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.

Too Confident?

Ella’s fifth-grade teacher recently gave her class an opportunity to become published authors.

Students could submit their writing to the librarian, who would make the work available for checkout like any other item in the school’s media center. In one week, Ella wrote, revised and finished a short story and excitedly submitted it.

I asked Ella if she would be open to emailing her story to the family, to show off her talent. “If you don’t feel comfortable, I totally understand,” I said. “I tend to be shy about letting people read my fiction.”

“Dad,” she replied, in a familiar tone, “I’ve sang songs and played guitar on stage in front of hundreds of people! I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have a problem with having a few people read my story.”

After hearing Ella’s undaunted expression of self-esteem, I wondered if there was a reasonable boundary between confidence and conceit. In other words, how much self-promotion is too much?

While I’m still somewhat shy about bragging about my accomplishments, I’ve learned that in certain situations, showing one’s feathers isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Let’s remember, though, I have many years of life experience under my belt. At 10, I did not possess anything near Ella’s confidence.

Expressing one’s pride can be buoying or damning. Just the right amount can put us in position to advance our station in life, like in a job interview. Show too much, though, and we risk coming across as self-aggrandizing egotists interested only in demonstrating our comparative greatness.

Our society tends to frown on those who continually sing their own praises. And with good reason: No one wants to be around the guy who tells you how much better he is at everything from Gin Rummy to grilling steak. But veering to the opposite extreme might not be the answer, either.

By attributing our every success to the work of others or just plain luck, we might come across as insincere. (Look how modest I am!) We also risk dismissing our own inevitable greatness. Moreover, for our children — whose future successes depend largely on developing a healthy sense of self-worth — placing a premium on modesty at the expense of honestly acknowledging our own abilities might inadvertently advertise that everyone else is more important than we are. It’s a nice thought, but evolutionary biology tells us that survival depends on first looking out for numero uno.

I helped Ella edit her story, and then watched her closely. She didn’t get offended or upset when I recommended certain minor grammatical and organizational changes, and she even initiated the difficult process of self-editing. Clearly, my precocious 10-year-old is living within the comfortable margins between confidence and humility. I fully admire her for it.

Ella should be proud of her mixture of effort, perseverance and creativity. And while I will certainly encourage her to be tactful in how she presents herself, I must constantly remind myself that our world is becoming more competitive by the minute. Her audience will only grow bigger.

Wee Wisdom: All right kids, listen up...or actually, don't

During a family road trip to New Mexico a couple of weeks ago, we played a book on CD.

In one scene, the main character, a fifth-grader, got in trouble because he didn’t listen to what his teacher had said. From the back seat, Sophia piped up. “I always listen to my teacher,” she said. “I’d be afraid not to.”

Tanya asked our 7-year-old, “So why don’t you listen to me and Dad all the time?”

“If I don’t know someone very well, I always listen to them,” she replied. “I just don’t always listen to people I know.”

Tanya and I mirrored each other: mouths agape, eyes wide and suppressing laughter that threatened to bubble to the surface. We had just gained valuable access into the mind of our child, but I was still fuzzy on the details. Did most kids feel like Sophia? More importantly, what did familiarity have to do with listening?

I’ve often been perplexed when our kids’ babysitters, teachers or friends’ parents report to us how well Ella and Sophia listen to them. On many occasions, I’ve had to rub my eyes as if in a dream when the sitter tells me what time my kids went to bed. Normally it takes a dozen reminders to put dirty clothes in the hamper. And even then I get huffy breaths and tortured sighs in response.

Don’t get me wrong, I think my daughters are generally well-behaved. And like all little animals, they have their moments … every morning before school and every night before bed.

But on that day, careening northward through New Mexico in the minivan, Sophia revealed a major secret: All the time we’d spent with her and her sister, all the devotion and personal attention we’d invested during the years made us less likely, not more, to be listened to. The paradoxical notion of our second-grader’s assertion still sounded strange.

Then I recalled a compliment my mother-in-law had given Tanya a few years ago. She said that we should feel honored that our kids don’t always listen to us; it showed we were doing our job as parents.

Say what?

She had explained that our daughters trusted us implicitly and felt safe enough in our presence to know that no matter what they said or did (or didn’t do), we’d still love them. Mom and Dad weren’t going to leave over a broken glass or a missed homework assignment. Thus, our kids felt they had license to challenge our authority more than they would with someone less familiar.

Was she implying Ella and Sophia didn’t feel safe with anyone else giving them orders, that they followed rules only out of fear?

To some extent, possibly. I suspect their reasoning lies in a combination of playing it safe as well as good manners learned during the years. Regardless of their motives, I’m satisfied to know that my kids understand the importance of respecting adults other than us.

And maybe the next time I ask my kids 50 times to brush their teeth, I should hope they love me enough to not listen.

Progress

I finally caved.

I was due for an upgrade on my cell phone so I waltzed into the AT&T shop to browse what was available. I had intended to trade up for another dumb phone (I know, I know...I realize how ridiculous it sounds now) and avoid getting an awesome device that would "change my life," as the sales guy and everyone else I know has asserted for years. It wasn't that I didn't want an iPhone, per se, but I've been convincing myself for some time now that I a) didn't need it, (still might be partially true) and b) didn't want to pay the additional $20/month for the data package. Old habits are hard to break. And what can I say, I'm cheap.

But not blind.

I know that having a multifaceted handheld computer/phone/camera/video/music/TV, etc. is no longer considered a luxury, but rather a necessity. And whether I decide to live in the dark ages like my dad (who, incidentally, owns a cellphone but has no idea how to use it...he's so cute) doesn't matter. The world in which I live is not about to rush back through a time warp to rescue my obstinate ass from the horse-drawn buggy I'm riding in as I read the newspaper, watch a VHS movie, talk on a corded rotary dial telephone and wait for my IBM-compatible Tec Master XT to finally connect to the world wide web with a dial-up signal. (Don't bother calling me while that's happening...only one phone jack.) I can adapt, like a Neanderthal learning to use a knife and fire, or be left behind like the dodo.

Fire it is.

"I'm here for an upgrade, but I really don't want a smart phone," I said to the sales guy, a lean twenty-something with black-rimmed glasses who has probably forgotten more about technology than I ever knew.

He welcomed me, the customer, thusly. "Sure, that makes total sense. Let's get you another flip-phone so you can pay more for a crappier device and actually get less value." He paused for breath. I felt like I was being berated by all my old buddies from home. "Yeah, you'd hate to be able to use the internet or find your way or share photos in the palm of your hand when you can call and text with something like you've got there." All with a straight face.

Long story short...I walked out with an iPhone 4S (for a dollar!) without an upgrade fee and the world now at my fingertips. And somehow, I'm only paying about $10 more a month with more available phone minutes and data for both me and Tanya. And I can tweet from anywhere.

I'm not going to lie, I'm happy with my new toy. But there'll always be something about that rotary phone.

New vs Old

Wee Wisdom: Keeping the Moose off my Roof

Sophia saw a bug sitting on a post and swatted at it with her book. “I’m going to kill that guy,” said my 7-year-old.

Ella was not happy with her younger sister. “Sophia!” she yelled. “You can’t just kill anything you want. Now that bug won’t be able to reproduce, and animals that feed on it won’t have enough food, then they’ll die, then nature will be out of balance and moose will stampede over our house! Do you want moose running over our house?”

I had to laugh. Not because the prospect of a thousand-pound vegetarian in my living room was particularly funny, but because of the point my fifth-grader was making. She managed to connect the seemingly trivial notion of killing one bug with a reversal of the natural order, and she made the theory actually seem plausible, like the sci-fi plot in a Michael Crichton novel.

Despite the questionable scale of Ella’s “action-reaction” comment, it’s not unreasonable to posit that everything we do is connected in some way. All living things share the Earth. If one person can be responsible for tipping the balance, does that amount to a frightening responsibility — or an exhilarating opportunity?

Full disclosure: Tanya and I have an electric bug zapper, and we’re not afraid to use it. But maybe, as Ella intimated, killing one fly is symbolic of a greater issue. Should we back off?

As individuals, we are free to make our own choices, yet none of us can exist alone. All of our actions depend on and affect others, even people we’ve never met. A worthwhile connection can happen instantly — helping an old lady cross the street, for instance — or over time, like with recycling. Actions clearly elicit reactions, and this goes on and on perpetually, gradually rolling forward like waves in the vast ocean. The ripples will endure until the universe is no more.

Sometimes the consequences of our actions happen remotely in time, distance or measure. That’s when things get tricky. Unfortunately, we are often too short sighted to appreciate the results of what we’ve done. This can lead to trouble, like Ella’s threat of antlered beasts roving through suburbia. Part of the problem is that instead of accepting that we are each threads of the same garment, we try to prove (incorrectly) that we come from different clothes altogether. It won’t work.

And so, the debates rage on about how to tame our unruly national debt and figure out how to pay our bills, and over who’s at fault when the government of the most powerful country in the world shuts down for 16 days. Our elected leaders can’t grasp that we — every last one of us — are both the cause and the solution. The sooner we realize that, the quicker we can get back to picking each other up, instead of knocking each other down.

Or helping me keep that darned moose off my roof.

No farting at the dinner table...at least until Mom's gone

This is going to be a bit awkward, but the whole point of this blog is about letting you into our lives, so here goes. Don't worry, I'll keep it short.

I fart.

Before you rush to judge, remember that everyone does it. Including women and children. And sometimes, the fart itself is merely a metaphor, representing something even greater than a gross sound and unpleasant odor.

Work with me, here, people.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the dinner table with Tanya, Ella and Sophia, when Ella let one rip. Tanya, channeling her usual disdain for flatulence at mealtime, said to our 10-year-old, "It's polite to walk away from the table before doing that." Amid the undercurrent of quiet laughter from the three others in the room who weren't particularly bothered, Tanya shook her head in exasperation. Oy vey, she seemed to say.

We finished eating and Tanya soon went upstairs, but our dainty 10-year-old continued her assault on our senses. Like most men, the farting doesn't bother me that much, so I figured I'd have a little fun and see where it went.

"Why didn't you walk away to do that?" I asked Ella, only a tiny bit guilty at hearing my own sarcasm. "You heard mom."

"Sometimes, I can't help not being polite," Ella responded. "It's just how I do things. Because you're my dad."

I'm sure you can imagine the rush of paternal pride I felt. Forget about the flatulence: my eldest child had essentially confirmed that she had no desire to pull the brakes on the gene train. Despite Tanya's efforts for a well-mannered and polite household, my firstborn clearly understood the inevitability of DNA, and wasn't about to fight.

What more could a father hope for?

Pass the beans.

Goodbye live TV, hello...what, exactly?

As of September 30, 2013, at 12:00 am, live television no longer exists in our home.

So far, it feels great.

This was not an impulsive, reflexive action based on the advice of some anti-electronics parenting guru or a self-righteous child psychology expert. The choice to cancel our monthly DirecTV service and just go with movies, Netflix, Hulu Plus, and other online-based entertainment was based on a number of reasons, with cost as the greatest factor. I was paying about $75 a month for something we simply didn't use very much.

Aside from bits and pieces of sports highlights and the same old movies on TNT, TBS, AMC and USA networks (I'll miss you Rocky I-IV, Jerry Maguire, JFK, Footloose...), there's not much we can't watch on Hulu Plus or Netflix. We rent movies occasionally. Tanya's been semi-addicted to shows like Orange is the New Black and Scandal, which she watches on Netflix or Hulu on her iPad. The kids stream Netflix through the Wii or watch DVDs on the Blu Ray player in the basement. The fewer commercials the better, to be honest.

I know TV will always be a part of our lives. In fact, to compensate for the lack of live entertainment on the idiot box, I bought a considerably more intelligent piece of equipment: literally. I hit a clearance special at Best Buy and bought a 40" Vizio smart TV and hung it on our wall where a monstrous armoire used to be. Getting rid of the TV was, in effect, just one of many changes we've made lately.

For some time now, we've been steadily clearing clutter from every room in the house, getting rid of things that we don't use, repositioning others that we do, and filling our space with more positive energy. At least once a month, it seems, we give away three or four bags or boxes full of clothes, household goods and old electronics to the local Goodwill store. (It's a wonder we have anything left.) Tanya has spent hours organizing her closet and drawers, and has given away more clothes than some people own.

Canceling the satellite service feels like a symbolic step toward emotional betterment. I can't just flip on the tube for 10 minutes to a dumb talk show or more negativity on the news that I'm barely paying attention to while I brush my teeth and get dressed. I am no longer able to flip through channels mindlessly in search of something to watch when I could be doing something useful. Like breathing or reading. The part of my spirit that values being present and fully in the moment thanks me, I'm sure.

I know this because every time we go on vacation or some kind of adventure with a minimum of electronics availability and schedules packed with family time and outdoor activities, I feel happier. Much happier.

I will, however, admit this: I think I might miss live sports a little. I rarely watch a whole game of any sport, but I like having it available at any time, especially for the playoffs. Super Bowl parties make that a non-issue, but I can only foresee one problem: March Madness.

When the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament rolls around for three glorious weeks in the spring and it's college basketball 24/7 for three weeks, please tell my wife when you see her that if she needs me, I'll be at the local sports bar, and will check back in April.

Wee Wisdom: Time to Get Tired

I took a jog with Sophia the other day. We had almost arrived home when she leaned over and rested her hands on her knees.

Out of breath, my 7-year-old said, “I’m tired.”

“Great!” I replied. “I tell my patients at the hospital, ‘If you’re not a little tired, you’re probably not working hard enough!’ ”

Sophia thought about it. “What if you’re tired, and you’ve barely done anything?”

“Then you’re probably out of shape,” I answered.

The experience reminded me of Ella’s yearly physical this past May. The pediatrician asked my 10-year-old how much exercise she did that involved sweating and feeling moderately tired. Both the doctor and I were aware of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, or CDC, recommendation that kids get 60 minutes of daily moderate to vigorous exercise; Ella and I agreed that she might not have been getting enough.

I was a bit embarrassed that the daughter of two physical therapists might not have been up to par in the activity department.

Childhood obesity is a major public health issue, so I understand the concern. However, I had never considered that kids should worry about the intensity of their exercise, as long as they weren’t stuck to the couch for a cartoon marathon. The CDC’s prescribed amount of exercise can be hard to achieve if you factor in homework, hobbies, meals and rest time. Organized sports can certainly help, but what if your kid isn’t interested in the rigors of daily swim team practice or climbing the club soccer ranks?

For a second, I panicked: Am I hurting my children by promoting general activity over organized sports?

Our daughters attend jazz class once a week and love dancing more than almost anything. Ella has tried soccer and tennis and didn’t love either one. She enjoys short hikes and walks, but I don’t see fourteeners in her future. She can play in the pool for hours, but lap swimming for fun isn’t her thing.

Sophia loves tumbling and gymnastics and jumps at every chance to play outside. She hasn’t yet expressed interest in any one sport, though she’s considering volleyball, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she appeases her dad by taking up basketball. She is much happier playing at the park than she is watching television.

Clearly, our daughters are not slugs, but I also don’t foresee them becoming athletic prodigies. They might never appreciate the adrenaline high of running or the oddly addictive muscle soreness that follows weightlifting, feelings that are common to a large number of exercise-crazy Coloradans, including me. But they do understand the importance of moving and being outdoors, which makes me happy.

There’s a fine line between encouragement and pushing too hard, and I’m reluctant to cross that line. Could my kids be more active? Sure. Might they rebel if I force them into something they don’t enjoy? That’s also possible. I’d rather step backward than impose my desires in their faces.

I hope their pediatrician isn’t reading this.

Mind+Body Magazine is online!

I found out Mind+Body Magazine is online, so click here for the September issue.

(Here's the actual link: http://issuu.com/bhuey/docs/mindbody_september2013)

I have three articles in there about nutritional supplements, sleep, and Missie's "Weight Loss Journey" we've been following along since January. I'm excited that anyone can read this, just not those who live in Northern Colorado.

I'll keep posting the links to subsequent issues to keep my work out there in the cyber-universe, as well as on paper. And as usual, feel free to share.

Thanks to everyone for reading, and for always supporting me as a writer. I feel big things coming in the future!

Happy Monday

At 8:20 am on a Monday a couple of weeks ago, Ella realized she had forgotten to do part of her homework. My normally unflappable fifth-grader freaked out. Every word that escaped her mouth was a scream as she panicked in a way I've never seen.

"I'm going to get in trouble!" she yelled. "I have to do my math facts! I don't know my 8's multiplication tables well enough yet! Mr. Hill is mean! This is too much pressure! I can't handle this pressure! That's why I didn't want to go to school today!"

The tears flowed like floodwaters and I literally had no idea what to say. I'd seen and heard outbursts before, but this was on a whole other level. Ella rushed to do what she could in the 10 minutes before school, but she was beside herself.

"Ella," I said, "at this point, you're better off just cutting your losses. It's only the second week of the school year. It's not going to be a big deal."

But in Ella's fifth grade class, kids start with a certain amount of "Cougar Cash" at the beginning of the year, and can earn and spend on a variety of other things. They get bonuses for certain jobs well done and fined for transgressions.

"I'm going to get fined like...two dollars!" she screamed. I sensed that Ella was riding the crest of a hormonal tsunami, the stuff of legends.

"Just take the fine and you'll do better next time," I said. "I'm sure you'll earn it back another way."

The Offending Math Homework

I walked with Ella to school. She had stopped crying by the time she hit the playground.

I sought out her math teacher, Mr. Hill. He informed me that the multiplication tables on that week's homework were merely for review, and were in no way meant to represent the kind of high pressure situation that precedes standardized testing or grad school exams. He certainly didn't want the kids to panic. When I asked him about Ella's claim that he assigned homework to be done on the weekend, Mr. Hill smiled and rolled his head back in disbelief.

"I rarely, if ever, give homework on the weekend," he said. "I gave them this assignment last Monday, to be completed by this Monday."

I'm hoping Ella will learn from this experience and be more prepared on the next go around. I also hope she learns to manage her emotions, at the very least to give my ear drums a reprieve.

Alas, time is not on my side. Adolescence is creeping up fast, and I'm bracing for the legendary estrogen-fueled eruptions that become lore. My friends have assured me of what to expect.

You have girls...oooohhh, get ready, man. It's going to get ugly.

Brace yourself. It's going to be a ride for a few years.

Girls are easier when they're young, but boys are waaaay easier when they're teenagers.

Thanks, everyone, for the encouragement. I feel so much better now.

Wee Wisdom: Rules vs Doritos

While I was walking with my kids after school last week, Ella pulled out a Ziploc bag of Doritos. Neither Tanya nor I had packed it in her lunch, so I asked where she got them.

“A friend gave them to me,” Ella replied nonchalantly.

“Who?” Sophia asked. “We’re not allowed to share food. That kid is NOT a good rule-follower!”

It was interesting to observe my kids’ different perspectives on the issue. Ella didn’t seem bothered by scoring a tasty snack she doesn’t normally get at home, nor by her straight-laced sister’s reaction.

I understand why school rules prohibit sharing food, from general health liabilities to perpetuating social inequities. But did Ella’s second-degree snacking symbolize more than simply transgressing an institutional policy? If I allowed my 10-year-old to get away with breaking the rules, was I tacitly condoning a future life of crime?

In this case, I’m pretty sure no harm was done in the exchange of chips on the playground. In fact — for all I know — Ella (and her friend) could have developed valuable negotiation skills in the transaction. Maybe they balanced out the supply and demand curve of the Northern Colorado snack market or were making a concerted effort to reduce waste. Regardless of the details, everyone seemed to have come out ahead.

Regulations, while well-intentioned, sometimes serve more as symbolic barriers than practical ones. Yes, they help keep us safe and happy for the most part, but perhaps it’s the fear of punishment — not the actual rule — that contributes most to that outcome.

Once rules are set, we each follow them as we see fit. Some people have no problem breaking them, and even don’t mind getting caught once in a while. Others might be more inclined to fear the possible punishment. But Sophia, in reprimanding her older sister, demonstrated one of civilized society’s built-in safety valves: peer pressure.

Essentially, rules are only necessary if we plan on living amongst others. Each person can either follow along or stray at their peril. We all do the latter once in a while, and even get caught. Most of the time, though, our hiccups are benign, and we are left to deal with only ourselves. Punishment or not, our consciences generally direct us accordingly.

We continued our walk, and Ella crunched away, seemingly unperturbed by her sibling’s tongue-lashing. Then Sophia asked her big sister very politely, “Aren’t you going to share?”

After some thought, Ella handed over a few crumbled chips, and I could feel the tension building.

Clearly, the illegal nature of the Doritos combined with the entrance of a third party raised the situation’s intrigue. Sophia, I noted, didn’t seem bothered by the criminality of it all when she was licking seasoning off her fingers.

A couple of days later, I spotted Ella munching on a chocolate about an hour after school.

Before I had a chance to say anything, she blurted, “Don’t worry, Dad, I got it after the bell.”

Sophia didn’t say a word.

The Offending Snack

Wee Wisdom: Race Toward Understanding

A couple of weeks ago, a friend suggested Tanya and I watch the movie “42: The Jackie Robinson Story” with our kids.

I was not sure about having my 7- and 10-year-olds hear the nasty things Robinson had to endure as the first black Major League Baseball player, regardless of how genuine the portrayal. So Tanya and I decided to watch it ourselves. And after seeing the ugliness of those who resisted the eventual Dodger hall of famer’s integration, I’m happy with our decision. Even I was uncomfortable.

A few days later, on the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington, I watched Martin Luther King Jr.’s legendary speech over breakfast with Sophia and Ella. Naturally, my daughters asked me about the event and why I was so interested in it.

I informed them that Dr. King was a great man because of how hard he championed for equality. As recently as 50 years ago, I explained, people of color weren’t allowed to use the same bathrooms or drink from the same water fountains or play on the same sports fields as white people. Dr. King helped change that.

Normally, I base this column on something my kids have said, but on that morning, the absurd notion of inequality was apparently enough to transport my daughters into a rare moment of speechlessness. Their silence spoke volumes.

I thought about how important it is to make our children understand the shameful realities of our not-so-distant past, to ensure these injustices cease to happen forever. But the education itself can be painful. How could I teach my kids about humanity’s painful history of bigotry?

I shiver when I hear the N-word or other examples of senseless vitriol. Maybe it’s because I understand context, or that I’m just overly sensitive. But if certain words and attitudes can make a 39-year-old cringe, I worry what they’ll do to my untainted kids.

Still, the only way to sidestep ignorance and hatred is by education. And I can’t help my kids if I pretend that discrimination arises from words alone. The root causes of oppression take time to develop, but can be hard to squash once they’re ingrained. Tanya likes to say that words only have as much power as we give to them. Maybe if my kids are disgusted like I am upon hearing hateful speech, then their aversions to it will be cemented early. Their path to whatever greatness for which they’re destined might start right then and there.

About 12 minutes into Dr. King’s rousing oratory, he started talking about his dreams. “This is important,” I said, leaning into the computer screen. "Let's listen."

Ella weaseled her way onto my lap. Sophia had already left the table, but I sensed her listening from the top of the stairs.

…I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character…

I’m glad those are the words they heard.

Thanks!

Thanks to everyone who continues to follow along with The Dad Life! (Or, #thedadlife, as it may be...).

My blog got 90 hits yesterday, which I think is a record since I started devoting myself to this creature in full force a few months ago. I appreciate your following along, and please continue to spread the word any way you can, via facebook, twitter, message and other discussion boards, blogs and websites you may visit that deal with parenting, families, kids, and anything in between. I love writing about our adventures and hope to continue expanding my horizons.

Writers, I'll remind you, are much happier with readers.

Generation Gap? Great!

Star Island, located in the Isles of Shoals, eight breezy miles off the coast of New Hampshire, is quite possibly the most perfect place I know. The Life On A Star (LOAS) I conference where Tanya has been going with her family for mid-August vacations since she was eight, is run by the most fun-loving and humanitarian group of people one could ever hope to meet: a giddy bunch of Unitarian Universalists who sing like nobody's watching, and love like they've never been hurt.

Our week was filled with the usual variety of stimulating and relaxing activities, family time, and a refreshing dearth of technology. The weather was the best I can remember it being since I became a Star Island regular in 2002. Sunshine, warm mild Atlantic breezes and an absence of rain (in a northeast U.S. summer characterized by heaps of it) amplified the calls of cruising seagulls, the repetitive yet soothing lighthouse bell from neighboring White Island, and the joyful cries of LOAS I's conferees.

T and Fee

New friend Julia and Sophia doing some research

Tanya pulling a bow

As usual, I reveled in the unlimited feeding frenzy that comes with healthy family-style meals, consumed in a loud dining room with 300 friends of all stripes, shapes, and sizes. I satisfied my need to perform in front of a crowd by hosting the 2013 LOAS I talent show, and even busted out some homespun hip-hop, with a new friend who happened to be a 12-year-old kid named Jamie who could beat box like Matisyahu. I took an improv theater class with Tanya, which amounted to some of the most fun I've ever had (and Tanya, by the way, is AMAZING at it!). I attended daily theme talks by Anna Sale, a charismatic and engaging NPR political reporter, about listening and empathy, topics that could benefit every last one of us. It was nourishing in so many ways.

Every time I go to Star Island, I return home having learned something new. The one aspect of this year's experience that struck me most was the seamless melding of generations that happens in our tiny island microcosm of what is, to me, a veritable utopia.

Babies bond with baby boomers; septuagenarians sing with school-agers; toddlers tie-dye with teenagers, all with the ease of long-lost relatives connected by a fluid even thicker than blood. From before we boarded the Thomas Laighton ferry in Portsmouth harbor, and extending until the very last tearful goodbyes seven days later, young and old mixed as smoothly as salt and, er, water.

The genesis of The Wheelers

Ella and Dawn Elane...plucky ladies

Dave and Ella jamming on the porch

In a world too often filled with arbitrary, unnecessary and hurtful borders between ages, races, sexes and just about any other attribute one decides to isolate, Star Island offers a soul-cleansing experience consisting of the exact opposite. From polar dipping in 52 degree water at 7 am until the final note of a serenade to the setting sun 13 hours later, and back round to being woken up by singers outside your room the following day—for breakfast this morning...cheesy omelettes!—everyone is invited. Yes, kids spend a few hours a day with their own age groups, and adults have a late afternoon "social hour" which includes a beverage or two and grown-up conversation. But for the most part, the Star Island community is a team of humans who don't pay attention to the artificial boundaries that shackle us during the other 51 weeks of the year, generation gaps included.

The most glaring example for me was watching my 10-year-old literally form a band. Ella had intended to sing and play a song on her guitar for the talent show, and would have been content to do it alone. But within minutes of boarding the boat, she had recruited our old friend and fiddle-aficionado David Whitford to her gig. Within hours and then days, the Wheelers were created, with the finished product including Ella on lead vocals and playing rhythm guitar, David and his fiddle, two mandolins, a ukelele, a banjo, a drum box, and three backup singers (including Sophia, Ella's 7-year-old sister, and a teenage girl named Fiona who never seemed as annoyed as teenagers typically do when forced to spend a week trapped on an island with their mother).

(Note for the video below: Even though the music stand is in the way, the singer/guitar player is in fact Ella, I promise. And the toe-tapping, fiddling dude on the right is David. Trust me. Spielberg, we're not.)

The music was great, and the talent show number was a resounding hit. But the proud papa in me was less impressed with Ella's guitar or singing skills than with my fifth-grader's self-assurance, her ability to bring a group together, and the amazing harmony produced in its wake. Just watching the Wheelers rehearse, my eyes welled up. Ella took polite direction from people over five times her age that she had just met; she gave her opinion, asked questions, and accepted the answers. She practiced very hard, but she also expressed herself when she needed a break. The entire exercise amounted to a balletic and circular display of respect that, like a wagon wheel, neither began or ended.

It just...was.

Perfect.

Wee Wisdom: Tech Vacations Can Go a Long Way

The final week of our summer vacation was spent on a tiny landmass eight miles off the New Hampshire coast.

The Star Island conference center is a rough hybrid between a family summer camp and the Catskills resort featured in the movie “Dirty Dancing.” The accommodations are far from luxurious, and as such, the island has intentionally remained an escape from many modern technological conveniences such as TV or computers.

On our first full day, Tanya caught up with an old friend. “I don’t think the kids miss their screen time,” she said.

Oceanic 20

Ella, my fifth-grader, interrupted her own conversation with a brand-new friend and offered enthusiastically, “Definitely! This is way more fun!”

Our room: Oceanic 20

Apparently, it took only one day to ease Ella away from the addictive comforts of technology. Nevertheless, as we took our seats on the flight home a week later, a few short hours removed from our peaceful haven, the kids begged to watch TV. We acquiesced, and they sat rapt and silent for most of the flight. I wondered if one week away from the trappings of modern society would affect my kids’ cravings for technology over the long haul. Could a short vacation from technology really make that much of a difference in a child’s growth?


I talk a good game, but let’s be clear: I understand why technology is needed, that it helps my life immensely, and that our dependence on it is only going to expand going forward. Still, I firmly believe that children learn life’s most valuable skills from actual human interaction and pursuits that don’t involve screens. Which is why I tend to jump at any opportunity to achieve this.

Our time away consisted of a whirlwind of interpersonal communication, and was spent in large part savoring the smells, sounds and sights of our maritime milieu. We forged deep connections with many old and new friends, as well as with each other. We read, sang, danced and watched sunsets. I stretched on the grass while music wafted from the long hotel porch. Ella played guitar and sang in the island talent show, with Sophia on backup vocals. Tanya and I laughed our way through the basics of improvisational theater. We didn’t check email or make a single phone call.

And Ella and Sophia begged to return next year.

Sophia happily not surfing the web

Motherboard mastery cannot help us capture the indescribable sensations of love or spiritual fulfillment. Time spent in front of man-made devices will never improve our self-esteem, and it won’t make us more empathetic. It certainly won’t help us learn the values of respect and charity. But a week in a one-star hotel, eating in a communal dining room, surrounded by screaming gulls and bathed in sunshine reflected off the Atlantic did all of those things.

By the end of the week, we were equal parts exhausted and nourished, and recharged for the coming year. I’ll never know for sure whether this particular vacation made a permanent difference in our children’s lives.

But of this I am certain: Ella and Sophia have yet to plead for an entire week of video games.

Tanya pulling a bow

Wee Wisdom: Isn't it Funny How Kids Know Just What to Say?

A couple of weeks ago, about an hour before Tanya and I were about to leave the house on a Friday night, Sophia asked me why the baby sitter was coming over.

I told her I was going to try stand-up comedy at an open mic in Old Town, and that I was really nervous.

“What’s stand-up comedy?” Sophia asked.

“It’s where you get up on stage and try to tell jokes to make people laugh.”

“Dad, you’re the funniest guy I know,” she said. “You make me laugh, like, every minute of the day. You’ll do great!”

I could tell by my 7-year-old’s face that she was not, um, joking. Yet, while her comment allowed me to breathe easy for a few seconds, my nerves didn’t fully settle down. Why didn’t the compliment from my daughter make me feel better about my chances?

Confession time: I sometimes ask my 7- and 10-year-old daughters for their opinions just to make them feel good, not because I think they will provide sage counseling. They’re just kids, after all. They couldn’t possibly have enough experience or intellect to be able to offer good advice. Right?

I’ve always been the independent type. The upside of such a personality is having a high level of self-confidence, knowing that I can always find answers within myself and accomplish my goals. The downside is it’s often difficult for me to trust others, which can lead to undesirable consequences.

I’ve started to realize this over the years, and I’m now more apt to accept help than I ever was. It’ll probably be something I work on for the rest of my life.

My initial thought was, “How could this kid possibly know what it takes to succeed?” But children offer an entirely different perspective than we adults are used to hearing. As I went over my notes before the show, worried I would forget my routine and die a horrible death in front of all those people, I started to understand.

Yes, Sophia is biased (she doesn’t know that many funny people). But her wisdom emanates from — not in spite of — her relative ignorance of social norms and expectations. She could have done what many adults might have and retreated quietly, fearful of saying the wrong thing. But no, my soon-to-be second-grader somehow knew what, if anything, might allay my anxiety: encouragement. I know this because Tanya, the person I trust the most, told me the same thing about an hour later, and it made me feel better, or at least capable of finishing my set.

Despite my nerves, I summoned the courage to climb on stage as planned. Unfortunately, Sophia’s prediction was wrong. I got a few laughs, but for the most part, I heard the uncomfortable sound of moving air—"crickets"—as they say. I left the stage slightly embarrassed, and the victory of simply getting up there felt somewhat hollow.

Sophia never asked me how the show went, thank goodness. I still might be the funniest guy she knows, at least for now.

Is Loyalty Unconditional?

In June I took the kids camping up the Poudre Canyon. The fire danger remains high, so fires in campgrounds must be contained within built-up, enclosed metal pits. I readied our pit for dinner, loading it with branches, and struck a match. Within seconds, the pile of wood had erupted into a volcano of flames, sending devil-red ashes floating on unpredictable wind gusts. I quickly doused my creation with water.

Sophia asked me why I was panicking. “I didn’t want the fire to get too big,” I said, my heart still beating wildly at the prospect of such an awful, yet realistic, possibility. “If I start a forest fire, I’d be in serious trouble.”

Ella put an arm around me. “Don’t worry, Dad. I wouldn’t have turned you in,” she said.

I appreciated my 10-year-old’s allegiance to dear old dad, but the idea of her unwavering loyalty brought up an interesting point — from my side of the coin. Parents always say they’d sacrifice themselves for the well-being of their children no matter the cost. But is there a logical limit to parental loyalty?

From the instant our kids enter the world, we are entrusted with unprecedented levels of responsibility. We also develop, seemingly instantaneously, sharp protective instincts. As a result, the only people who can truly understand the nature of parental love are, well, parents. When someone says, “I’d do anything for my kids,” believe it.

But those same precious babies eventually make a few poor decisions. They get in trouble with authority. They do things to challenge our ability to sustain those feelings of unconditional love and support. Yet despite the wide spectrum across which these instances occur, most parents rarely stray from the need to protect their offspring.

My kid would never do that.

Those parents should teach their kid some manners.

Maybe little Johnny needs some boundaries at home.

We’ve all said things of this nature. And many times, we may be right. But it can’t always be someone else’s fault. Surely our kids aren’t always angels.

Resolute loyalty and the need to protect our young are necessary to ensure survival. But those same behaviors can lead to unclear thinking. In certain situations, we might actually help our children more by ignoring our instincts.

Simply by virtue of being human, children are fallible from birth to death. And if mistakes are part of life, we might, by protecting our children at all costs, actually be doing them a disservice. To survive in our modern, hypercompetitive world, they’ll need to learn to take responsibility for their actions when they mess up and do what’s necessary to correct them, without the biased input of their greatest fans.

With my second attempt considerably less of a risk to the national forest, I cooked dinner and s’mores for me and the girls. I enjoyed my night immensely, relieved that Ella wasn’t the one who almost burned down the forest. She saved me from a decision I would not have wanted to make.

A Leap Forward...addendum!

Once again, for some reason the videos don't post to email subscribers. So click here to go straight to the blog so you can see the video. It's worth it. Oh, and listen to what Ella says at the very end. It's pretty funny.

A Leap Forward

Many of us experience a singular moment in our lives that defines who we are, or who we are destined to be. Those moments often don't elucidate themselves to us in a blatant way at the moment they happen; it's only after time has passed that we come to realize how pivotal the moment was. And only after we reflect on that moment through the twin lenses of history and life experience can we truly appreciate its gravity in shaping our lives.

I think I might have witnessed that moment for one or both of my daughters yesterday.

Sophia and Ella, campers extraordinaire

I took the girls camping again. (This is quickly becoming one of our favorite summer activities: Ella, Sophia and I all have so much fun it should be illegal.) At our favorite campsite, a 10-foot rock looms over the fast-moving Poudre River as it bends around a spot called the Lower Narrows. If one were to, say, jump off that rock, the landing spot is safe for two reasons. First, it's deep enough that one can't even see the bottom. Second, it sits far enough toward the shore and away from the foaming current that makes the Poudre one of Colorado's prime whitewater rafting spots. After the jump, all that's left is a quick 15-foot swim to the left bank, where plenty of rocks await for support. If, that is, you can handle the ice-cold shock of entering the 60-degree (on a good day) water temperature.

The last time we camped at the Lower Narrows (scroll down to my post from June 25), we met a guy named Drew and his 5-year-old son, Kieran, who fearlessly, at least to an observer, jumped off that very same rock. I had deferred because, I'll be perfectly honest, I was scared. For myself, yes, but also for my kids in case anything happened to me.

Sure enough, this time around we met another affable and absurdly friendly camper named Kris, who appeared to be, as fate would have it, also a bit of an experience-seeker. He jumped—flipped, actually—and convinced me to do the same. So I did. (Not the flip.) Four times. With my kids watching in what appeared to be awe. I was the coolest dad ever, but more importantly, I showed courage. Hitting the icy water from that height felt great, no doubt. But the real rush came from simply conquering my fear.

The next afternoon after Kris, his wife Brie, and their adorable baby daughter Ariella had headed back to Fort Collins, I took another dip in the Poudre. And then, the big surprise.

"Dad, I want to jump," said Ella. I was shocked. This is, after all, my cautious, pensive, highly rational, 10-year-old eldest child. She simply doesn't do things like this.

"Okay," I replied. I gave her some tips about where to aim, what to do when she surfaced, and told her that I'd be right there in case anything went wrong. I also made extra sure to pile on the ambivalence. If she was to do this, she needed to decide for herself, and do it for herself only. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you."

She did it. I was in shock. And drowning in a rushing current of pride, considerably more intense than the class II-III rapids that backdropped our campsite.

Those of you with multiple children surely know what came next.

"I want to do it too," Sophia said. Sophia is seven.

Each girl on her first time spent a bit of time atop the rock surely steeping in some mixture of fear, contemplation, deliberation, and consciousness-bending existentialism that only they could fully grasp. But most importantly, and for whatever internal reasons drove them forward, they eventually took the plunge. Ella jumped four times, Sophia three.

As a parent, the only thing I could do was shake my head and wonder how making this decision would shape these kids for the rest of their lives. After watching their faces and hearing their school-aged versions of bravado and newfound confidence once they got feeling back in their lips, I was certain of only one thing: this was only the beginning of a life of taking chances.

Ella and Sophia...after the plunge

Wee Wisdom: Leave me alone...when I'm ready

Last week, Sophia and I ran into one of her babysitters, who excitedly informed us that she was applying for a job at the police academy. Once my 7-year-old realized what that meant, she wrapped her favorite babysitter in a tight hug.

“Cayley won’t babysit us anymore?” Sophia asked me afterward.

“Probably not,” I said. “But in two years when Ella turns 12, she’ll be allowed to stay home alone with you.” I became slightly anxious at this prospect, so I tried to lighten the mood. “But I have a feeling that as soon as we leave, Ella will say, ‘Let’s party!’”

“Yeah, I’ll probably have to tell Ella to get to bed,” Sophia said. “Maybe you should get security cameras.”

Sophia’s suggestion made me wonder about how hard it is to trust our children — and the people who watch them. And regarding the inevitable transition away from babysitters and into independence, the question remains: Is there a right time, or a wrong one, to leave our kids to their own devices?

Babysitters have always played a role in allowing Tanya and me to have some time alone. Ella and Sophia actually get excited about spending time with their young, energetic playmates, and that has helped us feel confident leaving them. We’re fortunate to have had a number of responsible and reliable sitters during the years.

But the older our kids get, the more responsible they will have to become. Training them to manage alone at home is a step in that direction. According to the Colorado Department of Human Services, a child must be 12 years old to be legally left alone at home. This standard is based on the state Child Labor Law, which deems 12 as the minimum age for employment. The website (Colorado.gov) also justifiably points out that children’s maturity levels vary widely, so parents should use good judgment when making the decision on whether to hire someone or trust their kids alone.

Teenagers and college-age students comprise the typical babysitting corps — people to whom we entrust our vulnerable children — yet they also constitute a demographic notorious for making unsound decisions. While most parents would prefer to have their kids in the care of another adult or family member, that isn’t always possible. So we parents need to do our part.

We could certainly ease the transition by teaching our kids, from a young age, to police themselves. Obviously, we should follow the age guidelines set by the Colorado DHS, impose firm rules, and let them gradually ease into their unsupervised time, as well as check in periodically. And I suspect giving some kind of reward for success also makes sense. The time alone will surely build confidence.

Emergencies do happen, but the remote statistical chance of calamity opens the door for our kids to develop necessary life skills. We shouldn’t invite disaster, but let’s be realistic: It can happen to anyone at any time, regardless of who’s in charge. There must be a middle ground.

And Ella and Sophia can always call Officer Cayley.

Summer Camp Nerves

On Sunday, June 30, we dropped Ella and Sophia at summer camp for a week away. I think it was harder for me than it was for them.

Those who know me well might wonder how that is possible, given that I preach endlessly about wanting to have independent, confident kids, and about how much I loved sleepaway camp. Still, I didn't expect to feel like I did.

Ever since we dropped Ella at the YMCA Camp Santa Maria for a week last summer, Sophia has been asking to go too. Our youngest daughter turned seven in February, thus qualifying her to attend a weeklong session. I thought she was a bit young to be away for that long, but she made it very clear on many occasions that she was ready to keep up with Big Sissy. So we signed her up.

Camp Santa Maria is located in the heart of the rocky mountains in Grant, Colorado, a two-hour drive from Fort Collins. It's small enough to feel familial, yet is expansive enough to allow kids to experience the true grandeur of the great outdoors. In other words, it was the perfect place fo Sophia to begin her life as an enthusiastic camper like Mom and Dad both were.

The Pathfinders consisted of 7-10 year old girls. This would be the only year Ella and Sophia could possibly be in the same cabin. Tanya and I did not request that they be together or apart; they'd have to deal with whatever situation they were handed. We let Sophia know ahead of time that she and Ella may not be together, to lessen the shock if things turned out that way. But a couple of nights before camp was to begin, Sophia told Tanya, "Mom, I think it would be better if I wasn't in Ella's cabin. That way, I can make my own friends." We were proud.

Under a light rain and surrounded by the unmistakably pure smell of mountain pines and moist dirt roads, we walked the kids down to their cabin—Logan—and set their duffels by their beds. With the aplomb indicative of an experienced mother and former camper herself (Tanya attended camp in New Hampshire every summer for 14 years as a kid), my wife dutifully helped Sophia set up her bed, as well as helping to organize her toiletries and shoes, and generally ease the transition into her temporary weeklong home.

"I could tell she needed a little help getting started," Tanya told me later that evening. "It can be scary that first time."

No doubt. I was already starting to freak out.

Sophia's bed...Lola's already asleep

Sophia was the only 7-year-old in a bunk full of 9- and 10-year olds. She didn't seem worried; her best friend and playmate is also ten. But as I glanced around the cabin, I spotted a sign that my "baby," despite her high social aptitude and intellect, still might have some catching up to do with her older bunkmates. While the rest the girls  had simply laid out their pillows at the heads of their beds, Lola, Sophia's precious stuffed bunny, leaned quietly against her dolphin pillow pet on hers.

I exhaled when the girl in the bunk above Sophia's reached her hand down and introduced herself. "Hi, I'm Gabi." Sophia shook her hand timidly, but her face lit up with a grin that, ordained with vocal capabilities, surely would have offered, "Everything's going to be okay."

Ella beginning a week of forgetting her parents

Ella had already begun the time-honored ritualistic summer camp activity of ignoring her parents by diving into a rapid-fire socialization session with her excitable peers. I let her do her thing and turned toward Sophia across the cabin. While Tanya chatted with the smiley teenage counselors, Sophia stood quietly by her bed, looking more like the slightly anxious kid she can be sometimes be, and less like the confident little lady who begged us to let her go to camp with Ella. She didn't cry or ask us to stay, or exhibit anything more than the expected butterflies that presage new experiences. I hugged her tightly, and whispered in her ear how proud I was of her bravery to try new things. Like she had done when Gabi broke the ice a minute earlier, Sophia smiled demurely.

Tanya and I said our goodbyes to the girls and left the cabin. After the door shut behind us, Tanya and I looked at each other. "So, that's it?" I asked. "We're alone for a whole week?"

She shrugged. "I guess."

"I can't believe how nervous I was. Am," I said. "I know she'll do great"—not mentioning Sophia by name, but we both knew to whom I was referring—"making new friends and having fun. But I can't help but feel protective. She's the only 7-year-old!"

The Counselors

"They'll probably think she's pretty cool," Tanya said. "They'll take her under their wing. She'll be fine."

We walked toward the parking lot, up the wet, rocky path through the softly dripping pines. We drove eastward toward Denver, leaving our kids for one full week away, without Mom or Dad to soothe or hug them, or to mediate the inevitable conflicts. I wondered how long it would take for Sophia to get comfortable. Tanya supposed sometime around bedtime, maybe the next day's breakfast.

I was okay by Tuesday.

Sophia: happy to be there

Jumping into Hard Rock

Summer often ends up being a time for unexpected discoveries.

I took the kids camping on Monday to our favorite site up the Poudre canyon, the Lower Narrows. The eight-site spot sits at a bend of the beautiful Poudre river, it's calm and quiet and is a perfect escape from busy city life and all its trappings. Ella and Sophia always expect to meet kids their age because the last two times we've gone, we met families with young children with whom they could play for hours and hours, without a passing thought to screens and electronics. Just like the good old days.

Poudre River

This time, our  neighbors were a man named Drew and his five-year-old son, Kieran, and Drew's two buddies, Sharif and Luke, who had driven up from Denver for an escape of their own. Drew entertained us by jumping off about a 10-story rock into the freezing river, and then doing the same with Kieran, who didn't seem the least bit afraid. The girls and I politely declined their offer to join in the fun. We did, however, learn that the water below that rock was deeper than any of us had thought.

Around late afternoon, while the kids played and explored along the trail that crosses through the campsite, I enjoyed a half-hour of peace in my comfy chair, reading my book and listening to the soothing flow of the water. I had a few beers with the Denver guys, then built a fire in the pit and cooked dinner: all without the slightest sense of urgency or adherence to any sort of schedule. We spent many hours under the sun's caress, drawing power also from the welcome breeze that flew down the canyon, dipping our feet in the cool river and enjoying the sounds of birds and rushing fresh water. It was perfect.

Me and my girls at Lower Narrows, outside of Fort Collins

After dinner, the girls, along with their young apprentice, found a butterfly stuck on the front grill of Drew's car. It couldn't fly. The kids tended to the injured creature and, sensing the gravity of the situation, created an elaborate ceremony to send her—they named her Claire—to Lepidoptera heaven. We marveled at their compassion and creativity.

Claire The Butterfly

And then Sharif broke out the Metallica.

"Your kid is amazing," Sharif said after I had returned from getting the marshmallows from my campsite just down the path. "Ella recognized the 'The Ocean' by Led Zeppelin and told me it was her favorite song. I couldn't believe it."

"Yeah, we love Zeppelin and AC/DC," Sophia chimed in. I beamed with pride.

While we stuffed ourselves with s'mores, "Master of Puppets" thundered in the background, complete with Kirk's hard-core guitar solos, Lars' obscene percussion skills, and James Hetfield's masterfully pained voice. "I like it," Ella said as she downed her third s'more, a perfectly toasted marshmallow filling the center.

The Denver guys were as incredulous as I was. Zeppelin is one thing, but Metallica is entirely another. I guess those summer discoveries happen to us all.

The kids tending to Claire

Claire in her final resting place