I know I'm old because I willingly eat lawn clippings now

You know what my favorite thing for lunch is these days? I call it a Green Leafy Salad. Others consider it to be Rabbit Food. And my dad would have called it Weeds in a Bowl.

I combine a cup or so of kale, a cup of Swiss chard, and a cup of spinach. Then over top of it all I pour a teaspoon of olive oil and a teaspoon of balsamic vinegar. Mix well. Enjoy. And rest easy in the perhaps-false notion that this Grass Souffle will prevent you from ever having a heart attack.

Because that's why I eat it, of course. Not because it seems attractive to me (though it does taste really good...honest), but because I'm supposed to eat it. Leafy greens and olive oil are apparently good for you.

That's how I know I'm firmly in the grips of middle age: When food becomes less about pleasure and more about disease prevention.

Mind you, not all of the good-for-you stuff is repellent. I eat a lot of fruit, for example. And I also try and eat a square of dark chocolate every day. Something about flavonoids and heart health. I just really like dark chocolate, though.

Still, the point is that my menu choices now are driven less by flavor than by grams of saturated fat.

My goal is not necessarily to live as long as I can, but to live well as long as I can. I'll take 80 years of active life over 95 years of total life with 15 spent in a nursing home any day.

Of course, none of this will prevent me from getting hit by a bus or dying in a plane crash. There's an old Yiddish proverb that says "man plans, God laughs," and I firmly believe that.

So when I'm killed by a lion that has escaped from the zoo, I at least want the guys at the morgue to look at my mangled body and say, "You know, he really does look good, doesn't he? Like someone who used to eat mulch."

My poor mom

I should start by saying that my mother is a wonderful woman. A real saint. Salt of the earth. All of that stuff.

But I reserve the right to make fun of her, and will do so now.

I can do this safely, you see, because my mother doesn't own a computer and therefore there is no chance she will ever see this post. Unless one of you snitches shows it to her or tells her about it, in which case we'll need to meet on the playground after school and settle our differences through old-fashioned, bare-knuckle fisticuffs. You're totally going down.

Anyway, my mom is not what you would call technologically savvy. The last semi-electronic appliance she learned to operate was the microwave, and that was back in the early 80s when (true story) she was afraid she would somehow incinerate the planet and therefore didn't use it for the first several weeks it was in her kitchen.

NOTE TO MOM: It's not a thermonuclear device. It's a microwave. It's deadly only to the Stouffer's frozen pizzas you stick in there.

It's not that Mom is anti-technology or anything. She just isn't interested in having a computer or a smart phone. Many of her friends and relatives are on Facebook and the like, but it's not something she particularly wants. Which is fine.

The problem is that when she does interact with modern technology and finds herself stuck – which I will say here happens on a fairly regular basis – my sister, brother or I are the ones called upon to bail her out.

And given all that Mom has done for us throughout our lives, this is in no way a problem or an inconvenience.

But you would think that once we show her how to solve a particular technological dilemma, she would write down the solution or otherwise memorize it so that it doesn't become a problem again.

And again. And again. And again.

This happens most often with her TV. It's a simple flat screen for which she has digital cable service. Time-Warner, in their infinite wisdom, has given her a remote that only a trained fighter pilot could confidently operate. It has (and I'm estimating here because I haven't actually counted) 4,718 buttons, all but three of which do things for which she has no use.

So what often happens is that Mom wants to watch TV, but she can't figure out how to turn the darn thing on. Or, if she does manage to turn it on, how to get to the channel she wants.

Or – and let me assure you, this has happened – how to make sure the TV is operating in English and not in Spanish. This is my absolute favorite Mom TV Conundrum, because listening to her try to pronounce the onscreen Spanish words as they appear makes me laugh so hard I cry.

I know I'm a terrible person. You don't have to tell me.

So every couple of weeks, I am summoned to her house to get her TV back in working order so she can watch Oprah or the Indians game or whatever (and in English). And every time I forget to write down what I did so that she can fix the problem herself next time.

In the meantime, I think I've figured out what we need to do to the remote control to help her:

So I'm back...

Hi, it's me again.

Well, "it's me again" depending on who you are. If you were formerly a reader of the blog known as "They Still Call Me Daddy," then yes, it's me again.

If you're not someone who ever had the fortune/misfortune (I leave that determination to the reader) to stumble across my cyber-missives, then welcome, I suppose.

In any case, I'm going to try blogging again. This is, I believe, my third attempt. Or maybe fourth. It has been at least three.

Whatever the number, each time I've tried blogging, it has always ended with me whimpering about having to stop because I have no time to blog. And by all accounts, that's true.

But it's true only because I used to insist on blogging every single day. And even if you're only writing a few sentences, coming up with blog material every day is a drag. Both for you and for me.

So my wife (her name is Terry...she's very smart and pretty) made the sensible suggestion that maybe I could just blog occasionally. At first I resisted because I have a mental defect known as "All or Nothing Syndrome." Either I do something all-out, full-force, gonads-to-the-wall, so to speak...or I don't do it at all.

For reasons that escape even me, since October 2013 I've opted for "don't do it at all."

Which is silly, of course. In the 14 months since I shut down They Still Call Me Daddy, I've often had the itch to get back online and write. But my life is such that I can't do it every day, so I didn't do it at all.

Yet somehow I've finally managed to convince myself of two things: I don't have to write every day, and when I do write, it doesn't have to be 5,000 words.

This, you understand, is a revelation for me.

So the blog is back. If you were with us in The Old Days, you'll notice three important differences in this latest incarnation:

1. The name of the blog. I want to say that I've dropped TheyStillCallMeDaddy.com for philosophical and emotional reasons. Making a clean break and all. But the reality is that some Japanese person snatched up the original domain name after I abandoned it, and I can't seem to get it back. And while TheyStillCallMeDaddy.net or TheyStillCallMeDaddy.us may be viable alternatives, I like the .com thing and decided to switch to something else.
   
2. As you may have gathered, I'm not going to write every 24 hours liked I used to. Days will likely go by between posts. Maybe even weeks. I can't say for sure, but I'll write when I can and, to be honest, when I feel like it. If you're crazy enough to want to know when a new post is up, I think you'll find somewhere on this screen a place where you can enter your email address and ask to be notified. But be warned: Given my obsessive personality, there will be times when I post 14 times in 48 hours or something crazy like that. It's just how I am. I make no apologies.
   
3. This may be as long a post as you're going to see around here. I no longer feel the need to hit some magical word mark with every post. Sometimes it's just going to be a few sentences. Or maybe a photo. Or maybe a photo with a few sentences. That's so much more enjoyable for you and obviously easier for me. And at this point, I'm not sure whose convenience I'm more worried about. Probably my own.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by and/or coming back. I really do appreciate it. Let's see if we can make it last this time around...

Here's why the blog ends today...for good

I know I said this once before, but this time I mean it...

Today marks the last day of They Still Call Me Daddy as an active blog. I enjoy doing it, I really do. And I know I'm not obligated to justify this decision to anyone, but I figured I owed that much to those who take the time read it regularly.

The reason of course, is time. It always comes back to time, doesn't it? Time and how we manage it. It's a precious resource, and one of which I have relatively little.

I only post three days a week, but even the time it takes to compose one of these little essays is time away from the kids. And I got five of 'em, folks. Five who get a chunk of my day now, but who deserve more.

Plus, almost five months into my role as Director of Communications at Vitamix, I've come to discover that I truly have a Big Boy Job now. It's hugely rewarding and enjoyable, but it's undeniably a position that requires lots and lots of hours. It ain't 9 to 5, for sure. The more appropriate numbers to describe it are "24" and "7."

Then there's this: I may want to go after my MBA. It's a personal and professional goal with an immense amount of payoff, most of it intangible. And for a number of reasons, the time for me to do it may be now.

Even at 1-2 classes at a time, an MBA would be hugely time-consuming for me. There's no way around that. And it's going to take me years to finish it, with no guarantee I ever will. But I'm considering giving it a shot.

Then there are the ever-present priorities of my wonderful wife, my spiritual life, and taking care of myself physically.

God + Family + Career + Personal Care & Development = Barely Enough Time to Sleep, Let Alone Do Anything Else.

I truly appreciate everyone who read the 230-plus posts I've written since starting this thing back in December 2011 (with a eight-month or so hiatus thrown into the middle). Your comments and encouragement were always greatly appreciated.

Before I go, though, I'm not sure I ever told you about the time I was on two game shows...

10 things about me I can't believe my wife puts up with

1. I get cranky when I get stressed
I like to think I can handle a lot, but when I feel like my cup runneth over, I get irritable. She generally lets it slide, God bless her.

2. I can't fix anything
I know we've been over this before, but really, how much easier would her life be if her husband knew how to repair stuff? As it is, she either has to learn how to fix things herself, farm the job out to her dad, or simply go out and a buy new version of whatever has broken. Sorry, hon.

3. I am inordinately interested in grown men playing games
My sports fandom is something I keep relatively in control, but every once in awhile I think it must bother her. Like when I stay up late to watch the end of a game and cheer just loud enough to wake her up.

4. I am an all-or-nothing person
I'll go to Terry and say, "Geez, I'm having a hard time keeping up with my running schedule." And she, very sensibly, will ask something like, "Why don't you cut back to running only a few days a week?" And I, very insensibly, will reply (in caps), "NO! I MUST EITHER RUN 75,000 MILES EVERY WEEK OR I WON'T RUN AT ALL! THERE WILL BE NO IN-BETWEEN!"

5. I hate losing to her in anything
Especially Putt Putt. She's a very good miniature golfer, I am not. But I will try my darndest to beat her because I must not lose to a girl. Trust me, I annoy even myself with this one.

6. I insist on cleaning the kitchen before we go to bed
I'll come home and the kitchen will be a mess, and Terry will tell me not to worry because she'll clean it in the morning. And I know she will. But the thought of dirty dishes sitting in the sink overnight bothers me to no end. I don't know why, it just does. So almost inevitably, I will clean the kitchen myself (and come to think of it, I have to believe she knows this and uses it to her own advantage. She's sneaky.)

7. I work my game show experience into far too many conversations
Did I ever tell you that I was on two game shows? Not one, TWO. See, it all started when...

8. I refuse to believe I am any good at anything
"Self-deprecating" is one thing. That's kind of admirable. But "constantly believing you're the worst person in the world and saying so" has to grate on your significant other after awhile. Or at least I imagine it is.

9. I can be obsessive
This is closely related to #4, I suppose. Like the Weight Watchers thing. I lost a good deal of weight and continue to track my food every day using the Weight Watchers PointsPlus system. And if given the chance, I will talk to you about it. Forever. I track everything that goes into my mouth, and I don't eat nearly the quantity of desserts I used to. I'm a weight loss evangelist. And like anyone who has discovered a new way of life and wants to tell you about it, I am annoying.

10. I write about our personal lives in a public blog
Seriously, who does that?

In every parent is a bit of the harbor master

"August Winds"
Lyrics by Sting

When August winds are turning,
The fishing boats set out upon the sea,
I watch 'til they sail out of sight,
The winter follows soon,
I watch them drawn into the night,
Beneath the August moon.

My children, my little "fishing boats," are at various stages of life.

On one end is Elissa, our 19-year-old. She is a college sophomore, only a few years away from sailing out of the harbor of family and home that has protected her since birth.

On the other end is Jack, our 7-year-old second-grader. He's so smart and so engaging and he makes me happy every day.

Eventually, all of the little fishing boats in our house will sail away. I know it must be this way, and I understand.

I figure Terry and I are about in the "August" of our parenthood. A lot of years are behind us, but there are still quite a few ahead. We'll always be Mom and Dad, but the actual process of raising young children is about 2/3rds finished.

No one knows I come here,

Some things I don't share.

I can't explain the reasons why,

It moves me close to tears,

Or something in the season's change,

Will find me wandering here.

So here's what happens: Sometimes I'll be running and listening to my iPod, and a sentimental song will come up that reminds me of when the kids were little or when we took a family vacation or something, and I'll suddenly find myself right on the verge of tears.

Really, that happens quite a bit. And they're not sad tears in any way, nor are they tears of joy. I think it's what the word "melancholy" was coined to described. It's a "happy sadness." Do you know what I mean?

I don't talk about it much, but it happens. With one in college and two in high school, you start to wonder how good a job you've done as a parent. Some things you figure you did well, others not so much. As hard as the job is, you never really want it to end.

And in my public moments,

I hear things I say, but they're not me.

Perhaps I'll know before I die,

Admit that there's a reason why

I count the boats returning to the sea.

I count the boats returning to the sea.

Every day, at least once, I run through a mental list of my children to note where they are, what they're doing, and whether I need to do anything to make sure they're OK. I do this every day, without fail, as do most parents.

I have to do this, of course, because the little fishing boats are constantly gone on short excursions...work, school, hanging out with friends, whatever. These trips are all practice for the day they sail away for good, and it's part of my job to make sure they know the way.

And to make sure that one day I'll be OK when they don't need me anymore.

And in my private moments,

I drop the mask that I've been forced to wear.

But no one knows this secret me,

Where albeit unconsciously,

I count the boats returning from the sea.

I count the boats returning from the sea.

One of my favorite times of the day is right before we go to bed and I go about my nightly routine of closing and locking doors, shutting windows, turning off lights, etc.

Part of that routine is one final, almost subconscious run through the roster. "Elissa? At college. Chloe? Upstairs reading. Jared? In his room checking the Indians score online. Melanie? In the shower. Jack? In bed. All present and accounted for."

And then, with a small sigh of relief, I head off for the bedroom and slide under the covers next to the woman who has shared this job of parenting with me for nearly 20 years. We'll do it again tomorrow, but for now, the boats have all returned from the sea.

And I am happy.

There was a time...

There was a time when Saturday mornings meant Barbies and board games. I miss it.

There was a time when it wasn't at all uncommon for me to be awake at 3 in the morning changing a diaper. I don't miss it.

There was a time when every trip out of the house meant baby bags, car seats and snacks for little ones.

There was a time when everyone in the family believed fervently in Santa Claus. Including me, I think.

There was a time when helping someone with their homework didn't involve advanced math or Ph.D.-level linguistics.

There was a time - several, in fact - when I wondered how we would ever make ends meet (yet somehow we always did).

There was a time when the kids' high school graduation years seemed laughably far off.

There was a time when Raffi was the soundtrack of our long car trips.

There was a time when everyone was in bed by 9 p.m. and it was quiet. I really miss that.

There was a time when I could walk around the house without finding a single bra or feminine hygiene product on the floor. I think I really, really miss that.

There was a time when tee ball and pee wee soccer were the extent of our family's sporting endeavors. Now, thousands of dollars of athletic fees later, it's a bit more complicated.

There was a time when I was a 24-year-old father who had no idea what he was doing. Now I'm a 43-year-old father who has no idea what he's doing.

There was a time when I didn't have to worry about the top of my head getting sunburned because there was hair to protect it.

There was a time when I didn't know and honestly didn't care what my cholesterol, BMI and blood pressure were.

There was a time when someone dying at the age of 60 didn't seem to be that much of a tragedy to me.

There was a time when eating 4,000 calories a day meant I would probably lose weight.

There was a time when I was a newly married, 22-year-old recent college graduate with a beautiful bride. Now I'm someone who has been married for nearly half his life and is thinking about returning for a graduate degree who has a beautiful bride.

There was a time. It was a long while ago, but there was a time...