What's not to like about libraries?

I have never stopped being amazed by the concept of libraries.

You walk into the building, and there are stacks upon stacks of books, magazines, CDs, DVDs and other materials, all of them available for you to browse through. And computers, too. They have computers for you to use.

If you want, you can sit there all day and just read. Anything they have there, you can sit down and read it. For free.

And then there's the best part of all: YOU CAN TAKE VIRTUALLY ANY OF IT HOME WITH YOU. AGAIN, FOR FREE! They don't really care what you do with it, just so long as you bring it back on time and in good condition.

There's no way I'm the only person who thinks this is one of the coolest things ever, right? I mean, why aren't libraries overflowing with people taking advantage of this set-up?

Well, actually, our local library IS sometimes pretty crowded, but that's usually with people who don't have Internet access at home and are using the (FREE) broadband connections there, or with students researching papers, finishing homework, or else doing something wildly inappropriate.

I know this last part is true because my daughter Elissa has worked as a page at our local library for almost two years (NOTE: I think it's funny that they have a position called a "page" at a library. Because, you know, books have pages? That's kind of funny, isn't it? OK, moving on...)

Elissa spends a good deal of her time telling middle school-aged library patrons to be quiet or to stop fooling around. She has some great stories of things she has seen. Who knew the library was such a den of iniquity?

Because of this, and because she spends 10 to 15 mind-numbing hours per week reshelving books and DVDs, I'm afraid that Elissa does not share my passionate love of libraries. When she first got the job, I thought what a perfect fit it was. Elissa has always been a pretty voracious reader. What better job for her?

But I suppose there can be too much of a good thing. Understandably, whenever we take family trips to the library, Elissa doesn't come along with us anymore. I don't blame her, I guess.

Anyway, getting back to the wonder of libraries, I've always wanted to burn a day of vacation at the library. Like, the entire day. Just sitting there reading whatever I wanted. Or walking up and down the aisles looking at book titles I wouldn't normally notice during our 30-minute family excursions. That sounds like a serious amount of fun.

But I never do it because, you know, vacation time is precious and there are always things to do with Terry and the kids, or jobs to accomplish around the house or whatever. But one day, maybe when/if I'm ever retired, I'm going to do that.

I'm obviously not in the library business and thus I'm not familiar with the statistics, but my feeling is that libraries have way more amenities and resources available than most people ever use. These poor reference librarians, most of whom slogged through years of school to get their master's degree in library science to enter a profession in which they're chronically underpaid, are ready and waiting to help you with even the most arcane request for information. And most of the time the only thing that ever happens is that some unshaven guy in a dirty trench coat comes up and asks them where they keep the back issues of Maxim.

Still, it makes me feel good that they're there. If I ever want two paragraphs of Herodotus' description of the Greco-Persian Wars or to know the flying speed of the lesser striped swallow, they would be glad to help me. I'll never need either of these things, of course, but the fact that I COULD readily access that information with their assistance is somehow comforting.

And other than the overdue book fees, it's all free. Amazing.

Is it weird that I have good memories of high school?

I'm stunned by how bitter some people are about their high school experience. I mean, some are just seething with anger and resentment over the way they spent those last few years of secondary education. And I guess they have their reasons.

Not me, though. I loved high school. Really, it was a lot of fun. Would I go back to it? Not for a million dollars. But it was a good ride while it lasted.

I went to the same high school my two oldest kids now attend: Wickliffe High School in the thriving metropolis that is Wickliffe, Ohio. I was and still am a very proud Blue Devil. Not that I was ever really a fan of that nickname, though. I would have preferred being represented by something other than the Prince of Darkness. Unless they actually go to your school, no one roots for Beelzebub.

I graduated in 1988 in a class of 162 very different kids. We had all kinds, as evidenced by the fact that our homecoming song was by Poison, I think, while our prom song was "I Melt With You" by Modern English. Enough to satisfy the hair metal fans and the New Wave types. Good times.

Everyone has a certain image of where they fit in during high school. I was kind of a hybrid, I guess, as were most of the kids I knew. Not many were just jocks or just brains or just stoners (well, OK, the stoners -- or "burnouts," as we called them -- pretty much stuck to just the one demographic, I suppose). Most people were a mix.

I, for example, took classes with the smart kids, played football and ran track, and also played in the wind ensemble and jazz band. That was a nice blend, and it exposed me to many different kinds of kids, virtually all of whom I liked.

(By the way, depending on your point of view, that's either the best or worst thing about me: I like pretty much everyone I meet. It doesn't take much to impress me, so therefore I'm impressed by almost everyone. I think everyone has an interesting story to tell and I like hearing their stories. Unfortunately, you can't feel all that great if I consider you a friend because it's not an especially exclusive club.)

My oldest daughter, Elissa, is 18 and smack dab in the middle of the Senior Year Experience: Homecoming court, prom, student government, college tours, scholarships, etc. And I can clearly see that she's beginning to run out of gas. I'm not sure she would admit it, but I think the disease known commonly as "Senior-itis" is beginning to hit her. Not to worry, though, as she graduates just five short weeks from today, then it's on to the not-so-real life of college.

Speaking of "not-so-real life," that's also true of high school: So many look back on it with a jaded eye because it seems to have had so little to do with their lives as adults. College isn't really a reflection of real life, either, but high school is even farther removed from it. Sure, you'll always run into cliques, social pressures, petty people and politics, but generally not to the same degree as you experience them in high school.

Knowing me, all of that stuff was probably there when I was a teenager, but I was far too oblivious to notice it. Consequently, my high school memories are almost all very positive. The moral of the story being, if you live your life in ignorance, eternal bliss can be yours, kids!

Plus, I met my wife-to-be in high school. What a deal that turned out to be! I realize high school sweethearts don't marry very often anymore, so I'm extremely thankful that the same woman I loved when I was 16 years old is the woman I still love now that I'm 42. Terry is yet another great thing that came out of my high school experience.

One of the worst decisions I made during that time of my life was to run for a class officer position. I did this, admittedly, not out of any desire to serve or to give back to the school, but because I thought it would look good on a college application. And maybe it did.

But you pay for being a class officer for the rest of your life. Why? Seven letters: R-E-U-N-I-O-N. When it comes time for class reunions, you as a class officer are rightfully expected to step up and take a leadership role in organizing these shindigs. This is a huge pain.

Every five years or so, someone will ask me what we're planning to do for our upcoming XXth reunion (fill in your round number here). And so I call up Jodi, our class president, and we decide that, yes, something needs to be done. Then we wait a few months to see if anyone else will do it. No one ever does. So then I call her up again and we resign ourselves to our self-imposed fates.

I'm exaggerating, of course. When we had our 20th reunion a few years ago, a lot of classmates stepped up to the plate and did a great job pulling the event together. And I thought it was excellent. Everyone looked good, they were generally in good health, and as a whole we all appeared to be living fairly normal, productive lives -- something you may not have predicted had you seen us, say, back in 7th grade.

Just recently I got my first Facebook message asking whether we're having our 25th reunion next year. And my answer is...I don't know. I gotta get in touch with Jodi first, and we have to go through the obligatory procrastination period before any decisions are made. I'm sure we'll do something, though.

But I'm telling you kids: Unless you want to spend large chunks of your adult life looking through party center catering menus and researching potential DJs, do NOT succumb to the temptation of being a class officer. You'll thank me later.

Here are the new rules...please follow them

You're probably not aware of this, but I have been elected Household Living Czar of the United States. You don't need to concern yourself with how this came to pass. Suffice it to say that I have been invested with the power to dictate certain rules and regulations governing the way Americans should live their daily lives.

Henceforth, the following decrees shall be in effect for all citizens of this great nation (NOTE TO KERRI JONES: Please feel free to adopt these in Australia as you see fit):

1. Toilet paper shall be hung OVER, not under: There will be no exceptions to this rule. How this "under" nonsense even got started is beyond me. Violators will be sentenced to watching a three-day, nonstop "Jersey Shore" marathon.

2. Fathers will cast the tiebreaking vote when the family reaches an impasse in movie selection: Family Movie Nights are ruined when you can't come to some agreement on which movie to watch. Much like the Vice President in the Senate, the father now has authority to break the tie and make the final choice. End of story. If you don't like what Dad picks, your only other option is to go and clean one of the bathrooms in the house (Mom will select which bathroom).

3. If something doesn't fit into the cupboard, take the time to make it fit: We keep our cereal in a cabinet over the stove. The way we have this cabinet set up, you can comfortably store three, maybe four boxes of cereal. Oftentimes, some denizens of the house who shall remain nameless but are NOT me or my wife will try to jam in a fifth or even sixth box of cereal. They are satisfied if the extra box stays up there without falling back out, even if it means that it's protruding six inches out of the cabinet and the door won't close. This is unacceptable. It is beyond unacceptable. Either rearrange the contents of the cabinet such that your cereal will fit in there, or take the unnecessary box out and put it back into the basement. One or the other. Penalty for failure to comply is that we'll stuff YOU into the cereal cabinet.

4. Water stays in the shower or gets cleaned up: This isn't difficult. If you take a shower and water somehow gets onto the bathroom floor, clean it up. And then pick the wet towels up off the floor and dispose of them properly. That's it. That's all you have to do. I can draw you a diagram with detailed instructions, if it will help.

5. Turn the lights off. Turn the lights off! TURN THE LIGHTS OFF!: My children are quite clearly aware that light switches can be used to illuminate a room. Just flip the switch up and, presto, you have light! It's really quite the invention. But I have failed to teach them that the switch is, in fact, bidirectional. If you push it down, the lights go off. Amazing, I know! As far as my kids know, a light switch only needs to be used once, and then you should keep it on forever.

6. All family members must learn the function of coat hooks: When we added a mud room onto our house, we had these really nice cubbies and coat hooks installed to store everyone's jackets, shoes, school supplies, etc. In an attempt not to wear the coat hooks out, apparently, certain members of my family elect not to use them, opting instead for the increasingly popular Throw It On the Floor method of garment storage. No. Just, no.

7. Everyone is to gain an understanding of how refrigerators work: Two important things to remember - (a) The refrigerator does not spontaneously produce food every time you open the door. What was in there five minutes ago is what's in there now. No need to check again. (b) The refrigerator refrigerates food. That means it keeps it cold. It operates much more efficiently when the refrigerator door is in the closed position and the cold air inside is not allowed to escape. A minor and perhaps obvious point, but one that still clearly needs to be made in 95% of American households.

8. Practice the basic elements of HVAC economics: Why yes, I suppose we COULD turn on the central air since you're feeling a touch warm. OR....and I know this is crazy....you could simply open a window, which as it turns out is free. Or change into a short-sleeved shirt (also free). The air conditioning system, sadly, is not free. "Free" always trumps "not free."

9. I don't need to see your used toothpaste: You're brushing your teeth. That's good. Over the years I think we've managed to buy our kids' dentist a boat and two summer homes on Cape Cod. But when you're finished brushing, the idea is to spit the toothpaste into the sink and make sure every molecule of it goes down the drain. If you simply spit randomly into the sink and walk away, the next morning there will be a wall of disgusting dried toothpaste in the sink. And nobody wants to see that. Not even me, the guy who cleaned a variety of horrible bodily emissions off of you for the first 2-3 years of your life.

10. If you ask for it, eat it: "Mommy, can I have some pancakes?" "Sure, honey. I'll get you some." Mommy fixes the pancakes and serves them to the requesting child. "There you go, three pancakes just the way you like them!" "Oh. Uh, I don't think I really want them. I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought." Five minutes later, Mommy is flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for an attorney to represent her in her upcoming trial for assault and battery on a minor.

I am a lawn warrior

I'm not a gardening type of guy. Many people plant vegetables or do yardwork to relax, but I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye than engage in either of those activities (NOTE: I feel the same way about golf. Remind me to blog about that at some point.)

The extent of my involvement in yard maintenance extends to just two activities. One is mulching. Once a year, I'll trot out the wheelbarrow and haul vast quantities of mulch to various designated spots so that my wife can spread it around and make our yard look halfway presentable.

The other is lawn mowing. I love lawn mowing. Seriously, cutting the grass is the one outdoor chore I don't mind in the least. I take my lawn very seriously.

Not to the point that I apply fertilizer and pull weeds and stuff like that, mind you. Just the actual once-a-week pleasure of firing up my Toro lawnmower and trimming the grass. I love doing it.

For one thing, the results are immediate. It takes me an hour or so to do our entire lawn, and right when I'm finished I can enjoy the finished product. Plant a garden and you're looking at months of work before you can enjoy a tomato on your salad or a slice of zucchini bread. I'm not at all down with the delayed gratification thing.

I have taught three of my children to mow the lawn, and I'm proud to say they're all top-flight grass-cutters. My lawn mowing philosophy, which I have passed on to them, rests on three basic principles:

* Make the first pass straight and the rest will follow suit.
* Outline your mowing area first, then you'll have easily visible boundaries in which to work.
* Mow low, don't listen to the lawn guy.

That last point is important to me. We've had our lawn guy, Bob, for about 20 years now. He charges ridiculously low rates and does a good job keeping the dandelions and other weeds out of our grass. Every time he comes over and applies some sort of toxic chemical to my yard, he leaves behind a note that includes a few handy lawn care tips.

Invariably, one of those tips is "mow on highest setting." I disagree with this. Vehemently. If I were to mow my lawn on the highest setting every time, the grass wouldn't even look like it had been cut. And plus, if we get a rainy spell and I can't get to cutting the grass at the regularly scheduled time, it will be a foot high by the time it dries out.

No, sorry Bob, that's not how we do it. We start out at a medium setting in the spring and gradually work our way down, so that by July we're on the second- or third-lowest setting allowed. I never quite go all the way down  because, while I like my grass low, I don't need it to look like the 18th green at Augusta. (Another golf reference. I'm not sure how that got in there.)

Plus, you want to be careful that the grass doesn't get burned out. We tend to have wet springs and dry summers here in Northeast Ohio. If you cut the grass too low, it all turns brown at some point and then you look like one of those People Who Don't Care. And I desperately want to avoid all appearances of not caring.

Because that's why we cut our grass, right? Sure, there's an element of self-satisfaction to a well-maintained lawn, but more importantly, it makes the neighbors think we're responsible people. And it keeps us on the right side of several city ordinances. We do it mostly to impress others.

I draw up a weekly to-do list, and every week between April and late October or so, one of the items on the list is "mow lawn." Always. And I relish it. When it's time to cut the grass, I become Tom Cruise in "Top Gun" (minus the high cheekbones and occasionally insane on-camera behavior). I'll put on the shades, strap on the iPod, and prepare to do battle with the evil forces of unkempt vegetation. If I had a cool flight suit to complete the ensemble, I would wear that, too.

CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEA FOR MY WIFE: If you were to buy me some sort of fighter pilot flight suit tailored to my exact size and shape, maybe with the words "Lawn Warrior" embroidered on the back, this is an item I would not refuse. I'm just saying.

If you're a suburban dad, one of the mowing issues with which you have to wrestle is whether or not to cut the grass with your shirt off. I tend to be a shirt-on kind of guy. For one thing, I'm a perfectionist, and because I don't have the abs of, say, a Channing Tatum, I would just as soon keep my shirt on, thank you very much.

But the same can't be said of all suburban dads. I admire the ones who clearly don't care at all. They'll do anything outdoors if it gives them a chance to take their shirts off. The result is that, while I may have more overall dignity than they do, they at least don't have the farmer's tan I sport annually at the community pool.

Then there's the problem of obstacles. Before each grass-cutting session, I will take a walk around the front and back yards to see if there's anything that will get in the way of my mowing pleasure. If I find something -- a toy, for example -- I will either yell into the house and get the offending child to come out and remove the obstacle, or I'll remove it myself, grumbling the whole time and making mental notes to exact revenge on the heathen who left it there.

And then we're off and running. As I said, it takes me an hour to cut the grass, and the whole time I'll listen to music on the iPod and generally just enjoy the exercise and the opportunity to be alone for awhile. After I'm finished, I bring out the edger and edge along the driveway. Then I'll sweep up the grass clippings that have made their way onto the asphalt, and voila: a neat, clean lawn for another week.

The sight of it makes me inordinately happy. You don't need to tell me how strange this is. I already know.

Why I hate war but love reading about it

If you're someone who flies with any regularity, try this:

The next time you're sitting in the gate area waiting to board a plane, look around at what everyone else is reading. And specifically, look at what the middle-aged males are reading. Three-quarters of the time, if they're reading a book rather than a newspaper, it's going to be some sort of nonfiction history. And most of the time, that means military history.

As a group, we guys in our 40s and 50s LOVE us some military history. The Civil War is a big one. Lots and lots of Civil War books to be seen at airports. Many of these readers, I've noticed from their accents, are southern. Which means for them, they're not "Civil War" books at all, but rather "War of Northern Aggression" books. No event in American history has been debated, discussed and generally dissected more than the Civil War, especially among those who are still fighting it for one reason or another.

You'll also see a lot of guys with books on World War II. There's a more direct connection there, since many of our fathers and grandfathers actually fought in "Dubya-Dubya Two," as Archie Bunker always called it. A lot of men can picture themselves as GIs slogging it out at Guadalcanal or fighting the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge.

Which I think is sort of the point. I believe one of the main attractions of military history for men of my generation (or maybe any generation) is that they see war as a manly, virtuous thing. When you sit at a desk all day, there can be a part of you that longs to do something macho. And what's more macho than carrying a rifle and killing foreigners?

My war of choice is World War I. At last count, I had read, cover to cover, 25 to 30 different books related to the First World War. I've done sermons at church that tie into it, and I genuinely want a membership to the Great War Society (yes, there is such a thing).

But if you have any compassion at all, to be a student of World War I necessarily means that you are anti-war. No one with a shred of decency can read about the slaughter of millions of young men on the battlefields of France and Russia and think that war is anything but vulgar.

And yet I'm fascinated by it. When I read about trench warfare and what it was like to go "over the top" with 60 to 80 pounds of gear on your back into heavy machine gun fire and poison gas shells, I invariably try and put myself into that situation. I wonder if I would have had what it took to attack knowing the odds of my survival were slim. Knowing that a single bullet to the gut could mean a slow and painful death in No Man's Land. I want to see how I would measure up.

Because that's how we guys are raised, you understand. It's always about passing tests and showing you're tough and all of that. Some boys are smart enough to avoid that stuff and seem to understand their inherent self-worth without having to prove it by fighting.

I didn't get into many fights myself, but I still did pretty much whatever anyone dared me to do. I guess I felt better about myself when I passed whatever "test" was put in front of me. Many times, the "test" was something stupid and dangerous. And I still did it. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

The point is, part of my fascination with war is wondering how I would handle it. And at the same time, I feel incredibly blessed that I've never had to find out. Nor would I ever want my sons to experience it. When it comes to All Things Soldier, I walk a fine line between obsession and repulsion.

When I used to hang around airports, I often wondered if the guys reading those war books were thinking the same thing I was. If they were wondering, "Oh sure, I can write up a memo and do a sales forecast, but how would I react if a 6-foot-4 German came at me with a bayonet? Would I be man enough to handle it?"

Such a strange and pointless way of thinking, I know. What does it matter? If my boys are going to wonder about their manhood, I would rather they ask themselves how they would handle their anger in an argument with their girlfriend or wife. Or how they would react to the sorts of moral and ethical dilemmas that define who we really are. I would rather they ask how tough they are in spirit rather than in fist.

But still, I have to admit, whenever I read one of my Great War books, I always end up mentally putting myself in those filthy, stinking trenches. And the answer to how I would perform in battle really matters to me. I wish it didn't, but it does. I have a sinking suspicion it always will.

Psychoanalysis through band instruments

We play musical instruments in our house. All of us (well, except Jack, but give him a few years). It's what we do.

It started 30-plus years ago when Terry and I began playing the flute and saxophone, respectively. In fact, it was in the high school band room during second-period study hall my sophomore year that we met. Music has been a big thing for us since the start of our relationship.

Then along came the kids and, one by one, they've been picking up instruments. Even little Jack can bang out some tunes on the piano, and he plays a mean game of Wii Music.

I've always thought that a person's choice of instrument says something about them. Like flutists tend to be quiet and shy, while tubists are loud and brash. I've seen too many exceptions to that rule over the years to put a lot of stock in it, but I choose to continue believing it for two reasons:

(1) It's much easier to believe stuff you want to believe, rather than paying attention to facts.
(2) On a related note, it's much easier to blog about stuff you want to believe than the stuff you have observed to be true.

In that vein, let me offer you this little psychological profile of the people in my family based solely upon the instruments they play:

TERRY

Instrument: Flute

What It Says About Her: Flutists (we would also have accepted "flautists") want to play music but don't want to draw too much attention to themselves. This is Terry. She is certainly no spotlight-seeker, but she does enjoy the opportunity to play her flute when it presents herself. She is, to me, the quintessential flute player.

What Instrument She Should Have Played: Actually, the flute fits her to a tee. But if I had to pick another instrument for Terry, it would be the clarinet. Clarinetists are a lot like flute players.

ME

Instrument: Saxophone

What It Says About Me: Sax players all secretly want to be guitar players or rock drummers. When faced with the choice of picking a band instrument, if they can't bring themselves to play the drums, they go with the coolest, most rock-sounding instrument they can think of. Of course, this analysis used to hold a lot of weight back when there were actually sax solos in pop songs. There hasn't been a decent, original saxophone solo in a Top 40 song since, I would guess, 1989.

What Instrument I Should Have Played: Bassoon, apparently. One time I performed at solo and ensemble content and that's actually what the judge wrote on my evaluation sheet: "You should be playing the bassoon." I had no idea how to take this remark.

ELISSA

Instrument: Oboe

What It Says About Her: Few oboists actually start out as oboists. Most start on the clarinet or another instrument and somehow find their way to the oboe a few years later. Elissa is an exception. She started directly on the oboe, a notoriously difficult instrument to play, in 4th grade. This might suggest that she loves challenges and always picks the most difficult road. And that would be exactly true of Elissa if not for the fact that it's not. In her case, I think it was more her crazy dad convincing her to play an out-of-the-way instrument just so, eight years later, she could get a college scholarship. I feel bad about this in retrospect.

What Instrument She Should Have Played: The triangle. Seriously, Elissa would rock the triangle like no other, um, trianglist has in history.

CHLOE

Instrument: Baritone horn

What It Says About Her: When the kids first start band, they attend a Meet the Instrument Night where they can explore each instrument up close and personal, and even try to make a sound out of it. I accompanied Chloe to this event, where once again I pushed for a less-popular instrument with the thought of a college scholarship or at least being a section of the band unto herself. Chloe is a person unto herself. She's unique. The choice of a big, low brass instrument just confirms that.

What Instrument She Should Have Played: Trumpet. No doubt about it, there's a trumpet player inside of Chloe. I should have pushed her in that direction. The trumpet is a featured instrument that often carries the melody. Chloe would have loved that. And she CAN actually play her sister's trumpet, not surprisingly. She also plays piano, harmonica, and probably the lute, for all I know.

JARED

Instrument: Saxophone

What It Says About Him: See the analysis of Jared's father above.

What Instrument He Should Have Played: Something for tall people. The kid is 6 feet tall in seventh grade. String bass, maybe?

MELANIE

Instrument: Trumpet

What It Says About Her: See, this is where the theory really breaks down. I tend to think of trumpet players as loud, flashy people. That's not Melanie. She's a relatively quiet, beautiful person (not that trumpet players aren't beautiful, mind you). But maybe she uses the trumpet to project or amplify her true self. As I've said before, being the fourth of five kids ain't an easy job, folks. The fact that Mel does so well in life is darn impressive to me. And the fact that she took up the trumpet and can actually play the thing is even more remarkable. I can't get a sound out of it.

What She Should Have Played: I would have bet large amounts of cash that Melanie would play the flute like her mother. But short of that, I can see her as a violinist, you know? Quiet, gorgeous and necessary.

JACK

What He Says He Wants to Play When He Gets Older: Drums

My Reaction to That: Oh, good Lord, no...

The father's long journey

On Tuesdays, Terry babysits a 2-year-old girl named Ava. Ava gets dropped off around 7 in the morning and doesn't leave until 5 or 5:30 in the afternoon, so we see a lot of her when she's here.

Like many 2-year-olds, Ava takes afternoon naps. I am insanely jealous of Ava for this. I would give almost anything (and I'm not kidding) for the privilege of taking afternoon naps. Or morning naps. Or just about any kind of nap to supplement the sleep I get at night.

Anyway, Ava takes naps. She does this in a playpen Terry keeps in our walk-in closet. She puts Ava down in there, turns on a fan for white noise, and usually has a few hours to herself after that. Ava is an expert sleeper, at least when she really wants to be.

A lot of times after Ava leaves, I'll come home from work and the playpen will still be set up in the closet. Often I'll just grumble about it and walk around the playpen as I take off my work clothes and put on whatever clothes are needed for that evening's activities.

But other times I'll stow the playpen away myself, thus taking at least one small thing off of Terry's seemingly endless to-do list. It's one of those Pack and Play models that folds up into a relatively compact 3-foot rectangle. We've had it since 1994, the year my oldest daughter was born. I have put up and taken down that playpen so many times in the ensuing 18 years, I'm pretty sure I could do it in my sleep (and I probably have done just that at some point when one of our kids or another was keeping us up nights).

I generally don't think anything of it, because this is a chore that literally takes all of 60 seconds to complete. But the other day I was taking down the playpen and it felt strange to me. Really strange. Like it belonged to someone else.

Never mind that this playpen is ours and always has been ours. Never mind that Terry is probably the only person who has lugged it around more than I have, or that all five of my kids have slept and/or played in it at some point in their lives. It just didn't feel like it had anything to do with me.

Nowadays, almost nothing related to my kids' babyhood feels connected to me. I come across an old baby toy and it seems like it's from someone else's life altogether. I feel so far removed from baby toys and bottles and playpens and strollers and pacifiers and diapers and the whole thing that it's hard to believe I helped raise five kids. You could almost convince me we didn't have any of them when they were babies, and that instead someone dropped each of them off at our house when they turned 6 years old.

I know that's not true, of course. There is photographic evidence that I have been, in fact, a father of newborns. And infants and toddlers, too. There are all sorts of pictures of me holding babies, burping babies, feeding babies, sleeping with babies on my chest, etc. And I remember it all. But still, there's this strange feeling that it happened to someone else years and years and years ago. I'm only 42. Why do I feel like this?

I guess it's because I'm inundated with Older Kid Experiences now: middle school, high school, driving lessons, college tours, etc. We still have little Jack tying us back to pre-adolescence, but as far as I can tell, it has been 100 years since he was born. It's all just so distant.

Since I've become aware of this strange feeling, I've been hoping my brain could make some sense of it. After all, I've been a father for less than 20 years. That's really not all that long, when you think about it. It's not like I'm an 80-year-old grandpa whose parenting years are far, far behind him. I'm still in the middle of this great test, and I'll continue being in the middle of it for many more years.

But still, I feel...finished with part of it, I guess. Maybe this is God's way of telling me, "Good job, young man. (NOTE: To God, we're all young.) You got through this much of it just fine, like I said you would. Remember all those times you doubted whether you could take one more night of walking the floor with a crying baby? Those days at work when you wondered whether you would make ends meet? Those times when you questioned whether you were any good at being a dad? I know you still ask those questions. But I want you to realize how far you've come, and I want you to realize that you'll make it to the end.

"And most of all, I want you to continue relying on Me. I know sometimes you forget I'm there, and that's OK. For a little while, at least. I'll always be there to nudge you and remind you where your strength comes from. So just keep on going. You'll always be a parent, just like I will always be Your Father, and you still have a long way to go. But having come this far should tell you that you're in good hands."

Yeah, that's probably it.