The Spa Party

Every now and then, a father must take a stand. He must sacrifice himself for the common good, and do the right thing for his family, regardless of established convention. He must offer up his services so that his seed can move forward in their march toward responsible adulthood.

My time came on Saturday, March 1, 2014. And while I'm no stranger to raising daughters (almost 11 years of experience and counting), this particular event may end up being a turning point in my life.

Just ask the girls who painted my toes.

Sophia turned eight on February 27. For the big celebration, Tanya organized a spa party for Sophia and her friends. Tanya created an organic banana facial cream as well as a brown sugar foot scrub. They set up finger and toe nail painting stations and warm foot baths. The girls wore their bathing suits under bathrobes, pranced around the house in slippers, sipped soda in champagne glasses with strawberries on the rim, all while Enya played soothingly in the background. This was as close to a real spa as we'll ever get in our basement.

The Spa Girls

I was ready to help with the party. I was envisioning hanging out with the girls in the basement, maybe fetching a drink or getting one of the warm foot baths filled up, helping cook dinner. This was, after all, a girls party. I'm just Dad. What do I know about this stuff?

"Natalie" and "Sally" and Zebulon's pre-pedicure feet

I got home from work, changed, and headed down to the basement to revel in the contagious giggles of elementary school girls. I sat on the couch next to one of the kids who was casually flipping through a magazine. Then Tanya says, "You're in charge of foot scrubs."

Uh, excuse me?

"They soak their feet in the warm foot massage bath, then you dry them off and rub the brown sugar scrub on there."

I stared.

Rachel at the spa

"It exfoliates. Then you rinse it off in the bath and put moisturizer cream on their legs."

"Oh. So that's my job?"

"Yup. You wanted to help, right?"

For all you non-husbands out there, the correct answer is always "Yes."

I got to work.

At first I was feeling some combination of embarrassed, mortified, humbled and emasculated. But I played along because, well, I had to. Remember my first paragraph.

They all had picked fake names: Tanya was Maria, Sophia was Natalie, Ella was Diva. So I dug deep and decided my name would be Zebulon. And I actually had fun once I allowed myself to. The foot scrub thing wasn't too bad, and the girls got a kick out of it. The party went as 8-year-old-girl-sleepover-birthday parties usually go: laughing, screaming, being silly, eating, making a mess, a few crying spells, a couple of arguments, some hurt feelings, making up, taking a kid home at 11:00 because she couldn't sleep, and the same stuff all over again the following morning.

And I got that pedicure I needed, just in time for our spring break Cabo vacation.

Zebulon's Awesome Toes: Beach Ready

Conversations With Siri

Any chance Sophia gets, she grabs my iPhone and tries to have a conversation with Siri, the "voice" that pops up when you hold down the home button. It was cute at first, but now it annoys the hell out of me.

Let's explore, shall we?

Grasping the nuances of computers and electronic devices, like playing the clarinet or knitting or snapping a football to your Hall of Fame quarterback on the first play of the Super Bowl, takes practice. Most kids nowadays are simply exposed to the stuff at an early enough age where brain development is flourishing, so that managing common household devices becomes a skill that is ingrained in their cultural lexicon. And we all get numb to the fact that many of the implements we use everyday would be classified as science fiction even ten years ago.

Even now-archaic tools like email and video conferencing barely existed for use by the general public when Michael Jackson was still selling out stadiums. You have to admit: to see and speak to another person across the world...in real-time...with unbound clarity and quality...in the palm of our hands!...is nothing short of miraculous.

Doesn't it freak you out, even just a teeny bit?

It does to me. So forgive me my continued sense of wonder when I watch my 7-year-old trying to converse with a virtual female that lives inside a four-inch, four-ounce, handheld machine.

Alas, there are some things technology hasn't yet conquered for the basic citizen, at least not on any device I own. Just because Siri answers questions and initiates conversations (however uninspiring they may be) doesn't mean she can take the place of an actual human. I think.

Her passionless demeanor notwithstanding, Siri is wondrous. Ask a question, get an answer. Talk, she talks backs. Sometimes, she—I can't believe I'm using personal pronouns to describe her...it...whatever—will move things along if she senses things are stalling, not unlike many first (and last) dates.

Of course, whether Sophia doesn't understand that Siri is merely the lazy man's equivalent to an encyclopedia (that's a kind of book people my age used long ago to obtain information, in case you're wondering) or she takes wicked pleasure in trying to irritate someone who doesn't exist, the ensuing exchanges are still pretty funny. Here's a glimpse of actual "conversations"that occurred:

Sophia: "Are you nice?"

Siri: "You'd like to find a Japanese restaurant?

Sophia: "Are you smart?"

Siri: "I am smart enough to know not to answer that question."

Sophia: "How smart are you?"

Siri: "In my metaphysics class I cheated off the soul next to me."

Sophia: "Siri, what do you look like?"

Siri: "In the cloud, no one cares what you look like."

Sophia: "Why won't you talk to me?"

Siri: "What's on your mind, Andrew?"

Sophia didn't have any issues with the inane nature of their exchanges. But I felt protective of poor Siri, being asked absurd questions she couldn't answer. Maybe I was uptight because she wasn't being used in the way she was intended. (There's that darn "she" again.) Or perhaps I was irritated because Sophia would just end up being frustrated with Siri's answers. I realize now I was being unreasonable.

I was probably just jealous.

As it Should Be

Before going to sleep on New Years Eve, I asked Ella if she had a resolution for 2014. She asked what a resolution was, and I explained that it was an activity or habit you decide to change or start anew, or basically any promise one intends to keep beginning on January 1st and continuing throughout the new calendar year.

After a contemplative moment she replied, "What if everything is just as it should be?"

I hadn't thought that was even possible. "Uh," I stammered, "I guess you don't have to resolve to do anything if you don't want to."

"Then I resolve to keep everything just as it is," she said.

My life is pretty darn good. I'm healthy, have a great family and a lot of good friends, a stable job, and I generally enjoy myself everyday. But my existence is far from stress-free. I worry about a variety of things, from my kids' well-being to finances to work, and I'm probably hardest on myself when it comes to personality traits that frown at me in the mirror on a daily basis. In other words, I'm certain I will always have things to work on, changes to make, and new challenges to seek and conquer and, sometimes, at which to fail.

So you can imagine my envy at Ella's honest and nonchalant assessment of her immediate future. No fear, no doubt, no contemplation at how awful things are and how much better they will be if we would just (fill in the blank).

And while the life of a ten-year-old with a loving family, a good head on her shoulders and a safe environment is no match for the unexpected challenges of adult life, there's certainly something to be said for accepting that "everything is just as it should be."

In a religious or spiritual sense, and owing to the inevitability of the universe's karmic power, I would offer that everything is always as it should be, good or bad (depending on your perspective). Sure, that's easy to say when you've got it good. And there's not much I can say to those who don't, to convince them of that; or what I would want to hear from others should my situation suddenly turn. But the universe, from what I believe, doesn't favor one entity or another when it comes to making sure that balance is achieved. The universe, God, whatever you call it, works with all living things to make everything is the way it's supposed to be.

I'm not talking about preordained fate. In a moving, breathing world that is constantly changing based on what we do, we create our own futures and help to shape the futures of those around us. We are free to choose, and must always live with the consequences that happen...exactly as they are ordered, depending on our actions and non-actions.

Good and bad are mere semantic tags given by us sentient homo sapien sapiens—oh, we're just SOOOOO damn smart, we humans—to make us feel important. But whether we happen to be in the path of a drunk driver skidding out of control, or just far enough away from the guy who is, I'm sure that everything is as it should be to that invisible, incomprehensible, uncontrollable master of everything. (Personally, I'll go with the nebulous yet potent "energy.")

I'm not advocating the abandonment of new endeavors and self-improvements. In fact, I have already vowed to undertake many in both categories: be in the moment, breathe more, practice more yoga, listen more attentively, and secure an agent for at least one book this year. But perhaps we should all take a moment to step back and ask: Are things really that bad, or is everything exactly as it should be? And shouldn't we strive to accept that?

Happy New Year! Make 2014 great.

Reflections on Christmas Day

On Christmas day, the kids woke us up at 6:52 am, having already spied on the tree to make sure presents had appeared as expected. Ella immediately found the wrapped drumsticks marked for Sophia. Tanya...er, Santa...had written "go downstairs for the rest" on the card, signifying that something monumental was waiting in the basement. All four of us, in our brand new PJ's and fuzzy bathrobes (Ella) and zebra footies (Sophia), raced to the basement to find a brand new drum set that had been delivered by everyone's favorite obese North Poler in the middle of the night.

Sophia on the "throne"

Strictly speaking, if you must know, the drums were actually "previously owned,"bought on Craigslist, stored for a week, then collected at 11:00 pm on Christmas Eve from our friends Jen and Kelvin's basement, packed into the back of the minivan, driven home, unpacked from the car to the basement, and set up until midnight with the help of Youtube tutorials and the quietest of trials so as to not awaken an exhausted Tanya and the sleeping kids.

And if any of you let that slip out to Sophia—at least over the next few years—you're out of the will.

I was a bit worried that Sophia would notice her gift was used, but my seven-year-old didn't seem the least bit concerned. Amid the commotion in the basement, I caught her fingering the cymbal and telling Ella, "I bet the elves had some fun playing on these before Santa brought them over." Ba-dum-pum.

Rocking Out

We opened a few gifts and played one of them, the board game "Life," until the rest of Tanya's side of the family arrived. My side of the family, of course, the we-already-celebrated-Hanukkah-a-month-ago half, was no doubt enjoying a similar type of enjoyable lazy day in the warm climes of South Florida, relishing their quality time with my sister and brother-in-law, and their two adorable daughters, minus the ornaments and "Jolly Fat Man in a Red Suit" mythology.

Our board-game "life" looked something like this: Tanya went to college to become a pilot, then married a woman; Ella became a successful veterinarian, and Sophia was a teacher with, no surprise, not much spending money. I channeled whatever sliver of arrogant jackass that lives deep inside me by becoming a neurosurgeon. I had a fun time staying in character as I earned tons of money and acted as if I was God's gift to...everything. I think I did a good job.

"Boy, Dad's really full of himself," Ella remarked.

I also had three kids, but presumably didn't see them as I spent most of my time evacuating subdural hemorrhages, golfing at my absurdly expensive country club (forget it...you can't afford it), or wearing out my mirror.

I stayed in my pajamas till lunchtime. I opened presents and smiled as others did the same. I ate breakfast till about noon. Tanya and I even got in a few rounds of Disney Pop Stars karaoke and Just Dance 2 on the Wii, while Ella played with her marionette puppets and Sophia discovered her newfound love of pounding things. We finally got off our rumps to take a walk in the sunshine.

Presents are a nice touch, I'll admit it, but Christmas is, for me, simply a nice excuse to spend a day doing a lot of nothing.

Molly, Ella and Xavier; our "life" is in the foreground

Christmas, Thanksgiving, teacher work days, Rosh Hashanah, snow days, summer vacation, spring break...honestly, they're all essentially the same to me. It's no shock to those who know me to hear me say that I'm not big on organized religion. I value the customs and rituals that bring us together, but not the outdated, dogmatic traditions that just don't feel right. What I do feel is a strong connection to love and be loved by my entire family, to watch my kids grow up content and comfortable, and to do everything I can to enjoy what time I have on this planet. I'll do whatever it takes to make that happen in the game of my life. Even if sometimes that means marching to beat of a used drum set.

Happy Holidays and have a great 2014!

Final Wee Wisdom in the Coloradoan: A Last Hurrah...For Now

Full disclosure: the main reason I'm abandoning this endeavor—my introduction into the "official" publishing world—is that I've decided I will no longer write for free. The Coloradoan doesn't pay their local columnists, which means that I haven't received a cent for the four-plus years of Wee Wisdom writing. (I didn't want to publish that in the actual newspaper column.) And it's time my free labor days came to an end.

This was a huge decision, not only related to the difficulty of giving up something enjoyable that has occupied me for more than four years, but also because of the personal growth it represents.

I'm not bitter, considering that the newspaper gave me my first publishing credits, and has continued to support my desire to write. But I decided after much contemplation that it was time I gave myself the credit I was due. To quote no less an intellectual than the Joker, in The Dark Knight, "If you're good at something, never do it for free." And that is where I'm at with my writing career. If I'm going to market myself, it has to be genuine. I work hard at my craft, and I promise to continue to grow as a writer (and a person). Part of that is not only calling myself a professional writer, but acting like one.

Here's the column that appeared in the newspaper on Sunday, December 15, 2013. I will confess that I shed a tear while penning it:


In my 39 glorious years on this planet, I’ve traveled the globe, experienced unique cultural rituals and helped ailing people regain their livelihoods.

The universe beyond my home continues to scream with possibilities for personal growth and improving the world. I will always seek such opportunities, but raising two children continues to be the most fulfilling and wondrous experience in my life.

I’ll spare you a list of trite aphorisms or self-righteous snippets of advice designed to distill the most difficult job in the world down to a handbook. I haven’t written Wee Wisdom for more than four years to convince anyone of anything, and I’m not going to start now.

We must seek our own truths.

Nevertheless, in keeping with the ultimate objective of this column — my last, at least for now — I want to share one piece of advice I’ve gleaned from my decadelong, mercurial march through sleepless nights, first steps, body fluid explosions, contagious laughter, prodigious tantrums and euphoric hugs:

Change is the basis for life’s infinite splendor. Seek and embrace it, or fall victim to it.

After penning a hundred or so of these, I’ve decided to move forward in my life as a scribe. With hard work, supportive editors, a little luck and endless encouragement from Tanya, Ella and Sophia, I’ve grown my fledgling freelance career to the point where finding work is becoming easier.

In the past two years, I’ve written regularly for Mind+Body Magazine and the University of Colorado Health, and have contributed to Fort Collins Magazine. I’ve also published short fiction and completed a novel. I’m doing what I love and loving what I do.

I’ll continue to write about the range of emotions that populates family life. I will continue to record the insightful and unintentionally brilliant things that Ella and Sophia say and do on my blog, Facebook page and Twitter feed, because I love doing it, and because sharing is, quite frankly, fun for me.

In July 2009, I pitched the Coloradoan’s Life editor at the time, Miles Blumhardt (now the Sports editor), a fresh idea. He rewarded my perseverance and creativity by publishing my work every other Sunday. To you, Miles, for taking a chance on an unknown commodity and for igniting both my confidence and my growth as a writer, I am eternally grateful. Now, when people ask what I do for a living, I proudly proclaim, “I’m a physical therapist and a writer,” and it feels good.

Thank you to my current editor, Kathleen Duff, for continuing to support me. You’ve helped me live my dream and keep it moving in the right direction.

I’ve received a lot of feedback, both supportive and critical, which has validated one of my original goals, to connect with my community. For that, my readers, thanks to you as well. Email me anytime.

I’m not quitting my day job, but let’s just say my writing dreams are always evolving. Don’t be surprised if, as you’re browsing Amazon.com sometime in the future, my name pops up as the author of a novel or a travel memoir of my family’s year in France.

Change, incidentally, is spelled the same in French.

Money Talks

Sometimes when I start raving about my kids, I have to pause to make sure I'm not starting to sound like one of those annoying parents who, well, constantly raves about his kids.

We're all proud of their accomplishments—Sally pooped in the potty! Billy said mama!—and we want to share. The truth is, we can't help ourselves in alerting the world to our kids' uncanny instincts and superhuman skills because we're conditioned to do so. Clearly, the task must be vital to the perpetuation of the human race. Otherwise, why would we continue to do it?

Sure, we sometimes go overboard, and it annoys the heck out of our childless friends, and even some other parents. But shouldn't those of us who brag about our kids be lauded for, at the very least, taking an interest in our little ones, being encouraging, and promoting positive self-esteem?

Perhaps. And then there are the times when we should simply let our kids' actions speak for themselves.

In late September, devastating floods hit many parts of Northern Colorado not far from where we live. Ella, my 10-year-old, wanted to help. She decided to make bracelets and rings with her rainbow loom, sell them, and donate the proceeds to flood victims. That's great, I said. Very honorable. I was just happy with her charitable drive, which was the important lesson to be learned in this situation. After all, we had already made a few donation runs to a local church that was doing amazing things since the floods hit.

But my fifth-grader got to work in a way I didn't expect. Without any prompting from me or Tanya, Ella approached her school's guidance counselor. Together, they set up a plan which included arranging dates, times and a location for her sale, recruiting fellow students to make the merchandise, and advertising it in and around the school. She recruited her 7-year-old sister Sophia. Together, they made bracelets ($1) and rings (50 cents), designed posters and signs to put up around school, and enlisted the help of as many friends as possible. They sold their merchandise every day for a week during lunch.

On October 22, 2013, Ella and Sophia presented a pencil box full of exactly $113.10 to be routed directly to victims of the September 13th floods.

Other than driving my kids to the to the Fort Collins branch office of the American Red Cross, I played no role in their selfless display of generosity and community service. It was my proudest moment as a parent, and I'm glad you know.

Ella and Sophia at the Red Cross

Thank You. Period.

A little while ago, I brought home ice cream for a surprise dessert treat, and Sophia’s face brightened. “You’re the best dad in the world!” she exclaimed while hugging me tightly.

An odd silence ensued. My second grader must have sensed my unease because she clutched my arm tighter and added, “And I’m not just saying that because of the ice cream.”

Given the number of times we parents feel like we have no idea what we’re doing, any praise from our children is good to hear. But for some reason, even in spite of Sophia’s follow-up comment, the context of her compliment felt a bit hollow. Do I have a right to be upset, or am I just being too sensitive?

This wasn’t the first time Sophia had praised my fatherly skills with those exact words; all of the other instances occurred in response to an unexpected sugary treat. This time, though, she demonstrated something even more impressive than gratitude: she adjusted her behavior to the situation. That’s where my uncertainty comes in.

With the Thanksgiving holiday still retreating in the rearview mirror, perhaps I should stop whining and just be happy that Sophia expressed thanks at all. After all, she immediately acknowledged my deed without prompting and gave me the kind of approval every parent craves. More than that, she had the presence of mind to revise her original comment when she sensed my discomfort. For a 7-year-old, that’s a big deal.

Yet there’s still something unsavory about situational gratitude. I’m not asking to be showered with constant thanks every day; that would be insincere, besides the fact that it’s entirely unnecessary. What I hope for is that my children learn the delicate art of giving thanks unexpectedly, spontaneously, and because they truly feel it.

Is it too much to ask for unanticipated appreciation for helping with homework, or making sure they brush their teeth? Intellectual development and dental hygiene are more important than ice cream, right?

That may be where I’m misguided. Kids aren’t genetically endowed with the ability to recognize the needs of others, let alone to act on them. And they certainly aren’t born with an expertise in interpreting social cues or expressing gratitude. It can’t be natural to appreciate what you have if you’ve never “had” anything else. The best we can do, I guess, is teach and hope it sticks.

Now that I think about it, despite initially repeating something that she knew had offended me in the past, Sophia also demonstrated skillful management of the situation by quickly amending her original statement. For that, maybe I should simply be thankful. After all, she was doing exactly what Tanya and I have taught her to do.

For the record, “best dad ever” carries more weight than I’m comfortable shouldering, even if such a thing existed. (I’m pretty sure it doesn’t.) In any case, I’m happy just being known as the best dad in the Kensley House. And I’m not just saying that because Sophia might eventually read this.