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...

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."