ounce of contempt for Rodriguez' decision. After all, who'd turn down a couple hundred million bucks to play baseball? But when he chose to proclaim to my kid and everyone else that it wasn't about the money, his hypocrisy hit a walk-off home run.

I can remember thinking, Alex, you can't have it both ways.

With A-Rod in the rear view mirror, the search for an heir apparent commenced immediately. And since no parent wants to hasten his child's journey down the path to cynicism, my cackles stood tall for a worthy candidate.

It wasn't difficult; he stood out so vividly in his yellow jersey.

Back in 2001, what larger source of inspiration existed than Lance Armstrong?

Yes, that's a real question.

After vanquishing a disease which ravaged the most sensitive region of the male anatomy than spread to his brain and lungs, he recovered to win the most grueling athletic contest known to humanity, the Tour de France...seven times.

We latched onto Lance like a piece of bacon to a maple bar. My girl and I spent countless July mornings chatting about his latest Tour exploits. We'd look east toward our mountain range, the Cascades, and marvel that anyone could traverse such heights in a bicycle, let alone pull away from world class competition.

And almost every year, one of Armstrong's chief rivals would succumb to a dirty drug test and withdraw from the race in disgrace, unable to maintain Lance's lofty, drug-free standard of excellence. We'd shake our heads and smile because cheaters deserve to get caught.

In a world where our children are modeled such a diverse spectrum of adult behavior, Lance Armstrong stood tall among the pretenders; he showed our kids that they can play by the rules and still be the best.

And now this. And he won't admit it.

I haven't really discussed this with her, but I plan to. She's seventeen now, and obviously her world view has changed substantially since that summer of 2001 when Lance Armstrong swooped onto our radar. She's seen a lot of people mess up, especially me, and she's seen how those people handled the consequences.

And I hope she's learned that, while we're human and we'll never cease erring, we can nevertheless be accountable, because therein lies a sliver of virtue and a first step toward redemption.

I hope she knows you can't have it both ways.

On Turning Fifty and a Special Message to Jon Stewart.

I've got a few friends who don't like to acknowledge their birthdays, especially those that end with zeroes.

Maybe it represents another year of dreams unrealized or jeans unwearable. Perhaps it's just the notion that some of us have scampered substantially past life's fifty yard line, the end zone looms ahead and we're just not quite ready to spike the pigskin and kick off.

Yeah, well screw it. Tomorrow's my fiftieth birthday and I'm going to wear it like a freaking halter top.

Fifty years old. Seems like a long time when you consider that John  F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy and Malcolm X still had beating hearts and passionate aims when my mother awoke with a raging spinal headache and a gooey little meatloaf named Tim swaddled up next to her.

Oh, but there were others who broke onto the scene in 1962. Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Target all got held upside down by the ankles and whacked on the arse that year, ushering in the era of retail box stores.

Had to have been a C-section. Ouch.

Coincidentally, 1962 was also the year that eight-year-old Chinese kids learned to weave horse hair into Barbie Doll heads while assembling Etch-a- Sketches with their toes and elbows.

I also felt compelled to google celebrities born in that Year of the Tiger, and  I must admit, we've got an impressive smattering of crazy among the ranks.

Demi Moore and Paula Abdul are fellow fifty-year-olds. While I wouldn't exactly say they're insane, I also wouldn't ask them to babysit my pain meds while I run to the Circle K for some Corn Nuts.

Then there's the Scientology contingent: Kelly Preston and the man himself, Maverick, the king of shiny-faced weirdness, Tom Cruise. Those two do look fantastic—too fantastic in fact. It's hard to tell if their youthful complexions are the fruits of having arduously attained an operationally clear thetan state...or...you know, Botox.

Add Travolta to the mix and you've got yourself a nice steamy stew of creepy.

Also turning fifty this year is a Puget Sound institution where they're not called Tater Tots, doggone it. They're freaking Mexi Fries and I'm referring, of course, to Taco Time.

Back in 1972, my mom and I established a tradition of hitting Taco Time for a taco salad following Weight Watchers meetings. If I'd lost weight that week, I usually went for the sour cream ranch dressing. Otherwise, just hot sauce. Since then, I've consumed so many of their forearm-sized burritos I can actually enter the restaurant and order a number seventeen without speaking.

Really.

But since this blog is all about reflections and since I've made more mistakes than Mitt Romney trying to figure out a washing machine, here are a few anecdotes which, if given the hypothetical opportunity, I'd pass along to younger versions of myself:

To eleven-year-old Tim: Dude, seriously, just because you watched that movie of the week about that girl who was kidnapped, buried alive and left to breathe out of a straw until her parents scraped up the ransom—it doesn't mean it's going to happen to you. Calm the hell down and turn off the light. It's three in the morning.

To twenty-five-year-old Tim: Dude, seriously, you may think that mullet looks good, but it doesn't, especially in a pony tail. Get rid of it and tell your twenty-seven-year-old self that by no means should he get a mullet perm prior to his trip to Europe.

To thirty-two-year-old Tim: Dude, seriously, I know you haven't had any coffee yet, it's super early and your ten-month old wants you to read "Busy Bear" to her for the fifth time. Just do it and enjoy it. She's going to be a high school senior some day and you'll miss your baby girl.

To forty-nine-year-old Tim: Dude, seriously, try to be a little nicer, a bit kinder to everyone you encounter. You're always talking about how our behavior produces Doppler waves of karma. Practice what you preach. And eat more vegetables.

Oh, yeah, and before I forget. Jon Stewart turns fifty later this year, so whether you know him or actually are him, I thought I'd pass along this birthday nugget to Mr. Stewart:

Yes, Jon, its true. I'm finally willing to write for your show.

Title IX Drives Painful Wedge Between Fathers and Daughters.

"Dad, just say the word...any time, any place."

Ever since she learned to dribble a Scooby Doo playground ball, she's enjoyed taking me on. "You were trying your hardest, right?"

"Absolutely," I replied, but by the time she was around fourteen, yes, I really was trying my hardest. Nonetheless, that arrogant, little Limbaugh embedded in my psyche whispered in my ear that my daughter would never defeat me in a game of one-on-one. No freaking way. As long as an iron lung wasn't part of my IKEA bedroom set, I'd handle it.

And then, a couple of months ago, right after her junior year basketball season ended, she challenged me again. "So, big guy, when are we playing?" She peered slightly down at me from her five-foot, ten-inch altitude. I gazed back, my game face betraying the anxiety that yes, the moment had arrived.

I surveyed those wiry arms and spindly legs which had formed over seventeen years of perpetual motion...and gave her my answer:

"Umm, yeah. I don't think I'm available...umm...ever."

Hey, if the Supreme Court can opt not to hear a case, I can opt not to play, right?

It's too bad she's yet to discover premium music, because she forfeited a golden opportunity slap her dad with a lyrical uppercut from Rush, one of his favorite bands:

"If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice."

I had chosen.

This week marks the fortieth anniversary of Title IX, a federal mandate enacted to prohibit sex discrimination in education. Practically speaking, June 23, 1972 signified the beginning of equal resource allocation for male and female athletics at all academic institutions.

Prior to Title IX's ratification, girls' and women's athletics existed predominately on "club" levels. My own alma mater and bastion of progressive thought, the University of Washington, boasted fourteen varsity men's programs in 1972.

How many women's teams would you guess wore the name "Huskies" across their chests back then? Half? Nope. Okay, how about just the big ones, like basketball, softball and volleyball? Sorry.

If you had chosen the most common answer in Trivial Pursuit—zero—you would have been correct.

I suppose 1972 wasn't too far removed from an era when physical exertion was considered dangerous to fragile female constitutions. After all, thirty-six hours of excruciating labor pales in comparison to a nasty floor rash from diving after a loose ball.

Let's see...what else was going on back in '72? As I recall, girls in my fourth grade class had recently been permitted to add pantsuits as appropriate scholarly attire. Although denim hadn't yet been allowed to tightly paint their lower extremities, I vividly recollect several brightly colored polyester outfits leaving my wheezing ass in the dust on field day.

It was akin to watching the backsides of four Carol Bradys and two Shirley Partridges accelerate into the distance, their shag hairdos bouncing in perfect synchronicity to their flopping jacket flaps.

Ironically, had our class decided to form boys' and girls' varsity track teams, the boys would've been pummeled in every event yet would still enjoy the cool uniforms and free blue Gatorade to which the girls weren't entitled.

During the 1972 Munich Olympics, Mark Spitz swam to a record seven gold metals despite the considerable drag of a cumbersome yet totally sweet mustache. American women also competed in swimming events at those games, but only those fortunate enough to attend one of the handful of colleges fielding women's varsity swim teams.

Any other female Olympic hopefuls trained at the Y during the three to five PM lap swim, dodging stray noodles, water wings and octogenarian tortoise people.

Even after the law's passage, equity emerged at a snail's pace. A lot of courageous women filed a lot of unpopular lawsuits, and girls' basketball didn't hit the big time until the socks had grown considerably shorter and the shorts considerably longer.

Forty years later, most young female athletes likely hold no inkling of the dismal state of women's athletics during the reign of Tricky Dick Nixon and before. My seventeen-year-old daughter believes that trotting onto the court through a tunnel of cheerleaders as the band plays and the public address announcer calls out her name is a prima facie birthright, something which has been around since Fred Flinstone shaved with a bumblebee-filled clam shell.

It's my duty to impress upon her the impact of Title IX and the sacrifices others have made which have opened the door...

...for her to school my sorry ass in one-on-one.

My teenager: If I'd known what she didn't know, she'd know by now.

Bulldozed again.

Just when I felt like I'd attained my parental sea legs, right when the ladder felt sturdy beneath my Chuck Taylors, someone started gesticulating that creaky old thing from the ground below.

And that someone, again, was my teenager.

She's sixteen. Actually she'll be seventeen in a couple of weeks, but I'll acknowledge that milestone in due time, because, well, I'm not ready just yet.

Anyone who lives with a teenager, and I'm including that old guy who's married to Courtney Stodden, understands the role sarcasm plays in the dynamic of a parent-teen relationship.

It's an omnipresent force, and the adolescent human, usually by his or her mid teens, has honed the craft to an adult-level mastery. While my daughter can infuriate my wife and me with her facetiousness, beneath my steaming layers of indignation and bile, I often feel oh-so-faint tingles of admiration at her adeptness and wit in slinging verbal compost:

"You're right, Dad. I thought about unloading the dishwasher but I didn't because my soul is nourished whenever I see that vein stand out on your forehead."

Is this an appropriate time to gush with fatherly pride? Hardly.

The problem is, although she can converse in an adult manner, this child of mine is still a child in just about every other facet of her personality.

She and her friends giggle relentlessly. Her favorite TV shows are "Gossip Girl" and "Jersey Shore." When I walk into her room, I'm just as likely to crush a cheddar cheese Goldfish under my shoe as I was when she was four.

Her brain continues to develop; in fact, it won't completely seal up until around the age of twenty-five. And my challenge, now more than ever, is to be mindful of that.

My girl is currently a high school junior, so college preparations have seeped into our world. Last weekend, she traveled to eastern Washington with a friend and her dad to tour three schools— two public and one private.

She returned highly impressed with the private university. In fact, she wanted to start immediately.

"Oh, the campus was awesome and the people were really nice and everyone looks like they have so much fun. I really want to go there."

My wife looked at her. "Great. How much is tuition there?"

"Um, I don't know. I didn't ask."

"Why not?"

"Come on, Mom. That would've been really rude, and I didn't want to offend them."

Poker face. Keep your poker face, I commanded myself, as retorts cascaded through my consciousness. Within seconds, my reply had been cemented:

Look, kid. It's not rude to ask an admissions counselor about tuition. They're not on the list of people whom you go out of your way not to offend, like food service workers, hotel maids, I.T. people or anyone who is presently adjusting your I.V. or palpating your prostate.

But I didn't say any of it, because I realized she was serious. And at that moment, the bug-splattered windshield over my gray matter received a cleansing squeegee.

We've always stressed that broaching topics like money, religion or politics is a risky game with those we don't know. Our daughter was just following the game plan.

The muddy slope that is parenting dictates that we release enough information to our offspring that they can make some sense of the world without receiving a full dose of its cynical and cruel reality.

Because of that, our messaging is often mixed. We warn them about talking to strangers, then require them to order their food at the restaurant like a big girl. We teach them to show compassion but then explain that the woman holding a cardboard sign can't be trusted.

We assume the know too little and we presume they know too much.

Several years ago, my then-three-year-old daughter approached me as I sat on the couch nursing a cup of coffee. "Here, you should give these back," she ordered, handing me a pair of strappy black shoes.

I didn't understand. "What do you mean we should give them back?"

"Dad, they're Mary Jane's. I've had these a long time and she needs to have them back."

Aha. Through her thousand-day-old lenses, they weren't Mary Janes, they were shoes which belonged to Mary Jane.

My sixteen-year-old daughter has reached the point where she can obliterate her old man in a game of H-O-R-S-E. She can solve complex math problems and break down a mitochondrion. She can bake a bitchin' batch of brownies and text faster than I can type.

She's even taller than I am now. But she's still a kid.

To be continued.

Dads, let's face it—we're all over the map.

Throughout human history, our natural world, in all its beauty and complexity, has revealed some formidable bonds­—hot fudge to white Capri pants, Bubble Yum to freshly permed hair—and the fiercest adhesion of all...that of mother to her child.

The maternal instinct: Holy sweet mother. It’s universal, it’s absolute and it’s deadly.

Who doesn’t have a few inspiring tales of superhuman behaviors exhibited by his or her mom which defy explanation, logic and occasionally, gravity?

Most of us need search no further than our own moms’ exploits. As a child, were you ever subjected to having your chest sat upon by some cretin whose knees pinned chubby arms down, thereby rendering your entire face vulnerable to whatever torment the perpetrator considered amusing?

Usually, an older sibling supplied that torture, but such was not the case when my mother happened upon an older, bigger neighbor thug playing “dangle the loogie” over her youngest cub’s contorted, wind-bleached overbite. I think I was eight.

I’m still not sure how she heaved the hundred-twenty-pound chump off me, but in a matter of milliseconds my sternum had ceased masquerading as a shoe salesman stool.

I dragged my emancipated body up on one elbow in time to witness the back pockets of the bully’s Sears Tough Skins rapidly vaporizing on the horizon.  A baritone bark broke the neighborhood silence, and what sounded like a cross between James Earl Jones and a dryer buzzer bellowing threats of calling the fleeing perp’s parents—was actually my mother’s protective instincts put to music.

Obviously prepared for any contingency, she had apparently stashed a testosterone inhaler in her purse
right next to the little Kleenex packets.

I would definitely mess with Texas before messing with someone’s mother.

But how about dads?

Do fathers possess that hard wired circuitry which requires no thought, just reflex? Are they motivated forces other than fear of harm to their offspring?

Does human paternal instinct really exist?

It’s difficult to draw any conclusions based upon fatherly behavior in the animal kingdom, since it’s all over the spectrum. Many rodents, such as rats, lemmings, gerbils and marmots, routinely practice infanticide for a variety of reasons. Male lions, while not accustomed to snuffing their own offspring, frequently kill a rival’s cubs to eliminate any future competition and to force the mother back into heat.

Although universally considered taboo among Homo Sapiens, this behavior seems to occur at Chuck E. Cheese on any given Saturday.

Other furry fathers, however, put classically flawless dads like Ward Cleaver and Mike Brady to shame, utilizing extreme measures to exhibit their mad daddy skills.

The male marmoset acts as both a midwife and maid when Mrs./Ms. Marmoset bears new life. Not only does he bite through the umbilical cord, he also cleans up the birth area afterward. The only time I’ve heard of this type of behavior in human circles was reading about an organic birthing group here in West Seattle, where the newly christened dad must obtain a special vegan dispensation prior to severing any flesh between his under utilized canines. I believe they refer to themselves as “Placentists.”

Another formidable male baby advocate is the Emperor Penguin. Those of us who’ve seen that heart-tugging film, March of the Penguins, will recall how he gingerly stands stationary for two frigid months, forgoing food and warmth to nestle his newly laid eggs in his “brooding pouch”, while the female returns to sea to replenish exhausted nutrients. 

For God sakes. I have friends who whine like Kim Kardashian when their wives leave with the girls for a long scrap booking weekend.

On the surface, we human males appear so simple. As children, most boys engage in games of conquest and dominance over a weaker enemy; definitely lion-type behaviors. I can recall playing “Star Trek” on the playground as a corpulent third grader. After the alpha males had claimed the plum roles (Spock and Kirk), I felt fortunate to be awarded a part as Sulu or Chekov, and not one of the nameless, red-turtlenecked crewmen who are killed by huge-headed humanoids within the first seven minutes.

We weren’t nurturers, not by a long shot. We blew up stuff and scoffed at the ridiculous rituals in which our female counterparts partook across the playground. They reveled in their positions of privilege within traditional Cold War family units, staying at home and tending to two or three idyllic children each, sitting at chrome and Formica kitchen tables, smoking cigarettes and drinking Manhattans while waiting for their husbands to return home from high paying jobs at Boeing.

We guys didn’t transcend the lion phase for quite some time. Sure, we eventually evolved into slightly tamer cats who understood the necessity to nurture relationships in the event that we desired encounters which lasted longer than a half-hour futon dance followed by a dark, rainy walk of shame.

Once we’d refined our behaviors enough to secure a mate, we summoned, at minimum, the fortitude to hang the “Yes, We’re Open for Fatherly Feelings” sign on the outside of our emotional front doors.

Then came the “We’re not trying to get pregnant, but if it happens, it happens” phase. No big deal, we rationalized. This could take a really long time, and I am still king of my own jungle…who takes out garbage and other helpful stuff.

A month later, we saw the stick. It was blue. A few weeks after that, we checked out the ultrasound. After squinting and turning it slightly north northwest, we saw the first crude imagery of our babies.

The lion, as if gunned down by a dart from the Stork’s tranquillizer gun collapsed into a bottomless slumber as a gentle creature waddled around his massive form to assume the shift.

At least that’s how it went for me: Lion to penguin. Dude to dad.

After my bloodshot eyes focused on that beautiful little girl, the world shifted on its axis. I emerged from the hospital as Super Penguin, eventually becoming so hyper nurturing that the phrase “Choosy Mothers Choose Jif” mortally offended me because it didn’t address fathers. I resolved that, once our fifty-five gallon drum of Costco Jif  ran out in six years, this choosy dad would choose Skippy.

I read a number of books on establishing bonds with your newborn, and again, took things to the extreme. After spending an entire day with my daughter nestled into a cheap, powder blue front pack, I finally extracted her to discover my baby with her usually wispy hair caked in sweat and pasted to her steamy cranium.

Is it cool for babies to sweat? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

My penguin behavior waned and mellowed slightly as I grew accustomed to my role as a father, and by the time my girl reached middle school, I felt prepared to face the challenges of parenting a tweener. 

Then the paradigm shifted…again. I vividly recall the day, sometime during her first week of sixth grade, when she explained all the food choices in the expansive middle school cafeteria.

I  won’t call this a flashback, but, okay, I had a total flashback. It was something I heard in the junior high lunch line which forever altered the lenses through which I viewed reality. Two male ninth graders stood in front of me as we queued up for a couple healthy scoops of soy burger gravy over mashed potato buds. My ears perked up upon hearing them mention the name of one of my classmates (I’ll call her Stacy.) Here’s the gist of it:

First ninth grader: Hey, man, do you know that Sevvy (seventh grader), Stacy Fergus?

Second ninth grader: No, but I’ve  heard she has a nice ass.

I turned inward, processing that term: nice ass. How can he say something like that about someone’s butt? Hmm. Hey, hang on a second. Just one minute, now. ..they do. Girls’ butts do look nice. Oh. My. God.  This is fantastic. This is super cool. Girls butts are nice. They look really, really good! Yes!

Snapping abruptly back from 1975, I realized that my daughter would now be encountering guys like I was then, guys who’s minds were setting course for a strange new land of female physical appreciation.

Adolescent lion cubs.

And just like that, just as I felt that powerful synergy, that oneness with my paternal instincts, my world listed on its side and dumped the contents of my contentment into the roiling seas of uncertainty—again.

Maybe it’s time to crossbreed a few of my internal animals. Perhaps if I can meld the nurturing vigilance of the Emperor Penguin with the fierce resolve of the lion and the tireless work ethic of the marmoset, I will never again need to switch things up midstream.

I’ve got to draw the line at the male sea horse, however, despite my wife’s hearty endorsement.

He gives birth to his young.

My Secret to Offensive, Yet Tasteful, Blog Posts.

Today, I'm doing a little bit of pre-Spring cleaning.

For the past blogteen months, I've posted every two or three days. You may be surprised to hear, however, that the words don't seep directly from my primal brain stem to the digital world; I actually keep a journal.

I carry it around pretty much any time I'm wearing clothes. In the event that a topic bobs its noggin to the surface, I can jot it down before it's lost to the ether of my consciousness, before something shiny derails my runaway train of thought.

Sometimes, the topic is obvious. When Sarah Palin claims to be a foreign policy expert because two black people live in Wasilla, I'll latch onto something like that. But frequently, I need to peruse my backlog of scribblings in order to come up with a decent post.

When combing through my archives, I'll often discover those "What the hell were you thinking?" ideas, infractions which found life on the printed page, but the referee showed up later to throw the flag. So, before I permanently stomp these stories into the cold, damp ground, here are the titles of posts I never have, and never will, write:

"People at Work Who I'd Like to See Naked."

"My Favorite Surprise Movie Endings."

"An Open Apology to Everyone I've Accidentally Sweat On."

"My New Look for the New Year: Ponytails and Skinny Jeans."

"I'm a Doctor, Not a Barber: Why My Vasectomy Bill Included the Cost of a Disposable Razor."

"Shhhh! Guess What My Company Has Planned for Next Fall?"

"My Favorite Daughter."

"Hey, Kids! Exercise is Stupid."

Naturally, I have others, but the crux of this piece is to show, mostly to my wife, that I do possess a filter.

It's porous and wafer thin, but it catches the big chunks.

How I fit my teenager for a GPS without her knowledge

This cool dad thing is starting to wear off.

My wife and I are always encouraging our fifteen-year-old daughter to invite her friends over to the house. It's nice to meet the people she hangs out with during these pivotal years, and if they're here, they're not somewhere else (obviously, but you know what I mean).

These kids hang out in large social clusters, quite similar to gorillas and elephants with expanded vocabulary, but only recently have these groups become co-ed. Crushes do exist within their ever-morphing amoeba, but very little pairing up actually occurs—fine with me.

A few weeks ago, a group of twelve boys and girls assembled at our house to eat frozen pizza, drink high fructose corn syrup and get ready for the high school's fall homecoming dance. The girl faction had gathered earlier, and were ready to go when the males arrived. As they entered, the aroma of "Pink Sugar" perfume, the latest incarnation of adolescent female essence, hung thickly in the air, melding with the slightly burnt odor of ten Red Baron combo pizzas.

Since I'd not met most of the dudes, I tried to kick things off on a cool note. You know, make sure they noticed my ear piercings, maybe try a nonconventional handshake on one or two of them.

"Hey, guys, I'm Zoe's dad." Obviously. What other middle-aged man would be plodding around the house in shorts, slippers and a torn UW hoody with no drawstrings.

I continued, "You can call me Tim." Okay, that was kind of stupid. Chances are very slight that they'll ever call me anything. But at least I haven't messed up too badly yet.

But I didn't stop there. "I won't make you call me Dr. Haywood, even though that's how most people refer to me, since I'm a neurosurgeon."

Sparse, uncomfortable teen chuckles sprinkled the room. as my daughter's glare tore into me.  "He's not a doctor. He's a graphic designer. Bye, Dad,"

Well, that sure went well, I thought. It used to be so much easier to win these kids over. A solid knock-knock joke, followed by their favorite flavor of frozen Gogurt and a Capri Sun, and I was golden. Now the only golden object was my silence.

I retreated into another room and didn't emerge until I could hear them preparing to head out for the evening. I re-entered their domain, planning on saying as little as possible, but lost my game plan at the sight of three shirtless sixteen-year-old boys. Apparently, they decided to change into their dance shirts just prior to leaving, and my living room looked like the Chippendale's Apprentice Academy.

It was easy to stick to my no-speaking strategy, since my mouth and the mouth's of the girls in the room stood agape at the display of muscles I haven't seen on my own body since the Carter administration.

The wardrobe change took all of two minutes and everyone was out the door before I realized that my daughter had entered a new realm in her dealings with the opposite sex. And next time everyone comes over, I'll be much more prepared.

I won't be there.

Three men, three mornings

Thirty-year-old George Matthews III jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George IV. His wife, Ashley, was already rising from her side of the bed to tend to the baby.

"Relax, I've got this one," George croaked, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements.

"Oh, sweetie, thank you." Ashley was back asleep within seconds.

George padded into his son's room and scooped him out of the crib. He hugged his son closely to his chest, stroking the back of his downy head. The baby relaxed instantly at the sight and smell of his father.

After young George was changed and fully engaged with a warm bottle of Enfamil, George III relaxed into a living room chair with his son perfectly perched in the crook of his forearm. The young dad scanned his Blackberry; he had made it a morning habit to read the day's headlines to his boy.

"Hmm... Obama's approval rating is at an all-time low. I hope he weathers this storm, little man."

He navigated the device to a screen the day's client visits. "I don't recognize this address and the GPS is out on the Audi. I'll just have to use Mapquest."

George IV stared at his father, as if actually pondering the statement...and burped loudly.


Thirty-year-old George Matthews, Jr. jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George III. His wife, Cheryl, was already rising from her side of the bed to tend to the baby.

"Relax, I've got this one," George croaked, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements.

"Thank you, sweetie." Cheryl scooted up into her familiar nursing position as her husband approached with their wailing son. The baby relaxed instantly at the sound and smell of his mother, and quickly nestled in for his breakfast.

George, Jr. settled into the bedside rocker and clicked the remote to turn on The Today Show, one of his morning routines. During a commercial break he looked down at his son, commenting on the day's top story. "Hmm... Carter's approval rating is at an all time low. I hope he weathers this storm, little man."

The elder George grabbed his weekly planner off the nightstand and scanned the day's appointments. "I don't recognize this address. I guess I'll have to check the Thomas Guide out in the Pinto. Honey, when you're done there, will you iron me a shirt, lightly starched? Oh, and can you lay out my favorite paisley tie?"

"Sure, honey."

George III stared at his father, as if actually pondering the statement...and burped loudly.


Thirty-year-old George Matthews jerked awake, startled by the cries of his infant son, George, Jr. His wife, Millie, was already rising as George rolled onto his back to clear his groggy head.

"Honey, after you get the baby, can you put on the coffee?"

"Sure, dear." Millie quickly disappeared into the hallway. "And your suit is pressed and laid out in my sewing room. I'll make you some breakfast while you shower."

George rose slowly, his aching lumbar protesting the slightest movements. He threw on his bathrobe and retrieved the newspaper from the front porch, an ingrained morning ritual. "Hmm... Truman's approval rating is at an all time low."

"What did you say, dear?" Millie yelled from the baby's room.

George ignored her question. "I hope he weathers this storm." He pulled up a chair at the kitchen table and reached for his list of appointments, prepared a day prior by his secretary. "Millie!" he barked, "I need to get going. One of these addresses is three counties over. Did you fill up the Edsel yesterday?"

"Yes, George."

From across the house, George heard the sound of his baby burping.

A letter from my teenager...sort of

The following is a letter from my fifteen-year-old daughter to me, written by...me.

Dad,
I'm really glad we just had the chance to spend the whole weekend together, even though I haven't told you. It's been really nice to go away someplace and remind you of the person I really am and always have been.

Remember yesterday morning, when Mom asked me to do my homework, just to get it over with, and I replied, "Mom. I just woke up. My brain's not fully developed"? These statements were each completely true. The only thing is, it's not like I just needed to be awake for a while in order for my brain to kick in. The fact is, this will not happen for a few years, so please be patient... really, really, really patient.

I'm a good kid. You tell me this all the time, but then you yell at me for doing things I don't mean to do, like leaving the front door wide open when I leave for school, or swinging my tennis racket in the house and knocking stuff over, or not refilling the toilet paper.

I'm still naive about a lot. Sure, I'm the size of a larger-than-average woman, but there's tons of stuff I still don't know. That's why, when I took the eye exam at Department of Licensing for my permit, I closed one eye and only read half the letters when I looked into that box. Dad, I'm not stupid; that's the way I've always done it at the doctor. I also wasn't previously aware that you have to be dead for them to use your organs. Come on, otherwise that would've been sick and wrong. I am now an organ donor.

It's nice that you tell me you understand what it's like to be a teenager, and I'm sure you truly believe you do—but you don't. If you did, you would comprehend the fact that texting is of utmost importance to my friends and me. I wish you could fathom the absolute necessity of my being available to provide feedback to my peers, 24/7.

I don't realize it yet, but I'm carefully observing the way you interact with Mom, my sister and me. It's a really good way for me to assess what a healthy male-female relationship involves when I'm ready for it. Oh, I've seen you screw up, many times. But I judge you by how you learn from your mistakes and how you deal with those whom you've hurt in the process. So keep trying, because I'm watching.

Remember, five years ago I was ten, and ten years ago I was five. I'm still a kid, and your more important to me now than you've ever been. I love you.