It's always fair to question whether people know what they're talking about

More nightmare fuel from the AI Blog Post Image Generator. The eyes are just a little too wide, the pupils a little too small.

One problem with the Internet (among many) is that everyone has a voice, but relatively few have credibility.

That is to say, you can't go far wrong ignoring the vast majority of what you read online. And I'm not just talking about the wacky social theories or the laughably partisan political stuff, either. I mean just about everything.

Including this blog.

A few months ago I worked with a brilliant guy named Brian Skillen and his team on ways to increase sales and visibility of my book. They knew exactly what they were doing, and to the extent I followed their advice, I undoubtedly ended up selling more paperback and electronic copies of "5 Kids, 1 Wife."

The biggest thing the experience gave me, though, was clarity around who I am (and am not) as a writer, what I have to offer, and why I write in the first place.

I learned from Brian and Co. that non-fiction books that sell well tend to do so because they help a reader along his/her individual journey. They solve a problem or provide a way forward with a relevant issue or challenge.

In short, they answer the reader's eternal question of "what's in it for me?"

Brian suggested the best route for me would be to position "5 Kids, 1 Wife" as a practical – if somewhat humorous and even tongue-in-cheek – guide to parenting. Lots of people want advice on how to raise their kids, and who better to get advice from than a guy who raised five of them?

In theory, this makes sense.

But here's the thing: My kids turned out pretty well despite me. I really don't know what to tell people when they ask for parenting advice.

Honestly, I just kind of stumbled my way through it, and thankfully it ended up working out. I'm simply not an expert when it comes to being a dad.

Over time, I've come to realize that what I offer up here on the blog and in the book is not practical instruction, but really entertainment. It's just me writing goofy stuff for the fun of it and hoping you'll come along for the ride.

So if it ever seems like I'm offering serious (and clearly unsolicited) advice about being a parent, a spouse, a friend or anything else, remember I don't really know what I'm talking about. Like most people who create content on the Internet, I can be safely disregarded.

My only hope is that, when I write about something stupid I've done or I make another painful dad joke, you will chuckle for a second and then go on with your day feeling a wee bit happier.

That is, in the end, all I can really give you.

Two cats, two rats: Our dwindling household pet population

Just as the number of children living in our house has fallen over the last few years, so too has the number of non-human animals.

We peaked at five children in 2006, that much I know, but I don't remember when our menagerie reached its highest point. I want to say it was about that same time we had something like 10 or 15 different creatures in our care.

For many years we owned five cats. I won't whine here about the fact that I was solely responsible for cleaning their litter boxes and feeding them every day, though I'm afraid I just did.

We also had various rodents, from chinchillas and guinea pigs to hamsters and mice. And there were fish, as I recall, along with a couple of rats.

There are two possible reactions when you tell people you have rats as pets, by the way. One is, "Oh, they're so cute! I love rats!" The other, more common one is, "WHAT?!? RATS?!?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"

I never knew this, but it turns out rats are in fact fun and affectionate. They don't have the greatest reputation, what with the bubonic plague thing and all (though they really get a bum rap for that). But they have a lot going for them.

Rats comprise 50% of our current household pet roster. Jack bought two a month ago and named them Velma and Daphne in an admirable tribute to the Scooby Doo gang. He keeps them in a penthouse-like cage in his room. I have never held them, and have in fact only seen them maybe three times, but they seem nice enough.

Our two other current pets are cats Ginny and Molly. As recently as a year and a half ago, they were somewhat overshadowed by their elder brothers Fred, George and Charlie. That was until the three boys succumbed to various feline diseases, one after the other. At least two of those deaths were cancer-related, which is a common thing in older cats.

So now it's two cats and two rats. I miss Fred, George and Charlie, but I'll admit I enjoy scooping fewer litter boxes and filling fewer food bowls every morning. Ginny and Molly do throw up occasionally, but they don't pee in random places like the boys would sometimes do.

One thing on which Terry and I agree is that we are not accepting any new cats into our house. No matter how cute the kitten, no matter how desperate their situation, we are no longer the suckers we once were for homeless kitties.

The same goes for any other living thing, furry or otherwise, that wants to take up residence with us. If I have my way, the "no vacancy" sign outside of 30025 Miller Avenue will be permanently lit.

The little things that keep us going every day

 

My youngest son Jack drew this picture, which I have hanging next to my desk at work. I don't know when he drew it, but he's 15 now, so it must have been five years ago or so.

It is one of those little things that make me happy. "Best Dad Ever" is a wonderful sentiment, obviously, but he even personalized it by putting it on a coffee mug.

He knows his caffeine-addicted father well.

I take a moment to look (and smile) at this drawing every day I'm in the office. It makes me think not only of Jack, but of my whole family, who are a continual blessing to me...even when one of them fails to wipe down the counter after making themselves lunch.

There are a lot of big events and milestones that comprise our lives, but I like to think it's the small stuff like this that really sustains us. Or at least it does for me.

If you'll excuse me, this dad has to go get himself a cup of coffee.

Do you like your first name? I'm always surprised by the number of people who don't.

I have always liked that I'm named Scott. It's a good, solid guy's name, as far as I'm concerned. Not too popular (it was a top 20 name in the 1970s, but never ranked high on the list before or since) and not too, shall we say, exotic.

My middle name is Patrick, which I also like. I wouldn't mind it as a first name, though I would insist people call me "Patrick" and not "Pat." Big difference.

It's interesting to me the number of people who don't like their first names or who, at best, are apathetic about it. When I learn that about someone, I always ask what they would change their name to if they could, and in most cases they have a very quick answer, like they've given this a lot of thought.

Legally speaking, of course, there's little standing in the way of them changing their names to something they like better, but the hassle usually far outweighs any benefit from being able to sign a check as "Ace X. Studburger," or whatever.

I've posted on this blog the list of names I wouldn't mind having, if for any reason I was forced to change my name. If you don't feel like clicking on that link (and really, who could blame you?), my five approved alternative names are Bruce, Tim, Dave, Hank, and Kai.

"Hank" and "Kai" are surprise entries, no doubt, but I would be fine with either.

As I also explain in that post from 2013, my dad wanted to name me "D.J.," though it wouldn't have stood for anything. Just "D.J." Mom overruled him, however, and "Scott" it was.

Incidentally, "Patrick" apparently came from a guy with whom my dad used to drink down at the Hob Nob. I don't think I ever met him, but as a rule, the drunks at the Hob Nob were all pretty nice people, so I'm sure he was lovely.

The smell of pipe tobacco, four decades later

You know what they say about certain smells triggering the deepest memories? It's true, in my experience, and recently I was powerfully reminded of it.

I've told you how I go out walking very early most mornings, which generally means I don't come across many people. I was walking around 5:30 in the morning the other day when the scent of burning pipe tobacco suddenly filled my head.

Someone nearby was clearly smoking a pipe. I surmised it was someone standing on the porch of one of the houses I was walking past, though it was still so dark I couldn't make out anyone.

No matter, though, as that smell instantly transported me back to a very specific time in the late 1970s. I would wake up on a Saturday morning and go into the kitchen, and almost inevitably my dad would be sitting at the table playing solitaire (the real kind, non-electronic) and smoking his pipe.

He kept the tobacco in a zip-up leather pouch. Sometimes I would open the pouch and take a big whiff because I loved the smell of it. It didn't smell quite as good when it burned, but it still wasn't nearly as unpleasant as the unavoidable stench of cigarettes that was seemingly everywhere back then.

I also associate a certain sound with that smell—the sound of shuffling cards. Dad had a lot of experience playing cards, so he was a very good shuffler.

Shuffling cards and pipe smoke. Those were the Saturday morning sensory soundtrack of my youth. For a few seconds as I walked, I was taken back to that time.

My dad has been gone more than 20 years, but as far as I was concerned, he was right there with me. It was 1978, and the only two things ahead of me that day were a morning of cartoons and an afternoon playing with my friends.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it was nice. In a moment I snapped back to reality and turned my attention back to the World War I podcast to which I was listening. The rest of the walk was that much more pleasant, though.

Heartfelt thanks to the person who was smoking that pipe. It's not a healthy habit, but I'll admit, you made my day.

I was Daddy. Now I am Dad.

When I launched this blog back in 2011, it was titled "They Call Me Daddy."

After I took a hiatus and re-launched it, it became "They Still Call Me Daddy."

Then, a few years ago, I went with the more self-descriptive "5 Kids, 1 Wife."

What I only just recently noticed, though, is that the blog's meta tag search description still reflected the old names. Some of my posts on Facebook include this short description of the blog:

"A father of five's account of life as a husband, PR professional, and of course, a daddy."

The part about "daddy" doesn't really make sense anymore since the blog's title has changed, so I edited the description simply to say "and of course, a dad."

It also doesn't make sense anymore because I no longer have anyone calling me Daddy.

To all of my children, I'm just "Dad."

Well, Jared calls us "Scott" and "Terry," but that's only because he's sarcastically funny like me.

The last one to call me Daddy was Jack, who logically enough is our youngest. I think he stopped using that moniker once he turned 9 or so.

When I hear "Dad," I think of my own dad. Because that's what I called him.

He called me "Bear," by the way. Or "Slug." I don't know that he ever really explained the origin of either name to me. That was just what he called me and I never thought anything of it. You can literally count on one hand the number of times in my life I ever heard him refer to me as "Scott."

Anyway, the Daddy-to-Dad and Mommy-to-Mom transition is an unheralded milestone in the parenting journey. And maybe it's unheralded because no one wants to admit their kids are growing up so fast or that they themselves are getting older.

I'm OK with it, I guess. I often miss the Daddy days, but not the associated diaper changes and spilled drink clean-up that went with it.

All things considered, this dad is good with "Dad."

Death and taxes: You learn to live with both

That old saying about death and taxes can take on new meaning the older you get.

Well, the death part does anyway. Taxes are taxes. You may choose to complain about them (which is pretty useless), but you either pay them or go to prison. I choose to pay them.

Just recently Terry and I filed our federal, state, and local/regional tax forms, as we do most years in early to mid-February. We like to get it done early, and for a long time I've used TurboTax to make the job easier. I'm a big fan and recommend it to almost anyone.

As for death, well...it's about as preventable as taxes, and even more useless to rail against.

I don't mean to be Davey Downer here (NOTE: Davey is Debbie's younger brother), but it's coming for all of us. First it gets those you know and love. Then it comes for you.

That's just the way it is.

Have a great day, everyone!

Seriously, though, death doesn't worry me so much. Whenever it's my time, it will be my time. In the overarching scheme of things, the length of my life on this earth doesn't really matter all that much.

But that doesn't mean I don't get a little sad over the reality of it sometimes.

I know people who have experienced far greater loss than me, but I've now lost my mom, my dad, my mother-in-law, and one of my sisters.

That sister, Judi, would have turned 68 years old today.

She seemed so youthful that a 68-year-old Judi is a little hard for me to comprehend. I'm sure she would have made 68 look good, though.

She also would have continued to love and spoil my kids in that way only the best aunts manage to do. My sister Debbie has more than picked up the slack, but I do miss Judi whenever my kids experience any sort of milestone.

Graduations, marriage, first jobs, etc. As our children have experienced these life events over the last 11 1/2 years, they have done so without Aunt Judi there to celebrate with them.

That's the part that hurts the most, I think.

Same for my dad, and more recently, my mom and mom-in-law. I wish they were all still here for so much of this stuff.

Something happens and you think, "Oh, I need to call and tell Mom." And then there's the dull, painful realization that Mom isn't there to take the call anymore.

Part of me gets sad over that, and part of me simply sighs and moves on.

What else can we do? It's either accept it or allow ourselves to be paralyzed by sadness and grief.

Mom wouldn't have wanted that. Nor would Dad, Judi, or mom-in-law Judy.

I'm getting old, I guess.

But for the time being, at least I'm still here. And so are my brother Mark and my sister Debbie.

And that should count for something.

Here's what I think Dad might want for Father's Day today

Hey, it's Father's Day, so I just wanted to pop in for an off-the-normal-schedule post to offer up a thought...

If you haven't bought Dad anything for his big day today (assuming you're even planning to get him something in the first place), I have a suggestion for a gift that will cost you nothing.

And please understand I'm not saying that all fathers want this. You can't say all dads want a certain thing any more than you can say all moms want a certain thing. Everyone is different.

But from my experience, I think there's a good chance the dad in your life will enjoy this particular present. And it's this:

Leave him alone.

Just for an hour or so. Leave him alone. Let him do what he wants or go wherever he wants to go. By himself. In a noiseless environment. Just be quiet and leave him alone.

That's all. Dad wouldn't mind some alone time. It's none of your business what he does with it. He may very likely just sit on the couch with his hand in his pants. Doesn't matter. The key factors here are:

• Leave Dad alone
• Be quiet
• Don't ask him what he's doing

Do we have that, kids?

Happy Father's Day to all of my fellow dads. And to the rest of you, just leave us alone for a few minutes, OK? Great, thanks.

Having a son when you didn't even know you wanted one

By the time my son Jared was born exactly 15 years ago today, I had already determined I was destined to have only daughters.

And I was perfectly fine with that.

Jared has two older sisters, which I guess was enough for me to assume I was biologically hardwired to produce only female offspring. I loved, loved, loved having a pair of daddy's girls to come home to every day, so a family of daughters was a nice prospect.

Which was why I was stunned when the doctor yanked Jared from the womb and announced, "It's a boy." To which I answered (this is true), "No, it's not!"

I said it the same way you would say, "Oh, come on!" or "You're kidding!" Before that moment, it honestly had never seriously occurred to me that we might have a boy.

The main reason I didn't know, of course, was that we never found out the gender of any of our babies before they were born. That surprise at the moment of birth was something I'll never forget (five times over). But just because we did it, incidentally, doesn't mean I think everyone should. Whatever you decide is cool with me.

Anyway, my attitude definitely flew in the face of conventional wisdom, which says that all fathers long for sons more than anything else. That wasn't true of me at all. I just wanted happy, healthy children. Whether they were boys or girls didn't matter all that much, truthfully.

But from the moment I became the father of a son, I loved it. More to the point, I loved him. Intensely.

My own father died when Jared was about a year old, and many times since I've looked at my boy and thought of his grandpa. When you have a child of your own gender, you start making all sorts of emotional connections between your childhood and theirs, and your dual role as both a parent and a son/daughter.

Not long after I got married and moved out of the house, my dad told me one of the things he missed was having someone around to talk to about sports. My mom roots for the Indians and Browns, but she'll never host her own sports talk show.

My dad and I would sometimes watch games together on TV, particularly baseball. He used to be a fast-pitch softball pitcher, so he had an uncanny ability to predict what a pitcher was going to throw before he threw it.

That always amazed me until he taught me how to think like a pitcher, then I could sometimes predict the pitches like him. Not as well, mind you, but pretty well.

Jared has spent some time away from home this summer at church and band camps, and it didn't take me long to miss having a boy of my own with whom to celebrate an Indians victory. He and I bond over sports. We talk about other things, of course, but sports is our common ground, as it was between me and my dad.

The circle of life, I guess. At first we're the one who's missed, then 20 years later we're the ones doing the missing.

In a few short years, my "little" (6-foot-1) boy will go away to college, and I hate that I already know I'll miss him terribly. So I guess all there is to do is to appreciate him while he's still around.

Happy birthday, big man. And, as I think we'll both agree, go Tribe.

Five first names I wouldn't mind having

I like my first name. Always have. But if I had to change it, here are five alternatives I wouldn't mind:

(1) BRUCE: Seems like a solid, manly name. Maybe because it reminds me of Brut aftershave, a bottle of which could often be found in our house when I was growing up in the 70s. The bottle was green plastic, which probably spoke to the quality of the product inside, but I thought it smelled nice. And some bottles of Brut came with a cool silver medallion. I would wear the Brut medallion today if given the chance.

(2) TIM: Tims are good people. You don't run across a lot of annoying Tims. And if you do, they're most likely a "Timothy." Big difference. (NOTE: In no way am I implying that guys named "Timothy" are necessarily annoying. Just some of them. If you're named Timothy and you're reading this blog, you're probably not annoying.)

(3) DAVE: The Tim Rule applies here, too. I have good associations with the name Dave. Like Dave Matthews, for instance. Seems like a good guy. Someone you'd want to hang out with. Or my brother-in-law Dave. He's a good guy. Or former Cleveland Indians manager Dave Garcia, who according to Wikipedia is 92 years old and still going strong. Apparently Daves live a long time, which is a plus.

(4) HANK: A dark horse candidate. I used to associate Hanks with people missing most of their teeth. But then the TV show "Royal Pains" came along, and now I think Hank is kind of hip. Still, it's hard to separate "Hank" from Hank Williams, and it remains my go-to generic hick name. But it's still an up-and-comer. (By the way, have you noticed so far that all of these are short, one-syllable names? So is "Scott." I'm just lazy enough to want a first name that doesn't require a great deal of effort when writing it out. Let's see if #5 bucks the trend...)

(5) KAI: Not only did we stick with the one-syllable pattern, we actually went back to the three-letter first name. "Kai" is a cool name. It's actually a relatively common name in several different cultures, most notably in Finland. I associate "Kai" with Kai Haaskivi, a Finn who played professional indoor soccer here in Cleveland back in the 80s and early 90s. "Kai" also means "probably" in Finnish, which is fitting because I would "probably" be the coolest person on the planet if my name was Kai.

HONORABLE MENTION - D.J.: My dad wanted to name me D.J. As he explained it, it wouldn't have stood for anything. Just the letters "D" and "J." I think I would have liked that, but he was overruled by my mom. And as we've mentioned before, the pregnant woman always gets veto power over name suggestions. It's OK, Mom. I really do like Scott...

At the old ball game

Getting emotional about baseball is one of the worst cliches of the middle-aged man. Many of us get all blubbery about it for a variety of reasons, the most common of which is that it was the one thing that connected us to our fathers.

That's very true for me, though it wasn't the only thing my dad and I bonded over. We shared a common love for electronic gadgets, stand-up comedy and boxing, among other things. But baseball was pretty high on the list, too.

My dad played years and years of softball, both fast pitch and slow pitch. I was bat boy for a team in the 70s for which my dad was player-manager. Emphasis on "manager" there, as he would only play when absolutely necessary. He also spent years as a softball umpire and fanatical follower of the sport, so he and I spent a lot of time at softball diamonds.

One of the great things about going to softball tournaments with him was the concession stand. He would pretty much buy me whatever I wanted from the concession stand, though fortunately for him I was usually more interested in playing in the dirt or exploring the park.

This, you understand, was back when no one really thought twice about letting an 8- or 9-year-old run off on their own in a public park. You couldn't do that now, and maybe my dad shouldn't have done it then. But he did, and I was fine. And the memories are incredible.

When it comes to baseball, what I really remember about my dad is going to Cleveland Indians games with him. We went to quite a few Indians games back in The Day, and they were almost all bad. Seriously, the Tribe was horrible in those days. Going to a game and seeing them win was a rare and enjoyable treat.

Like a lot of guys (and girls, too, I'm sure), I have especially vivid memories of my first major league game. It was May 1978, and the Indians were playing the Baltimore Orioles. Getting the chance to actually go to old Cleveland Municipal Stadium was exciting, but the undisputed highlight was walking up the tunnel and seeing that field for the first time.

Oh my, was that something. TVs weren't exactly high-definition back then, so I had no idea how green and neatly kept the grass was. And the dirt was so well-manicured. And there was Andre Thornton, my favorite player. HE WAS ACTUALLY STANDING 50 FEET AWAY FROM ME. So were Duane Kuiper, Buddy Bell, Rick Manning and all of the other players on what was, for most everyone else in the world, a mostly forgettable team.

But they were MY team. And baseball at the time was MY game. And I was there with MY dad, who of course bought me a hot dog and a soda. I had such a great time.

You're probably expecting this story to end with an Indians loss, which in the context of my career as a Tribe fan would make perfect sense.  But they actually won. If I remember correctly, Kuiper had a couple of hits and the Indians chased Baltimore starter Dennis Martinez from the game early, like in the third or fourth inning, and we won, 7-5.

Ironically, Martinez would come to Cleveland and pitch for the Indians an amazing 17 years later as a 40-year-old veteran. He was key to the Indians' 1995 World Series run. But that particular night in the spring of 1978, Dennis lost, and there was at least one 8-year-old boy and his father in the stands who couldn't have been happier.

I still love baseball, of course. The Indians still are, and always will be, my favorite team. They haven't won a World Series since 1948, but year after year I put my faith in them, thinking the Law of Averages will serve up a championship at some point in my lifetime (when in fact that makes no mathematical or statistical sense at all...there's no guaranteeing the Indians will EVER win another World Series, in my lifetime or otherwise).

My dad passed away 12 years ago, so it has been a long time since I got the chance to go to a game with him. I miss him. And come to think of it, given how relatively few Indians games we get to these days, I miss baseball, too. Which I suppose is OK. The best games are always the ones with the best memories attached to them anyway.

My favorite joke

Almost everyone has a favorite joke they like to tell. Mine happens to be the same as my father's. He used to tell this one in slightly different form, but I stumbled across it this way on the Internet and decided to post it as is:

There once was a monastery that was very strict. Following a vow of silence, no one was allowed to speak at all. But there was one exception to this rule: Every 10 years, the monks were permitted to speak just two words.

After spending his first 10 years at the monastery, one monk went to the abbot. "It has been 10 years," said the abbot. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"

"Bed... hard..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the abbot.

Ten years later, the monk returned to the abbot's office. "It has been 10 more years," said the abbot. "What are the two words you would like to speak?"

"Food... stinks..." said the monk.

"I see," replied the abbot.

Yet another 10 years passed and the monk once again met with the abbot, who asked, "What are your two words now, after these 10 years?"

"I... quit!" said the monk.

"Well, I can see why," replied the abbot. "All you ever do is complain."

I still laugh when I hear that joke. Every single time. I'm easy that way.