It’s Friday. Which means the favorite clothes have been worn and the kids are reduced to bargaining with their dad over what they can and cannot wear. Normally, this back and forth is with Swee’Pea. I have often said that I could hand TheMonk a garbage bag with holes for arms and a head and he’d put it on with no argument.

But not today.

It’s threatening rain here in paradise – so our normal shorts and t-shirt attire is out of the question. Unfortunately, the entire week has been a bit chilly and TheMonk has worn all of his pants. I am skeptical when he tells me he has no pants left so I check his drawer. Sure enough, there is one pair of jeans in the drawer.

I pull the stylishly faded jeans out and hand them to TheMonk. “But Daddy,” he says. “I don’t like those jeans. When I put them on, they squeeze my booty too much.”

Upon closer inspection, I realize that these jeans, bought with love by Grandmother, are tapered and would probably fall into the “skinny jean” category of fashion.

“Okay, Buddy.” I laugh. “Lets dig some jeans out of the hamper to wear. I don’t want your booty to be squeezed.”

Now let’s just hope he doesn’t learn of the sagging jean trend. Then I’m really in trouble.

She sits on the chair in her Sunday best.  The chaos around her is the rest of us rushing to get ready for church services on this Easter Sunday.  She is oblivious to the chaos, however, as she quietly reads her book.

The book was a gift from the Easter Bunny and it’s a chapter book about Fancy Nancy and some mysteries.  Swee’Pea has yet to put it down.  As we leave for church she implores me to allow her to bring the book along.  While we want her to start listening to the service more, I acquiesce and allow her to bring it along knowing there will be time to kill before mass.

She reads it in the car to church and on the way home.  As I prepare lunch she is fervently bent over the book and I announce that lunch is almost ready and that she should find a good spot to stop reading.  She tells me, with a proud smile, that she has only two more pages.  Lunch is ready but I tell her that I have a bit more to do before lunch is served.  She smiles and buries her head into her book for the final push while I wander around the kitchen pretending I have things to do.

With a flourish, she is finished.  She closes the book and approaches the table.  “I’m done, Daddy” she says.  And she was.  Thirteen chapters in half a day at six years old.  I’m amazed at how big she is getting and I smile at her and tell her how proud I am of her.

Then we sit down for egg salad sandwiches and she tells me about the book.  I hope it’s the first of many book reports.

I am helping TheMonk get out of his car seat in a crowded parking lot.  Lovely wife is helping Swee’Pea and I know I will have to also get GirlyGirl out of her car seat momentarily.  I am always a bit nervous with the kids in a parking lot and I am focused on getting everyone out safely on into IKEA as quickly and safely as possible.

“Excuse me, Sir.” A voice beckons from the rear of our SUV.  “I am hungry and I was wondering if you could spare any money.”

I look over and see a young man with dirty clothes, looking at me.  Our eyes meet and I can see the look of hunger in his eyes.  Often, I question the authenticity of these types of requests.  Particularly from someone who is young and seemingly free of physical disabilities.  But on this day, I think differently.  I think differently because, for the first time, TheMonk is at my side.  I can feel his little eyes taking in the situation as I pull out my wallet and hand the young man a $1 bill.  “Good luck.” I say, because I can’t think of anything else that seems appropriate.  “Thank you.” he says, taking the bill and stuffing it into his pocket.  He wanders away, looking for others who may hear his plea.

I instinctively reach for TheMonk’s hand.  Finally, TheMonk speaks. “Daddy, why did he ask you for money?”

I look quickly into his eyes and I see concern etched with confusion.  “He asked me for money, Monkey, because he was hungry and needed money to buy food.”

“And why did you give it to him?” he asks.

“I gave it to him, Bud, because we are very fortunate to have the things we do and if I can help someone else who isn’t as fortunate, then I will help.”

TheMonk takes this in.  He takes my hand and walks over to his mother while I go to get GirlyGirl out of the car.

The moment is over.  But I hope the lesson stays.

GirlyGirl has been a roller.  Much like TheMonk was as a baby, GirlyGirl’s preferred method of locomotion has been rolling herself where she wants to go.  This method of transportation can be tedious and inexact at times and it was only a matter of time before GirlyGirl began contemplating other modes of travel.  And while it has been reported that she allegedly wanted her first trip in a straight line to be in a silver 1956 Porsche 356A Speedster, reality hit hard when she realized that not only could she not drive, her old man couldn’t pay for a 1956 tricycle.

So, she did the next best thing.  Combat crawl.

That’s right. GirlyGirl is a girl on a mission.  She sees what she wants and she’s off.  Knee, knee, elbow, elbow.   Knee, knee, elbow, elbow.   All she’s missing is a combat helmet and an assault rifle.  She skims across the floor, her baby belly cleaning the floor of dust and potentially lethal antique food items.  She has no fear.

Her parents, on the other hand?  Oh, yes.  Fear. Definitely fear.

It started out as a simple question as TheMonk and I walked down the halls of the YMCA that I run. “Daddy, what are those bananas for?” You see, the walls are currently covered in banana trees made of paper with each banana naming a current donor to our Annual Support Campaign fundraiser.

“Those are people who donated some of their money to our YMCA so that kids who don’t have any money can play sports or go to camp or take swim lessons.” I told him.

Evidently this stuck with him because later that night, as I was tucking him into bed, he announced to me that he had been thinking of the bananas and wanted to give some of his money from his piggy bank. Touched by this, I told him I would be happy to bring his donation to work. He then pledged to give the Y $1.25.

Swee’Pea, the next day, upon hearing of this, wanted to give too. She fished out $6.26 and handed it over to me so that she could help kids go to camp. TheMonk, in a moment of extreme altruism (or sibling rivalry, it’s hard to say which) matched Swee’Pea’s pledge. This morning, I proudly brought $12.52 to the Y on behalf of Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

I then mentioned this in an email to my board and staff and, to my surprise, over a dozen people have responded saying they will match the $12.52. One very generous donor said they would pledge $1,252 in honor of Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

As I write this, I’m humbled and proud of what my kids have done. They have not only done something to help their fellow friends, but they have inspired others to do so as well.

If you are equally inspired, would you can pledge any amount you would like (but $12.52 has a nice ring to it) by going here and filling out the online form. Thank you to all of you.

Having a baby the second time around is definitely different. The first time you have a baby (or, in truly heroic fashion, more than one baby) you do everything by the book. Your house becomes more sterile than an operating room. Anything that belongs to the baby that ends up on the floor must be sanitized – or burned. Binkies get boiled, bottles get warmed, baby books get filled in.

But with the second child? This child is lucky to be alive. This child should thank its lucky stars that after the first one (or two), that we didn’t just throw in the towel and admit that this is all we can handle. This child OWES us. So in that respect, the child gets the shaft. Of course it’s still incredibly loved but dirty binkies now get sucked on by the parent and popped back into the mouth, non-sterilized bottles go down cold and baby books (or blogs) get woefully neglected.

And while it’s easy to say that this child will just have to understand that us parents ARE JUST TRYING NOT TO DIE, the truth of the matter is that this child will grow up to be the tougher one. This is the child that won’t be anal retentive because, shoot, its parents let him juggle knives, for crying out loud. This is the child that, while probably having a hefty therapy bill by the time its 30, will at least be able to take a punch, be tougher and prove to the world that he or she can compete with anyone.

So, while the first (or two) will grow up knowing that running with scissors is bad, the baby will grow up daring the world to toss her some scissors and get the hell out of the way. Yes, she won’t have a baby book but she’ll be making history nonetheless.

And her immune system will kick ass.

The silence doesn’t last long in this house.  Two six-year-olds and their Daddy can cause some serious noise.  So it’s no surprise that GirlyGirl has taken an interest competing for attention.  It started out with some random shrieks and lots of babbling but in the past couple of weeks she’s begun to utter some words.

Now there is some debate within the household of what her first word was.  I claim it was DaDa and she has uttered it while approximating the sign for Daddy.  But she has only said it, admittedly, a few times and doesn’t say it to me every time she sees me.

The kitties, on the other hand, she will talk every single time.  Whenever she sees the quiet Nutmeg or the bold Socks, she gets excited and will say in a loud whisper, “Kit-teh.”  It probably doesn’t hurt that whenever she says this we bring her over to pet the kitty.

The other word she is beginning to say is “done.” She will announce it while nursing, mostly.  But I’m sure we’ll be hearing that word more and more.

As for kitty chasing?  Well, kitty loving is well documented on this blog.  But, I do believe, Swee’Pea has a run for her money.

Almost a year ago, I shared with you that my Father-in-Law was fighting cancer. Today, I am sad to say, that Mike passed away.

I am grateful that I was able to see him in early November when he was tired from treatments but not yet beaten. I am saddened that such a great man had to leave us before any of us were ready. I pray that he is at peace and that my mother-in-law is at peace knowing that Mike is no longer in pain and we were all so blessed to have known him.

Thank you, Mike for all that you have done for my family and for me, personally. I will never forget it and I will never forget you.

Rest in Peace, good sir. Rest in peace.

Just the other night, as I folded baby clothes on the floor, I was listening to music when our wedding song came on. And while I called you into the room and we had a fleeting dance and laugh, the moment has stuck with me over the past couple of days.

So much has changed since that first dance. If you had asked me that day what 11 years later would look like, there’s no way I could have painted a picture of a family as beautiful as ours. First twins. Then another one. And when I look at the beauty in our children, I am reminded of why I love you so much. You are a wonderful mother. So much so that you make me want to be a better father. Together, we have created something so wonderful and I thank God often that you chose me to go on this journey with.

Happy Valentines, my love. From your husband and your beautiful children.

You look beautiful. I mean, you always look beautiful, but on this evening, dressed in the gown your grandmother bought you on a whim, you look enchanting. Your mother has helped you with your hair and as dusk turns into evening, we head to your school for your first school dance.

On this night, you have the good fortune of having two wonderful (if I do say so myself) escorts. TheMonk of course, dressed in his finest plaid, and your Daddy. I have chosen slacks, a light green dress shirt and blazer to match. We are the best looking trio at the dance.

And as we enter the dark auditorium, the sparkles from the disco ball and the laser lights bouncing around the room as the bass pumps from a song I only vaguely know, I look to you and your brother to see how you will react. In the not-so-long-ago distance you would cling to me with uncertainty and, perhaps, shed a tear as you’d struggle to overcome your fear in search of having a good time. Try. I’d tell you. And eventually you would.

I expect more of the same on this night but as we enter the dance, you begin to sway and dance to music. We all start to dance, your brother, myself, you and a couple of neighbor friends and it is like you were born to do this. Before long, you are not even next to me as you rush over to dance with friends and I watch you from afar, your flowing white dress silhouetted against the disco lights. You throw your hands up over your head and jump up and down to the beat of the music. You are graceful and light on your feet and your smile lights up the darkness around you.

TheMonk and I dance close by but you are oblivious to us. And as I slowly come to the realization that you are growing up, little girl, my heart swells with pride while, at the same time, I am thankful for the darkness as I blink back the tears of longing. Longing for the days when my little girl needed her Daddy. But proud of the independent and strong girl you are becoming.

Before long, TheMonk joins you too and I am left alone to watch you both while bobbing my head to the beat. Nobody told me fatherhood would be like this. No one tells you that sooner than you think, the blink of an eye, actually, your baby grows up.

But I’ll be right over here if you need me.