I just discovered the Elf on the Shelf.

Apparently it’s the coolest thing since the Slinky. But the debate is still out in my book. I’m not entirely sure I like the idea of having Santa’s little spy hanging out in my house over the holidays.

If you haven’t heard of it, you can check it out here.

What do you think? A little too Big Brother-ish? Or is it a fun game for the kiddos?

If you dig the master spy elf, I’ve got a friend with a website for parents who own an “Elf on the Shelf” and are having trouble thinking of creative ideas of what mischief your elf will get into leading up to the holiday season.

It’s called Elf on the Shelf Ideas. Check it out when you get a chance. And if you’re a real big Elf fan, you can also snap a few photos and submit your own Elf on the Shelf ideas.

And if you don’t submit ideas… just know that Santa will find out. And you’ll go on the naughty list. Even if you don’t have an elf spying on your day and night..

At some point, I just gave up.

When it comes to my car, I used to be a real neat freak. I used to wash and wax, vacuum and Armor-all, and even clean the engine.

But now I’m a parent, with two little girls, and I seem to have flat-out given up where my car is concerned…

It’s not that I’ve become lazy or that I’ve stopped caring. It really bothers me every single time I hop in my ride. In fact, I recently had a chance to make a change and get back on the right track. I traded in my BMW for a new car two months ago. This forced me to clean out the entire thing before I handed over the keys on the trade-in. I even refused to put any of the old stuff back in the new car - until such time as I would able to sort out what was really needed (um, yeah, that bag of stuff is still in my garage, waiting for me to go through it).

So, I was given an opportunity to start fresh.

And I blew it. It’s been two months since my purchase and the interior of my car looks like a war zone…

I can’t blame it only on my kids… Wait, yes, I can. It’s their fault. 100%. I’m just along for the ride.

You see, my girls simply cannot leave the house without taking something with them. Even though the don’t need it, I’ve seen them grabbing a nearby item as they go out the door. Just to have something in their hand, I think. No rhyme or reason. And all of this crap gets dumped into my car.

The car has some storage space and I’ve got every nook and cranny filled to the brim - ice scrapers, CDs, an umbrella, sunglasses, all the typical car stuff you sorta need. So, there’s not much room for anything else. Which means that every surface in the car - except for my seat - has something on it. And I mean every surface. For some reason, there are enough cup holders for 20 people and it only seats 7. Naturally, each cup holder is full of something that actually prevents me from putting any actual cups in them. There are toys, pieces of toys, candy, food bits, or trash in all of ‘em. Even the backseat armrest that folds down has 2 cup holders full of junk.

Right now, in my SUV, there are books, games, toys, toy boxes, candy wrappers, school papers, coloring books, crayons, blankets, empty juice boxes, shattered Pop-tarts in Ziploc baggies, folding chairs, necklaces, princess shoes, at least 4 tiaras, Halloween candy, a backpack, receipts, lollipop sticks, and enough leaves that have been tracked in by tiny feet to fill a Hefty bag. There are muddy feet prints on the backs of both the front seats. There are smudgy finger prints on every glass surface, both inside and out. There are marks on the interior windows and the sides of the car where the seat belt has been flung off and and the buckle has gone flying. There is a layer of dust on every inch of my dashboard.

And it’s driving. Me. Crazy.

But, this is the sacrifice I have to make for having kids I suppose. You give up your life for their soccer practice, guitar lessons, trips to the library, and birthday parties.

There just aren’t enough hours in the day. Okay, back to watching my TV shows I’ve got queued up in the DVR. The Walking Dead is rockin’ it and I’m really liking Hell on Wheels…

I’m lovin’ the end of daylight savings time. But not because I like more sunlight in the mornings…

For the first time ever, as a father, the end of DST has made my life easier!  And how often does that happen?

Um… never.

As I recently wrote in We are Not Morning People, it’s a battle of stubbornness to get my little ankle-biters out of bed. Nearly every morning, there’s weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. It’s never, ever pretty.

But with the end of daylight savings time, we pushed things back by an hour. A magical hour of awesome happiness, it seems!

My girls were in a groove and were used to being forced from their warm beds every morning… at 7am. When it hits 7am now? It’s really 8am to them. And they are actually waking up on their own! Can you freakin’ believe it?

Oh, hells yeah.

I’m doing that happy dance like the father in the commercial for kids back-to-school supplies that gleefully tosses pencils into the cart while the soundtrack announces it’s the “most wonderful time of the year!”

Nearly every morning this week, our youngest has gotten up and crawled into bed with us. We usually have to turn on her light as we’re getting up to start the wakeup process. As soon as that light would shine in her eyes, she’d roll over and bury herself in her blankets. This week? Not even once.

My oldest actually woke up, went downstairs, and started watching television the other morning. She’s the hardest of the two to wake up and the only time she gets herself up to watch TV is on the weekends — and that’s only because we’ve all slept in.
This has never happened in the history of time changes with both of my girls. Or even one of them.

Now, I know this glorious transformation will be short-lived. But I’m going to enjoy it, as long as it lasts. Dammit.

After another week or so, I’m sure they’ll get back into a new groove and when 7am rolls around, they’ll cling to their bed posts and flowered bedsheets as I drag them from their comfy slumber as alarm clocks bleat out a dreadful clarion call.

But let me have my own little personal triumphs. They’re so rare.

Ya know?

Today, you’re four years old. Time, as they always say, truly does fly by. It was four years ago, to the hour, that we were laughing it up with Ellen Degeneres in the labor ward of Burbank Hospital. And ten hours later, we welcomed you into the delivery room.

And you were only 7 months old when we moved from L.A. to Ohio and, at the time, your sister had just turned four.

It’s been so great watching you grow, seeing your personality develop, hearing that perfect laugh of yours, and falling deep into those gorgeous baby-blue eyes every time I look at you.

I wanted to write to you to remind you about one of our special traditions that we have. In case, you know, you’re actually interested in reading this stuff when you’re older. ‘Cuz… that happens, right? Kids love reading the mindless ramblings of their parents… Right?
Well, here it goes.

You love it when I read to you. You don’t have favorite books that you want to hear over and over again so we make regular treks to the library. We went last night, as a matter of fact, and got 5 new children’s books. At least twice a week, we make the journey. You play hide-and-seek with me, against my wishes, while I try to pick out a few CDs and some books. When that doesn’t get me to stop looking for something for me, you tell me you need to go potty.

And that’s the fiendishness of your library excursions. You know I have to stop searching for what I want and take you to the restroom. 9 times out of 10, you don’t actually have to go. But you always get your way, and because the bathroom is close to the kid’s books, you sprint from the bathroom right into your section. You pick a book rack at random and we sit on the floor.

I love it when you pull out a book and pretend to read it - you’re checking to see if it looks interesting, I think - and then you either put it back or add it to the pile.

When we get back from the library, you usually want me to read one to you right away. But I usually make you wait until bedtime. And when I put you to bed, you beg me to read every single book to you but you usually only make it through two of them before you start sucking your thumb and get a little glassy-eyed.

I’m really loving our little tradition - we’ve been doing this regularly for over a year now. And, sadly, I’m sure the good times will come to an end and trips to the library with “dear old dad” will be a thing of the past, barely remembered.

But hopefully not. I still remember my weekly Tuesday trips to the library with my mom when I was growing up.

Anyway, happy birthday to you! I love you with all my heart. It’s been a wonderful four years!

Now, if I can just remember to pick up the cake on the way home…

I’m the main chef in the family. Well, I’d probably be considered more of a cook than a chef… but, I digress.

Basically, I handle the food. Which means it’s up to me to make sure my two girls eat. As with all kids, I’m sure, getting them to eat well is usually trumped by getting them to eat anything at all. So, it’s a daily battle challenge.

The truth is, the girls eat okay. They do enjoy certain vegetables. They really like milk. And if they get hungry enough, they’ll eat a lot of different things.
I guess I should consider myself lucky.

But, of course, I don’t. I’m more perplexed by their taste in food, so to speak.

You see - when I was a kid there were foods that I ate which were standards for almost all kids. Staples of every child’s lunch or dinner. You know - hot dogs, spaghetti and meatballs, pizza, bologna sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, and anything with good ol’ Chef Boyardee on it. These are things I grew up on and most kids are still scarfing them down today. Right?

With my kids? Not so much.

They don’t like ANY of those things. In fact, neither of them will eat a sandwich. Of any kind!  Who doesn’t like a freaking sandwich?!Hmph…

I mean they may eat the sandwich ingredients - pulling out and eating some cheese or nibbling on the bun, but eat it all together? No way, Jose.
Let me tell ya - it makes it a real bitch to prepare lunches for these girls.

L.A. Toddler (my soon-to-be four year old) doesn’t like pasta of any kind. I can’t give her spaghetti, mac & cheese, lasagna, or anything with a noodle in it. I can understand when a child doesn’t want to chew on a fuzzy chunk of broccoli but…. pasta? And she’s half frickin’ Italian, for Pete’s sake!

And L.A. Girl? She actually does like mac & cheese, but she’s a serious snob about it. She won’t eat any old recipe - it’s either Kraft Mac & Cheese made by grandma or Olive Garden’s version. Which kinda limits my choices.

What am I supposed to do?

And it’s not just the traditional kid favorites. Anything I make for dinner is usually met with derision and tears, with the little drama queens throwing themselves on the floor in full-on tantrum mode.

“What are we having for dinner,” asks L.A. Girl.

“I’m not going to tell you,” I reply, trying to cover up the lasagna pan.
“It smells like lasagna. Is it lasagna?”

“Um… yes.”

To which she looks up into the heavens and asks the Fates, “Why did I have to be born into this family? Why? What was wrong with Allison’s family? She woulda made a good sister!”
I’ve tried everything to get them to eat. I’ve threatened. I’ve tried bribery. I’ve tried it all.

Is there one thing they both like and will pretty much eat at any point in time? Yes. Chicken nuggets. But not just any nuggets. Only McDonald’s or Wendy’s will do. Don’t bring them none of that Burger King shit, yo! Or the chicken nuggets, tender, pieces, bites, or fillets from any other restaurant on the face of the planet, please. And that kinda cuts into your restaurant choices.

One time, at a restaurant, we were so fed up with their fickleness, we ordered food for us and nothing for the girls. We’re pretty sure the waitress wanted to call child welfare on us. We had to explain that we would be picking them up chicken nuggets on the way home. We got the “sure you’re gonna pick up nuggets on the way home” sarcastic sigh from her.

My young one is the worst. I can at least get L.A. Girl to try something. She’ll tell us she hates it before she’s actually taken that first bite, but she will try it. L.A. Toddler won’t even try something she’s not 100% sure will knock her socks off.

I’ve tried threatening to send her to bed early, taking away a shot at any night time snack, and even promising to put the food she won’t try into her lunchbox for school the next day. Nothing works. She takes stubborn to a whole new level.

Oh, and don’t try to deliver a spoonful of that nasty dinner you want her to eat with the pretend airplane or noisy car. She’ll cross her arms and give you the icy stare of death. And she’s good at it, too.

I’m not going to worry too much about it. They do rely on snack food too much but they never get it after a dinner they don’t eat. They’re not underweight or anything like that. They’re growing fine according to this or that percentile.

But it’s hard to let go because I’ve got this feeling that I’m creating these picky eaters who grow up and eat only 4 different kinds of food - none of which are any good for you.

I meant, they’d eventually turn into chicken nuggets if they did that, wouldn’t they?

Before the cold sets in - and we are not looking forward to that - we wanted to get outdoors and see the colors of Fall.

We went to a little festival at a local nursery last week. They usually have one every year and this year was no exception.
Mostly we go because my brother’s band plays there. But they make it fun for the kids - there’s a tractor ride, pig races, pumpkin painting contests, and a bunch of other carnival games (and really good food.)

Not much to report, really, but I wanted to share some of the pics of the day. Enjoy…

How is the Fall treating you?

LA Girl has joined the ranks of billions of kids across the country - she’s a soccer player now.

I guess that makes me a Soccer Dad… Does this mean I have to buy a minivan? Uh… Won’t. Ever. Happen.

Anyway, it’s her first attempt at playing a team sport. And I’m glad she’s doing it. I was starting to think she was not going to be the “sporty” one. That seemed to be a description reserved for her little sister, LA Toddler.

LA Girl’s gone to about 4 or 5 practices and she’s played in 3 games so far. She has even scored a goal in each of her last two games. The first one was an easy tap-in for her because it was just outside the line of the goal. But last week she got to really kick it hard to zip it passed the goalie. I was very proud of her.

I don’t know much about soccer. I’ve never played and don’t know the rules. But I have been paying attention at each of her practices. I’ve been learning tips and tricks and strategies. And all of this knowledge has made me dangerous - I have found myself shouting out to my daughter during her games, offering completely unwanted advice. My wife was embarrassed. Naturally.

What I instantly realized that, as a father, this was my first taste of the whole “Football Dad” thing - where those obnoxious guys who wish they could still play sports are trying to live out their fantasies through their kids. So I’m making efforts to not get out of control. But it’s not easy. All I know is that I don’t want to become “that guy” that all the other parents whisper about.

So, I guess I’ll just be forced to keep quiet and only hold private practices for 4 hours a night with my daughter to make sure she’s perfect on the field and… wait a minute, I’m doing it again. Ugh…

Just does do something that really makes me want to pull my hair out cracks me up. She’ll be in the middle of a practice game or a real game - she’ll run up and kick at the ball to try and get it away from her opponent. And then she’ll just stop. She becomes and instant spectator. She’ll watch as the other girls continue to kick and pass the ball down the field. Usually, at this point, I’ll whisper as loudly as can for her to go after the ball and keep trying. But I don’t want to make it sound too disapproving, harsh, or Football Dad-ish.

I really don’t wanna be that guy.

Really, I don’t. But I can see the allure. It’s like Darth Vader holding out his hand to me, tempting me to step over to the Dark Side and become that guy. “LA Girl, I am your soccer father!”

“Noooooooooo!”

But I’ll be good. It’s my promise to her. I know I can do it.

One day at a time, Tim. One day at a time.

This is probably a song she learned in daycare or from one of her friends, but we thought it was funny when this started coming out of L.A. Toddler’s mouth:

“Rain, rain, don’t go away…

Come again another way…”

Naturally, being good parents, we stopped her to correct her lyrics. She help up her hand and gave us the “stern” look. She sighed and started over:

“Rain, rain, don’t go away…

Come again another way:

Snow!”

You just want to pick her up and squeeze her.

You know your kids are your kids when they not only look like you but they act like you.

You’ll see your blue eyes in them. You’ll see your freckles.

And then you’ll notice the finger-toes.

Not only do my children have my finger-toes… but they know how to use ‘em.

You see, I’m six foot three. My arms are long, my hands are long, and my toes are long. Uniquely long. Kinda like… fingers.

And being tall, I hate to bend over. It’s a long way down! You can’t blame a guy.

So, when you’re tall and lazy like me, you find ways to improvise. Yeah, you guessed it - you use them damn long toes of yours to pick shit up. Seriously. You just set your foot down on an object that you want to lift up and you squeeze your toes together.

Who says you need opposable thumbs?  You don’t! Not when you got finger-toes! Boo-yah!

L.A. Mommy laughs at me every time I do it. Need to pick up a child’s toy off the floor? I wrap my toes around it and yank it up.  Need to grab underwear out of the clothes basket? Finger-toes!

Last night, I was in the sunroom with L.A. Toddler. She wanted to blow bubbles. But I saw that she and her sister had both taken off their socks and left them there before they went outside to play. I told her we couldn’t blow bubbles until she picked up the socks and handled them to me. She said, “Okay.”

She walked over to sock #1 and placed her foot on it. She squeezed it with her toes and walked over to me. She lifted up her foot and “handed” me the sock.

My mouth fell open.

She did this with socks #2, #3, and #4. Mind you, I’d never seen her do this. She’s only 3+ years old! I didn’t know she’s developed the finger-toes already. L.A. Girl has been doing it for a while but… the little one?  I guess it’s time.

I told my wife about this and she smiled and sighed, “Well, they are your children.”

Yes, they are… And they’ve got FINGER-TOES!

Like the Energizer bunny, the L.A. Daddy blog keeps on truckin’!

This week, it’s 5 years old. I started this back in 2006, when L.A. Girl was only a year and half old. And most people had no idea what a blog was. I’ve used it to document our life and all the fun and crazy things that have happened to our family.

What’s funny is that I actually thought I had been doing this even longer than five years. But maybe it’s because so much has happened in those five years. We added a new and beautiful L.A. Baby, we moved from L.A. to Ohio, we bought a house, we started a new schools and jobs, and we’ve all grown up (just a bit…)

The enthusiasm died down a bit after our move and I didn’t post as much or as often. But, I’ve been feeling that urge to tell our stories again. And, after 540 posts, I thought I’d a few old stories from the past five years as I look ahead to the future.

Learning How to Ride

Our Trip to the Restaurant

Will They Send Us Some Place Special? Evil Parent Hell?

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Woody Harrelson Paid for Our Dinner

And in this corner… L.A. Baby

Timmy Crack Corn

Here’s to another five years. And beyond.