“That’s just a stick, honey,” I said. “Let’s see what else we can find.” She accepted my non-explanation and turned the page. I, however, was still thinking about that stick.

When we first suspected that my wife was pregnant, we got one of those over-the-counter pregnancy tests. I remember sitting on the bed while she was in the bathroom. I also remember floating on the ceiling and watching myself sitting on the bed, which I believe is what they call an “out-of-body experience.” She returned from the bathroom with the used test and a puzzled expression.

“That looks blue, right?” she asked, handing it to me.

“Well…yeah,” I said. “I mean, I think it does. Sure. Yes…right?”

Here were two grown people, one of whom holds a master’s degree, suddenly unsure if we had ever seen blue before.

“It’s not supposed to get bluer than that, is it?” I asked. She examined the box while I read the printed instructions. There had to be a color wheel or a Pantone chart or something that would tell us exactly what to look for: Robin’s Egg — Pregnant; Indigo — False Alarm; and Azure — Partly Cloudy with a 30 Percent Chance of Rain.

We bought three more tests from the drugstore ($20 each!). Later that evening, at my sister’s wedding reception, we were dancing with a roomful of people who had no idea that we had just left sixty dollars’ worth of Robin’s Egg Blue in a hotel bathroom.

When we were pregnant for the second time, my wife surprised me with a wrapped present. “Wow,” I said. “It’s amazing what you have to go through to serve divorce papers.”

“Just open it,” she said. Inside, there was a tiny blue jumper, hat and socks. William was on the way.

While I’ll never forget that deer-in-the-headlights moment in the hotel, I really enjoyed the thoughtful surprise that announced our second. Since then, I’ve heard of other women telling their husbands/partners/parents/in-laws, etc. in clever ways, such as hiding an ultrasound snapshot in a briefcase, or vomiting uncontrollably every morning for about a month. All of this has got me wondering: What’s your story? How did you break the news? Share your tale in the comment section below.

As Grace and I looked at the photos, I reflected on how lucky I am to have the two of them, how exciting it was to confirm my wife’s pregnancies and how, God willing, we’ll never, ever do that again.

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1. School Daze
2. Mommy’s way vs. Daddy’s way

“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”

Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:

• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.

• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s  poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.

The biggest discrepancy is hair. I suck at girl hair. I can pull it up into some semblance of a ponytail, but there are always wispy stragglers waving about her face. I defend my “daddy-do,” as it’s called, as “natural-looking.”

My wife, on the other hand, brushes that mop until it gleams and manages to get all of Grace’s hair into the elastic through what I suspect is a miracle. Plus, once up, her hair stays in place all day. It’s really something to see.

Dress is another issue. William has a T-shirt that I absolutely love to put on him. It says “For Sale: $75 or best offer.” It’s a hit at story hour and really shocks the blue hairs at the grocery store. My preferred outfit for Grace is a New England Patriots jersey and some jeans. My wife prefers to, “dress her like a girl.” She is cute in a dress, but does she really need to look like Holly Hobby every day?

Finally, let’s talk about the nighttime routine. I admit that I’m a sucker. Our routine is, roughly:
• jammies
• teeth
• books
• kiss and hug
• bed

Grace is extremely skilled at suckering me into “just one more book.” She blinks those little Bambi eyes and next thing I know we’re on book number seven. I emerge from the room wiped, and my wife is smirking on the couch. “How many books did you read tonight, dear?”

“Three,” I say.

“Liar,” she says. “You’re a sucker.”

Yeah, I probably am.  But the way I figure it, that makes up for everything else.

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1. Kitchen or kids?
2. How did you find out?
3. Noogie and Sally C Cups

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Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”

I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.

There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.

I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.

“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”

“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.

“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”

I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.

When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”

I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”

He said, “Your lullaby.”

It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.

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By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.

The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”

But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat  you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.

Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.

“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”

And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.

Then, it ends.

Your employer goes out of business and there’s no more job for you. They say it’ll take six months to close the doors for good. It takes two. Three months pass and you haven’t found a job. Then six. Then eighteen. You find small ways to earn a few dollars but it’s not enough.

You see your wife’s smile fade, and the lines in her face seem deeper. Where they there before? Around her mouth? You can’t remember. She smiles when you come into the room but from the corner of your eye you see a change when she thinks you’re not looking. The smile is gone and you wonder if she’s losing faith. Losing faith in you. You wonder if you’ve failed.

You wonder if you’re a man.

At night you go into your kids’ bedrooms as  you’ve done countless times before, to check on them one last time before heading to bed yourself. Their little mouths breathe in and out and you hear yourself talking. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m sorry. I have failed you. I have failed your mother. I have failed this family.”

And you walk out, and close the door, and get into your own bed and you wonder, “When will this end?”

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1. School Daze

“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil

“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader

I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.

I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).

My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.

As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.

Exhibit A

I love to watch How It’s Made on The Discovery Channel. If you haven’t seen it, I’ll tell you what you’re missing. Each week, they take their cameras into a factory and shoot the process of constructing several products. One week you’ll get pretzels, cymbals and computer mice. The next, honey baked hams, light bulbs and sail boards. Sound awesome? It is.

Recently, the kids wandered in as I was watching. They were instantly riveted to the screen. Unblinking. William stared at the TV as if it were about to dispense chocolate bars. Now, when I offer them some TV time, I ask, “What would you kids like to watch?” “How It’s Made!” they scream. “How It’s Made!” I tear up a little.

Exhibit B

They’re insane for electronics. When I get the laptop out and plop it on my lap, the kids sprint over. Not only because they think they’ll get a chance to play Starfall, but because they get to press buttons. Tiny fingers peck at the keyboard like seagulls. I decided to test my theory buy giving them a busted computer keyboard to bang on. The love it so much, it’s in the toy box to this day.

Exhibit C

This is the most telling of all. The have an unquenchable thirst for information. I know that’s part of being a toddler, but it’s like they actually derive life-sustaining nourishment from facts and figures.

For example, William’s favorite words are “What’s” and “that.” He never stops asking, nor is he ever satisfied with the answer.

“Daddy, what’s that?”

“That’s a bird, honey.”

“But what IS that?”

“Um…oh, a toucan.”

“But how can that be a toucan?”

“Well, a toucan is a kind of a bird.”

He scrunches his face. “But what IS that?”

Exactly, my young nerd. The world is a knowable system. You may anticipate a future of Sci-Fi, logic puzzles and more. It’s going to be awesome.

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Son:

Ah, you’re growing up so quickly. It’s been a few days since our last man-to-man. We’re a little older, a little wiser — and a little closer to the years when you’ll want nothing to do with me. Thus, it’s time for another talk. Like I said last time, this is important, so pay attention.

1. Learn how to make a decent paper airplane. Don’t scoff, this is important. A good paper airplane will allow you to entertain yourself, impress your friends, annoy your teachers, and even amaze other kids once you’re an adult like your old man. It requires only a single sheet of paper, so you can whip one out almost anywhere — the airport, a restaurant, Easter Sunday Mass — and often for free. What’s more, you can use almost anything you find lying around, like a place mat or a parking ticket.

There’s more to it than simply folding a piece of paper into a triangle and tossing it onto the floor. First, fold a lengthwise sheet of paper in half, then lay it flat again. Fold the top two corners to meet the seam you made, then do so again. Next, re-fold the paper in half along the lengthwise seam. Finally, fold each side in half so that the top meets the bottom edge to make wings. Throw and enjoy. Note that putting a paper clip on the nose doesn’t really help, despite what people will tell you.

2. Every public swimming pool contains at least one Band-Aid. You’ll probably find it upon opening your eyes underwater, where it will be floating inches from your nose. When this happens, do not touch it. Just to swim away. Most importantly, forget was released into the pool when that Band-Aid was expelled from its host.

Now for some bad news. You may not like this, but I feel I’ve got to let you know.

3. You’re probably going to go bald. Take a look at your dad, your grandfather, and your great-grandfather. We’re like three cue balls (don’t be fooled by great-granddad — that’s a comb-over). When it happens — and it will — don’t get upset. Lots of cool guys are bald, like Michael Jordan and Patrick Stewart. Instead, go to the drugstore, buy one of those hair clippers, and shave your noggin down to the skin. People will respect your honesty, you’ll have one less thing to worry about when you’re getting ready in the morning, and women* will ask if they can touch your fuzzy cranium (hint: Say “yes”). Just remember to wear a hat in the summer because a sunburn on your dome is no fun.

Now print this out and store it with my last bit of advice. You can thank me in your Harvard graduation speech.

*Or men, if that turns out to be your thing.

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1. Father to son, Pt. I

You just keep telling yourself that.

Amid stories about Babies R Us and some really good pizza, I started to think about all of the “baby things” that my kids don’t do anymore. While I don’t miss changing diapers at 3:00 in the morning, there are several things I do miss. They should tell me, “Dad, this is the last time I’m going to do this. Pay attention, because this is it. Ready?”

Here’s my list of five things I miss about babyhood.

The grasping reflex

Once the kids were weaned and using bottles, I loved feeding them. I had a whole routine worked out. I sat on our bed, with one pillow against the headboard. The Boppy pillow lay across my folded legs with a towel folded on the far right corner.

With the baby in my left elbow, I’d hold the bottle with my right hand, and every time, Grace (and eventually William) would grab and hold my right pinkie. I know that it was involuntary, but that reflex was the highlight of my day.

Eventually, they wanted to hold the bottle on their own. No more holding hands with dad.

Supernatural sleeping powers

Most parents complain that babies never sleep. I say they sleep often, though it isn’t always when we’d like. Either way, you’ve got to love an infant’s ability to fall asleep anytime and anyplace.

Consider how much easier outings were with a newborn. After a few bumpy minutes in the stroller, junior was out. Noise and light be damned.

Compare that to the same trip with two toddlers. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Can we go on the carousel?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m tired, will you carry me?”

“Stop hitting me!”

“Can we get a puppy?”

“William peed.”

A naked fascination with everything

I can remember Grace staring at her own reflection as if it were honest-to-goodness magic. Or William handling his toys with fascination and wonder, as if he had discovered the Rosetta Stone. I can’t imagine experiencing everything for the very first time, so it was tremendously fun to watch.

I’m not saying that their sense of wonder died at four, but the things they see daily — trees, fire in the fireplace, the flowering bushes in the yard — no longer elicit awe.

Portability

While I was talking with my friends, the conversation shifted to the Baby Björn. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s this complicated contraption of straps and a pouch that essentially lets you wear your kid as a shirt.

With junior strapped in, you’ve got hands-free access to your day, closeness with the little nipper and the peace of mind that he’s safe and secure.

Try putting a six-year-old in one.

The ignorance

Consider an 18-month-old’s perspective of the world. In fact, it’s probably limited to mom and dad, toys, fun, food and sleep. No war in Iraq. No bills. No ridiculous gas prices. No illness, sadness, loneliness.

No video late fees, finding a broken egg in the carton, running out of milk when you really want some cereal or forgetting to charge your cell phone.

There’s just you, the awesome adult(s) who loves you, the cool toys and the swell grub. Must be nice.

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