{Originally published on Dadomatic.}

My dad is a great dad. He indelibly shaped my personality, mores, and outlook in life. Now that I am a dad too, I appreciate what he did even more. It wasn’t easy to narrow them down, but these the top ten lessons that he taught me.

1. Don’t take any shiitake from anyone. My dad was a state senator for twenty years, and he never walked away from a confrontation with the local newspapers, labor unions, and government officials. He taught me not to kowtow to anyone just because they are in lofty positions. This is a very useful attitude because if people sense that you don’t take any shiitake, they won’t give you any.

2. Obey your teachers. My dad taught me that teachers knew more than I did so I should treat them with respect. This was a rare exception to the “don’t take shiitake from anyone” lesson. Come to find out, (a) teachers very seldom dish out shiitake, and (b) they truly change the world (and not for the money), so they (c) deserve truckloads of respect.

3. Don’t follow the crowd. Initially, I thought that he was saying that most people were stupid–and I agreed with him. But I now realize that he was telling me not to follow the crowd because the crowd “mentality” can make smart people do dumb things. This is why I don’t believe in the “wisdom of the crowd” to this day.

4. Show some noblesse oblige. My dad was very big on the concept that people who are fortunate (in terms of power, prestige, or money) have the moral obligation to be kind, help others, and even answer their emails. By far, this is the most difficult lesson to implement if lots of people want something from you, but as my father taught me, you just have to deal with it.

5. Read. My dad taught me to love to read. We had hundreds of books around our house, and he bought me any book that I wanted. With his encouragement, I also spent hundreds hours in the public library too. This love of reading led to a love of doing research (in those days, in the World Book Encyclopedia!) and eventually to a love of writing.

{Originally Published on Recovering Straight Girl}

The smell of fall is in the air here in the Pacific Northwest. I’m not really ready to let summer go but fall is my favorite time of the year. More than January 1st, fall feels like the time to begin again–a new year–a new time of possibilities.

We’ve had a fun summer and I’m beginning to be ready to dive in to the world again. I’ve been cleaning things up in my office, my home, and in my head. Taking stock of what I have, what I need, and what to do next. It’s a little exhausting at times, but I know it will all pay off in the end.

I was having some apprehension about starting school again. HG and I decided that changing schools would be a good idea and I applied to the school I want to attend last spring but did not follow up on my admittance until just last week. I think I was having anxiety about it and figured if I put it off too long I could just take some online classes at the community college I attended last term. But I did decide to follow up and did send them the info they needed and did register for classes as a non-admitted student until everything is processed. Yesterday I filled out all of the financial aid info that I know they will need as soon as everything is processed, cleaned out all of my files, recycled an entire garbage can of paper, and got ready to mail two important items that will (yes, Universe, WILL) bring me some money.

I’m making room for great things to come my way.

In a few hours I will pick up my father from the airport for his visit here with us. I don’t think that I realized just how anxious I am about this visit until I woke up this morning at 2:30 a.m. and couldn’t go back to sleep. Usually when something is coming up that I’m not sure about I just put it aside and deny it awhile. It works out for me actually, because I think while I have it set aside in my denial I somehow process through it a little bit.

This visit brings up a lot of things for me. Obvious things like Why Now? Why Now, after all this time, does my father want to come and visit? I’m glad he does and I’m very much looking forward to it but I still hear that voice in my head that says, “What’s wrong with me that he didn’t want to come before?”

{Originally published on the Busy Dad Blog.}

How do you define a parent? Of course, there’s the biological way, but if our celebrity counterparts have taught us anything this year, a forty pound DNA match and Bugaboo stroller a true parent does not make.
No, to be a real parent you need to get into character a tad more (ironic isn’t it?). How do you know when you’ve successfully crossed over and truly embraced the biggest role of your life?

Here’s my list:

1. You don’t know what you’d do if they never invented the phrase “we’ll see.” Who is the genius who thought of this? He or she should get a posthumous Nobel Peace Prize. It’s the platinum card of our parental phrase arsenal. Why? Because it allows you to defer the “no” (and the whining) to a later, more convenient time or locale. When a request is made, the answer “we’ll see” is a win-win. The child holds onto the hope that this request may still be granted, and therefore withholds all protest. The parent buys extra time, during which the child may forget about the request altogether, or you’ve made it home, where whining can be sufficiently contained.
2. Your currency reference shifts to Bionicle (or other) toys – In my younger days, the CD served as my go-to currency reference. “What? Sixty bucks for this shirt? I could buy like four CDs with that!” As I got older, it became rounds – “Aw man! I could have bought at least five rounds with that. I’m never playing blackjack again!” Now that my transformation is complete, my money bitching resembles something more like this: “What? $3.30 a gallon? That’s like 1/3 of a Bionicle!”

{Originally published on We Make Three}

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’ve been married to Michael for nearly 20 years. This man saved me. I’m not kidding. And I will always love him for that.

I was only 20 when we got married. Even at that young age, I realized that I had everything to learn about life. We both understood that starting a family would wait while we developed ourselves, our careers, and focused on our marriage. We had nothing for our start together other than the china and crystal from our wedding registry. Not even a couch. It was a meager beginning, but still a heady time for us. We had nothing but each other and our independence. I love how we started our relationship, and I love that we sacrificed and made our way without any help.

Life happened to us. We bought our home, built our careers, and enjoyed our lives together. We got our dog, a little Yorkie I named Chester, who became the perfect vessel for my maternal outpourings. We talked about kids. A lot. Michael is very practical. Pragmatic. He looks at the facts and makes very accurate assessments. We discussed the commitment, sacrifice, and change in our lifestyle that having a family would require. We were ready.

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Originally posted on The Busy Dad Blog.

Editor’s Note: BusyDad is a master of parody. If you’ve never heard of or seen the show Iron Chef, this brief explanation will give you some background on what follows.

If memory serves me correctly… my newest
Iron Chef began his tutelage under legendary Iron Chef BusyDad in the summer of
2005. His journey into the culinary world began in BusyDad’s kitchen, honing
his creativity by finding ways to turn every kitchen utensil into a gun or a
spaceship.

As his apprenticeship progressed, this would-be chef cut his teeth by
helping his master cut green beans. With a butter knife. Perhaps his actual
teeth may have been a more effective tool for this, but an important lesson was
learned. Dull tools sharpen the mind.

And sharpen his mind he did, along with his craft. Known throughout culinary
circles as the catalyst for the “kid gourmet” movement, Fury has
dazzled critics and playgroups alike with his “rad” interpretation of
traditional fare.

Today, I welcome him to Kitchen Stadium as my newest Iron Chef. As
this is his debut battle, and seeing as he can’t reach the faucet, I have
decided to bring his master, Iron Chef BusyDad out of retirement today for a
very special tag team edition of IRON CHEF.

AND NOW, TODAY’S THEME INGREDIENT… FLOUR!
Allez Cuisine!

* * * *

Fukui: Oh! the Chairman has thrown us a curveball today by picking
flour as the theme ingredient! So basic, yet complex! Yes, yes. Let’s go to our
commentator on the floor, Ohta for some play-by-play.

(click title for more)

Originally published on Fuse Moms

The common denominator of first-time pregnant women is not distended
bellies or compromised bladders. It is not the fear of another human
being exiting their body. Instead, they pursue one goal – preparation.
Whether it’s stocking up on diapers or painting a nursery in a soothing
color, these gals feel the need to prepare for their new arrival. For
me, it was childbirth classes…

Round One

We are at the hospital’s four-session course about childbirth. The room is chock full of rotund ladies and their husbands.

The
nurse who is teaching the class has grown children. I’d prefer to talk
to someone who carries recent scars… I mean memories… of the joy of
childbirth. To chafe me even more, she is wearing a waist-cinching
belt. I don’t think anyone in this room can imagine fitting in a belt
again. This woman is cruel. I want to run her over with my car.

(click title for more)

Originally published on For Me For Once

Jackson will be two soon. Samantha will be five in January. They are
the brightest parts of my life (along with my husband), and I can’t
remember my life without them. But I CAN, and do, remember being
pregnant with both of them. The time that I carried each of them was
sweet, fun, exciting, depressing, painful, overwhelming, scary,
life-changing and meaningful, all at once. Some days I look back on my
pregnancies with each of them and think “Dear God, how did I do that
twice?” and at other moments I wonder why everyone doesn’t have twelve.
For some reason I’m thinking a lot lately about being pregnant, or
rather NOT being pregnant, and how I feel about that, and I’ll tell you
why. (NO, it’s not because I am pregnant, so you can leave that thought
by the side of the road. Seriously. No seriously, knock it off - I am
NOT pregnant again. Fine, whatever. Think what you want.)

Here’s
why. Right now, Jackson is the age that Samantha was when we conceived
him. Just a couple of months before she turned two, we decided it might
be nice to give her a sibling fairly soon. I had always wanted my kids
to be two to three years apart, and I’m not even sure why. Part of me
wanted one child to be at least close to being out of diapers before
the next came along. Part of me wanted one who could at least bring me
a diaper for the other, if not actually change it. For some reason it
all seemed to center around diapers. That’s kind of jacked up, now that
I think about it. Hmm. Surely there must have been other reasons.

Whatever.
Regardless, we wanted them two to three years apart. And by “we” I mean
“me-and-Greg-who-showed-up-when-I-asked-him-to-with-sperm-at-the-ready”.

(click title for more)

Originally published on I Think We’re All Bozos on This Bus

Mom and Dad were industrious types, like their Irish-English ancestors before them. (Unfortunately, they became the end of the family line in that trait.) So it didn’t surprise me that they spent half a day picking grapes at a pick-your-own-grapes place shortly before I arrived for a visit. It didn’t even surprise me that they had picked a few 5-gallon buckets full, even though it was just the two of them at home then. Ten cents a pound! What more do you need to know?

Clearly, though, something had to be done with all those grapes before they went bad. So Dad and I embarked on our Make Your Own Raisins In the Back Yard project. The back yard in question was in Arizona, where it was well over 100 degrees, dry and sunny, so that was in our favor. All we had to do was figure out where we were going to put all the grapes while they turned into raisins.

Originally published on The Newborn Identity

A couple days ago I said that, thanks to Rigby, I had cared for Madeline flawlessly for the most part. I’m not going to say this statement was untrue, but I will do my best impression of a contract lawyer and direct you to the statement, “for the most part.” Before you get too worried please realize that no babies were harmed in this production. Nonetheless, I may have made one pretty bad mistake while caring for Maddie that, when I realized what I had done, made me tear up. Wait. The contract lawyer in me has advised me to revise that statement. I didn’t tear up…dudes never tear up unless “Field Of Dreams” comes on TBS…I just inexplicably found that wetness had appeared on my eyeballs.

So, as you may know, Maddie is off the bottom of the weight chart for her age not only because she was a preemie, but also because she has been adversely affected by the media’s tendency to glamorize women of nearly anorexic weights. Okay. Maybe it was mainly because she was a preemie, but I’m pretty sure that re-run of “The Simple Life” I once watched while feeding her didn’t help.

(click title for more)

Originally posted on: Xbox4NappyRash

Dear Spencer,

I know you are only one among millions down there,
but you’re the one I feel I have a connection with, the one I can talk
to. I see you as a leader among men. Well, semen at least.

We’ve been through a lot together, you, your buddies and me. Remember the first time we met? That was an eye opener, certainly was for my stuffed animals anyway.

Over
the next few years we had lot of good times, we met up with each other
at every opportune moment, and quite a few inopportune ones.

In fact, to date, I can only think of one single occasion where we met that wasn’t entirely pleasurable.

But things are changing…I’m not gonna butter you up, I’m gonna tell it to you straight. You need to get your act together down there and get your crew in order.

Lets look at the facts.

(click title for more)