A man's got to know his limitations

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.
  
• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.
  
• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.
  
• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.
  
• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably your guy.
  
• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.
  
• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.
  
• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.
  
• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.
  
• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.
  
• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

I like hearing my kids' names announced over public address systems

We've entered the fall sports season, which in my house means a whole lotta soccer and a weekly dose of high school football.

It also means driving hither and yon – though I continue to have no idea where "Yon" is – to various schools and parks, sitting on the sidelines and cheering my offspring on, sometimes to victory, sometimes not.

When you're in the middle of it, it seems like the season will never end. There's always another game on the schedule, sometimes two at once, in which case Terry and I will oftentimes employ a divide-and-conquer strategy.

But then comes late October and suddenly it does end. The air gets colder, the leaves go away, and you realize how fast it really went.

Which is why I'm trying to enjoy every second of the season that has just begun.

It started out in a bit of a rocky fashion this past week for my three middle kids, all of whom injured themselves in their first soccer games of the season. For Melanie it was a broken wrist that resulted in a cast, though she'll be off the field for far less time than we originally thought. For Jack it was an injured toe – a toe he had already injured once or twice before. And for Jared it was a ball to the face that resulted in cuts to his mouth and a momentary loss of consciousness.

Soccer is not for the faint of heart, no matter what anybody tells you.

I love soccer. I coached it for more than a decade, and all five of my children have played it to one degree or another. Our house has been full of shin guards and soccer socks and deflated soccer balls for several years now. I'll be so sad when our time with the sport finally comes to an end.

Honestly, though, it's football that excites me most. As I've chronicled here before, Jared serves as the kicker for my beloved Wickliffe High School Blue Devils. He's entering his third and final season in that role, and his second as the full-time placekicker (as a sophomore he was a kickoff specialist, which honestly isn't something you see a whole lot of on a Division V football team).

As is now common at the high school level, Jared is not a full-time football player. His "day job" is soccer, and he plays that at the varsity level for Wickliffe. But on Friday nights he puts on the shoulder pads and kicks the oblong spheroid.

He's not on the field most of the time, but when he is, he tends to be the center of attention. Not because he's a superstar or anything, but because the kicker figures prominently in special teams play.

As such, Jared's name is announced several times over the course of a game, whether he's setting up for a kickoff or stepping onto the field to attempt an extra point. That's just the way it is. Kickers, even part-timers, get mentioned by the PA guy every time they're in the game.

And I love it. I'm not going to lie to you, I love it. We're only in Week #1 of the 2016 football season, and already I know how much I'm going to miss hearing, "Teeing up the ball for Wickliffe, number 19 Jared Tennant."

Most people in the stands don't even notice it, but I do. Because that's my boy. That's my son. I realize he's only the kicker, and the guys who are out there play after play work far harder than he does. But that's my boy, and there is only this little sliver of time when he's going to play on the same field I played on, and his name is going to be announced for anyone who cares to hear it.

He's a senior now, which means that come November, those days will end. I hear it from parents of former high school running backs and quarterbacks all the time. They dearly miss hearing the PA announcer intone, "<INSERT NAME HERE> the ball carrier."

So I'm trying to enjoy every minute of it that remains. And I'm doing the same in soccer, where I get to hear Jared's and Melanie's names announced all the time, whether they're starting the game or coming in as substitutes. I particularly like how Wickliffe teacher and alumnus Jim Fatica, who announces our girls soccer games, says, "For Wickliffe...Number 7....Melanie Tennant."

Anyway, yeah, I should be telling you how much I love the thrill of competition and the lessons my kids are learning from sports. And I do. But I wouldn't be honest with you if I didn't admit how much I enjoy hearing Jared's name announced for another kick.

By the way, the Blue Devils begin the 2016 football season this Friday, August 26, at home against the Longhorns of Lutheran West High School. Kickoff – potentially off the foot of my 18-year-old – is at 7 p.m. at Wickliffe Memorial Stadium.

Number 19, Jared Tennant, and all of the other seniors on the roster begin their farewell tour. And I don't plan to miss a second of it.

On grad school, blogging and Cleveland sports championships

Hello. It's nice to see you again. It hasn't really been that long (a little more than three months), but I feel like we haven't talked in forever.

The following things have happened since March 25th, the date of this blog's last post:

• I started school and completed classes in public relations theory & ethics, and public relations management.
• I decided to quit school.
• I went to Europe, and over the 10 days I was there, two of the sports teams that I support passionately won championships. (NOTE: I puzzled a bit over how to construct that sentence. In the event, it almost seems as if "passionately" describes the way those teams won their championships. And I'm sure they were passionate. What I meant, though, is that those are teams I passionately support.)
• I came back from Europe, and now I'm on vacation in Delaware.

To that last point, I'm sitting with my laptop on the patio of our rental condo in Bethany Beach, Delaware. It's nearly 80 degrees at 9 in the morning and very humid, but I love being outside, drinking my coffee, and doing a little writing.

That is, after all, the point of vacation, right? You do things you love, and maybe do them with people you love. I get to do both this week.

We'll be going to the beach, of course, and there's a nice pool right outside of our condo. I am not, it has been documented, much of a water sports guy. But I'm going to be in my bathing suit every day because I think in recent years I've somehow gotten away from being Fun Dad.

When the kids were little, I think I was Fun Dad. I did all sorts of Fun Dad things, from swimming with them to playing kickball with them to riding bikes and whatever.

Then, for reasons I can't quite identify, I got away from being Fun Dad. I became Serious Stressed Dad. Not good. Yeah, work got more intense, and I stupidly added the graduate school thing, but there really are no excuses. I feel like I have lost time to make up for. Maybe this vacation is a start.

As for the grad school thing, what can I say? I tried it, and I loved it. Or at least, I loved the material. And the writing. And even the heavy academic journal reading. But the time it took? I hated that. I hated that with a passion.

So I weighed my options, and on balance it seemed best to just walk away. And I have. Yesterday I completed my final class assignment, and I have no plans to return to the program any time soon.

Everyone tells you, "Oh, don't worry, you'll find time for it someday." And maybe I will. But for now I'm at peace with the decision to hang it up.

Because I really just need to live life, you know? I need to spend time with my family. I need to sit and think. Sit and read. Sit and...do nothing sometimes, I guess. I hardly ever do any of those things, but now is the time to get back to them.

I am one of those people who always feels the need to fill up any Time Vacuum that exists in my life. I quit doing this? Great! I can start doing that! Only recently has it occurred to me that you don't have to do "that." You're allowed to have stretches of free time in which you just live and breathe and grow and be.

So that's what I promise to start doing. Which is why I'm not going to bring this blog back on any regular basis. I'll occasionally dash off a post or two, but I'm not doing the three-days-a-week thing or whatever. I hope you'll still come back to read my very sporadic missives, because I so appreciate it when you do.

Finally, the sports championships...I don't know what to say, because this is entirely new territory for me and for every person over the last 50-plus years who has supported a Cleveland-based professional athletic team. With the exception of the old indoor soccer Cleveland Crunch, none of those teams had won a title since 1964 until my beloved Lake Erie Monsters and Cleveland Cavaliers did it a week or so apart recently.

And I was on another continent for both title-clinching games. The Monsters won the American Hockey League's Calder Cup while I slept peacefully in a London hotel, while the Cavs miraculously came back from a 3-1 series deficit to beat the vaunted Golden State Warriors while Elissa, Chloe and I were snoozing in Barcelona.

As a Cleveland sports fan of my generation, you defined yourself by resiliency. That's all we had was next year. We came back again and again, and usually the reward was just more misery. And now...we won. My teams are the best. I would write more about this, but I can't even grasp what it means. Maybe there's another post in me at some point in the future once I come to terms with the whole thing. It's just stunning.

Suffice it to say, this is a weird and delightfully wacky time in my life, and in the life of the whole Tennant family. We're on summer break, vacation is starting out wonderfully (other than the bedbugs Jared found in his bed last night...really), and the chaos that is normally July for us won't start in earnest for another week or so.

I am blessed. And so are you in some way, I'm guessing.

That's all we can ask for. And so it goes.

This blog is going on hiatus until Spring 2018 (though we'll occasionally post between now and then)

NOTE: I wrote the following post in early February 2016. And now, sitting in a hotel lobby in Southern California on March 13, 2016, it seems a bit...I don't know, abrupt? This particular blog has been in existence less than a year and a half, so it's not like I'm bringing some long-running institution to an end. I'm not bringing anything to an end, actually. This is just an extended break, and it's absolutely the right decision.

But I've been blogging on and off for more than five years, and I feel like I should say something that expresses some degree of the appreciation I feel for everyone who regularly reads these little missives. Many readers have come and gone, especially back in the days when the blog was titled "They Still Call Me Daddy" and drew a wider audience thanks to The News-Herald's now-defunct Community Media Lab. But there's a core of you who regularly read and react to my posts, and I'm so happy you've always taken the time to do both. Thank you for your efforts, because you make the whole thing worth it. You know who you are.

Anyway, here's the original post, which as you might have guessed by now (and certainly from the headline) is announcing the suspension of the blog, for the most part, for a couple of years. I just wanted to make sure you knew how much I appreciate the fact that you ever visited this little site in the first place...
_____________________________________________________________

Every couple of years, I start up a blog that ends 12-18 months later because I don't have time to maintain it.

Guess what I'm going to say next, kids!

Actually, this isn't an "end" so much as an extended pause. I told you a couple of weeks ago that I'm now going to grad school online, and that's unavoidably time-consuming. So I'm not even going to try and fight that fight.

Instead, I'm going to take a planned break of about 24 months. That's when I should be graduating with my master's degree, at which point I'll presumably be able to come back and do the blogging thing again. And presumably I'll have something to say that you want to read.

In the interim, I'll very occasionally throw up a post if I feel the itch, which I'm sure I will. I'll post links to those pieces on Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn, or you can just visit www.5kids1wife.com directly and take a peek every once in awhile to see if I've put something up.

I'll maintain this domain name in the meantime, which is something I didn't do last time I gave up www.theystillcallmedaddy.com and some Japanese person snatched it up. Really, that happened. I don't know why.

This particular blogging stint has been going regularly since December 2014, which is pretty good for me. I appreciate the fact that you take time to read this stuff. I honestly do. And I hope you'll come back once I do.

So for now, it's so long and thanks for all the fish. Please keep in touch via the social media platform of your choice. Take care, stay healthy, and tell people you love them. That's all I've got for you.

We'll talk again.

At what point do your birthdays suddenly become a lot less exciting?

I think it's when you turn 23. And I'll tell you why:

Every birthday you have from 1 to 20 is exciting because you're a kid, and kids get excited about their birthdays for various reasons (even 20-year-old kids). That's a given.

Then you turn 21 and that's cool because ADULTHOOD. Self-explanatory.

Twenty-two is also pretty good, especially for college kids, because it's generally the age when you graduate with your bachelor's degree. Life is about to begin in earnest and you can feel it.

And then you turn 23 and...well, nothing. You're either in grad school or out working. And 23 is just a really, really nondescript age. There's nothing vaguely interesting or special about it. It's even a prime number, for gosh sakes.

Twenty-three just kind of sits there. And I think for many people, it's the first nearly meaningless birthday they experience.

All of which is to mention that my daughter Elissa turns 22 tomorrow, and she's on track to graduate from college sometime this year, so there's that. It is perhaps her last exciting birthday, and I don't even know if she's excited about it because I don't see her very much. I'll have to ask her.

Every Elissa birthday makes me reflect on the passage of time because she's our oldest and therefore is always the first among our kids to turn a given age. I suppose the next time her birthday will really, really affect me will be when she turns 30 because...well, by then, there will be no denying the fact that we her parents are old. You can't have a 30-year-old and be a true young'un.

So until then, I'm going to hold on for dear life to her 20-something birthdays. Even the boring ones.

BLOG RERUN: To my children - Just pick up the blanket

(NOTE: Hey, it's Blog Rerun time again! Let's go back into the musty blog archives and resurrect a post from the past that I happen to have liked, for whatever reason. This particular one first ran on July 31, 2013. And for the record, in the three years since this was posted, not a single person in my house apart from Terry has yet picked up the #@%^! blanket...)


I was down in the basement a few minutes ago, and I was disheartened to find that one of you has, yet again, left a blanket on the floor.

You know the blanket I'm talking about. It's the one that has a green and blue plaid design on one side and white fleece on the other. I won it in a work raffle, I think, 15 or 20 years ago.

At least three times a week, I will come downstairs and find this blanket in a heap on the floor. And I know how it happens: One of you wraps it around yourself as you sit on the couch and watch TV (which I totally understand, given that it's a perpetual 27 degrees down there).

Then, when you're finished watching TV, you simply fling the blanket onto the floor, get off the couch, and go upstairs to attend to other things.

And there sits the blanket, which you got out of the storage cabinet in the entertainment center.

My plea to you is simple: Pick up the blanket.

It's not hard. When you're finished using the blanket, just fold it up and put it back where it belongs in the cabinet.

Heck, you don't even have to fold it if you don't want to. You can just crumple it into a big ball and throw it in there. But the important thing is that you pick it up and put it away.

Got that? Just pick it up and put it away. I've asked you to do this before and you have repeatedly failed to comply. All you have to do is pick it up and put it away. That's it. That's all I ask.

If I go around and ask who left the blanket out on the floor, chances are that all five of you will say it wasn't you. And since I know it wasn't me, and I'm 99.9% sure it wasn't your mother, then one of you either has a very bad memory or is outright lying.

Speaking of your mother, you need to think about her when you leave the blanket on the basement floor. She spends her days cleaning up messes you created, and she is now at her absolute limit. If you leave the blanket on the basement floor again and fail to pick it up and put it away (which, you'll recall, are the simple instructions I gave you earlier), she may snap.

I'm not kidding. She may lose it. And by "lose it," I don't mean that she might yell at you or anything. I mean she may literally murder one of you.

Again, you think I'm joking. I'm not. If she walks down into that basement and finds the blanket on the floor one more time, just one more time, I think it will be enough to push her over the edge. It won't surprise me in the least if she grabs a screwdriver and plunges it into one of your skulls.

I'm not condoning this behavior, mind you, but I'm also extremely sympathetic to her frustration. And when she goes on trial for this crime, I promise I'll be testifying on her behalf.

Because there's not much you're required to do here. This is maybe a 12-second job. When you're finished using the blanket, you just need to put it back into the cabinet. Don't leave it on the floor. Pick it up, then put it away. The folding part, as I mentioned before, is completely optional. Just put the blanket away.

I'm not home as often as your mother, seeing as I spend my days working so as to earn enough money to buy products for you to leave on the floor. You don't only do this with the blanket. You leave everything from cups and plates to toys and chip bags on the floor. Where did we go wrong with you?

Seriously, at what point did we convey the idea that using something then leaving it on the floor and walking away is OK? When was that even implied? Because it's not acceptable. Not in the least. Pick up the blanket. After you use it, pick it up and put it away. OK?

The temptation, of course, is to just put the blanket away myself when I see it. But all this does is perpetuate the problem. You'll just keep doing it unless we point it out to you and make you go back downstairs to put it away. Experience suggests you'll keep on doing it even then.

Which I don't understand, because I fail to see any complicating factors here that would prevent you from performing this small task for us. I will break it down into three steps, in case that helps:

Step 1: Pick the blanket up off the floor
Step 2: Fold the blanket (AGAIN, OPTIONAL)
Step 3: Put the blanket into the cabinet in the lower left corner of the entertainment center

Aaaaaaand, you're done. Finished. Nothing more to see or do here. Just put away the blanket. Please, when you're finished with it, just put away the blanket.

Put away the blanket.

My wife turns...a new age today

We don't need to get into the specific number, do we? Of course not.

Actually, Terry is pretty chill about the whole age thing and probably wouldn't mind if I told you that she turns XX years old today. But I'm not going to take even the small chance of getting into trouble by filling in those X's with an actual age.

Although it should be said, she looks awesome for that age. She has always looked awesome. This, you see, is what attracted me to her when I was 16. It's not like I was looking at her back in high school and thinking, "I'll bet that girl will be an excellent mother to my children."

No, I was thinking, "She's hot. I'm going after that." For that is the full extent of the 16-year-old male's thought process.

Now of course I've come to appreciate the full range of her attributes, not just her beauty. But I ain't gonna lie: It's not a bad thing that she never lost the hotness.

And so another year passes by and we have entered Birthday Season in my family. It starts with my mother-in-law a couple of weeks ago and stretches through April. For whatever reason, we have a lot of late-winter/early-spring birthdays among the Tennants and associated clans. (Insert your joke here that there's something about the summer that just put our parents and grandparents into a certain mood...)

Anyway, happy birthday to my wonderful wife, though no amount of attention and presents can account for everything she does for me and the kids. She is selfless, strong, honest and resourceful. She is the most admirable person I know. And somehow I hit the Pick 6 in the Life Lottery and ended up married to her. Talk about dumb luck.

Oh, and she's hot, too. Did I mention that?