Guys, here are three reasons you should just listen to what your wife says

It's time for our monthly Blog Rerun. This post was originally published 10 years ago on May 22, 2015. I still find it to be true.

I've been married for nearly 23 years (EDITOR'S NOTE: That was in 2015. It's now nearly 33 years.) Not as long as many people I know, but longer than some. I'm occasionally asked how Terry and I make it work, and when it's a guy/husband doing the asking, I always tell him one thing:

It's largely because I just do what Terry tells me to do.

Seriously. 98% of the time, if she says something, I pretty much follow her lead. And it works.

Here's why:

1. She's smart: I'm not saying your wife is necessarily smarter than you, though my experience suggests she probably is. Regardless, if your wife is like mine, she's pretty sharp and will very rarely steer you wrong.
   
   
2. She has thought this through: Chances are, whatever big decision you're considering or whatever task you're facing, your wife has given this far more thought than you have. This isn't universal, of course, and many guys I know are very thoughtful in their decision-making. But by and large, my wife spends more time thinking about important issues than I do, from how we raise our children to whether or not we should move to Florida. So in most cases, her argument is more well-reasoned then mine, seeing as how I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about hockey and apples. In cases where hockey and/or apples are important elements of the issue at hand, she allows me to make the final call. In all other instances, I defer to her.
   
   
3. There's less effort involved on your part: Maybe this just applies to me, but I'm generally looking for the path of least resistance. And given items #1 and #2 above, I think you'll agree that your wife's judgment is likely to be sound. Therefore, you don't need to go down the path upon which she has already trodden. Go along with whatever she says and you have that much more time and energy to dwell upon your own personal version of hockey and apples, whatever it might be.

We go to a lot of hockey games, often more for connections with family and friends than the actual hockey

We have been full season ticket holders for all 18 seasons the Cleveland Monsters hockey team has existed.

While the Monsters are a minor league team (playing in the American Hockey League, which in baseball terms is equivalent to the Class AAA level), they play in a major league facility in Rocket Mortgage Fieldhouse, and they put on a major league game presentation.

Even when the team itself isn't playing so well, the experience of going to the games is still fun.

What I've come to find out during these 18 seasons, though, is that while the hockey game is the focus, the benefit has a lot more to do with human relations than anything else.

For one thing, it has given Terry and me plenty of one-on-one time with our kids. We've always had two season tickets, so for years it was usually the two of us going together or one of us plus a child.

Nowadays, with the kids all grown, they often take the tickets themselves and attend with their significant other or a friend.

Still, we have lots of great memories of attending those games and cheering on the Monsters together.

Beyond our family, we've also bonded with the great group of fellow season ticket holders (officially "Monsters Hockey Club members") who sit around us in section C108.

Right next to us is Mike, a retired anesthesia tech who is always quick to laugh and takes genuine interest in what's going on with our family.

Behind us are Dave and Karen. Dave is a retired postal worker, while Karen is an artist whose talent amazes me. Like me, Dave is a fountain of random (and generally not entirely useful) knowledge, and we often trade baseball trivia questions while watching the hockey game.

To Mike's left is Perry, one of the most genuinely nice and hilarious people you will ever meet. Perry survived a medical scare a few years ago, and we're all grateful to have him with us on game nights.

In front of us are Anthony and his family, who like us have used Monsters games as fun nights out together over the years. To their right are Scott and Dart. Scott spends a lot of time in Las Vegas these days, so we don't see him as much as used to, but Dart is a regular and a graduate of Brown University, so he's both smart AND funny.

I only see these people at hockey games, but it's like we're old friends. Anyone who has ever been a long-term season ticket holder for any sport knows what I'm talking about.

Whether or not the Monsters win on a given night, the time spent with family and friends is always a victory regardless.

Hockey, Jared and me: Bonding over sports with your kid

That's my son Jared at his office in St. Petersburg, Florida. It's an awfully big office.

All of my children have been involved in athletics of one kind or another, but only one is what you might call a "sports fan" like me.

That would be my son Jared. Since he was very young, our main connection has been sports. I coached him in t-ball and youth soccer, and over the years we have attended baseball, basketball, hockey and football games, and have made visits together to three professional sports halls of fame.

I assume this had at least some influence on Jared's choice of profession. He works for the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team as Coordinator, Baseball Information & Communications, which means he spends a lot of time researching, writing and disseminating stats and information about the Rays to media and other stakeholders.

A lot of fathers and sons (and mothers and sons, and mothers and daughters, and fathers and daughters) connect through sports, whether it's competing or spectating or both. For us, most of the memories revolve around hockey.

For example, we're in our 17th year as season ticket holders for the Cleveland Monsters of the American Hockey League. Jared and I have probably attended more Monsters games over that time than anyone else in the family.

We have also travelled to Columbus, Pittsburgh and Buffalo to watch National Hockey League games, and we even co-own a fantasy hockey team together.

There was also a stretch during the winter of 2010 when I would take Jared to a nearby ice rink every Sunday afternoon so he could learn to skate and play hockey from a coach. While he didn't take up the sport competitively after that, I do believe it deepened his appreciation of and love for the game.

All of this is to say that, while he and I talk about a lot more than just hockey and sports in general, that's where our strongest ties have been formed. We have cheered together for various hapless Cleveland teams, mourned playoff losses, and celebrated the Cavaliers' glorious NBA title in 2016.

Next month – one month from today, as a matter of fact – I will join him in Florida as we attend an NHL game in Tampa between the host Lightning and my beloved Ottawa Senators. It was a Christmas gift from Jared and his girlfriend Lyndsey, and I think it was a perfect one.

He's a good guy, that Jared. And an excellent fantasy hockey co-owner.

Most of all, he's my best sports friend.

The fun dynamic of having adult children

The AI Blog Post Image Generator still has trouble with eyes (inconsistent coloring, rampant cases of strabismus, etc.), but it got the job done here...I think.

In less than three months, our oldest child Elissa will turn 30. I'm not sure how well she'll handle it, but it's coming.

As a parent, it's natural to experience mixed feelings over such a milestone. Having a kid in her 30s can understandably make you feel somewhat ancient.

I, however, am embracing it. It turns out having adult kids is enjoyable...a lot more enjoyable than I realized it would be.

Like when I go out with one of my children, I sometimes buy them a beer. Just yesterday I was giving them juice in a sippy cup. Now we're sharing overpriced IPAs.

Or when we're gathered around the table for a holiday meal or someone's birthday dinner, they're very free with details of some of the things they used to do as teenagers, the details of which Mom and Dad were not privy to at the time.

(Admittedly, as fun and funny as these stories are, there are moments when I think, "Oh man...I'm glad I didn't know any of this back then.")

A few weeks ago I spent an evening at the hockey game with my daughter Melanie, and I loved hearing her talk about the ways she's navigating adult life. She is so self-aware, so disciplined and so hard working that in some ways I can't believe this is the same person who, just 10 years ago, could never be counted on to remember all of her soccer equipment on game days and constantly needed someone to bring a pair of cleats or a set of shin guards to her at the very last minute.

You know conceptually that your kids are going to grow up, and you hope they'll mature and become independent, responsible adults. When it actually happens, though, it can catch you pleasantly off guard.

You think to yourself, "Wow, I not only love this 27-year-old person, I like hanging out with her. We did something right with this one!"

It's a feeling of vindication you sometimes believe will never come when you're knee-deep in raising toddlers and feel like everything you do is wrong.

Stay strong, young parents. You're doing a much better job than you think you are. When those kids of yours grow up, you'll see what I mean.

Five knickknacks that have followed me from job to job and office to office for the last 20 years

I'm always interested to see how people who work in offices (at their place of business or remotely at home) decorate their desks, cabinets and bookshelves.

Photos are most common, it seems, and for good reason. I have a photo of Terry and me on my desk that I look at often and that serves to remind me why I do what I do 40-50 hours a week for the Materion Corporation.

But beyond the pics of kids, spouses and significant others, there are other little bits of office decor I always find fascinating. They provide some insight into what people value, what they do with their free time, and in general what their personalities are like.

I have worked in an office setting since 1988, if you want to call newspaper newsrooms "office settings." They are unlike traditional business offices in that they're generally loud, sometimes frenetic, and usually filled with what could most politely be described as irreverent conversation. I worked in newsrooms from '88 to '96 before moving into more genteel offices.

Since 2002 I've had something like 10 different offices at six companies. Each time I've switched jobs or undergone an office move, there is a core set of items I've smothered in bubble wrap and carried from place to place. They have stayed with me for most or all of these past two decades, and I can't imagine an office without them.

Draw whatever conclusions you will about me from these longtime office knickknacks:

The Laughing Buddha

In December 2005, I spent two full weeks in China meeting with journalists to pitch story ideas on behalf of the clients I represented as a vice president at Cleveland public relations firm Dix & Eaton. I picked this up at a Shanghai market for what I'm sure was a criminally low price, as the dollar was particularly strong against the Chinese yuan at the time. There's something about him that makes me happy, and I've always made a point of putting him in parts of my office where I'm sure to see him.

The Mexican Porcupine

Speaking of Dix & Eaton, about a year and a half after I joined the firm, we moved from Downtown Cleveland's Erieview Tower maybe a half-mile away to the 200 Public Square building. As people were cleaning out their Erieview offices, there was a table where you could discard stuff you didn't want to take with you, just in case others might be interested in it. This little guy was placed on that table (by whom I don't know) and I snatched him up for no other reason than I thought he was cool. A few of the toothpick quills have broken over the years, but he's still going strong and watches me all day long as I work.

The Globe

I always wanted a globe, and one Christmas Terry gave me this little beauty. It serves no practical purpose, but then again, what true knickknack does? Actually I take that back. In 2019, a day before we were scheduled to fly to Australia for a cruise, I spun the globe to North America then spun it to Australia, and it was the first time I realized how truly distant the two continents are from one another. It made the 15-hour flight from Los Angeles to Sydney a little more understandable, so I guess the globe provided some benefit in that one instance.

The Puck

I am an ardent fan of the National Hockey League's Ottawa Senators. Have been since they came back into the league (following a 70-year absence) in the early 90s. I think I bought this puck and cheap plastic display case in Niagara Falls when I took one of our kids there way back when. It's a good conversation piece when someone asks the valid question, "How does a lifelong Clevelander become a fan of the Ottawa Senators?"

The Appalachian Trail Rock

Some years ago, my neighbor Tim did some hiking on portions of the Appalachian Trail. Knowing that a through-hike of the trail is a likely-never-to-happen bucket list item of mine, he very graciously brought back a rock for me, just so I could have a little piece of the 2,150-mile pathway I would love to traverse at some point before I get too old. I always thought that was really nice of him, and it serves as a reminder that we all need to have dreams.

The one athletic skill I wish I had? Being a good ice skater.

In that brief time of my life during which I competed in scholastic sports (7th through 12th grades), I quickly became aware of my own limitations as an athlete.

I had speed. I was fast, which is useful in a variety of sports.

Until my freshman year of high school or thereabouts, I also had height. I reached my final adult height in 7th grade, then I just stopped growing. If you know me now, you will laugh at the fact that I played center on our middle school basketball teams.

I also had some small degree of power, as evidenced mainly in how far I could hit a baseball or softball, or run over a smaller defensive back in football.

And that was about it.

The list of the things I lacked athletically was far longer. I have never been particularly coordinated, I wasn't born with natural upper-body strength (and never had much desire to put in the work to develop it), and I wasn't blessed with the type of body positioning and spatial awareness that most sports stars have in abundance.

My 8th-grade football and basketball coach, the legendary Mr. Lowell Grimm, once said to me, "Tennant, you're an enigma."

And he was right. I am not only left-handed, I am very left-handed. To the point that I was far more comfortable as a running back carrying the ball on plays that ran to the left than those that ran to the right. In basketball, I could grab rebounds and occasionally block shots, but I was lucky to sink one out of every 10 free throws.

So when I stepped into a pair of ice skates for the first time in my life at the age of 22, I was kind of hoping it was something that would play to my strengths and cover up my weaknesses.

It was not.

Ice skating (and doing it well) is an amazingly impressive feat to me. I can get moving on skates and keep moving, and I can kind of do the snowplow stop if I'm not moving too fast and have sufficient distance in front of me.

But I cannot skate backwards, I cannot do crossovers, and I cannot do the sideways hockey stop. I have tried all of these things over and over and over, and I simply do not have the ability to pull them off.

I think that's why I like watching hockey so much. Even after 30 years of intently following the game, I can't get over how well those guys skate. They make it look effortless.

I make it look painful.

On the plus side, however, I'll bet none of them were ever as proud as I was to be called an "enigma."

I'm totally fine if you're not a hockey fan, but if you let me take you to a game, I bet you would be

There are two types of hockey fans (two types of fans of any sport, really):

(1) Those who love the game and are very, very concerned that you love it, too
(2) Those who love the game and couldn't care less whether you like it or not

I am of the latter tribe. It doesn't affect me in the least if your general attitude is "Hockey? Meh."

I happen to think hockey (ice hockey, as a point of clarification for my international friends) is a beautiful game. I know soccer has appropriated that title, "the beautiful game," but for my money, it should be attached to hockey.

It is a sport that combines speed, skill, and equal parts mental and physical toughness. It looks stunningly easy until you try lacing up the skates yourself. Once you do, you will be forever in awe of the men and women who play the game at the highest level, stopping and starting on a dime, skating to the point of exhaustion on every shift, handling a five-ounce rubber puck as if it were glued to their stick, and doing all of that while hitting (and being hit) at speeds upwards of 20 miles per hour or more.

It is not a sport for the faint of heart, and we're not just talking about the players. If you're going to watch hockey with any regularity, you will see blood. Oh yes, blood will be spilled. Sometimes it's an accidental high stick to the face. Or a fast-moving puck to the teeth. Or an elbow that hits just right and splits an eyebrow.

I'm not saying this happens every time a player steps onto the ice, or even every game. It doesn't. But it is an extremely physical game played by a breed of athlete whose grit and persistence often defies ready comprehension. The intensity with which these athletes play greatly increases the risk of sustaining physical damage.

It is not uncommon, for instance, for a hockey player to suffer an injury that would immediately sideline an athlete from another sport, get stitched up, and be back on the ice only minutes later. It's part of the culture of the game: You must be there for your teammates. You must be available to take that next shift. You must.

In some sense, hockey is the most team-oriented of all sports. People often say they don't like the fights, but that's almost always because they don't understand the nature and the purpose of fighting. Fighting is done for the team. The players need referees to keep things fair, of course, but they largely police themselves by sticking up for teammates.

If you "take liberties" (a wonderfully Canadian phrase) with my star player, someone on my team is going to drop the gloves and expect you to answer for your dangerous play. Winning or losing the fight is almost secondary. The point is showing up, taking and demanding accountability, and defending teammates who may not be able to defend themselves.

While often the least skilled players on a team, hockey's "enforcers" are often also the most beloved. They do a job few others can or want to do.

And even if that all sounds like rationalization of barbaric behavior, you will note that fighting in hockey is being legislated out of the game relatively quickly. At some point there will be no more fighting, which many think will lead to a rash of injuries caused by players who no longer have to worry about whether they're making a careless hit or carrying their stick a bit too high.

In any case, there is nothing like a hockey game watched live and in person. I watch it on TV when I can because I'm a fan. But to really get it, in order to really appreciate it, you must be attend a game yourself. Sit close to the ice the first time or two if you want. I call the glass seats the "gateway drug" of hockey that introduces you to the speed, skill, passion and jarring impact of a game.

Those of us a bit more seasoned in the sport tend to sit farther back in order to watch the flow of play develop. But it doesn't matter really. Just get to an arena.

If you go with me, the only two things I will need to teach you are the concepts of "offsides" and "icing." If you get those, the rest is almost self-evident, from the penalties to the tactical execution.

Like I said, whether or not you allow yourself to become addicted to the drug of hockey is ultimately of no consequence to me. But I'm telling you, let someone experienced sit next to you at a game and, in most cases, you'll be hooked.

What we did right with each of our kids - Part III - Jared

(NOTE: Parents are forever lamenting the things they wish they had done differently with their children. "I should have been more strict about this" or "I wish I had let her participate in that." That type of stuff. I see nothing productive there, so instead I choose to celebrate the things that Terry and I appear to have done well with our children. Plus, it's a good way to fill five days of blog posts. So there's that.)

My son Jared, now 18, was as tall as me when he was 12 or 13 years old. This isn't saying much as I'm of exceedingly average height (5-9½, thank you very much), but now that he has topped out at around 6-1, "tall" is one of his defining characteristics.

There are many people taller than Jared, of course, but for our family, he's a giant.

Speaking of which – true story – one time when was about 10, he was playing soccer and one of the players on the opposing team urged his teammates to "cover the giant," referring to Jared. Every once in a while, Terry or I will exclaim, "Cover the giant!" And the other one will chuckle appreciatively.

For many years, Jared was my Man Child. He looked older than he really was up until high school, at which point he looked like someone who was exactly where they should be. Now, as high school winds down for him, he looks to me like someone trying to figure out where he belongs next.

Which is perfect. That's what you should be doing when you're 18.

Here are five things I'd like to think Jared's mother and I did right for him:

(1) We let him be who he is. Jared is a quiet guy. He talks to people now more than he used to, but he is still widely known as The Quiet Tennant. And that's fine. Jared is who he is, and any attempt to make him seem more outgoing would have been disingenuous and ultimately unfair. (By the way, he and I have always talked a lot. If you know Jared only in passing, you might be surprised to learn he is one of the funniest people I know. He has a dry sense of humor that just kills me.)

(2) We encouraged him to kick a football. In the grand scheme of things, the three years Jared spent as a kicker for the Wickliffe High School football team may seem unimportant. And yes, he will undoubtedly do far more important things in his life. But the experience of putting on the shoulder pads and playing under the lights every Friday night was one he'll never forget, I'm sure. He got there largely on his own. No one sought him out to kick. As a freshman, he asked the coach what he needed to do to become a kicker. He found out where he needed to be and when, and he showed up. He found what he needed to learn, and he learned it. All on his own. No kicking coach or anything, just Jared. Let's hear it for personal initiative.

(3) We let him destroy our garage with hockey pucks. OK, we did't let him do this, but to Terry's credit, she has kept herself from killing Jared for putting a variety of dents in our garage door and gouges in our garage walls. Jared never played organized hockey, but I played living room and driveway hockey with him when he was a lot younger, and to this day his love of the sport continues to grow. When I think back to my own sports experiences with my dad, most of the memories revolve around attending Indians games and watching Friday night boxing matches together. I hope that one day for Jared, one of his memories of his dad will be watching, playing and talking about hockey. It's our thing, as is a shared love for Cleveland sports.

(4) We told him what he should do and watched when he chose to ignore our advice. The older he gets, the more The Boy seems to follow our teaching (sometimes grudgingly). But over the years, he has more than once gone his own direction, often with less-than-desirable results. I'll say it again: There is value in screwing up. Let it happen.

(5) We taught him he is loved. Jared is not an outwardly affectionate guy. He will occasionally hug his mother, but it's not an everyday thing. Still, in everything he has done, and in every decision he has made, we tried to make it clear that we loved him no matter what. I think he gets that concept in his head for now. Someday he'll understand it in his heart, too.

There is no stink like how-your-child-smells-after-a-game stink

Back when I was a newspaper sports writer, I covered a lot of minor league hockey. This involved attending games and practices, interviewing athletes, writing game stories on deadline, and just generally trying to gather and disseminate the information that hockey fans would presumably want to know.

It also involved going into the locker room after games to talk to coaches and players. Anyone who has ever played hockey at any level, or who is the parent of a player, is familiar with the smell that pervades hockey locker rooms. It's an all-conquering stench resulting from weeks' or months' worth of sweat soaking into pads and jerseys. You don't ever really get rid of it so much as you just try and mute it.

I had forgotten abot this smell until recently when I picked up my son and two of his friends after they had played a high school football game. The three boys, none of whom had yet showered, got into my car, and the stink immediately assaulted my senses. Even though these weren't hockey players, they smelled just as bad as any group of hockey guys I had ever encountered.

Worse yet, the smell stayed in my car for a couple of days. I had to air the vehicle out for a few hours before I could stand driving it again.

You parents of young athletes know what I'm talking about, right? And it's not just limited to boys. The girls are just as bad. Driving home after girls high school soccer games can be brutal, especially if one of them decides to take off her stinky cleats in the car. Good gracious, it's bad.

Maybe I'm remembering this incorrectly, but I recall showering in the locker room after every one of my football games when I was in high school. Do kids not do that now? Do they prefer their home showers?

I don't know. All I know is that the aroma nearly knocks me unconscious sometimes.

Strangely, someday I'll miss that smell, I'm sure. But for now? I'm tossing a few cans of air freshener into each of the kids' stockings this Christmas.

The Man Child turns 17

It is my son Jared's 17th birthday.

When he was little (like really little, maybe 2-3 years old), I used to refer to him only as "Boy." I rarely used his given name. Instead I would just say, "Boy, come here." And he would come.

Jared was the only boy child we had at the time, falling as he did after the births of Elissa and Chloe. So I could call out for The Boy at any time without the possibility of confusing someone in the way I would if I just randomly yelled "Girl, come here!"

One day I was with a friend of mine, and Jared was sitting on the other side of the room playing with toys. He was, again, really little at the time. My friend heard me call him "Boy" and said, "You had better start calling him Jared. Otherwise he's not going to know his name."

To which I replied, "Oh, come on. He knows his name."

"OK," said my friend, "call him."

Which I did. "Jared! Hey Jared! Jared, look over here!"

Jared did not react. Didn't even look up from whatever toy he was playing with.

Then I said, "Boy!" And his head immediately snapped up as he turned in my direction.

After which I switched to calling him "Jared" permanently.

Another time, not long after he had finally and successfully completed potty training, I was getting Jared dressed. I was helping him pull on a pair of tighty-whitey briefs and my hand slipped, allowing the elastic band to smack him right in the Man Region.

Without thinking I said to (4-year-old) Jared, "Oh, did I snap you in the nuts, buddy?" And Jared, who had no idea at the time what "nuts" were, just said (in a slightly teary voice), "Yeah."

I have a number of great stories about Jared because he is among the funniest people I know. Many friends and family members are shocked to hear this, because to them he's just a quiet kid who doesn't talk all that much. But I'm telling you, he's hilarious.

And now he's 17 years old and about to start his junior year in high school.

He was (and is) my first boy, and he is my fellow sufferer in Cleveland sports fandom. Together we have visited the Hockey Hall of Fame and attended countless sporting events. We do not talk about our feelings unless they have something to do with a blown coverage by the Browns or a missed shot at the buzzer by the Cavaliers.

The only three things we really talk about are cats, food and sports. Or topics that combine more than one of those elements (i.e., if there was ever a place where we could watch cats eating while simultaneously playing sports, that would be paradise).

Happy birthday, then, to my slightly-over-six-feet Man Child Whose Name Is Jared And Not Boy. As my gift to you, I promise not to snap you in the nuts today.

Parenting fails that keep me awake at night

I used to consider myself a pretty good parent, but in recent years I've come to realize how often I've failed my children. And it kills me inside. A few examples:

• My 9-year-old son really isn't all that comfortable riding a bike. I taught him to ride a couple of years ago, but we didn't practice much and there aren't sidewalks in our neighborhood and he never got very confident and...seriously, this just tears me up. I'm going to rectify it this summer, but he's 9! Geez, he should be riding all the time, but I think he's still afraid of falling. Big time fail on my part.

• We never got our 14-year-old daughter into softball when she was little and now she wishes she could be playing summer ball with her friends. Which I guess she could, but it would be an awfully big skill gap to overcome. Melanie was so shy when she was little and never seemed all that interested in softball, and her older siblings were only lukewarm about the sport, so...I don't know. Maybe we just didn't want to be bothered with signing her up, taking her to practices and games, etc. I really wish we had gotten her into softball.

• My 16-year-old son wishes he still played hockey and the only reason we made him quit was for our own convenience. Well, in our defense, it would have been awfully tough for him to maintain full hockey and soccer schedules every fall, so we made him make a choice. He chose soccer because that was his established sport, but he was really starting to like hockey. And I love hockey. The problem is, once you stop playing it, your skating skills diminish rapidly, and in hockey if you can't skate you don't rate. We should have sucked it up and let him do both sports.

• My kids are sometimes rude and disrespectful to their mother and I've just let it go too many times. They all do it on occasion, but I notice it especially with one child in particular, who needs to be smacked when he/she does this. I yell at him/her from time to time, but I'm not sure it does much good. I gotta man up on this one.

• My kids don't go to each other's events enough. From an early age we should have made them attend each others' games, concerts, school plays, etc. to show support, but it has always been easier to let them stay home or go to grandma's house or whatever. And now they have no tolerance/desire for going to a sibling's event, which doesn't feel right.

• I do too many things for them instead of making them learn. The right thing to do is to make them stop whatever they're doing and, for instance, come into the mudroom and pick their stuff up off the floor. But it's so much easier for me to do it myself. "Next time I'll make them do it themselves," I say. But I never do. And as a result, they'll never learn to do it if they know Daddy will do it for them. Not good. Back to parenting school for me.

One way to save your children from having YOU as a parent

I don't have many theories about raising children, mostly because I'm pretty much winging it as I go. I've been winging it for close to 19 years. And so far none of my kids have:

(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van

These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.

Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.

My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:

- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.

Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...

Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"

Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.

But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"

And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.

This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.

The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.

Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.

Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.

I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.

I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).

You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).

But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.

That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.

Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.

But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.

So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.

And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...

10 Reasons I Enjoy Having Sons

Yesterday we talked a bit about the advantages of having daughters. Today I want to focus on the other 40% of my offspring: my sons Jared and Jack. Here's why they're fun to have around.

(1) There's always someone else who appreciates bodily emissions the way I do: I'm stereotyping here, of course, but girls tend not to find as much amusement in everyday bodily functions as boys do. I'm a boy. Ergo, I always have a buddy to laugh like a 4-year-old with me when someone in the house lets loose.

(2) Sports: All three of my girls have engaged in some sort of athletics during their lives, and they're avid fans of the Lake Erie Monsters hockey team for which we're season ticket holders. But when it comes down to really caring how the Indians did last night or how bad the Browns are going to be, Jared is the only one in the family with whom I can relate.

(3) They're uncomplicated: Again, big stereotype here. But stereotypes generally exist because there's at least a kernel of truth to them. If I ask Jack if he's happy and he says yes, I know that what he means is "yes." If I ask one of my girls whether they're happy and they say yes, this could mean one of several different things, depending on the context, the time of day, and her tone of voice. I'm a bottom-line kind of guy. Just give it to me straight.

(4) Hair care: I mentioned yesterday that I'm at least familiar with taking care of little girls' hair, but little boys are a snap. Run a comb through there a couple of times and voila, you're ready for even the most formal occasion!

(5) They eat anything: At least Jared does. Put anything in front of the boy and he'll gobble it down. Feeding time is complicated only by the sheer amount of nutrients needed to satiate him. But when it comes to selection, he's not especially picky (and my girls are).

(6) They understand what it means to get kicked in the gonads: Girls comprehend that this hurts a guy, but they don't know it like a boy does. This is an area in which my boys and I can commiserate, while the girls can never truly understand (though their sympathy when it happens and the care they take to avoid it when we're wrestling is greatly appreciated).

(7) No embarrassing undergarments: I refuse to acknowledge that my girls have developed anywhere past the age of 7 or so. The presence of these garments shatters the little dream world I have built for myself. Not a problem with boys, whose tighty-whiteys are essentially the same from ages 2 through 100.

(8) Meeting my child's girlfriend is less unsettling than meeting their boyfriend: Dads and boyfriends historically have a tension-filled relationship. I like Sean and Chris, Elissa and Chloe's boyfriends, but it's hard to fully dispel that little bit of territorial distrust that lurks in the heart of every father of a daughter.

(9) My old-fashioned gender biases don't show through as much with boys: I know this isn't right, but I feel much better about my sons being out late than I do about my daughters being out late. There should be one curfew for them all depending on their age and regardless of gender, but I'm always going to be a lot more nervous when my daughters are late than when my sons are.

(10) I know what to buy them for birthdays and Christmas: I can list five gift ideas for Jared and Jack off the top of my head in seconds. But the girls? Wow, that takes some serious thought. Probably more thought than I want to expend at any given time, especially if I'm out doing the dreaded Christmas shopping. Boy gifts = easy.

I'll never be Rollie Fingers

There are two perfectly good reasons why I don't have facial hair:

(1) The whiskers tend to come in unevenly. They're much heavier under my chin and cheeks than they are on my actual face.

(2) My wife doesn't want me to have facial hair. She doesn't like the feel of it. This alone is more than enough to keep me from growing a beard or mustache, if you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.

I don't come from a line of facial hair growers anyway. My brother had a 70s moustache back in, well, the 70s. And my dad had a thicker one on and off over the last 20 years of his life. But no beards or anything like that. I'm just not sure we could pull it off.

Consequently, I've never grown any sort of facial hair. I've never even really tried. Well, when I was in China for two weeks several years ago, I did have the very beginnings of a goatee (or what people often mistakenly call a goatee...it's really a Van Dyke), but even after five days it was pretty pitiful. Over time I may be able to sprout one of those Amish-inspired beard-with-no-moustache jobs, but that would just be sad.

In some ways, I admire guys who can -- and do -- easily grow facial hair. My friend Rob Wanska is one of those guys. If Rob happens to be clean-shaven, he's only about 6 or 7 hours away from a pretty good beard, if he wants one. Seriously, I'll bet he could grow a pencil-thin moustache in eight minutes. I don't know what nationality he is, but it's probably one of those hirsute ethnic cultures in which beards are a sign of manliness. Like American Yeti.

I'm always reminded of my shortcomings in the hairy face department this time of year because the National Hockey League playoffs have started. As you may know, it's a tradition in the NHL to grow a playoff beard. Guys refuse to shave until their team is eliminated from the playoffs or wins the Stanley Cup. By late May, some of them look like homeless people on skates.

Then there are the others who are more like me. It's always great fun to watch the blonde-haired, 19-year-old rookies try to grow playoff beards. Their team keeps on winning and gets deep into the playoffs, and by the conference finals you can just start to make out the hint of what may or may not be construed as a moustache on their upper lips. Forget the beard, these guys are just trying to reach 'stache-hood.

Speaking of moustaches and sports, you don't really see a lot of good ones on athletes these days. The best of all time may have been Rollie Fingers, one of the great relief pitchers in the history of baseball. Rollie, as you can see here, had a handlebar moustache. I desperately want a handlebar moustache. But it won't happen.

Aside from the restrictions mentioned above, there's just the everyday maintenance of something like a handlebar moustache. I'm no expert, but I assume that some sort of daily waxing and/or combing is involved, and that's a real hassle in addition to being borderline repulsive.

But if I did have a handlebar moustache, I would be tempted to speak in a consistent 1890s Irish brogue:

ME: Top o' the mawrnin', to you, my little ones! And how are each of ya on this fine day?

MY KIDS: Huh? What? Are you talking to us?

ME: Of course I be! Why, it's a special treat to greet me offspring after each has arisen from his bed!

MY KIDS: What's wrong with you? Why are you talking like that? And does mom know you have that thing on your lip?

I like to imagine it would go a little better than that, but in any case, I would still totally sound like the Lucky Charms leprechaun if I could manage a 'stache like Rollie's.

Every once in awhile I'll skip a day of shaving, usually on the weekend. It takes Terry about 3 milliseconds to notice. "Nice to see you, Grizzly Adams," she'll say to me, as if I'm Rob and the minuscule whiskers that are struggling to gain traction on my face are significantly more prominent than normal.

But the message is clear: Shave it off. Shave it off now. In an effort to maintain some sort of pride and semblance of control, I usually wait an extra few hours and THEN I'll shave it off. No woman is going to tell ME what to do with my manly facial hair.