I hope you fail creatively and spectacularly. I hope you find new and original ways to fail that I can’t pretend to dream up yet. I hope you get to know the taste of rejection intimately and often. This isn’t to be some kind of morbid hard ass, and it’s not out of some misguided effort to attract more readers for my blog. I am saying this because a life without failure is not a life worth living. I want you to fail, because failure is an extension of not being afraid to try. Sure, it will probably start out with baseball, swimming, soccer, and maybe even a few music lessons here and there. As your parents we will be in charge of your initial set of activities. I want you to fail because you might have to try 20 activities before you find the one you know you cannot live without. Finding that one activity might be worth batting ninth, riding the bench, or messing up an instrument solo. Believe me, I did all those things myself at some point or another. But I also had a heck of a lot of fun with my athletic career and learned some invaluable lessons. I want you to fail because I want you to find whatever it is that makes you hop out of bed with a smile on your face when the alarm clock goes off in the morning. Most people have to try a whole host of things before they find what that is. The process may not be easy, but it is worth it. I want you to develop your natural strengths, and find the things that you love doing. I hope you can learn to take what you do, and figure out how to make a contribution. All this requires failing. You may even fail a few times with whatever you want to spend the rest of your life doing, and that is also OK. I was fired from my college newspaper. But I went on to win several awards for feature writing and news coverage. My writing has been rejected by a long list of publications. That is OK, because I’ve also been published on a good list of regional, national and International websites. The list of places I’ve been published is the list that matters in the end. Anything in life truly worth having is worth fighting for. The only disappointing failure is the failure of not trying. If you like what you read, please vote for me by clicking the Top Daddy Blog Link below or sharing on social media....

My dad frequently wore a t-shirt that said “I carry no cash” when I was a kid. I was too young to understand the joke (or maybe the truth in the statement, depending on the situation) at the time. In the instances when my total misconception of an ATM bubbled to the surface, the t-shirt likely served as a handy reference point. “Dad, if you have no money, there’s a machine over there that spits it out!” Jamie’s not old enough to be asking for money or a lot of things that cost money, but I am ready to get on Amazon at a moment’s notice, and look for a similar t-shirt. It has to still exist. That shirt is a telltale sign of a dad. There are others as well. Being a dad doesn’t change who you are. You are still the same person you were before. But it can bring out a slew of behaviors you never thought were possible. Some ways to spot a dad are obvious and some, not as much. Similar to a mom’s purse, there is no telling what might emerge from the pockets of a dad’s cargo shorts. It might be a toy minion or a packet of wet wipes. It could be something as risky as a sippy cup filled with milk and steadily balanced against his leg. Carrying these items and forgetting can make for an interesting situation going into an airport, sporting event, or any event that requires emptying the contents of their pockets. Something random could inadvertently surface next time they reach for their phone or wallet. The clue could be as inconspicuous as the Costanza wallet, but there is likely something there that points to dadness. A dad is the guy at the bar who might have spit up stain on his shoulder, or tomato sauce on his shirt, and not care. It might mean total embarrassment for a college student, but a dad is comfortable with this appearance. The tomato sauce likely got there while cleaning up a toddler, or at least that’s his story. He probably didn’t notice until after he left the house. The dad clue could be verbal or behavioral, for example displaying a sudden regard for the upkeep of the lawn, or an increased obsession with both coffee AND alcohol depending on the time of day. The bookshelf might have the classic “Go the F*ck to Sleep” sandwiched between the thriller novel and some existentialist essays he once had time to read. He might purposefully dream up more ways to be overly-direct with his children, partly because it’s funny, and partly because sometimes it’s the only way they will understand. He might...

There’s been a lot written online recently about toddlers asking 400-plus questions a day. At first it seemed like a fairly excessive number. But I want to make it perfectly clear, I’m not willing to sit there with a clicker for 24 hours, keeping tally on every question that Jamie asks. No way. After further consideration, I’m too afraid that number might be right. But like anything else, there is a catch. Does it count if 399 of them are the same question? I am serious. Jamie has officially entered the “why” phase. You tell him to do something. “Why?” You tell him the sky is blue. “Why?” You tell him to put his toys away. “Why?” It doesn’t matter. Factual, or conceptual, real or imagined. The response to almost anything you tell him at any given time these days may just be the same one-word question. Some of the “Why’s?” seem perfectly logical. He is trying to figure things out and piece together his world. Some of them are positively absurd if they came from anyone else but a toddler. For example: “That’s a present, buddy. Somebody gave it to you.” “Why?” Or, “You’re green beans aren’t orange, silly, they’re green.” “Why?” Now who in their right mind would ask “Why?” to these kinds of statements? A toddler, of course. Because their little brains are built on repetition. It was the response to the last 15 statements that you gave him. In his mind, it stands to reason that the 16th should also be marked with a “why.” It doesn’t help that his mother and I both had reputations for asking an array of questions as kids. I remember one neighborhood adult telling me he would start charging me a nickel for every question. I was trying to figure the world out myself. Who knows, maybe my inquisitiveness led to a career in journalism. Or maybe I was just doing my part to drive my parents up a wall. As we become inundated, we’ll work on our responses. In the meantime, “I don’t know,” and “Because I said so,” seem like two perfectly acceptable answers to almost any question. If you like what you read, please vote for me by clicking the Top Daddy Blog Link below or sharing on social media....

I’ve had some long weekends, with a significant amount of time spent outside. There have been warm summer days when I have run a few miles, mow the lawn and do some yard work. None of this is to brag or complain. I’m young enough that I can still do it all on the same day, most of the time. Now. When I get inside I may struggle a bit to keep my eyes open. It’s a long day and if I’m on the couch after all is said and done, I might rest my eyes for a moment. But I do so with caution. Enter Jamie. A few months back, he learned a new game. “Sleeping” is what it’s called. Want to know how to play? When someone’s eyes close, or they let out a fake snore, you yell and scream their name as loud as possible. Sounds fun, right? “Daddy sleeping!!!” he yells. This means it’s daddy’s turn to shut his eyes and fake snore for the next few seconds. Then, my (not so) stealth son creeps up close and yells your name. Next, he may ask the next person in the room for sleeping, and it’s their turn to roll their head onto their shoulder and snore it up. He used to hit the sleeper at the same time, but we nixed that behavior, thinking we were thwarting any possible future issues with this game. Then we kept playing. It really is a great game. There is laughter, and fun had by all. He’s shown interest in family members who are really sleeping, but so far we have been there to thwart his efforts in this direction. The game is played on. Until one day, someone really sleeping is going to jump through the front room ceiling, and it will probably be me. I haven’t fully let my guard down yet after one of my long outside days, but it is coming. And when I do, there is going to be a tiny 2-year-old with a monster voice, and he will be hunting daddy. I will learn to sleep with one eye open. If you like what you read, please vote for me by clicking the Top Daddy Blog Link below or sharing on social media....

There are things that repulse you, and then there are things that repulse you. Remember back in college when you had that roommate who used to be the rudest, loudest, nastiest eater? The one who used to make your eyes roll and your stomach turn? Now, he ranks second. Except, the guy who ranks first is really kind of adorable. His antics don’t elicit the same response (most of the time). Bet you didn’t see that coming, right? He’s one of the rare breeds who can throw manners and social etiquette out the window, and still have women smile and flirt. He is…a toddler. He is your toddler. Here are four gross things that no self-respecting grown up can get away with. Yet your toddler does them all the time and you don’t bat an eye. Somehow under these circumstances they seem acceptable. Poop in a diaper – My wife is a nurse and bless her heart. The list of people who’s diaper I would change is short. Luckily for all involved, Jamie made the cut. Poop is nasty. Poop is vile. Poop is also all around, when you have an infant or a toddler. You get over the atrocious smell to simply complete the act of the diaper change. I am both dreading and anxiously awaiting potty training at the same time. It will be intense. There will be kicking and screaming and crying, I’m sure. And that’s just me. Even though I’m used to changing diapers, the completion of potty training will be glorious. Wearing Tomato Sauce – It is always socially awkward to be “that guy” without a napkin at a meal. Maybe you are watching a stranger at a restaurant as he disregards that piece of food on his face. Maybe he just wiped spaghetti sauce on his pants. Who knows? It all goes out the window if you are 2. A 2-year-old can wipe spaghetti sauce through their hair, and their parents are immune to the mess. Selfishly I sort of wish it was a behavior that could carry into adulthood, but conversely it is not a behavior I’d find attractive in any other person. It’s a glorious double standard. Unless of course, you are 2. Hugging cat butt – Jamie’s struggled with the logistics of giving our cat a hug. Whenever he gives anyone a hug, he leans in with his head. He doesn’t understand what the business end of a feline is. This can get icky fast. No one should linger down there. Somehow an adorable little boy who doesn’t know better gets a free pass…and a bath. Finger painting with garage floor liquids – Toddlers are not born with the instinct to veer away from disgusting and...

At 33, I became a late entry into the parenting game. Age broke down many potential misconceptions of life’s greatest miracle before my wife was ever pregnant. For instance, I knew how utterly useless I’d feel when my wife went into labor. I knew that childbirth is 99.99 percent on women, reducing their men to cheerleader status. I knew my wife would agonize over the worse pain of her life, and it was my duty to ask her if she wanted a pillow. It was my job to remind her how to breath, faking a confidence like I knew how she felt, or something. I knew that my active role pre-childbirth ended on the recreational end of the spectrum. I knew all this because I was 33. I survived my 20s, so I must know. I thought I knew what to expect once that little boy joined us, but I was wrong. At 33, I had experience, even though I had no experience. My son Jamie is now 2. Every day I’m reminded of what I don’t know. Here are some of my parenting misconceptions, from 2 years ago to today: Both Meg and I were a bit out of our element with this whole childbirth thing. We took one of those hospital classes, to get you acclimated to the idea. They told us 1-4 childbirths were C-section. Eyes wandered as every couple began to do the math. Meg didn’t want one, and I wanted Meg to have the experience she wanted. So it wasn’t going to be us. Jamie had other ideas. He had his own way of rushing the process. C-section it was. No matter how stubborn we are, no matter how strong our convictions, Jamie had his say. Even though I was late into the fatherhood game, it didn’t mean I had experience holding a lot of babies. Holding babies is awkward. They’re so tiny and helpless. They move. They squirm. They’re so small you are afraid you’ll drop them. You’re afraid you’ll break them. You won’t. They’re durable. They’re hearty. And eventually no matter how uncomfortable or awkward it feels, you settle in and get comfortable with holding one. The process is expedited when he’s yours. Poop is nasty. Especially other people’s poop. I was all for being actively involved in parenthood. But what did this mean in the fine print? What did this mean in the details? I thought I’d hesitate when it came to changing a diaper. I thought I’d be dissuaded by my keen olfactory senses. I don’t honestly know if I had changed a diaper before Jamie’s. It’s not my favorite fatherly task, but you’d have to be a little mentally disturbed to find...

Most toddlers are adorable and mine is no exception. Someone that adorable aught to have no difficulty giving you a hug or sitting next to you through their favorite movie, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. He’ll give you a hug, but it’s going to be on his terms. He may give you an unsolicited running hug where he approaches out of nowhere and grabs your legs. You may want to protect certain body parts, but the sentiment is sure sweet. Those hugs are also typically over as quick as they began. But take that running hug as a sign to pick him up at your own risk. He may give you a hug if you are extremely lucky. Otherwise, he may scream bloody murder until you put him back down on the ground. My point is this. I frequently want to pick my son up and give him a hug– and I’m not typically a very huggy person. I never know if a social situation calls for a hug and hesitating for one second can make things outright awkward. But something about your own kids brings it out. Toddlers are as buoyantly energetic as they are cute. Maybe you try to cut them off from the 20th lap around the kitchen and living room by picking them up to give them a hug. You’ll wish you hadn’t. You pick them up and body parts flail through the air. Nothing is intentional but you could get smacked in the head. Kicked in the unmentionables. Elbowed in the chest. Anything is possible. Everything is possible. I’m pretty sure it’s all happened at least one hundred times. This is why I got really excited when Jamie showed enough patience to have a book read to him. For months and months he’d want to get down the second we opened one up. It’s usually the only time he’ll sit with you for an extended period of time –probably because we do this right before bed. That’s also about the only time of day when we typically get a good hug picking him up. It’s all a gamble. You win some and you really, really lose some. But it’s still worth the effort. If you like what you read, please vote for me by clicking the Top Daddy Blog Link below or sharing on social media....