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...

What would you do if you were suddenly rich?

I will never be one of those people who win a $200 million lottery jackpot and become fabulously wealthy thanks to a $5 investment they made at a gas station.

I know this for the simple reason that I never play the lottery.

It's not that I'm philosophically or even morally opposed to lotteries. It's that it never actually occurs to me to buy a PowerBall or Mega Millions ticket.

Seriously, I've bought maybe three of those types of lottery tickets in my entire life. And, as you might surmise, all three have been losers.

The only lottery tickets I buy are those $2 scratch-offs. The vast majority of those are losers, too, or at least the ones I end up with are.

But every once in awhile I come up a big winner, and I treat these moments as if I've just been awarded a Nobel Prize.

For one thing, I tell everyone in the immediate area, even if I don't know them. It's important to me that the old man in the grocery store who smells like moldy bread knows that I'm a winner. Do you hear me, sir? I won! I WON! I paid $2 for this lottery ticket, and now I'm going to turn it in at the customer service desk for $5. Five dollars! That's a 150% return! I think. I'm not too good with math...

Trust me, when you walk around all the time as easily impressed as me, life is an endless series of celebrations and ecstatic moments. I highly recommend it.

Anyway, that's the extent of my lottery endeavors. I just never think to actually buy one of the big-money tickets.

One reason is that I don't know how to do it. I've bought them before, but I can never remember what I said to the clerk or how you're supposed to ask for them, and I don't want to embarrass myself. I think my brain just intentionally forgets so that I don't put myself through that.

Plus, I'm a pretty single-minded guy in any shopping environment. Most of the time I don't buy anything beyond what I actually go to the store to get. I'm focused on getting through my list and getting out, and extraneous items like PowerBall tickets tend not to enter into the equation.

When you read the names of those people who win the big jackpots, you can be sure I won't be among them.

But if I DID manage to win the big prize, well...I think all of us at one point or another have thought about that. What would you do? Would you quit your job? Would you buy a new house? How many new cars?

I know one thing I would do. Well, I would do it after I gave a bunch of winnings to church and to charities that are important to me. That would come first because, you know, you really do need to pay back the universe when blessed with a stroke of good fortune of that magnitude.

The next thing I would do is call the Wickliffe City Schools and offer to pay for an entirely renovated football field with artificial turf, up-to-date stands and facilities, etc. The works. And the only stipulation I would put on this gift would be that the stadium must be named after my father. Robert L. Tennant Memorial Field is what I've always envisioned. I think he would have liked that.

Beyond that, I almost don't care. Probably a trip or two. Or three. Or four. And maybe a new car (or six). And definitely a nice new running watch with GPS technology and all of that.

And also subscriptions to 47 different magazines. I like magazine subscriptions, and I would most certainly stop working so that I had time to read them.

Then from there it would be giving monetary gifts to my family and friends. That would be the funnest part, I would think.

And I would buy myself an apple orchard so that I would never run out of apples, which as I've mentioned before are very important to me.

Then? Well...other than paying for the kids' college educations, I think the rest goes into the bank. I'm telling you, I'm a simple and relatively boring guy.

A guy who will never be rich because his brain can't multitask well enough to pick up some milk, bread and a lottery ticket. It's sad, really.

Four TV debates that need to be resolved right here and now

Dick York or Dick Sargent?

York

Sargent

These, of course, are the two men who played Darrin Stephens on the classic 60s sitcom "Bewitched." I used to watch "Bewitched" when I came home for lunch during school. Great show. And Elizabeth Montgomery was pretty.

York was the original Darrin from the show's inception in 1964 until his health forced him to leave in 1969. Sargent took over the role and held it until the series ended in 1972.

There's no debate here. Dick York is THE Darrin. And not just because he was the original. His face was goofy, and he was capable of a whole range of expressions that perfectly conveyed the frustrations of living with his witch wife Samantha and her mother Endora.

There will be no argument over this one.

VERDICT: Dick York

Wilma or Betty?

First off, let it be known that I don't mean this in a perverted way. These are cartoons, for crying out loud. I'm talking about which one was the more appealing wife/mother/character.

(For the record, though, since she looks somewhat like my wife, I would definitely go with Betty if this really were that kind of debate.)

Wilma's character on "The Flintstones" was much more fleshed out than Betty's, largely because she was married to the show's main character. She was smart, devoted, a bit sassy, and she rocked a mean set of pearls every day. Or at least I assume those were pearls around her neck. Maybe they were rocks.

As for Betty, well, she was married to lovable-yet-boneheaded Barney, so clearly she lacked good judgment. Not that Fred was a real prize or anything, but at least at one point in his life Fred was a football star. He had dreams and aspirations. Barney, on the other hand, was just...Barney. As Gertrude Stein once said about the city of Oakland, "There's no there there."

Plus Wilma had flaming red hair, and there's something to be said for that.

VERDICT: Wilma

Trapper or B.J.?

Trapper

B.J. Hunnicutt

OK, this one's a little trickier. "M*A*S*H" underwent a series of character changes during its 11-year run, including the transition in the commanding officer from Henry Blake to Sherman Potter, and the shift in not-so-lovable tentmate from Frank Burns to Charles Emerson Winchester III.

But I was always intrigued by the switch in roommates/drinking buddies for Hawkeye from Trapper John to B.J. This shift, by the way, happened because Wayne Rogers, the guy who played Trapper, abruptly left the show after three seasons since he wasn't happy about playing a supporting role. So the producers hastily recruited Mike Farrell to join the cast as B.J.

B.J. was earnest and dependable. In other words, boring. Yes, yes, I know, there were more dramatic possibilities having a married surgeon in the unit who constantly missed his wife (the wonderful Peg). But he just wasn't as funny. Farrell was pretty clearly fine playing the straight man to Alda's zany guy.

Plus, the Trapper character lived on in the early and mid-80s with the spinoff show "Trapper John, M.D.," which I liked. So clearly...

Verdict: Trapper

Arnold or Al?

Arnold (but not really...see below)

Al

"Happy Days" was a defining cultural force of my childhood. For one thing it gave us the Fonz and Richie Cunningham, both of whom were awesome. It also gave us Ralph Malph and Potsie Weber, neither of whom were awesome. So, you know, there was some good and some bad.

One of the more confusing things on the show was who owned "Arnold's Diner" and when. As near as I can tell, it went something like this:

• The Japanese guy (Pat Morita, who would of course go on to play Mr. Miyagi in the "Karate Kid" movies) was the original "Arnold." Only his name on the show wasn't Arnold. It was Matsuo Takahashi (really). The joke was that when he bought Arnold's Diner, he couldn't afford to buy more letters for the sign to make it "Takahashi's." So he just kept it as "Arnold's," and people on the show called him Arnold...even though it was acknowledged that wasn't his name. Weird, I know.
• Morita made spotty appearances in the first couple of seasons of "Happy Days." Or maybe he didn't appear until Season 3. I can't get an official ruling on this.
• In any case, Al Delvecchio joined the show in the fourth season and stayed through Season 10. The explanation was that Arnold went off to get married.
• Al Molinaro, the guy who played Al Delvecchio, took his character to the "Joanie Loves Chachi" spinoff in 1982, at which point Asian Arnold returned and became a regular character until "Happy Days" ended in 1984.

At least I think that's how it went. The point is, there were two Arnolds. And neither of them was named Arnold.

I almost don't want to have to choose between them, because they were both good. I liked when Al would shake his head and just say "yep yep yep yep yep." And I liked when Morita played up Arnold's comically heavy Japanese accent to the point that even World War II vets who fought in the Pacific were saying, "Hey, hey, pull it back there, Tojo."

Maybe more on the strength of his later work in the "Karate Kid" oeuvre, then, I'm going with Morita. But only by a whisker.

VERDICT: Asian Arnold

At what point are you no longer the parent of a "little kid?"

Recently it was announced that the Voyager 1 space probe had become the first man-made object ever to leave the solar system.

Or maybe not.

Apparently it's complicated, and scientists have been arguing (as scientists will do) about exactly what Voyager 1 has accomplished. There's some dispute, I guess, over where the solar system actually ends.

I would argue that all of us who are parents have been or will be in a similar state of uncertainty.

At what point can you say that you no longer are the parent of a little kid? When they hit a certain age? And if so, what is that age? 7? 8? 9? Younger? Older?

Or is it when they reach a certain level of independence and maturity? If so, how do you measure that? Is it more feeling than knowing?

I'm not exactly sure. I'm the father of five children, four of whom are most definitely out of Little Kid-dom at the ages of 19, 16, 15 and 13.

But then there's Jack, my seven-year-old second-grader.

I'm not sure whether to call him a "little kid" or not.

On one hand, he does a lot of things for himself that even a few years ago we had to do for him. Like pick out his own clothes, fix himself lunch, take a shower, etc.

On the other hand, he still does things that are decidedly little kid-like. He still wears Sponge Bob jammies, for instance, and plays with toys in his room.

So is he a big kid or a little kid? Or maybe an in-between kid?

I don't know. All I know is that every milestone he achieves is a "last" for Terry and me. The last kid we'll potty train. The last kid I'll teach to ride a bike. The last kid to start kindergarten. And so on.

Some of these accomplishments are a relief, the kind of thing you get through, take a deep, satisfied breath, and say to yourself, "Thank God I never have to do that again!"

Other are sad, when you look forlornly at your child and realize he's growing up far too fast and that you would give anything for one more <INSERT YOUR FAVORITE LITTLE KID ACTIVITY HERE.>

Like Voyager 1 out there at the edges of interstellar space, I feel like I'm caught in a strange dead zone. Too old, really, to be fathering babies anymore, but clearly too young to be a grandfather.

I have a daughter in college with whom I only have contact every few days, and whose only problems I'm generally called upon to help with are related to her car, her laptop, or her homework.

Then there are my high school and middle school kids, all of whom seem to be doing fairly well despite my influence. They still need me for a variety of things, but far less than they did in the days when they wore diapers.

And then there's Jack, my last connection to parenting a young child. I've been a dad since 1994, and only now am I feeling for the first time that the job is really transitioning into something new.

You never stop being Dad, of course, but your job description does change.

You become more consultant than hands-on technician. Which is the way it's supposed to be and is fine and all.

It's just that I've been in the trenches with the parenting thing for so long that I'm not quite sure how to be hands-off. Like when to insert myself into a situation and when to let the child screw up and learn (God willing) from their mistakes.

As with everything else involved with parenting, that's a skill. And it's a skill at which, I'm assuming, I'll get better in time.

Probably just in time to change the name of this blog to "They Still Call Me Grandpa."

So the girls and I are doing the Color Run thing this weekend...

Tomorrow morning I'm going to run 3.1 miles with my daughters, getting doused with colored powder every so often along the way to the point that, afterward, we'll all look like we were in a crayon factory explosion.

My life gets progressively weirder every day.

Everything above is true, by the way. If all goes well and the creek don't rise, I WILL be running 5K with Elissa, Chloe and Melanie. And we WILL get powder of various colors thrown at us while we're doing it.

And most of all, my life really IS stranger and stranger.

The girls and I are entered in The Color Run, which is a running "race" in the loosest sense of the word. People don't really go there to run so much as have a great time, dress up in goofy clothes, absorb the fun atmosphere, and yes, get themselves and their clothes (and skin) turned into a rainbow of colors.

Apparently this is how we'll look after the race...

For reasons that are perhaps beyond me because I'm a curmudgeon in training, the main attraction of the race is the color part. I guess they have volunteers or whomever stationed along the course whose job it is to throw the powder at you.

For best results, race organizers suggest that runners wear white (or mostly white) shirts. The powder comes off fairly easily, I'm told, but it's like a badge of honor to keep it on after the race.

They do Color Runs all over the country, and fortunately the Cleveland-area version is held very, very near to my home. So near, in fact, that we could almost walk to the starting line in Willoughby Hills.

At one point the race course comes within several hundred yards of our house. The temptation to just stop and walk home could be great, I imagine.

But chances are I'll be having too good a time to want to stop.

For one thing, this is an activity that includes just me and my daughters. No one else, just the four of us. I am, I think it's safe to say, extremely fond of my girls, all of whom I consider Daddy's girls whether they like it or not.

For another, there's running involved, and I love me some running. I run four days a week. I would do it more often, but those three rest days are designed mostly for extra sleep, and I don't think I'm giving them up any time soon.

And then there's the fact that this race is just plain fun, from what I hear. I'm sure we'll run some of it, we'll walk some of it, and I wouldn't be surprised if we crawl and/or do backflips through the rest.

I should also mention that I paid nearly $200 to enter the four of us. So yeah, believe me, we're all getting to the finish line one way or another...

There are times when I really wish I had the wisdom of Solomon

When you have multiple children, one of your chief roles as a parent is to serve as mediator for arguments, disputes and disagreements of all kinds.

Most of the time this is a fairly easy job. One child hits another? Punishment is duly meted out to the hitter. Two little ones want the same toy at the same time? You immediately devise a system of sharing while extolling the virtues of compromise. Someone uses someone else's hair straightener without asking? It only takes a few seconds to figure out who's in the wrong.

But then there are times when my children come to me with a problem I simply can't solve.

Case in point: Child A and Child B approach me to resolve the question of who should have control of the living room TV for the next two hours. Child A will argue that she wants to watch a movie and Child B has been playing Xbox on the TV for the past hour.

Which seems pretty clear-cut. You take the TV, Child A, because it's rightly your turn. Enjoy your movie.

But not so fast. Child B will counter that his sibling had the TV for two whole hours yesterday, so he still has at least one hour of television control coming to him. Which also seems fair.

And suddenly the jury is deadlocked. Both parties make convincing cases, and I have no idea how to rule here. It's at this point that I have three options:

(A) Make a judgment call and recognize that one child is going to feel slighted (and perhaps rightly so)

(B) Sit with the two combatants and negotiate a deal

(C) Slowly sneak away and hope that my wife will step in and solve this riddle

More often than not, I choose "C." Which I realize is unfair to my overtaxed wife, but "A" and "B" both involve a level of effort to which I'm not necessarily willing to commit.

I also enjoy it when one of the kids blatantly does something wrong to his/her sibling, then argues that the sibling did the exact same thing to them yesterday or last week or whenever.

While this may be true, I point out that just because he/she did it to you, it in no way allows you to do it back to them. This is not how our justice system works, yet this concept repeatedly baffles them. My children are the ultimate purveyors of "an eye for an eye."

Then there are the habitual offenders in our house. And here I'm thinking specifically of my 15-year-old son, Jared. He constantly teases and torments his little brother, Jack. I tell him not to do this, and he stops. But he does it again the next day. I smack him and/or administer some other form of discipline, so he stops. Then he does it again soon after.

This goes on and on. Whatever I do to him, whatever I take away from him, it seems to have no long-term effect. Jared is evil, and his evil nature forces its way to the surface whenever he's in the presence of his younger brother.

Which is a shame, really, because in those times when Jared gets along with Jack and does things with him, Jack loves it. Little boys desperately want and need the approval of their older brothers, and I see that in Jack, yet Jared continues his evil ways.

Short of having him thrown into prison - which I HAVE considered, it should be noted - I'm not sure how to get Jared to stop acting this way. I'm hoping he grows out of it soon. And by "soon" I mean "by the time he's 30." But I'm not holding my breath.