I used to read. Actual books. Written for grown up people. As I recall, it was a pretty cool experience. I really miss it.

Like many parents of young kids, I can’t seem to make the time to read for pleasure. I suppose I could be reading right now, instead of writing this, but I also love to write (and I’ve got a deadline). For this moment, it’s a trade-off.

It’s not like I don’t read at all. I read with my girls every night and sometimes in the morning – which is time that I cherish and savor, because I know it won’t last many more years.

After working all day, I come home to share a meal with my family and spend time playing and reading with my girls. After the kids go to bed, there’s a very narrow window of time when my wife and I can tend to household chores, answer emails from our home-based business and, maybe, have some time to walk around the block for a little exercise before getting to bed at a decent hour so we can get up and do it again.

When I was interviewing for my new job last year, one of the questions I had was from an executive who asked, “So, what books have you read lately?”

I had to think really hard and chuckle a bit as I blurted out the truth, “Let’s see…Amelia Bedelia, Ramona the Pest, Berenstain Bears, and almost everything in the Disney princess collection.”

She got a chuckle out of it, too. As a mother, she understood. And I don’t think my answer hurt me (in fact, I think it endeared me to her), because I got the job.

But it made me wonder if and when I will ever get to read what I want to read.

My older brother told me it wasn’t until his kids were in high school and driving before they were able to resume a social life and read for pleasure again.

I get up early most mornings to stretch and have some quiet time to myself before my girls get up. It’s a few minutes of solitude when occasionally I can read a page or two. For now, I guess I’ll just take it one page at a time.

Do you read much for pleasure? When and where do you make the time?

As Mother’s Day approaches, I’m reminded of how fortunate and grateful I am to be sharing this cyber space as the lone Daddy voice among an assembly of wise and talented moms.

In fact, I stand in awe and with utter respect of all mothers.

You are bearers of life! You are nurturers and healers and comforters. You are lovers and supporters of dreams. You are teachers and confidantes and reconcilers. You are every human’s direct connection to the Divine.

When we moved into our current home nine years ago, there were three households run by single moms within a stone’s throw of our house. I watched in wonder as each of them poured every ounce of energy they had into their children. As new parents, we were struggling to keep it all together – and there are two of us!

These moms each worked full time. They cooked dinner, fed their kids, helped them with homework, got them into bed, did some household chores, and then maybe – just maybe – had a few minutes of solitude before collapsing. And they rose the next day and did it again.

I didn’t know their thoughts or their joys or their struggles. I could only imagine.

My own mother turned 85 a few weeks ago. I am still in awe of this woman, because I don’t know how she raised us without losing her marbles.

My mom’s no saint, but she’s pretty darned close. She was pregnant 10 times. Two miscarriages and eight live, natural births. Eight! In 12 years! (I’m the baby of the brood.) And her full-time job was us.

My dad was a loving provider who was home for family dinner every night and dramatically read to us bedtime stories by Damon Runyon and the poetry of James Whitcomb Riley. But he had an aversion to loud noises, which is pretty much a constant in a house teeming with four boys and four girls. So, my mom ran the ship most days.

Did she complain or whine about all she had to do? Sure, she did – sometimes. Who can blame her? I would have been curled up in a ball in the corner half the time. But she kept plowing forward and respectably managed to keep most of us out of the emergency room.

And I hit the cosmic lottery by being matched with my loving bride, Jeni. She helps make parenting seem easy by simply being an awesome mom. We both were spoiled for the first eight years of parenting by running our business out of our home, which means we were together for the better part of every day, which means we were able to tag-team almost everything.

But now that I’m working full time, the bulk of the household duties have landed in her lap. And she has taken on the responsibility with energy and enthusiasm. She keeps this family rockin’ and rollin’.

So, moms, I’m here to publically say what you’ve known all along – We couldn’t do it without you. There simply wouldn’t be cool daddies without cool mamas. This world wouldn’t function without the loving sensibility of mothers everywhere.

Now, all we need is for more of you to run for political office and save our civilization! You’re our best hope!

I don’t know about you all, but I’ve had it.

I’ve had it with the violence and mayhem and cowardly inhumanity. I can’t bear another second of it.  

Like you, I’m sickened and saddened by the events in Boston this week. I’m still reeling from the massacre in Newtown and the shootings in Aurora and the bloodshed that streams across our video screens every hour of every day.

I’m done.

Enough with the acts of terrorism and wars of choice. Enough with the gang violence. Enough with the assault weapons.

I’ve had it with corporations and nations putting ideology and profits ahead of the welfare of people and our environment. I’ve had it with the bullies – not only the ones on the playground with my daughters, but the ones in political offices and the ones in corporate offices.

I’ve had it with the sectarian violence around the world – brothers and sisters fighting over political ideologies and religious dogmas while praying to the same God. I’ve had it with the bigotry and ignorance that fuels a culture that glorifies violence.

Also, I’m frustrated and appalled by parents who continue to teach their children hatred and violence.

On Tuesday afternoon, the day after the bombings in Boston, my wife took our younger daughter to Funville at Crown Center. It's an interactive exhibit where kids can pretend they have different jobs in the community. There was a 5-year-old boy playing in the “President's Office.” My wife overheard his mom say, "OK, Mr. President, drop that bomb on Iran, now!" My wife thought she had misunderstood the woman until she proceeded to repeat herself over and over again.

Of all the things that mother could have said, the lesson she absently chose to instill in her child was that the president’s job is to kill people. She chose to teach violence. Violence only begets violence.

We are better than this, folks! It’s time for love to rule. It’s time to run the money changers and war mongers out of our temple.

There are so many of us who live and work for peace and truth that evil will not triumph. It cowers and shrivels when exposed to the light of truth. The goodness and love we generate surrounds evil and forces it to surrender. It is powerless over us. By love we are the victors.  

And the way we secure that victory is by sticking together and standing for what is right – not just for you or for me – but for us. I’m talking about the common good – what our constitution refers to a “the general welfare” and “the blessings of liberty.”

It starts in our homes with little acts of kindness and trickles into our communities and throughout the land and eventually touches the hearts and souls of every member of our human family. But it’s got to start somewhere and sometime. I say that time is now.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.

Let’s stick together, fellow dreamers, our time has come!

********************

During an especially difficult time for our family, when our youngest daughter was in intensive care following a head injury, my other daughter and I wrote a song to remind us that there is no challenge we can’t face when we stick together. Click here to listen to the song on Youtube.  

Whether I like it or not, with each passing day, I am thinking and sounding more and more like my old man. His words just tumble out of my mouth. I can’t help it.

“You call that music?!” I hear myself blurting out as my daughters bop along to some pop music abomination that is nothing more than a festering ear sore. 

The smell of fried bacon reminds me of springtime.

And springtime is the start of baseball season.

As long as I live, I will fondly associate those three things – bacon, baseball, and spring. And here’s why…

When I was a young boy, my father taught me a little trick to get my trusty baseball glove ready for action after a long, dry winter.

That trick started with the frying of bacon.

My mother used a heavy, cast iron skillet to fry bacon. When she was finished, she would lug that pan over to the sink where she kept an empty orange juice can. Very carefully she would pour off the bacon grease into that can and return it to its place on the drain board.

After a couple of hours the bacon grease would cool and coagulate. My father showed me how to dip my fingers down into the can and scoop up some of that grease and rub it right into the palm of my baseball mitt. He taught me how to work it deeply into the grain of the leather  and how to bend and twist the fingers back and forth. I performed this little ritual every day for about a week until that mitt was soft and flexible.

When you’re playing defense in baseball and you’re crouched down waiting to field a ground ball or running to catch a pop-fly, the last thing you want is a rigid glove; otherwise the ball will smack that mitt and bounce right out. What you want is a glove that is an extension of your very hand, one that is pliable and snaps shut when it’s supposed to – like a Venus Fly Trap.

I have vivid memories of standing out in the field on hot summer days and catching a whiff of bacon grease wafting up in the humidity. And it seems strange to admit it now, but the smell of that grease was somehow oddly comforting to me.

There was someone else in our house who loved my baseball glove nearly as much as I did – our family dog, Babcock. Whenever I would leave that glove lying around after practice (as I often did), I could be sure to find it clutched between his front paws as he sat licking the leather over and over and over. He never chewed on it; he just sniffed and licked every inch of it with a twinkle of ecstasy in his eyes.

That baseball glove served me well for many seasons until I foolishly left it out in a heavy rainstorm that ruined its lining.

Although I don’t eat much bacon these days, the smell of it brings back fond and fabulous memories of my younger, more flexible, more limber spring days on the baseball diamond.

Can you imagine not eating fruit? Or not even liking fruit?

I can’t.

Of all the food groups, it’s got the most appeal. Like vegetables, it’s got variety, color, and flavor going for it. But what the other groups don’t have is fruit’s tartness, juiciness, and sweetness. My mouth waters just thinking about all the possibilities.

I recently heard about a kid who doesn’t like fruit. His parents said they can’t get him to try it. Not a strawberry. Not a banana. Not a sweet Clementine.

Wow. It boggles my wee brain. One of the first solid foods my girls ate was mashed up banana, and they’ve had one (unmashed) nearly every day since.

But this kid’s aversion isn’t uncommon. I once went out with a woman who didn’t eat fruit.

“Not even a slice of sweet watermelon on a hot summer day?” I asked.

“No.”

“A juicy peach?”

“Ugh, gag me with all that fuzz.”

“Grapes? They don’t have fuzz.”

“Nope. They don’t do anything for me.”

“So, you avoid the whole food group?”

“Yep.”

We didn’t have another date.

Now, I suppose I can understand not liking sub groups in the fruit family, like citrus, or berries. Or having some sort of texture revulsion. Or maybe one bad experience with a mealy apple would cause you to steer clear of them for a while. Or a run-in with an over-ripe mango (which can smell a whole lot like dirty socks) might be a turn-off. And I didn’t learn to appreciate cantaloupe until I was in my twenties. But there is so much variety. I can’t imagine not finding something to like.

The upside to food finicky kids is that most of them grow out of their picky phases and grow into well-rounded adults who appreciate a life of balance and variety.

But what a tasteless, boring world this would be without fruit.

(In the spirit of full disclosure, I am a vegetarian, which means I rarely, if ever, eat meat. So, I suppose you could argue that I’m no different than the kid who doesn’t eat fruit. And I have dear friends who would argue that this world would be tasteless and boring without bacon. To each his own eccentricity.)

It didn’t take long for social media outlets to start buzzing about the tragic fire in Kansas City Tuesday night. Updates and prayers and questions about the cause filled Facebook and the Twitter-sphere within minutes and continued throughout the night.

And it didn’t take long for some of the commentary and banter to turn snarky, insensitive, and down-right mean.

But that’s the nature of tragedies, isn’t it? It brings out the best and worst in human nature. We all deal with heavy situations differently – some with denial, some with anger, and some with an attempt at humor.

I read for myself in wonder and disbelief as some people started complaining about the local news coverage pre-empting their favorite shows – episodes of NCIS, New Girl, Raising Hope, and The Bachelor.

“NCIS is more important than a fire on the plaza. Buildings catch on fire every day,” wrote one indignant tweeter.

“I don't care about the stupid ass fire on the plaza I want to watch the bachelor!” tweeted another.

Seriously? NCIS – a fictional show about solving fictional murders – is more important than the death and injury of real people in your home town?

And you better believe that the parents of the wait staff and the sister of the sous chef and the friends of the patrons and families of the fire fighters still care deeply about that fire and don’t give a rip about your "reality" TV shows and the inconvenience you’ve experienced.

I certainly agree that when local stations had exhausted the reporting of new information and started to repeat footage and facts, they could have resumed programming and updated viewers periodically. But, folks, that didn’t happen.

And, in life, sometimes things happen beyond our control, like shows getting cancelled and snow storms and…I don’t know…unexpected explosions that level a restaurant and kill a neighbor, a friend, a daughter, an aunt – a real person.

When you put things in perspective, the pettiness and entitlement and selfish behavior are really sad and mindboggling.

My wife posted something on Facebook the next day about Mayor Sly James and his message at the pre-dawn press conference to be sensitive and remember the victims.

“The main thing we’re focusing on is taking care of people,” he said. “We’ll get to the blame phase later.”

And this initiated a great exchange with a dear friend of ours who reminded us that some of the anger and frustration that was vented on social sites may have been because there is an imbalance in media coverage over what is considered tragic. Many in the Black and Latino community may wonder why, when their loved ones are killed in the hundreds in and around this city, there is no wall-to-wall live media coverage.

“There is no press conference called to discuss and express concern when people of color and lower socioeconomic status are killed,” she wrote. “When you live life in brown skin, or at a different economic level of society, your life is deemed as worthless, and not worthy of press conferences.”

That kind of frustration, I understand.

Even after the smoke clears from this fire, please remember that people suffer every day from tragedies. And when someone in our community hurts – no matter their skin color or education level or perceived value – we all hurt. We’re all affected. And the only way we’re going to begin the hard work of healing is by starting with civility, sensitivity, and respect.

You know when you’re on an airplane and the flight attendants are going through the safety talk?

They instruct us that in the unlikely event of a change in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will be released and we are first to fit ourselves securely with a mask before assisting others.

As a parent I’ve done so many things that I swore I would never do.

Like chicken nuggets for dinner. Sure, they’re vegetarian “chik’n”, but they’re still some sort of processed mystery nuggets, and they're greasy. And now that I’ve done it, I have fully embraced them as part of the culinary rotation.

Another is that I vowed to avoid saying things that my father used to say. That, too, has come to pass, and I have accepted it as an evolutionary inevitability. It’s difficult to outsmart genetics and hot-tempered Irish roots.

But my latest struggle has been more challenging. It deals with my good-faith effort to keep promises I make to my kids.

I told myself that I would never be the type of parent who tells my kids I will do something and then doesn’t follow through. Well, it’s happened. Many times lately, and I’m trying not to beat myself up about it.

Sure. I’ve got good reasons for not following through. Life gets in the way. Plans change. And kids need to learn flexibility and understand that things don’t always go their way, right? Well, yes, but I still think that the responsibility rests squarely upon my shoulders to create realistic expectations.

So, rather than immediately reacting to a request by saying, “Yes! Tomorrow we will fly to the moon!”, it might be in my best interest to say something like, “Well, if we don’t have anything else planned, and if you get all of your homework finished, and if there is enough jet fuel in the rocket, then we can fly to the moon. And if not, then we will go play at the park after lunch.” That way, I’m not setting any unrealistic expectations, and I’m very specific about alternative plans.

But that’s not how it works, does it? We want to please our children and we want to be the heroes and we want to be cool and sometimes we just want them to stop pestering us. So, we create expectations. And when they test us by asking, “You promise?” we’re quick to answer, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

And then the next day when they realize that whatever it was they wanted to do isn’t going to happen, they're whining and crying, “But you promised!”

And you try to explain that you had no control over the sewer backing up and “I didn’t know that your mother had already planned on taking your sister to a birthday party and, besides, it’s really cold outside, and I’ve got a throbbing headache that makes it hard for me to even think straight. Can we do it next week? I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

And there you go again, making another promise that you know will be broken. Even as the words come out of your mouth, you know it’s not going to happen, but you don’t have the guts to un-promise or – God forbid – to say, “No.”

After going round and round in this vicious cycle of broken promises and shattered expectations, you know in your head and in your heart that sometimes you just need to say, “No!”

So, then you make a promise to yourself that next time you will not make any promises. And if you have to, you will just say, ‘No.’” And you know that you really mean business this time, because you just promised yourself.   

But somehow you know that you’ll break that promise, too.

It’s OK. The kids will forgive you. But will you forgive yourself?

We’re pretty much a G-rated family trying to make it in an R-rated world.

It’s not that we’re prudes or trying to make a political statement or motivated by religious convictions. We’re just a bunch of sensitive souls who think that watching people get verbally or physically assaulted just isn’t enjoyable.

I made some corn bread for Christmas Eve dinner and nobody ate it. Only two pieces were cut from the dish, and they were left uneaten on plates only to be tossed into the garbage.

The bread was whipped up from one of those mixes that come in a bag that we received as a gift.

“From Wisconsin,” it said on the package. “Organic. Whole Grain.” And it tasted about as dry and organic as a ground up Wisconsin barn door.

I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out, so I wrapped the remainder in foil and decided to save it for the birds.

But then I remembered a clever baking trick I learned from a bunch of Mother Teresa’s nuns who I worked with long ago at a soup kitchen in Gallup, NM. It was a lesson in recycling, renewal, and revival – a lesson in breathing life back into things destined for the dump.

These nuns would drive all over town to pick up leftovers from supermarkets and restaurants – day old bread, “aged” fruit, and any other edible discards they could salvage to feed the hungry.

On this particular day they had a huge box of very ripe, bruised bananas and loads of semi-stale sweet rolls and cinnamon buns and croissants and a bunch of other bready things.

On the floor in front of us they placed the biggest mixing bowl I had ever seen – big enough for me to sit in (but I didn’t). They had us peel all of the mushy bananas and drop them into the bowl. Then they dumped in all of the dried-up sweet breads and rolls and poured in a few gallons of milk. Nothing was measured or weighed. They were winging it. And my guess is that these women had spent years winging a lot of things. I suppose that’s part of what made them so awesome.

One of the nuns handed me a potato masher and four of us mashed up the concoction in the bowl until it was a velvety batter. Then they poured it into about 20 greased bread pans and started sliding them into their cavernous ovens. The result was delicious, moist banana bread that they served to their guests that evening.

It was like a modern day loaves and fishes story. Turning scraps into a feast.

So, taking a page from the sister’s wing-and-a-prayer cookbook, I crumbled up the dry cornbread into a mixing bowl. I added some almond milk, a little water, a few spoons full of applesauce, and several shakes of cinnamon, mixed it up and poured it into a couple of baking dishes.

I ended up with more than the original batch and it was not only moist, but really tasty.

As we barrel towards the end of 2012, and as resolutions for change start getting tossed around, I’m inspired by this little baking lesson.

I don’t necessarily need to throw out all of the dried and crumbling stuff in my life that isn’t serving me well. Maybe I just need to add a little of this and some of that – like a pinch of patience or a dash of a different perspective – and remix it. Or maybe I can put some of it on the back burner to simmer. Or maybe I’ll mash it all up with something sweet and bake it at 350 and see what comes out.

I prefer to avoid resolutions, so I’ll just do my best to follow fewer recipes and wing it more often.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas exploded all over our house. And, I love it!

Each year my wife digs deeper to uncover more of her inner Clark Griswold – the Christmas-decoration-obsessed main character in National Lampoon’s Vacation series. And each year her holiday display gets a little more elaborate.

My daughter and her kindergarten class took a fieldtrip to Kaleidoscope last week, and I got to tag along as a helper. I was so pumped because it is hands-down the coolest kid-friendly treasure in Kansas City. It’s a place where imaginations can run free and creativity has no limits. 

All the parent chaperones were positioned throughout the various rooms and instructed to help the young artists assemble their creations. They put me in charge of a stapler and a roll of tape and had me stationed among a bunch of construction paper, cardboard shapes, and ribbon.

After standing for several minutes with nothing to staple and nothing to tape, I passed some time by fashioning a cape out of a large piece of tissue paper and some ribbon. Then I made a cool hat – at least I thought it was cool – and struck my best Super Man pose with my fists on my hips. Apparently my marketing ploy worked. Soon I had a line of kids wanting their own capes.

My deal with them was that they had to pick out the ribbon, I would staple it on, and they could decorate the cape any way they wanted. And as I tied a cape onto each of the kids, I recited a little ritual that went something like this:

“This is your super hero cape. When you put this on you will have fantastic super powers. What is your special super power?”

“I can shoot fire out of my fingers,” the first boy announced with a dramatic flourish of his hand.

I laughed. With two daughters of my own, my world is full of princesses and rainbows, which has seemingly fogged my memories of the warrior-like nature of boys.

“Remember, being a super hero is a big responsibility,” I said.  “What good can you do with that power?”

And with classic little boy enthusiasm and a karate chop to the air he said, “I kill bad guys!”

“OK, so I guess protecting us from evil is a big help, but what positive things can you do with your super fire power?”

He stared at me blankly, like I had just sucked all the fun out of the game.

“You know, what could you do to help people?”

Bewildered silence.

“Maybe you could cook food for people,” I offered, trying to make it sound really cool. “Or maybe start fires for people who are cold.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said with renewed interest. “I’ll start fires for people. They can call me Fire Man!”

“Excellent, Fire Man, now go save the planet.” And off he swooshed to make more art.

The next several kids in line were boys, each with Marvel Comic-type super powers.

“I’m the Ice Man,” said one kid. “I freeze things.”

“I’m super strong and can crush bad guys,” said another.

And then, as if on cue, a little girl stepped up, and declared her distinctly sugar-and-spice-fueled super power, “I help flowers grow. I’m Flower Girl!”

The next girl in line said sweetly, “I’m Bee Woman. I help pollinate flowers.”

For the next half-hour I was a stapler-wielding, cape-fabricating machine as the parade of super heroes continued – the boys leaving their super worlds strewn with super destruction, and the girls using their powers to spruce it back up.

In the final minutes of our session, the last little girl stepped up to receive her cape, and she would proceed to rock everyone’s gender stereotypes.

“And what is your super power?” I asked, expecting something fluffy and sugar-coated.

“Hot lava,” she said confidently. “I shoot hot lava.”

“And what good do you do with your super power?”

“I kill bad guys,” she said with a look that had a huge “Duh!” attached to it.

“Hmmm…let me see,” I said. “You must have older brothers.”

“Uh…yeah. How’d you know?”

“Just a lucky guess.”

What a joy to meet all of those super kids who were super charged to go out and make the world a better place. They reminded me that we each have a distinct super power, and it’s up to us to discover it and figure out how to use it wisely.

So, what’s your super power?

Today our family marks the end of a three-year-long experiment. What started as an exercise in frugality and creative belt-tightening turned into a motivating challenge and, ultimately, a real sense of freedom.

As 2009 drew to a close and winter set in, we braced ourselves for the typically slow period in the cycle of our family-run business. We knew it was coming. We knew things would get lean. But that year our budget got so tight that we had to sell one of our cars. It wasn't an easy choice, but one we knew we could handle since we had been spending most of the hours of most days together as a family.

"We'll see if we can make it six months," we decided.

Not only did we get an influx of cash from the sale, we instantly started saving on fuel, insurance, and maintenance.

Having one car may seem like plenty – or even a luxury – to those who don’t own one. But for two adults living in the mass-transit-challenged suburbs of the Midwest, it can be trying and can lead to what my friend Kate calls “middle class drama.”

At the end of our six month trial, things were going well, and we were getting the hang of our new lifestyle, so we decided to shoot for another six months. After a full year with one car it was now the new norm for us and rarely an issue. Occasionally I had to rent a car for week-long tours when the girls couldn't join me.

Then about this time last year, we agreed that we were ready to get a new car. We scoured the web and the car lots and zeroed in on something we liked. When it came down to purchase time, Jeni said she was uneasy, and the thought of taking on another car payment made her sick to her stomach. Long ago I learned to trust her intuition, so we scrapped the idea and proceeded to squeeze out an additional year of savings.

Now that I've got a conventional job that requires me to be in the same place at the same time every day, and now that I’m getting wimpy about the prospect of riding my bike to the bus stop on frosty mornings, it's time.

Today we take possession of a second car. It’s not "new" by any stretch (a 2001 with more than 125K miles), but solid enough to get me to and from work.

So, here's some of what we learned in the past three years:

It feels really great to purge possessions.

It feels even better saving money while purging.

We can get by with a lot less stuff than we thought we could.

Having less stuff can be liberating.

Things don't create happiness.

And perhaps the greatest lesson – as pointed out by my wise and lovely bride – was this:  Having one vehicle caused us to strengthen our creative problem solving skills. It pushed us, as a family, to negotiate and work through challenges. It helped us improve our communication and helped us all be more aware of each other's schedules and needs.

Once again, Jeni's intuition was spot on. And it seems her intuition to ask me out on our first date was right, too. Tomorrow we celebrate ten years of marriage.

Now that I’m working with a bunch of twenty-somethings, I am starting to feel my age. And that’s a first for me. For most of my life I had felt like the youthful influence in almost any group. And I used to be on the cutting edge of popular culture. I could banter with the best of them about bands and movies and pop icons. But now, I’m one of the old guys. Now, I’m clueless. And I chalk it up to parenthood.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, my slow and steady decline from relevance began on one of the happiest days of my life. It was a cool September morning eight years ago when my first daughter was born. It started with the giddiness of being a new parent – nothing else mattered. Who needs pop culture when there’s a baby in your arms? Then the edges started dulling and the senses became less keen as sleep deprivation crept in.

Over the next few years, my mind began elbowing out trendy bits to make room for new games and story book characters and the names of Disney princesses and their princes. That’s important stuff, because if you make the lame mistake of matching up Ariel with Prince Philip, you will be forever cast as a nitwit in the rolling eyes of a little girl.

OK, so I may not be able to tell you whose "got talent" or name a Ke$ha song or explain the rules of a hunger game or name any of the characters on Big Bang Theory or tell you who was the freaky musical guest on Saturday Night Live last week.

But go ahead – ask me the names of Cinderella’s mice friends or the name of Elmo’s pet fish or the nick-name of Ramona Quimby’s pesky guy pal, or the author of the “Pigeon” books. I’ve got answers for all of those.

True story: When I interviewed for my current job at Hallmark (my first regular “real” job in more than 20 years), one of the interviewers asked me what books I had read lately. I panicked momentarily, and then, with a straight face said, “Well, let’s see. There have been so many. Amelia Bedelia, and The Berenstain Bears, oh, and Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse. And we’re currently on a Beverly Cleary kick.” She just chuckled and nodded with parental understanding.

So, I figure I’ve got about another ten years before my wife and I will have enough time to actually sit down and watch TV or to even begin to care about what’s going on out there. In the meantime, I don’t think we’re missing much, since the real show and the real stars are right here at home.

*EDITOR'S NOTE* Jim is off this week, so we've picked one of our favorite "Best Of" Mr. Stinky Feet columns from a couple years ago to rerun. Enjoy!

I get a bit freakishly obsessive about food – I admit – especially when it comes to feeding my children. No MSG. No high fructose corn syrup or other added sugars. Nothing fried. Hormone-free milk. You get the organic free-range picture.

There are very few things in life that I can control, and one of them is what I eat and what I serve my kids. Whether or not they eat the food is another issue, but at least I’m serving it.

So, when I see these QuikTrip billboards that read "Life's too short for oatmeal." with the photos of giant donuts and larger-than-life sticky buns, I realize that it’s an uphill battle.  

The ads might as well read, “Eat sugary, fatty foods from QT. You’re going to die anyway, so why not from obesity-related diabetes.”

It reminds me of an experience I had several years ago while visiting some friends out of town. At breakfast one morning, my friend strapped his toddler daughter into her high chair and then placed a powdered donut in front of her. When she turned her nose up at it (smart girl!), he began to harp on her about eating a good breakfast.

Dude, since when is a powdered donut considered a “good breakfast”?

Donuts are not breakfast food! And, I’m not sure they’re really food at all. Yeah, they taste great, but unless you want to be napping by 10 a.m. as the result of a massive blood sugar collapse, it’s just not a healthy way to start your day.

Think about it. It’s starchy dough that’s deep fried and glazed in sugar. It’s like taking a French fry, rolling it in sugar, and feeding it to your kid.

Sorry to kill the sugar buzz, but, according to the Centers for Disease Control, childhood obesity has more than tripled in the past 30 years. Obesity among children aged 6 to 11 years increased from 6.5% in 1980 to 19.6% in 2008. That’s nearly 1 in 5!

And it’s not only the food that’s important; it’s about the time we spend around the table as a family and starting our day off on a positive note. Of course many mornings we run out of the house just as scattered as the next family, but even a hard-boiled egg and some fruit is easy to serve up in a hurry.

In case you missed the 1,300-year-old memo from the Mayans, the world is due to end in about 13 weeks. Better start hoarding your Twinkies and Diet Dr. Pepper – they might be hard to come by in the wake of the apocalyptic devastation and resulting social upheaval. Or there might not be a problem at all, since some are predicting the total elimination of our species.

Apparently the pending expiration of the Mayan calendar and our human day-of-reckoning has been a hot topic among second graders lately. And, as you can imagine, it’s a topic that produces high anxiety in the creatively fertile mind of a sensitive seven-year-old.

The other night as we were reading a bedtime story, my daughter said, “Dad, I know I’ve asked you this before, but…is the world really going to end in December?” Her tentative voice and puppy-dog eyes were seeking comfort.

I assured her that all is well. I explained that it was just a theory and that people have been predicting the end of the world for thousands of years and it hasn’t happened. So, with a track record like that, we’re in pretty good shape.

But being the pragmatic realist (or is pessimistic doubter?), I added something she probably didn’t need to hear. “But who knows? The world could end tomorrow or next Tuesday. You never can tell about those things.” (Sometimes I say things that my old man would have said, and I cringe.)

I understand where the doubt and second-guessing comes from. All it takes is a look at the day’s headlines to make you wonder. World-wide unrest. Monumental greed leading to global economic instability. Cultural clashes. Religious zealots on rampages. The near depletion of our natural resources and the polluting of our planet.

Some days I’m half-convinced that Mother Nature is preparing to shrug us all right off her shoulders, in effect de-lousing her body so that she can breathe and grow healthy again.

And, if that’s what she has in store for us, there’s not much we can do about it. No bomb shelter or stash of canned pork and beans is going to save my family and me. Besides, who would want to hang around in a barren waste land sifting through the dregs?

In the end, I assured my daughter of what I truly and whole-heartedly believe – there is absolutely no use in worry.

Worry has never solved a single problem nor has it eased a frazzled nerve nor settled an upset tummy.

In the end we are left to rest securely and soundly upon the only thing that truly matters and the one thing that cures all ills. Love.

Last Saturday night I rode the bus home from Irish Fest and took a seat next to a guy slumped over against the window. He perked up when I sat down, and we started chatting. He was heading in to work the overnight shift as an assistant manager at a grocery store -- his eighth day in a row. He hoped to get a day off later in the week.

He talked of current and long-ago managers who were oppressive and unfair. And now, that we was working his way up in management, he had vowed never to treat his team that way. Only with respect, he said. Then he was silent.

Girls can be so mean to each other. I know, because I live with three of them. And I spent the first eight years of my life sharing a room with two sisters.

Sure, boys can be mean, too. But for them it might involve a few harsh words, a little scuffle, some punches, and then it’s over. With girls it seems that the hurt feelings and the grudges linger a whole lot longer.

My kids have been in school less than a week and the playground drama is already in full swing.

Our second-grader came home the other day a bit preoccupied by an encounter with a girl in another class who approached her on the playground and asked if she could give my daughter some fashion tips. My girl’s a pretty good sport, so she agreed to play along. The other 7-year-old had my daughter stand up and turn around so she could assess her fashion sense.

My daughter clarified that she was wearing shorts and a t-shirt because she had gym class that day. “Oh, that explains it,” sniffed the other girl.

After offering a list of wardrobe and grooming suggestions, which included wearing skirts and dresses as often as possible, the Heidi Klum wannabe professed, “If you follow these tips, you have a really good chance of being the prettiest girl in your class. And I say ‘class’ because I already stand out in the whole school.”

Wow! Really?? What seven-year-old talks like that? Or, more important, where does a seven-year-old learn to talk like that?

My daughter seemed to take it all pretty well and said she laughed it off with another friend, but I can tell that it planted a seed of doubt in her. Since then she’s been a bit more discriminating about her own fashion choices. I just hope that it doesn’t influence her to become catty and critical of others.

We all encountered kids like this girl in school and we all know adults like her. They are a fact of life. My wife says she still remembers hurtful things that other girls said to her when she was in middle school – a time when we were all emotionally vulnerable. That’s why she chose to hang out with guys, instead. I don’t remember too many mean kids, or perhaps I’ve just blocked them out.

So, we do our best to instill in our daughters a sense of confidence and self-esteem and arm them with the tools to interact with all types of people the best way they can. They’ll survive it the same way we did and learn some important lessons along the way.

Do you still remember comments that other kids made to you many years ago?

Every once in a while we all just need to shut up. Be still. And listen.

This week it’s my turn. (But first I’ve got a few things to say.)

There’s been a boat load of emotional and inflamed rhetoric bandied about these past few weeks – among friends and family and complete strangers. I’ve read and heard my fill of over-blown and misinterpreted messages and finger-pointing and name-calling and super-charged accusations of hate, and fear-mongering and ignorance.

And with political races just heating up, I don’t suspect the climate will get any more civil.

We all want to be right. And we all think we’re right. That’s normal. That’s human. Even the saints among us have the same insatiable desire to have everyone agree with them.

St. Augustine used to pray, “O Lord, deliver me from this lust of always vindicating myself.”

That’s become my mantra lately. Because even though I’ve got as good of a chance as anyone of being wrong about anything, I still want to argue my case and talk things out so that everyone understands me. And I often find that I just plain talk too much. And regardless of my rightness (or perceived rightness), sometimes the more I talk the worse things get. Sometimes it’s best to shut up.

I picked up a fascinating book this week titled “Being Wrong” by Kathryn Schulz. Her labor of love has become the study of our wrongness. She calls herself a wrongologist. And she gives a compelling presentation on the topic (here’s the link).

She holds up the mirror so we can see that we all hold fast to some sort of convictions – religious, political, scientific, or perhaps a simple allegiance to a sports team. That’s human nature. Convictions are good; they give us guidelines and purpose, until somebody challenges them. But, Schulz argues, trusting too much in the feeling of being on the correct side of anything can be very dangerous. Once we start thinking that we’re right and everyone else is wrong – look out! And there are thousands of years of anecdotal history to support this premise.

She points out that when people disagree with us, we are prone to immediately assume that they are ignorant or idiots or just plain evil. Otherwise, why would they disagree?

It rarely occurs to us that there might just be a slim chance that we are the ones who are wrong.

I think that if we’re honest about our feelings and look at things even a tad bit logically and compassionately, then we can get to a point where people can disagree with us and that’s OK.

The good news? It’s actually good to be wrong, because that’s how we learn and grow and find creative solutions to big issues.

“Unlike God, we don’t know what’s going on,” Schulz writes. “Like all other animals, we are obsessed trying to figure it out. This obsession is the source and root of our creativity and productivity.”

Another famous St. Augustine quote is: “Fallor ergo sum.” I err therefore I am. In other words, my wrongness is my humanity. It’s not an embarrassing defect or something to overcome. It’s something to embrace and is fundamental to who we are.

So, the fact that we make loads of mistakes is not the issue, it’s our inability to face our humanity and admit when we are wrong that becomes problematic.

My father taught me the importance of owning mistakes and admitting them. He was a hotheaded Irishman who excelled at yelling (often, ironically, because he felt it was too loud in our house full of eight kids). He was a man of convictions and stubbornness, but he always admitted when he was wrong. I have vivid memories of my childhood self, huddled beneath my covers with a tear-stained face after some heated and unfair reprimand from my father. I could hear him trudging meekly up the stairs to my room. I’d feel him sit down next to me and he would say, “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

If only we heard those words more often in our lives, from those we love and from those in whom we place our trust, and, most important, out of our own mouths.

If we did, we’d be less averse to taking risks. We’d start being wrong more often. That’s where creativity lives. That’s where we discover wonder. That’s where meaningful dialogue starts with those we love.

I’m here to tell you that I’m regularly wrong. And I admit that I don’t know much, but one thing I do know is that I might be wrong about all of this. So, I’ll shut up, now.  
 

In the face of all of the negative news lately, I can hardly stand to log on to my computer or read the headlines.  

I’m a pretty optimistic guy, and an unapologetic lover and dreamer, but it’s all weighing heavily on me. The widespread fear, the political and social extremism, the culture of violence and hatred, the lack of common sense – not to mention this oppressive, crop-shriveling heat – it’s enough to make a dreamer give up.

This week we celebrated "Miracle Day" in our family.

It was five years ago yesterday that our then eight-week-old daughter survived a nearly fatal blow to the head by a screaming line-drive foul ball at a minor league baseball game in Wichita.

It's a humid summer's night. Our two-and-a-half-year-old sees stadium lights and gets excited. "Daddy, is that a baseball game? Can we go?" Our family settles into some bleachers along the third base side. I’m not feeling too comfortable with our proximity to the action, so I opt to move the family further back to a "safer" location. We settle in again.

About five minutes later I hear the voice of my long-dead father (a baseball nut and a stickler for safety) whispering in my ear, "Jim, It's a right-handed batter. Stay alert." I shrug off the heavenly warning. Next pitch cracks against a wooden bat. Line drive heading right for us. Deer in headlights. I dive to protect our 2-year-old Lyda. Jeni raises her arm to protect the nursing infant. Ball caroms off her forearm — leaving a nasty welt. It ricochets and clips the back of Willa's head, fracturing her skull in two places.

Screaming. Crying. A frantic scramble. Everyone OK? Footsteps approaching. Ushers. Officers. Willa is noticeably lethargic. Bump growing on the back of her head. They shepherd us out of the stands and into the ground level concourse. An ambulance appears. Paramedics. And, eventually, firefighters. EMTs examine and say she'll be fine. A firefighter makes eye contact with me, slowly shakes his head, and whispers, "I'm a dad, too. She's not OK. Take her in now."

As if all of that weren't surreal enough, a videographer from a local news station captures footage of the post-impact commotion. A week later the eerie images appear on the evening news in Kansas City – a bird's-eye view of Jeni stepping into the ambulance with Willa.

An hour or so passes as we move from ambulance to emergency room to a meeting with a hospital chaplain to trauma center, and we hear words that all parents fear. "It's serious," the attending doc declares in front of the entire waiting room. I steer him out into the more private hallway where he continues. "I've seen this many times. If she lives…" (Wait…did he just say "if"??!!) "…she's likely to have permanent brain damage."

So, our knees have gone limp and our stomachs are about ready to release their contents. Then he adds…"She'll probably need emergency brain surgery tonight. But we'll know more when the neurosurgeon arrives. He's on his way. It should be about 45 minutes."
    
The longest hour of my life. And, strangely, one of the most amazing.

After phone calls to family, Jeni and I hold each other in the hallway. Lyda, who has been an absolute angel, pushes herself between us, puts one arm around Jeni’s leg and one arm around my leg and starts swaying and singing, “Let’s stick together. Let’s stick together.” Even at that tender age, Lyda is wise like a little Buddha and knows what our family needs. I tell her, “Yes, we do need to stick together. And when your sister is better and we’re home, you and I are going to write a song about this.”

And we did. (Watch video and listen here.)

We’ve spent the better part of June road tripping with the kids – and I love it. And my family generally loves it, but tonight my daughter cried herself to sleep because she's tired of hotels and just wants to sleep in her own bed.

I know the feeling, darlin', and tonight is our last hotel stay for several months.

For the first time I am publically admitting something that I have known about myself for a long time.

I’m a sucker for kitschy souvenir shops and tourist traps. There’s something about a selection of shot glasses, personalized license plates, refrigerator magnets, and a hodgepodge of unnecessary plastic objects that sucks me right in off the highway.

(This is a re-post of an entry I wrote in 2010. As our summer tour kicks off this week, I'm reminded of why I love what I do and why I do it. And as you pursue your dreams, ignore the Debbie Downers who try to dissuade you!)

If someone tells you that you can’t follow your dreams, don’t believe them – not even for a second.

For much of my adult life people have been telling me, “You can’t do that!” or “That will never work.” And I’m not talking about expecting things to always “work out” or “succeed”, I’m talking about following your passions, no matter the outcome. Success is never guaranteed. But stagnation is certain if you don’t ever take a leap of faith.

My own mother thought I was crazy for writing songs when I barely knew how to play a guitar. And when I first sang “Stinky Feet” for her, she said with her sweet maternal bluntness, “That’s awful. It’ll never fly.”

Shortly after Jeni and I got married, Jeni decided to quit her job and come to work with me. People told her, “You can’t work with your husband. You’ll drive each other crazy, and your marriage won’t last.”

What they didn’t count on is that Jeni and I actually enjoy spending time with each other. And, yes, sometimes being together round the clock can get nutty – that’s when you take a break. It’s not always a picnic, but it works, and at the end of the day we still (most of the time) like each other.

When we found out Jeni was pregnant, our friends and family said, “I guess that will put an end to touring together. You can’t travel when you’re pregnant.” But there Jeni was 8½ months pregnant for a six-day run at the Dubuque County Fair, trooping along among the smells of the hog barns, funnel cakes, and tractor pulls.

“Well, surely you can’t travel when the baby comes!”

Oh, yeah? Watch us! We traveled with baby Lyda, and she learned how to adapt and ride in a car seat for long distances without a video player.

“OK, fine,” they say. “You’ve done it with one, but you’ll never manage traveling with two kids.”

Done it. And still doing it. About 17,000 miles on the road together last year. It’s crazy and exhausting sometimes, and I think it’s part of the reason I’m losing my hair at an exponential rate. Frankly, I thought it would get easier to travel with the girls as they got older, but I didn’t count on a few things. They now have opinions and preferences and they voice them – sometimes loudly. (Who told them they could think for themselves?!)

So, yes, there are tears and tantrums and frazzled nerves and unfinished meals in hotel breakfast rooms all over America, but there is also laughter and joy and new people and new experiences and wonders to behold. And the main thing is that we’re together.

We still run into friends, family, and complete strangers who insist on dispensing advice laced with “can’t” and “don’t” and “shouldn’t”. We’ve learned to smile and nod our heads and plow forward. We know it’s just their own prejudice and fear talking – fear of the unknown and fear of failure and, even, fear of success. There are some people who can’t imagine living the way we do. Fair enough, and to each his own, but I can’t imagine living any other way.

I never met a kid who didn't like music.

Good thing we've some great live music in this town. And it's about to get a whole lot better.

When I arrived home from work the other day, our nearly-five-year-old daughter ran out the front door screaming, “Daddy’s home!” She greeted me in the driveway with a proud grin and handed me a little white box.

“It’s for you,” she said, as she was about to burst with excitement.

I’m beginning to understand what many “normal” families go through every day. This is my first week as a parent who works full-time outside of our home.

That may not sound like such a big deal to many of you who do this day-in and day-out, but it’s huge for our family. The last time I had a job like this was 20 years ago, and I was single. The ballgame is a whole lot different when you’ve got kids.

Yep. It’s true.

After 14 years performing 3,005 shows (more or less) for families throughout North America, I’m taking yet another huge leap of faith. I’ve accepted a full time “big boy” job with Hallmark Cards, Inc. It’s an editing/product development position. I start in two weeks.

Our seven-year-old has decided that it’s time she started collecting an allowance. Yes, she has decided, and she wants five bucks a week. I explained to her that it’s not her decision, but I’m open to discussion.

She’s presented her arguments about why this is an awesome idea, and she’s gone out of her way to be extra helpful with chores this week to show that she plans to earn her allowance. Let’s hope that keeps up.

You know that feeling you get on New Year’s Eve when you realize that everyone you know has been invited to a party or is going out dancing and you suddenly become overwhelmed with anxiety because you have no plans, nowhere to go, but it doesn’t really matter because you don’t have a date anyway?

Other than not having a date, my family is experiencing that same angst this week. Since this is our first year of school, this is our first official spring break, and we don’t have any plans.

Forget the romance. We spent Valentine’s night helping our seven-year-old nurse a hangover. I felt like I was back in college watching one of my roommates rock back and forth in the fetal position while vowing to never drink again.

And, no, my daughter hadn’t been pounding beers – she’d been pounding sugar all day. And from the looks of her, it had been the equivalent of about a twelve-pack.

Our seven year old has asked if she can build a restaurant in our front yard and serve meals to the homeless. She wants to call it “Eating House for the Poor.” She’s even drawn up a design and an action plan.

I love her gentle and generous spirit. The idea sounds great to me, but there’s a little issue with the city. It’s not easy explaining zoning laws to a child.

Our couch is really pretty comfortable for sleeping. And the recliner isn’t too bad, either. Recently I’ve been rotating between the two. Here’s how I ended up there…

This morning it happened at four o’clock. Sometimes it’s at three a.m. or as early as 1:30. But lately it’s been two or three times a week that one of our two girls crawls into bed with us in the wee hours. More times than not it’s our 30 pound four-year-old. She’s so little and cuddly and cute that it’s a joy to have her nuzzle in close as we drift back to sleep. That is until she starts flailing her arms, snoring, and elbowing me in the head. For a wispy waif, her bony arms can pack a punch. And she has this startling habit of periodically reaching out and running her hand over my face (or my wife’s face) just to make sure that one of us is still there.

I’m sitting in the rehearsal room at my daughter’s choir practice as I type this blog. What I see is so astonishing that I’ve started taking notes. A group of little girls are crooning their way through the Jackson Five’s “I’ll Be There.” But I’m also listening to some of these girls shout rude remarks, scream, and be generally disrespectful. It's beyond merely cutting up and having some fun. It's just flat out obnoxious.

OK, wow! One girl actually just said to the director in the brattiest possible voice, “I’m talking sassy to you!” As if everyone in the room didn’t know that already.

All I want for 2012 (besides world peace, eradication of disease and hunger, and adept government representatives) is some decent health insurance for my family and me. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is.

I ran into an old friend at the gym the other day. She’s one of those people I look forward to seeing because she’s a laugher. No matter what I say, she throws her head back and cackles and slaps me on the shoulder and makes me think I’m the funniest guy she knows. I love her for this.

I’ve always envied people like her who giggle and guffaw their way through life. You might know someone like her who has a natural, very sincere way of finding humor in most situations. She’s not fake or ditzy or shallow or Pollyannaish. She just has a beautiful outlook on everything, and she’s chosen a contagious laugh as the soundtrack for her life.

If there’s anything that I learn over and over in the face of tragic news, it’s that we never truly know what goes on in the hearts of others.

The past 36 hours have been terribly sad for many of us in Kansas City. Some lost a friend. Some lost a role model. Some lost a family member. And many lost a good morning laugh.

Don Harman and I were not close friends, but we worked many events together and knew each other well enough to share stories about parenting and personal aspirations.

When I last saw him a couple of weeks ago, his grin grew wide as he gushed about his daughter and how he looked forward to bringing her to Jiggle Jam next spring. He said how grateful he was to have a job in these trying times, and he even put that in perspective with his quirky wit by saying, “Eh, it’s just weather.” Then he added, “I’m livin’ the dream.”

I’m deeply saddened that his dream came crashing down around him. And many of us are trying to make sense of the tragic loss of someone so full of life and laughter and childlike goofiness. I can’t help but think of Smokey Robinson’s Tears of a Clown:

“…there's some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown, when there's no one around.”

The lesson in this for me is that I can’t make assumptions about anyone, and even those I think I know well might have a heavy heart that never reveals its true self.

So, what do we do in the face of loss and grief and anger and questions and things that don’t compute? We do the one thing we’re called to do – love.

When it comes down to it, love is all we have (and all we need) to offer the world. We can’t change other people. We can’t fix them, and we can’t “make” them feel better. We can listen and encourage and just “be” with others, but change is up to them.

So please, go out there and love those around you. And flash a little Don Harman smile to those you don’t even know. It’s contagious.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday because its name says it all. So, please don’t even think about calling it Turkey Day. That just cheapens it to some sort of fraternity binge-fest.

Besides, being vegetarians, we are often asked what we "do" for Thanksgiving, as if it's all about the turkey. Well, just like our omnivorous neighbors, for us it’s about celebrating with family and being grateful. However, each year Thanksgiving seems to get shoved further and further into the oppressive abyss of advertising and consumerism and the gluttony of consumption on every level.

I heard the other day that the 40” flat screen TV is the new 32”. The Kardashians have a line of clothing. (So who are they, anyway? And why am I supposed to care?) There are tips on Yahoo’s newsfeed on how to avoid over-eating. (Is that news, really?)  And as if Black Friday isn’t the foulest and most blatantly obnoxious creation that sums up our culture, it’s now creeping into Thanksgiving Day itself.

A few months before our wedding, as my wife Jeni was registering for our wedding gifts, she told the saleswoman how excited she was about getting married. Another woman overheard their conversation and said to Jeni, “You may be excited now, but take it from me – the towels fray, the dishes chip, the sheets fade, and then you get divorced.”

Wow, have a nice day to you, too!

For Halloween this year, I’ve outdone myself to come up with the scariest, freakiest, and most disgusting costume ever. I’ve decided to dress up like a school lunch! That should scare the bejeebers out of everybody.

Last week I had lunch with my daughter in her school cafeteria. It was an eye-opening and shocking experience. I’m grateful that I brought my own lunch, because what they were serving was flat-out nasty.

Yep. That’s right. In my weakest and most insecure moments, I’m a bully. I’m not proud of it at all. It’s just the truth.

My most convenient form of bullying is to shoot a snarky comment at someone who says something I think is dim-witted. It’s a way to help me feel superior and a misguided attempt to make another person feel stupid. That’s bullying. I don’t do it often, but when I do, I’m shamefully aware of it.

When you think and act like a child, every day is a great day.

It's no secret. It's just what kids do. They tend to skip through their days continually and relentlessly astonished by things. They can sit for a full half-hour watching an ant carry a piece of dirt and think it’s the coolest thing they’ve ever seen. They can break into a hysterical giggle fit over a silly joke and laugh until milk squirts out their noses.

I haven’t seen Kansas City this smitten and giddy since Joe Montana came to town in 1993. It’s as if our whole town has a heart-throbbing new crush that has us walking on sunshine.

Those who waited in line on Sunday to take a peek at the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts know what I’m talking about. This place is stunning. She’s our new gem – like a newborn baby sister. The apple of our collective eyes. Everyone is fawning and gushing over her.

As I stood with my neck cranked back to take in its striking exterior, a total stranger sidled up to me and said, “It’s pretty awesome, isn’t it?”

Yes. I had to agree. And his comment proved an even cooler point. Any thing that has this kind of broad appeal and can bring strangers together to marvel in awe is a great asset to our community.  And the diversity represented there on Sunday was especially heartening. Young. Old. Black. White. Hispanic. Asian. Ladies in dresses, and others in sweats. Some men in tuxes, and other guys, like me, in jeans and a ball cap.

After shuffling around in a serpentine line for an hour, I snagged a seat in Helzberg Hall in time to see a string ensemble perform a beautiful piece that had the audience swooning. Acoustically, it really is as good as the critics have been touting. And it wasn’t only pretty, it smelled good, too. Even with all of those bodies in there, you could smell the new wood and the hope that it brings – like the promising smell of a freshly sharpened pencil on the first day of school.  

The whole experience literally gave me goose bumps. And when I stepped back outside, I saw a friend, and we compared goose bumps. Everyone there seemed to be in a simultaneous state of goose bumpery -- especially upon seeing Julia Irene-Kauffman personally greet people as they came in.

I must admit that I felt my stomach drop a bit when it hit home that my band and I are going to be performing in Helzberg Hall with the Kansas City Symphony in April. And I suddenly realized that it’s kind of a big deal. Yikes! I better start rehearsing now.

As an artist and a lover of Kansas City, I have been waiting for this moment for years. I’ve seen the arenas and stadiums built and renovated in this town, and they’ve been impressive, but a world-class arts center puts us in a whole new realm. Sure, stadiums and sports franchises are good for a city, but winning seasons are fleeting, athletes come and go, and teams have been known to just up and leave. The arts are permanent – always evolving, but permanent. And, unlike sports, in the arts there are no losers, only winners.

For the umpteenth time in my short tenure as a father I have been subjected to Disney’s “Beauty and The Beast,” and still I have found few redeeming qualities about it. Some of the characters are engaging and the music is pretty good, but the premise of the story and its lessons are not at all what I want my daughters to learn. Belle is a co-dependent glutton for punishment who is in for a rude awakening in the sequel when her prince will likely turn out to be the same self-absorbed jerk she first met. Please pardon the pessimistic outlook, but beasts like him don’t change so easily.

Yes, I know it’s my own fault for falling into the whole Disney Princess black hole, but I’ve got girls and they love their princesses. Each Disney princess has her positive attributes and her dark back story.

Are there really any social norms that we all can agree upon? I mean, what might seem socially acceptable and “normal” to me, might not be acceptable or “normal” to you. Who’s to say or judge or make the call?

Well, sometimes I do. And sometimes I think maybe I’m the one who is abnormal and just doesn’t get it.

We see a whole lot of humanity in our business. We see families interacting all the time. More often than not we witness great examples of parenting. Occasionally we see parents making head-sratchingly questionable choices. (Things like – but maybe not as freaky as – the viral video of the girl playing with the dead squirrel.)

Other than a few bizarre isolated episodes, this past weekend we rode the overwhelmingly positive waves of joy that were generated at Jiggle Jam – now the nation’s largest family music festival. Thousands of kids and their parents rallied at Crown Center Square for a rockin’ good time.

Whenever you get that many people together in one place, it becomes, by default, a minor sociological experiment. There were a few situations that have left us scratching our heads. Please, tell me if I’m on or totally off base.

First, my wife, who was managing the main stage, encountered a mother with a toddler daughter who was standing guard as her six-year-old son peed in a restricted area backstage, behind the performer’s hospitality tent. In order to accomplish this feat, the mother and two kids had to either go around or over the barricades, sneak past the folks milling around backstage, duck behind the tent (where there was nothing but pavement – no grass or trees to absorb the urine), and drop pants.

When my wife came around the tent and spotted them “finishing up,” she was dumbfounded. All she could say was, “You can’t do that!”

The woman just responded with a snort saying, “Well, we just did.” As if she were entitled to be there. And, of course, there was no apology.

Now, I suppose the woman had a point. Technically she can do that, but she just shouldn’t. She obviously thought it was perfecting acceptable for her kid to pee wherever she wanted him to, even though there were about a dozen port-a-potties within sight and bathrooms with real indoor plumbing right around the corner.

Is it just me, or does this violate a social norm or not?

Then there was the other mother who was caught sneaking into the festival with her 5-year-old. One of our volunteers spotted the woman lift her child over the waist-high fence, then climb over herself. When the volunteer trotted after the sneaky duo and told them they had to pay to get in, the mother was indignant, but ultimately bucked up. And, again, no apology.

And in the middle of my performance on Sunday, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air and stopped the show in its tracks. An eight-year-old girl had slipped while dancing and hurt herself. She continued to scream in pain in the New York-minute it took the paramedics to arrive to help her. I asked from the stage if mom or dad or some guardian-type person were around – nothing. It ends up the girl was fine – more frightened than anything. The paramedics helped her up and walked with her to the first aid station, where eventually a parent showed up.

Now, I understand about letting your kids experience some independence, but if I’m at a festival with thousands of people, my girls are within my sight or, at absolute minimum, within earshot at all times.

It’s clear to me this was not the case of a distracted parent who got momentarily separated, because about an hour after the screaming incident, this same spirited child and her younger sister were found reaching up onto the stage during Choo Choo Soul’s performance tugging on cables and banging on the speakers.

Where were the parents?! It was like the Man in the Yellow Hat telling Curious George to stay out of trouble and then leaving him all alone in a foreign environment with lots of cool things to tinker with.

Every story has two or more sides. I don’t know all the circumstances; maybe something was going on that I just didn’t understand. But, what I wish most is that these things didn’t bother me.  

I wish I had the patience and the grace of the late, great baseball legend Buck O’Neil, who would have just smiled upon these folks and said, “Maybe they were having a bad day. They just need a little love.”

A few weeks ago I was in New York for a conference, and everyone I met wants to come to Kansas City! Well, maybe not EVERYONE, but a whole bunch of the folks I spoke to are blazing a trail our way.

Why the interest in our humble Midwest burg? Two words: Jiggle. Jam.

I’m totally serious…the word is out that Kansas City is throwing the nation’s biggest and best party in family music. A few seasoned touring performers have already called it "the best music festival" they’ve ever been to. And anybody who is anybody in the business wants to be here Memorial Day weekend (May 28-29).

Some of the best family music acts in the country will be performing. And agents, buyers, bloggers, enthusiasts, and otherwise curious gawkers will be here. Last year more than 25,000 kids and families from 20 states rocked out at Crown Center Square.

So let’s roll out the red carpet and put on our fanciest dancing shoes! This festival is one of the many reasons I am proud to be a Kansas Citian.

If last year is any indication of the migration to come, this year we could be pushing 40,000! And (I might be making a leap here, but…) next year, with the opening of Legoland Discovery Center and Sea Life Aquarium – look out! We could blow the lid off of Crown Center!

Thanks to this region’s kid-centric sensibilities, Kansas City has nurtured a thriving family music scene here for more than a decade, and many of the local acts will be performing: Funky Mama, Dino O’Dell, The Doo Dads, The LaLas, Rockin’ Rob, The Jazz Storytellers, Lend a Hand Family, Brandon Draper’s Drum Safari, Janie Next Door, Mauricio Salguero, and my band Mr. Stinky Feet & The Hiccups.

You'll hear folk, jazz, hip hop, rock 'n roll, rap, polka, rockin' blues, and bluegrass.

I love Kansas City. It’s my home. I was born here and grew up here. I even kicked the dust of this town from my feet and left it for many years, but I managed to find my way back and fall in love with it all over again.

So, what would possess you to ask me “why” I live here? What would possess you to ask anyone why they live in the place they call home.

Yesterday I turned 46. No big whoop, people do it every day. That just puts me on the older end of dads of three-year-olds, but I don’t mind. My old man paved the way for me – he was 48 when I was born. And like him, I kind of relish the role. I feel like what I lack in muscle, agility and hair density, I make up with insight and wisdom – or maybe it’s just cynicism and a general disregard for convention that I’m mistaking for wisdom.

One of the many things my father taught me is that old dogs can learn new tricks – that you don’t have to roll over and surrender to life just because your skin sags and your hair turns grey. He was living proof that you are as youthful as you choose to be. This came from a man who was thrilled to receive a pair of Roller Blades on his 72nd birthday and blissfully skated off down the driveway.

To hear people moan and groan about aging, you’d think they were the only ones who have experienced it. Yes, it's a drag and it's painful sometimes, but it’s one of the many things we have in common as humans. God willing, aging and all of its humble glory happens to all of us. It’s the price we pay for having vaccines and antibiotics and orthopedic surgeons that allow us to stay mobile and live twice as long as our ancestors. I’m quite positive that had I lived a thousand or even a hundred years ago, a puny guy like me would have been picked off long ago by natural selection.

With the wisdom of our aging come some realities about our bodies that we all eventually must face. No surprises, really, just the stuff you have to suck up. Of course, my eyes don’t read the small print on pain reliever bottles quite so well. The ever-widening patch of skin that appears through my scalp looks like an alien-made crop circle or a permanent yarmulke. And the eruption of sun spots (otherwise known as “liver spots”) on my face, arms and hands is startling.  
    
Also, I've arrived at the age where I'm finding crumbs tucked in the creases at the edges of my mouth long after I've eaten. I had a college professor with the same affliction. We used to make fun of him. Karma stings, doesn’t it?

But, the big reality is this: my bare legs no longer need to be seen in public. After years of performing on hot summer days in cargo shorts and sandals, I’ve decided that kids and their parents can do without seeing my bony and pallid shins and scar-riddled knees. Besides, baggy shorts and tanned skin are best left to the skater boys.

I’ll have you know that in the eighth grade I was voted as having the “Best Legs” by my classmates – beating out all the girls. My celebrated gams have had their time in the limelight, but that was 32 years ago. And now, after years of sun damage and three knee surgeries, it’s time to let it go. But even with these stark realities of the flesh, I embrace growing older, but resolve to never grow up.

Nothing says “He has risen!” like little plastic men armed with automatic weapons.

My wife Jeni was cruising down the aisle of a CVS trying not to get sucked into the overwhelming Easter display when something caught her attention, and she screeched to a halt. It was a plastic egg. Pretty common for Easter, but this was quite uncommon. It was a camouflage-decorated Easter egg full of plastic army men. Being the mother of two girls it took her a second to wrap her head around the fact that a male-type kid might actually like something like this. But the more she thought about it, the more it disturbed her.

I fear that I’ve become my old man. I’ve morphed into a grumpy (but loveable) curmudgeon who wonders what our world is coming to. And it wasn’t just the $12 snow cones that sent me over the edge. It was the snow cones and the $10 cotton candy and the $6 bags of popcorn.

Last week our family experienced our first “on ice” extravaganza at Sprint Center with Disney’s Toy Story 3. Totally fabulous! Over-the-top talent and costumes and lights and set design. Characters doing flips on skates, others lowered in on cables from the rafters, pyrotechnics, great music and dancing. A stunning sensory extravaganza! My girls’ squeals of excitement were priceless.

What else could a kid or a parent want!!??

Apparently more. Lots more. As in lots more indecently priced plastic objects paired with valueless sugary snacks.

OK, I get the souvenir thing. My heart isn't two sizes too small (maybe only one). And I’m in the kids’ entertainment business. I sell CDs and t-shirts at my shows. I get it. But I’ve got to draw the line at outrageous.

The fact that the $12 snow cones came in “commemorative” “collectible” plastic mugs in the shape of Buzz Lightyear’s head (or Woody, or Jessie) didn’t make it any less ridiculous. And the $10 cotton candy came with a wearable foam Buzz helmet. So, I fully understand the concept of getting an edible treat and a souvenir all in one. But, still I ask, “Why?” Others may answer, “Why not?” I answer, “No way.” It's a matter of principle.

My girls walked away with great memories that day and no souvenirs, even though the marketing juggernaut was overwhelming. I’m not exaggerating (those of you who were there, back me up), as we came up off the escalator into the mezzanine, there was a souvenir stand about every 30 feet. And they weren’t different – all were selling the same stuff.

And then there were the vendors walking around inside the arena like over-aggressive panhandlers. One of them actually walked up to my girls and held one of those spinning lighted gizmos right in front of their noses. As they stared dazzled by the lights, he said, “Wouldn’t you girls like one of these?” My wife politely told him to stop hypnotizing our children and move along. Had I seen the interaction, I probably wouldn’t have been so gracious. They wanted $20 for the twirly gizmo.

We were fortunate to get great seats and cheap tickets to this event through a group discount, but it’s not an inexpensive outing for a family when tickets range from $20 to $80. And then to add souvenirs and treats on top of that – holy smokes! You’ve blown through the monthly entertainment budget in a couple of hours.

The day care group we were with provided snack bags for each of us and a bottle of water. Smart thinking. And one mom said she snuck out the day before the show to the Dollar Tree and purchased a light up sword and a light up fairy wand for her kids and pulled them out when they settled into their seats. The kids were none-the-wiser. But she was. I’ll remember that for next time.

My dad used to take my siblings and me to Royals games when I was a kid. We’d always pick up a large bag of peanuts at the grocery store to snack on during the game. That was the ritual. If we wanted a drink, there were water fountains. He didn’t make a big stink about it and neither did we. I never really cared about getting a souvenir. Frankly, it rarely, if ever, crossed my mind. The event was the treat. Hanging out with my dad at the ballpark was what made it special.

At the risk of sounding like a crotchety, old dude, why isn’t the event itself enough?

Our six-year-old has been deeply moved by the news coming out of Japan. Ever since she bounced into this life, she’s been an intuitive Buddha-like emotioneer. She not only exudes sincere compassion for other people, she has developed a freakishly mature interest in world affairs.

The other night while my wife Jeni was reading a Toy Story 3 picture book to the girls, Lyda interrupted with, “Mom, how are things going in Japan?” Jeni just wanted to keep the mood light, so she told her things were improving. (If only that were true.)

I have heard more people bagging on teachers in the past two weeks since the stalemate in Wisconsin. It’s time to back off.

To hear some of the pundits and talk show hosts tell it, you’d think that teachers are money-hungry, fat-cat slackers who don’t deserve the meager salaries they currently get. And they and their uppity unions are surely going to be the downfall of our democracy, and their exorbitant salaries and benefits will be the difference between a balanced and unbalanced budget.

Dear Governor Brownback:

You’re breaking my heart.  And you’re potentially breaking my nearly-empty pocket book.

I knew the cabin fever in our house had reached the tipping point when our six-year-old daughter walked into the living room yesterday afternoon in her bathing suit. She was wearing goggles. Not swimming goggles, but science project safety goggles.

(If you live anywhere near the heartland, you know that it was somewhere between two and twelve degrees outside yesterday with sub-zero wind chills. Definitely not beach-wear weather.)

So, I asked her, “What are you doing in your bathing suit?”

She just shrugged and said, “I dunno. I just felt like putting it on.” Then she plopped down into the chair next to me with a pre-pubescent I’m-just-really-bored look on her face. (But wait a second, you’re only six, you’re not allowed to start wearing that look until you’re 11 or 12.)

Then it struck me! “You wanna have some fun?” I asked. “Do you want to play a trick on mom?”

Her eyes twinkled with interest. “Sure, what do you have in mind?”

Sometimes you just have to get a little crazy to fight off the crazies!

My wife was out at a hair appointment. And even though she told me two days ago that she had deleted the Facebook app from her phone (because she was getting too frequently sucked into its black hole), I knew she would be suffering withdrawals and have it activated again in no time. Just to make sure, we ran this little test.

I explained the plan to my daughter and she was all over it – with a big thumbs-up. We sprang into action. I fetched the kid-sized snow shovel from the garage. And while I was fiddling with the camera, Lyda slipped into her snow boots.

“Is it going to be cold?” she asked.

“Of course it’s going to be cold,” I said, “but only for a few seconds.”

I opened the front door and put my hand on the storm door handle. Lyda stepped into position next to me. When she nodded her “ready” signal, I sprang the latch. She waddled out onto the front porch and struck a very believable shoveling pose. I aimed and clicked a photo. She scampered back inside. Front door shut. All finished in less than five seconds.

“It's really not that bad out,” she said with adrenaline-infused confidence.

Within ten minutes I had the photo posted to Facebook. And now, we wait to see how long it takes Mom to chime in.

Although she wasn’t the first, Jeni responded in about two minutes with this comment, “What? I leave the house for an hour and you have Lyda in a swimsuit in the snow!?!”

Mission accomplished. Now, what shall we do today to deal with the mid-winter, are-you-kidding-me-school-is-out-again crazies?

I'm getting ready to launch a new business plan. Tell me what you think...

Instead of $12, I'm going to start charging $493 for each of my CDs. But wait...hold on...I will also, simultaneously, launch a "children's entertainment insurance program" that you can buy into for a low monthly premium that will help cover the increased cost of your kid's entertainment. Sound good? Sound familiar?

My daughter’s favorite doll lost its head. I’m sorry…lost her head. It popped right off during a routine wardrobe change. Very traumatic! You may have read about it in my wife’s blog two week’s ago.

We managed a temporary fix by reattaching her head with the help of an ACE bandage (see above). She was a pretty pathetic sight -- the doll, that is. My daughter’s tears finally dried up with the promise that her dear Holly would be fixed.

After some internet research, we discovered that this particular doll has had a history of decapitation. So, on to the manufacturer’s website where some exchanges with customer service determined that a repair would start at fifty bucks ($50!) (not including shipping)!!! We only paid $20 for her, so I could get three new ones for the price of getting the original fixed.

First…any parent who has seen Toy Story 3 knows that substitutions don’t cut it. And, second…we’re already invested too deeply into the current doll, as her ratty, matted factory hair has already been replaced at the doll hospital.

Well, there’s no way I’m paying fifty bucks to have a doll head reattached when I’ve got a perfectly good roll of duct tape in the basement. A good sticky wad of tape on the neck stump, then shove the doll head down on there, and we’re good to go. No, actually, that didn’t work too well.

Then it hit me – toggle bolts!! They’re little threaded bolts with screws that have spring-loaded arms on them. They look a little like this -- /l\ -- sort of. Anyway, one end shoved up in the doll’s head, the other down into the neck, a drop of hot glue to secure the top end of the bolt, a few turns of the head to tighten the bolt in the neck, and …Holly is fixed!! For two dollars and nine cents ($2.09). I’m an engineering, MacGyver-izing genius. OK, I had some consultation help from my niece who is an engineering major at KU, but we did it for 96% less than the greedy manufacturer of cheap things!

Do you have a headless doll that needs fixing? Send it my way!

Today is the 12th day of Christmas – the feast of the Epiphany. So I will give to one of my true loves all of the aforementioned drummers, pipers, lords, ladies, maids, swans, geese, rings, hens, birds, doves…and a doll that’s been repaired free (almost)!

I know this was a small victory compared to others. How far have you gone to make your children happy?  

Editor's note: Mrs. Stinky Feet has agreed to fill in for Jim Cosgrove this week while he rests after his recent back surgery. He is doing fine and will be performing and writing again next week. Until then, his wife, Jeni, shares a lesson from her daughter’s doll.

Here’s a conversation I never imagined having with my father over the phone: “Do you have an ace bandage?” I asked. “You need to wrap it around her head, securing it to her arms and neck. Lay her down on the couch with a cold compress and make her look comfortable.”

“I’ll do it,” he said with soft laughter on the other end of the phone.

Our daughters stayed with my parents this week while Jim was in the hospital. My dad is a professional grandparent and wonderful father. Lyda, our six year old, loves getting “Papa” to dress her dolls. They often spend a good hour just dressing my now “antique” Cabbage Patch Kids, and Lyda’s very special doll “Holly.”

But, their favorite pastime turned into a very traumatic event this week. While my dad was changing Holly’s shirt, her head popped off! He felt horrible. Something had apparently broken inside, and he was unable to secure her head in place.

I was on the phone with them when it happened. Lyda’s cries were devastating to me. I wanted to hold her in my arms and help her through this painful childhood memory. I clearly remember a similar moment in my own childhood when my “Baby Beth” lost her head. I will never forget that image, or feeling. I knew exactly how Lyda felt.

This was an important parenting moment that needed to be handled calmly and gently. It was an opportunity to help lead her to a sense of security during a very upsetting episode of her childhood story. We needed to show Lyda that we understand how important Holly is to her, and most of all, how important Lyda’s feelings are to us.

Some might simply suggest replacing the doll for Christmas. But, Holly is more than just a replaceable toy. She has been with us for the last 18 months. She has even been on all our road trips within the last year. Holly brings magic and memories into Lyda’s childhood - memories I know I will cherish when Lyda goes off to college. (Yes, I cried a lot in Toy Story 3. Besides, we all know what happened to Lottso Bear after he was “replaced!”)

Holly cannot be replaced. We might send her to the local doll hospital to see what they can do. But, we will also use this moment to comfort Lyda and help her find peace and humor in these lessons. She actually appreciates the irony of both Jim and her doll being bandaged up and given a little extra love and care.

Everyday, we are given the chance to see the world through the eyes of our children. How often do we stop to look at the world this way? We get so distracted by the everyday pressures of adulthood, getting further away from what really brings us joy.

In the midst of this drama I recalled a quote I’d read just the night before in my daily reflection book: “Believing is all a child does for a living.” - Kurtis Lamkin. The timing was perfect.

Take a moment to play with the Easy Bake Oven, or remote control car before your kids see them on Christmas morning. It might spark the magic of your inner child and, in some small way, help make the world a brighter place.

I've got another "amazing kid" story. These kids are some of the many reasons why I love my job.

This summer I met a beautiful young girl at a music festival in western Kansas who was tooling around the fair grounds in a wheelchair. Her name is Madison, and she has no legs below her knees. She was born that way. I found out later that she has tried prosthetic legs, but decided that she could move more freely and quickly without them.

You’ll probably be grateful that I’m not coming to your house for Thanksgiving dinner.

As a lactose-intolerant vegetarian, I’m the kind of guest that most people dread inviting after they discover my dietary challenges. But, food restrictions aside, I really can be a delightful guest and an engaging conversationalist.

The vials of candy blood in my girls’ Halloween treat bags finally put me over the edge. They were labeled, “Crime Scene Evidence: Blood Sample.”  

I like Halloween, really. It’s always been one of my favorite days of the year. Not for the gore or the freak show it’s become, but for the opportunity to dress up and be whatever or whomever I want. (For the record, if I had a dollar for every time I dressed up like a woman, I could almost buy a full tank of gas for our van. And, somehow, it did nothing to confuse my sexual orientation. Nor did my daughter’s Buzz Lightyear costume affect her identity. So, leave little “Daphne” alone!)

Anybody else feeling a bit stressed and overwhelmed and like things could spin out of control at any moment? That’s where my brain has been the past few weeks. When your world is held together with duct tape, paper clips, and super glue, there’s an ominous sense that we’re one tick away from collapse. And I use “duct tape” a little bit figuratively, but mostly literally.

How long will the duct tape on the van’s bumper hold? Will my backdrop that’s held up with paper clips come crashing down during a performance? How much more super glue can I use on the chipped coffee mugs, plates, and bowls before they’re considered toxic?

OK, ladies, I may be way late to this party, but I have just been reading up on some historical figures who are my new heroes! I’m talking about the women who picketed, lobbied, organized, and served jail time in 1917 so American women could secure the right to vote.

This is an incredible and moving story that I’d never heard before. The leading suffragists and their fight for their due rights were documented in the HBO movie “Iron Jawed Angels” in 2004. I don’t have cable, so I missed that one, too.

Although my facts may be a little off, here’s the general story:

It was not until 1920 that women were granted the right to vote. In the years leading up to that legislation, many thousands of brave and passionate women worked tirelessly and literally put their lives on the line to make it a reality. Two young suffragist activists, Alice Paul and Lucy Burns, led the charge for a constitutional amendment for women to have the right to vote.

In January 1917, Paul, Burns, and many other women staged the first political protest to picket The White House where President Woodrow Wilson had been less than sympathetic to their cause. In July 1917, picketers, dubbed “Iron Jawed Angels” by the local press, were arrested on charges of "obstructing traffic" and incarcerated at a workhouse for women in Virginia.

The pickets continued and on November 15, 1917, many other women, including Alice Paul and Lucy Burns were arrested and jailed. What became known as “The Night of Terror” began when about forty prison guards wielding clubs, and with their warden's blessing, went on a rampage against the 33 women to "teach them a lesson."

They beat Lucy Burns, chained her hands to the cell bars above her head and left her hanging for the night, bleeding and gasping for air. In solidarity with Burns, many of the other women assumed the same position in their cells.

Later Alice Paul went on a hunger strike and was eventually force-fed milk and raw eggs through a tube. She was tortured like this for weeks until word of her treatment was leaked to the press by the husband of one of the women. Public opinion began to turn against Wilson and in favor of the woman suffragists.

Continuing demonstrations and press coverage kept pressure on the Wilson administration. In January, 1918, Wilson announced that women's suffrage was urgently needed as a "war measure,” and strongly urged Congress to pass the legislation. In 1920, after coming down to one vote in the state of Tennessee (the last vote came from a legislator who had received a letter from his mother urging him to approve the measure), the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution secured the vote for women.

I know it’s easy to get disillusioned (and I sometimes think that’s where “the man” wants us to be so that we’ll be apathetic and do nothing). Like me, you may be fed up with all political options right now, but let's not lose hope. Let’s remember what those “Iron Jawed Angels” did to progress our democracy and the blood they shed. Let’s tell their story to young women who may take this right for granted. Show the movie on game night or instead of "girls night out."

It’s a bad idea to watch TV while you’re eating a meal with your family. My mother (who liked to call our TV the “idiot box”) lived by this wise advice, and it’s an obvious matter of practice in our home. In fact, we hardly watch television at all, and certainly not at mealtime. It’s not only distracting, it’s bad for digestion.

But our eyes and ears are bombarded with it when we travel. We’ve spent dozens of days on the road this year as a family. And it never fails that in every hotel breakfast room we find a blaring TV tuned into a program featuring lots of shouting that is pawned off as “news.”

Burning buildings, murder, war, natural disasters, and weeping victims followed by snarky, red-faced pundits editorializing about politics and marital infidelity. Hey, I’m no prude.  I’m a former journalist who appreciates real news, but no one needs the smell of sensationalism in the morning – especially before the coffee has kicked in.

I try to live by this simple unspoken rule: “No fear-mongering before noon.”

One morning, my five-year-old daughter and I arrived in the hotel lobby for breakfast just in time to see the flat-screen image of grieving parents of a girl who was snatched from her front yard. Lyda asked, “Daddy, what does ‘abduction’ mean?”

That was the final straw. I walked over and switched the TV off. It felt so liberating! Now, I regularly turn the sound down or mute it or shut the whole thing off if we’re the only ones in the room.

At a hotel in Colorado, I couldn’t find the remote, so I went to the front desk and asked the manager to lower the volume. He walked into the room and asked incredulously, “This is too loud?”

“Yes,” I shouted over the full-throated rant bellowing from the television. “And I’m not big on watching spittle fly while I eat breakfast.”

In another hotel we saw the NCAA Women’s calf-roping championships over breakfast. Who knew that was even a collegiate sport worth televising? Oh yeah, it isn’t. That’s why they show it at 8:15 on a Tuesday morning.

It’s not just the hotel breakfast rooms, either. Nearly every restaurant in the country has at least one television perched high on the wall within view from every table. I’ve attempted to position my kids away from the sight of the screen, but many eateries have them on every wall. And they’re usually showing some inane “sports” events featuring a guy pulling a pick-up truck with his teeth or skater dudes or scantily-clad sand volleyball players. I admit, it’s difficult not watch sometimes.

And forget about conversing with your family. “Huh? I’m sorry, did you say something? I was distracted by the NASCAR pileup.” Isn’t conversation part of the reason you go out to eat with someone?

You can’t even escape it in the solitude of the bathroom. At a Mexican restaurant in Oklahoma, they had tiny flat screens installed above the urinals in the men’s room. Come on! Have we all become so dependent on being tuned-in, that a guy can’t just pee in peace?

Please, for the preservation of my sanity and the good of my family’s digestion, turn off all the idiot boxes!

Our nearly-six-year-old started school this week, sort of. We all had visions of the walk to the neighborhood elementary and lunch boxes and new supplies. But instead we’ve decided to keep her at home. Some call it home school – Lyda calls it “Road School.” Somehow that sounds a bit cooler.

Our situation is unique. We tour as a family for several months of the year, and we’d love to be able to continue to do that for at least another year. Also, Lyda will be six next month and was too young for kindergarten last year and a bit too old for it this year. And although she it tiny of stature, she’s pretty mature for her age, and she’s reading chapter books, and actually enjoys doing math workbooks. So, the principal said she’d probably be bored and encouraged us to teach her at home.

But in the next breath (in order to keep our proud parent ego bubble in check) the principal quickly noted that most kids “even out” by the time they’re in the third grade. That was a nice of reminding us that our smarty pants daughter may not be so smart (comparatively) by then.

So, this week, it became official! We’ve registered, contacted some of the nearby home-school groups for advice and support, and we’ve been researching and reading. After a few days, it’s been very cool, but I still get the feeling that Lyda’s playing hooky.

I remember as a kid wondering what all the adults did while we were trapped in school. And on those rare occasions when I got sprung from captivity for a doctor’s appointment, it seemed so mysterious to taste the “forbidden fruit” of freedom. I had that same feeling the other day when I took Lyda out to run some errands. I felt like we were supposed to keep it on the down-low and play it cool, so the principal wouldn’t catch us skipping school.

Other than the occasional panic attack when we freak out about whether or not we’ve done the right thing – all is well. We’ve got a girl who is eager to learn and who is self-motivated. She will be taking the P.E. class twice a week at our local school, where a few of her friends go. So, she’ll still get some of that traditional school experience.

And next March when we head out on our annual Spring tour, we’ll be reminded that “Road School” was a great idea. Maybe we’ll stop in and tour Lincoln’s birthplace, or the Kentucky state capital, or Graceland, or see the world’s largest groundhog. Whatever we choose will be an opportunity for a learning experience. And the best part will be that we’re together.

Any other home-schoolers out there who can give me some reassurance?

After a recent show, yet another mom approached me and said, “I’m so glad to finally hear some music I can tolerate. There is just no other decent children’s music out there.”

How sadly under-informed she is and so very wrong!

I hear this so frequently that’s it’s time I offered a primer of American children’s music.

Folks, there has never been a better time for really fantastic, diverse family music. I started in this business 13 years ago, and the changes since then have been monumental. Just in the past three years the musical offerings have become so good that I’m starting to get nervous!

Let’s start with the local scene. I like to remind local folks that Kansas City has one of the strongest family music scenes in the country. And that’s not just biased opinion. The number and quality of our children’s acts is comparable to that of Chicago, New York, and LA.

People are taking notice of what’s happening here in large part because of the overwhelming success of Jiggle Jam – held annually on Memorial Day weekend at Crown Center.  It is regarded by many in the industry as the biggest and best family music festival in the country.

So, first check out our local music acts:

Dino O’Dell is a master composer and performer who has been rockin’ around KC for more than a decade.

Funky Mama is the coolest mom in the business, and her voice will blow you away.

The Doo Dads offer a full-blown rock and roll experience for kids. And they’ve had a #1 hit on XM Kids satellite radio.

The La La's sing sweet harmonies that children of all ages love.

Rockin’ Rob is relatively new to scene and brings years of experience as an award-winning “Barbershopper”. He wowed audiences at this year’s Jiggle Jam.


There are many non-local acts that get “two thumbs up” from our girls and get lots of play time in the van. There is so much great music out there, that I can only scratch the surface with these few recommendations…

Hands down our favorite CD in the past couple of years is the Grammy-nominated and self-titled “Here Comes Brady Rymer and the Little Band That Could.” Their music just feels great, like a well-worn pair of jeans. They’re a little bit Springsteen and a little bit Woody Guthrie. They totally rocked at Jiggle Jam last year, and we hope to bring them back to KC next year.

Another group that gets a lot of play at our house is the Sugar Free Allstars from Oklahoma City. Their music is funky and fresh and different than most things you’ve heard. Check them out on line and listen to “Rock Awesome” and the totally goofy “Banana Pudding.” They’ve been a regular crowd favorite at Jiggle Jam.

Some of the most clever writing is from Seattle’s Recess Monkey. They’ve set out to achieve a Beatles-esque sound and they’ve achieved it well. Fabulous harmonies and quirky lyrics reminiscent of the Fab Four’s Sgt. Pepper’s phase. They, too, had a fabulous showing at last year’s Jiggle Jam. They’ve got some really cool and goofy videos, too.

In my meager opinion, I think that the shoe-in for this year’s Grammy for best children’s album will go to Justin Roberts for “Jungle Gym”. It’s that good, and he’s long over due for recognition. He is a master at the craft of song-writing, and his albums are musically playful and meticulous. If you get a chance to see him live, don’t pass it up. With his band “The Not-ready for Naptime Players,” he’s simply awesome.

One of my sentimental, feel-good favorites is the album “Ranky Tanky” by Rani Arbo and Daisy Mayhem. They’ve been around for years in the New England folk/roots circuit and ventured into the kid’s realm this past year. The tunes are familiar classics as well as traditional songs done in a pleasant rootsy cadence with lots of fiddle and mandolin.

For the hip-hop lovers, you’ve got to check out Secret Agent 23 Skidoo. He’s artfully tapped a genre that had been previously under-represented. His lyrics are relevant, poignant, and just plain fun. His performance at this year’s Jiggle Jam brought down the house!

And there are a slew of former pop artists and rockers who are making children’s music and doing it well… They Might Be Giants (multiple Grammy winners), Ziggy Marley (this year’s Grammy winner), The Verve Pipe (my favorite is the song “Suppertime”), Farmer Jason (also of Jason and The Scorchers), and many others.

And I must give recognition to perennial favorites Trout Fishing in America, who paved the way for so many of us and still put on one of the best live shows in the biz.

Paul McCartney has swept my sweet five-year-old daughter off her feet. (He swept me, too, but that’s not as interesting.)

I’m not talking about a Jonas Brothers-type sweep or a fleeting Justin Bieber crush. I’m talking about the kind of infatuation and mezmerization that comes from spending most of your life (in this case, 3½ of her five years) admiring the talent and work of someone, studying their videos, delving into their private life, and then seeing that individual – live and in-person.

Lyda has been a huge Beatles fan since she was two – sitting in her car seat belting out “Help! I need somebody,” and requesting in a wee voice, “Hear ‘Ticket to Ride,’ please.” She knows their names, knows what instruments they play, can identify them in pictures, and she knows who’s dead and who’s not.

So I just had to take her to see Sir Paul in concert at the Sprint Center last week. And she didn’t even have to throw a YouTube-worthy temper tantrum to convince me. For a “first” rock concert and a father-daughter bonding experience, it far exceeded any of our expectations.

First of all, let’s face it, no matter how old he is, Paul McCartney is just flat-out charming. And his voice is as strong as ever – he can still hit the high notes on Helter Skelter! He played for nearly three hours, and for the entire main set, I didn’t see him take a sip of water. (He must be super hydrated by nature.) And even though he kept saying he was glad to be in Kansas and then carried the Missouri flag on stage, he performed one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen.  

I had as much fun watching Lyda as I did watching McCartney. She was glowing and her eyes bugged with wonder and excitement.  

To the few naysayers who said I was “wasting” a ticket on her and to the old couple sitting next to us who rolled their eyes as we scooted past them to get to our seats, I say – never underestimate the joy-potential of a child.

Lyda drew more enjoyment out of that evening than most of the people in our section. While they all sat most of the show, she was up dancing to nearly every song. She sang along and laughed and (she told me later) almost cried with joy when the show started. I had the coolest (and prettiest) date at the show.

There were far more people who were thrilled to see a little girl having so much fun. A woman in front of us leaned over during the first encore and said, “I hope you know what a lucky girl you are.” Lyda turned to me and smiled. She knew. About six times during the evening she hugged me and said, “Thank you, Daddy.”
    
Paul McCartney inspired me to break out my mandolin and learn one of his songs, which in turn intrigued Lyda enough that she picked up the mandolin and started strumming some basic chords. Now, she says she wants to play the mandolin.

And that’s why we encourage the interests of our kids. And if that interest is music, then we take them to see as much live music as possible. And if you get the chance to take them to see their heroes, then don’t let that opportunity pass – even if you have to make some sacrifices to pay for it. The memories are priceless.

“And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

Our girls are super troopers when it comes to traveling. We’re on day 11 of our annual 15-day southwestern library tour. We’ll cover about 2,500 miles to eight different towns, perform 15 shows, and stay in seven different hotels or friends’ homes.

In between shows we try to maintain a “normal” schedule and have some fun. Lyda, our five-year-old, was especially excited to go fishing on this trip. Two days in a row she asked me to set the alarm, so we could rise early in the mountains of northern New Mexico and get out to the river. She didn’t catch anything with her Dora the Explorer fishing pole, but was diligent about learning how to cast.

Also, we toured some 900-year-old Anasazi ruins. We ducked through little doorways and explored the living rooms of an ancient civilization. The girls were fascinated by the fact that real people used to live there and were eager to ask the ranger where the Anasazi went to the bathroom.

And we hiked through the Jemez mountains up to an amazing natural hot spring where we soaked while gazing out on a gorgeous mountain vista.

So, after all of that, Jeni asked the girls what their favorite part of the trip was so far, and Lyda said, “Watching ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in the hotel room!”

Huh? Is that really what she’s going to remember 20 years from now? Did she just miss all of the stuff I just mentioned? She can watch Sleeping Beauty any time at home. Did I misread her enthusiasm for outdoor adventure? Jeni and I thought they were having fun. Maybe they were just humoring us, and we should chalk this up as another in a series of parental failures.

I couldn’t help but think of that old David Letterman line, “I do and I do and I do for you kids, and this is the thanks that I get?”

After I got over being stunned and a bit hurt, I realized that in the eyes of a five-year-old, watching a movie cuddled up on a hotel bed in a strange place is pretty exciting. If nothing else, it was a moment of familiarity in the midst of a week of trying new things and meeting new people and sleeping in a different bed nearly every night. It was comfortable and relaxing and something we really don’t do at home very often.

In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter what we do or where we go or what we see or how many miles we drive to get there. What matters most is that we’re together as a family, having fun and making memories in ways we don’t even realize.

This week marks six months as a one-vehicle family. That may not sound like a big deal to those who have always been a one-car or no-car family, but for us mass-transit-challenged suburban-dwellers, it was a minor leap of faith.

Like many families, we’ve been trying to find ways to balance our tenuous and unpredictable budget. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So, in January, when business was frighteningly slow, and we were faced with a new CD recording project, we decided to sell one of our cars. It was a diesel VW Jetta that I had converted to run on vegetable oil – my attempt at softening our family’s carbon footprint. I was proud of that car, and, I suppose, that’s why it was so hard to let it go.

But as soon as the new owners drove the Jetta out of the driveway, I felt a huge weight lifted. One less thing to worry about and maintain. One less thing to license and insure. One less thing to fuel. One less thing – period. Simplifying is so freeing! I had no idea. And talk about greening up our carbon footprint!

Preparing to let go of that car was a lot more difficult than actually letting it go. We worked ourselves into an anxious frenzy. How would we make it with just the van? What happens when it needs to be repaired? What if there were an emergency?

Since we work from home and spend almost all of our time together, it makes sense for us. And it’s been easier than we expected. I’m blessed by in-laws who lend us one of their cars in a pinch. We actually plan our days and weeks more efficiently. We walk more. We spend more time on our bikes. (My sister gave us a bicycle trailer that is made for taking the kids on a ride, but is ideal for trips to the grocery store and post office.) And when I can get a ride to the bus-stop, I take the Metro.

Summer is our busy touring season, and, now that the girls are a bit more involved in activities, sometimes they can’t travel with me. So this month I had to rent a car for the first time since January. It was $350 for two weeks – which is about the same as a monthly car payment or about a half-year of insurance. Not bad, considering we don’t have to do it often.

We’re getting used to a slower, simpler life. And we’re getting used to giving away things we don’t use. It feels so great to purge.

What are you doing to cut corners and balance your budget?

Possibly my favorite quote about fatherhood comes from the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin. Keanu Reeves’ character Todd says, “You need a license to buy a dog, or to drive a car - hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they'll let any (jerk) be a father.”

If you think about it too hard, it’s not really funny – just a bit sad because it’s true. But to put a positive spin on it, I like it because it reminds me that it takes more than a biological contribution to become a father. Being a father is a choice, a commitment, and an honorable vocation. It’s not for wimps, either. Or the selfish.

And although some days I feel sort of wimpy as a dad, and other days I feel like I can be sort of jerky, it is still the most exciting, fear-provoking, and enjoyable thing I’ve ever done in my life. Being a dad is a blast! Of course, it helps having a fabulous, helpful, and grounded partner to share the rollercoaster ride.

Here are some of my favorite things about fatherhood:

I’m the DAD, and what I say, goes! (Unless mom’s around)…

Hugs, hugs, and more hugs…

The satisfaction that I used to get from changing a diaper and knowing that my child has healthy digestion…

An endless supply of original artwork dedicated specifically to me…

That awesome feeling of having a child asleep on my chest…

The high-pitched squeal followed by the breath-taking squeeze around my neck when I arrive home from a trip…

Story time before bed and first thing in the morning…

The day when Lyda first read to me… So cool…so proud!

Giggling girls painting my toe nails and putting barrettes in my hair…

Holding hands and giving thanks as a family before a meal…

A sad, scared, or sleepy little girl who wants only her daddy…

Teaching my girls how to wait for the right pitch and to swing a bat…

Making a mess in the kitchen on pancake days…

Being the Tin Man to Willa’s Dorothy…and then Sheriff Woody to her Buzz Lightyear…

And the thing that makes my heart melt the most is hearing my daughter say, “Daddy, you’re my prince!”

Moms, please remember that even though we may be a little clueless sometimes, most of us dads are really trying. Here’s wishing a happy Father’s Day to all the dads who are giving it their best and especially to all those who can’t be with their kids this weekend.

The other day I visited two awesome little girls on their home turf, and, they taught me a few things about life that every human could use.

Elise (3) and Kenzie (2) are neighbors. They live next door to each other in an unlikely “neighborhood” where most of the kids are bald and roam the “streets” in their pajamas while pushing or pulling a spaghetti cluster of wires and tubes connected to a pole on wheels.

They live on one of the oncology floors at Children’s Mercy Hospital and they share almost everything. They share toys and laughter and blankets and songs and books and, occasionally, water bottles. Oh yes, and they have one more important thing in common – they both have Leukemia.

Even at their tender age, these two girls are wise beyond their years. With the support of each other, they are slogging through the emotional and physical trenches of a treatment that taxes their little bodies and strains their spirits. No doubt, they and their families will be connected for the rest of their lives. And years from now they will swap stories like old war buddies about how they banded together and defeated the enemy.

One of my favorite things about these girls (and kids in general) is that they're usually pretty good about living in the moment. They're not worried about the past or the future. Their heads aren't full of the worldly stresses that weigh heavily on us adults.

On the good days when there are only a few hours of grogginess and limited vomiting and brief periods of spiking fevers,  their "carpe diem" attitudes seem to scream, "Forget about my bald head, let's sing a song!” Or, “So what if my body is like a pin cushion, do you want to hear a knock-knock joke?" I can't say I'd be very "present" (or pleasant) if I were in the same situation.

I have endless respect and admiration and compassion for the parents who live in the hospital with their kids for months and months. Some of them are commuting from hours away where they are trying to maintain a “normal” life for the rest of their families, only to spend night after sleepless night on a slightly comfortable couch/bed. You can see in some of their bleary eyes (sometimes on the verge of tears) that they’re operating on fumes – fumes of love.

And I’m flat-out amazed at the nurses and docs and therapists who work with these kids every day with smiles and (generally) rosy attitudes. How do they do it? I’d be an emotional wreck if I had any one of  their jobs.

One pediatric ICU nurse told me, “Some days are hard. And on those days, when I get home, I pull into the driveway and cry in my car for 20 minutes or so. Then I suck it up and go inside, and I become ‘mom’ to my own kids.”

Although it’s not glamorous, I think everyone should include on their “bucket list”, a visit to a pediatric hospital or a pediatric ICU. You want to learn about living? Spend a little time with these kids and they’ll take you several steps closer to truth or, at minimum, help put your own life in perspective.

What a treasure we have in Children’s Mercy Hospital! And I must also give a “shout-out” to www.caringbridge.org, which is a wonderful tool to help families and friends stay connected during a time of illness.

I'll leave you with this awesome quote that's on the wall of the lobby of Children's Mercy Hospital...

"Skill cannot take the place of sympathy and understanding, for science without heart is ugly and pitiless." -- Dr. Katherine Berry Richardson.

Memorial Day weekend marks the official beginning of Road Trip Season for some families. In our family, every season is road trip worthy, but that might change when Lyda starts school (unless we opt for "road schooling"). Until then, we go whenever we can. Last year we logged more than 18,000 miles, with the longest journey lasting almost three weeks through eight states.
 
After nearly 100,000 miles of tears and tantrums over the past five years, I have found what works for my traveling family. And, like all parents, I know that what works today may not work tomorrow. That's why I solicit other ideas. So, if you have some, please share. I need all the help I can get.
 
For now, here's what works and doesn't work for us...
 
Medication is out. My mother used to give us a half tablet of Dramamine on trips -- ostensibly to keep puking to a minimum (with eight kids in the car, one small regurgitation could start an unpleasant chain reaction), but more likely it was to make us drowsy. And I know a lot of parents have no problem slipping their kid a Benadryl before a long trip. I just can't go there. I think it's best to utilize all possible strategies before resorting to drugging the kids. I much prefer arguing and whining from kids who are expressing emotions, than passive indifference from a couple of slack-jawed zombies.

Engage them. We make a space in the back for one parent to comfortably sit with the kids. And we don't need to sit there the whole trip, but occasionally one of us will climb back there and read, sing, color, perform puppet shows, play games, and ask them lots of questions. This may sound exhausting, and it is. But who said parenting should be a spectator sport?

Break the trip into two hour chunks (unless they're sleeping, then plow ahead!). We stop every 90 minutes or so for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs. I’ve finally come to accept that a seven-hour Map-Quested trip will take closer to nine.

Offer healthy snacks. Not chips and pretzels -- those are carb-heavy and quickly metabolize into sugar. Pumping a kid full of sugar and strapping them into a car seat for a couple of hours is flat-out cruel. I'm befuddled by parents who do this and then don't understand why their kid is cranky and fidgety. "She ate a whole bag of Skittles and she's still not happy!" We load up on protein like nuts and cheese and yogurt (without the sugar and corn syrup) and peanut butter. We leave the candy and soda on the shelf at the store and bring fruit instead. Reminder: digesting greasy fast food makes for a smelly, unpleasant journey.

Limit the video pacifier! Videos aren’t absolutely necessary. Really! Kids are pretty resourceful and can learn to entertain themselves -- but it takes us to teach them how. We went three years without a video player and then sparingly introduced it when we were gifted one. On long days (five hours or more) we limit viewing to one DVD. On short trips under three hours, we don’t use it.
 
Do you think in 20 years your kid will say, "I remember that trip to grandma's when I was five. That was the 15th time I watched 'Little Mermaid'. I'll never forget it!"?

Take care of yourself. If I'm rested and well-fed, I'm a more patient parent. And so the kids will be, too. When I'm getting cranky, a roadside break and a brisk walk is better in the long-run than caffeine.
 
Bottom Line: How often do you get uninterrupted time with your kids? Think of the possibilities! You can actually talk to them and laugh with them and play games and sing and learn something about their personalities. This is a great "teaching moment" for everyone.

The sound of a three-year-old pounding on a full drum kit in the basement isn’t as bad as I’d dreaded. In fact, I kind of like it. It’s the sound of creativity.

Up until last Saturday, our house was nearly free of loud toys – especially anything that takes batteries. For more than five years with kids we’ve had a pretty tranquil home. Now we have a fully-chatty Buzz Lightyear doll that says 50 different things and makes a ton of racket. Oh yeah, and the drum kit with a cymbal – both birthday gifts for three-year-old Willa.

“You’re a brave man,” a mom told me recently – referring to the drums.

“Not really,” I answered, “just blissfully ignorant.”
 
If there’s an instrument involved, I don’t care how much volume is created. For me, that’s not noise; it’s music! Sure, an incessant screeching harmonica can grate on my nerves, but I so much prefer that than some electronic plastic thingy that beeps and boings.  

Recently I received an email from a mom seeking a recommendation about how to encourage her son who is fascinated by instruments, but can’t sit with interest through a pre-school music class. She felt the classes were too “girly” for him. I suggested drum lessons. What little boy (or girl) doesn’t like to bang on stuff and let the world know he’s here?

And I tell parents all the time that even though you may have never played an instrument or don’t feel especially gifted when it comes to music, don’t assume your kid will be the same way. Out of my immediate family of 10 (yep, eight kids), I’m the only one who plays an instrument, and I really only play well enough to fake it.

If your kids aren’t going to catch the music bug from you, expose them to as much live music as you can and let them see people making music – especially other kids – and that may inspire them to do the same. That’s the main reason I get kids up on stage during my shows to shake shakers and bang on drums. They get to feel it for themselves and express their own rhythm. And they’re never too young to start.

And next week at Jiggle Jam (www.kcjigglejam.com) we’ve got something new that’s perfect for kids who want to get their hands on some instruments. The “Garage Band” is exactly how it sounds – a comfortable space for parents and kids to jam out and hang out. Instruments will be set out in this garage-decorated tent for music exploration. It’s sponsored by Funky Munky Music, and they'll be on hand to help kids get started on playing an instrument. This tent is limited to ages 7 and up. But there’s never an age limit at my shows, and your child (or you!) just might get a chance to be part of one of my impromptu jam sessions.

As we always say, “A family that rocks together stays together!”

  My wife Jeni was complaining yesterday about a most annoying earworm. You know those nerve-grating songs that get stuck in your head and play on an endless loop. Her earworm was “We Built This City” by Starship. My most maddening tunes usually include something by Journey or Foreigner.

And I’m willing to bet a dollar that many of my own songs have ended up worming their way into the skulls of many insomnia-frazzled parents.

But every now and then you get an agreeable sound, or thought, or memory, or song that plays over and over in your head that ends up being quite pleasant and comforting. It’s not right to call these “earworms”, because they’re more like an angel whispering in your ear. So, I’m calling them “ear-angels”.

As my band and I prepare for the third annual KC Jiggle Jam, I have had the most delightful ear-angel flitting around in my mind. It’s the song “Bright Light” by my good friend Bongo Barry. Over and over the words remind me, “I am a bright light, perfect just the way I am.”

For those of you who did not know him, Bongo Barry Bernstein was a beautifully energetic spirit who engaged a generation of kids throughout the Midwest with his joyful, positive music and pounding rhythms. He was a solid pillar of the Kansas City family music scene for years and an integral part of the success of Jiggle Jam.

Barry unexpectedly left his earthly body last August to take on his next spiritual assignment. And there doesn’t seem to be any physiological evidence about why or how that happened. He just slipped out of this life and into the next in the same sprightly way he lived in this world.

When Bongo Barry asked a crowd of a thousand people at the first Jiggle Jam to start chanting the phrases "Charlie Parker plays jazz" and "Really great barbeque", I thought he was nuts. And he was nuts. That's why I loved him.

He was nuts about music. Nuts about people. And nuts about life. Bongo Barry could get anyone to sing or dance. He had the talent and the passion and, most important, the genuine love for his fellow humans.

He was a truly loving soul who included everyone in whatever he did. He was the only performer I know who would bring enough instruments to a show so everyone in the audience could participate. He had dozens of tubs loaded with oodles of drums, egg shakers, and film canisters full of beans.

And here's a classic example of the whimsy and love he sprinkled on our world: His last tour took him to western Kansas for some library gigs. Along the way he stopped at highway rest areas and left behind colorful plastic percussion egg shakers with his name and website printed on them. This was no marketing ploy. It was another example of Barry sharing the gift of rhythm with the world. And that's what he did best – share. He gave and gave and gave of himself, always, including his sweat. He perspired more than anyone I've ever met. After every show, he was soaked to the bone. I'll miss those sweaty hugs.
 
So, to honor Barry and celebrate his life, we are dedicating the workshop stage at Jiggle Jam in his memory. That stage is where he spent so many hours laughing and singing with families, and helping kids make their own instruments. There will be a drum placed there under his portrait. Please drop by and pound on that drum in honor of Bongo Barry and send an ear-angel up into the heavens that will get stuck in his angelic noggin for the rest of eternity.

 

If someone tells you that you can’t follow your dreams, don’t believe them – not even for a second.

For much of my adult life people have been telling me, “You can’t do that!” or “That will never work.” And I’m not talking about expecting things to always “work out” or “succeed”, I’m talking about following your passions, no matter the outcome. Success is never guaranteed. But stagnation is certain if you don’t ever take a leap of faith.

My own mother thought I was crazy for writing songs when I barely knew how to play a guitar. And when I first sang “Stinky Feet” for her, she said with her sweet maternal bluntness, “That’s awful. It’ll never fly.”

Shortly after Jeni and I got married, Jeni decided to quit her job and come to work with me. People told her, “You can’t work with your husband. You’ll drive each other crazy, and your marriage won’t last.”

What they didn’t count on is that Jeni and I actually enjoy spending time with each other. And, yes, sometimes being together round the clock can get nutty – that’s when you take a break. It’s not always a picnic, but it works, and at the end of the day we still (most of the time) like each other.

When we found out Jeni was pregnant, our friends and family said, “I guess that will put an end to touring together. You can’t travel when you’re pregnant.” But there Jeni was 8½ months pregnant for a six-day run at the Dubuque County Fair, trooping along among the smells of the hog barns, funnel cakes, and tractor pulls.

“Well, surely you can’t travel when the baby comes!”

Oh, yeah? Watch us! We traveled with baby Lyda, and she learned how to adapt and ride in a car seat for long distances without a video player.

“OK, fine,” they say. “You’ve done it with one, but you’ll never manage traveling with two kids.”

Done it. And still doing it. About 17,000 miles on the road together last year. It’s crazy and exhausting sometimes, and I think it’s part of the reason I’m losing my hair at an exponential rate. Frankly, I thought it would get easier to travel with the girls as they got older, but I didn’t count on a few things. They now have opinions and preferences and they voice them – sometimes loudly. (Who told them they could think for themselves?!)

So, yes, there are tears and tantrums and frazzled nerves and unfinished meals in hotel breakfast rooms all over America, but there is also laughter and joy and new people and new experiences and wonders to behold. And the main thing is that we’re together.

We still run into friends, family, and complete strangers who insist on dispensing advice laced with “can’t” and “don’t” and “shouldn’t”. We’ve learned to smile and nod our heads and plow forward. We know it’s just their own prejudice and fear talking – fear of the unknown and fear of failure and, even, fear of success. There are some people who can’t imagine living the way we do. Fair enough, and to each his own, but I can’t imagine living any other way.

I was totally busted the other day by my nearly-three-year-old Willa while reading Amelia Bedelia.

“Daddy, you skipped a page!”

“Oops! You are such a good listener.” Grumble…grumble…

Yes, the skip was intentional, and I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. I just couldn’t stand it any more and had to get to the end of the story. Please know that one of my greatest joys as a parent is reading every morning and every night with my girls. But it’s all I can do to suffer through some of their books. I’ve resorted to hiding a few because I can’t face reading them again.

And here’s what I don’t get – I really liked Amelia Bedelia when I was a kid, and (as a word geek) I appreciate the lesson about language and the play on words, but it’s a one joke concept that drives me NUTS. (I feel the same way about my own music sometimes. As in, "What was I thinking when I wrote that?")

But Amelia is not the only one on my “hide” list. There are some Care Bear books and a book where everyone’s favorite teacher suddenly gets killed in a car wreck (totally didn’t see that coming) and several in the Curious George series.

I know that putting George on the list may sound blasphemous, but the books make me crazy. However, my beef is not with George – I love his adorable, curious nature. It’s the "Man with the Yellow Hat" who needs a good tongue-lashing from Nanny 911. You know the story. At the beginning of the books he takes George to a busy public place like a zoo, parade, toy store, beach, pizza joint, etc. He tells George to stay out of trouble and promptly disappears to God-knows-where, but then shows up at the last minute to eat the free pizza! What kind of guardian is he?

Little did I know that I would open a messy can of worms when I posted this subject on my Facebook page the other day. I received more than 20 “spirited” comments. That may not seem like much, but it’s the most I’ve ever had.

My own dear wife offered a dissertation on the “serious psychological issues going on in the Curious George story” since the Man with the Yellow Hat “took George home out of guilt after killing George's mother in the original book” and “was never prepared for the responsibility.” And the man’s lack of responsibility makes George “act out for attention.”

Wow. That’s heavy.

But then along comes my friend Jean, who is a librarian, to rain on our analytical parade. She reminds us that kids enjoy these books because they can live vicariously through George who can “explore, make new friends, be creative, sometimes be helpful, and all without adult interference.” George, she says, allows kids to explore independence from their parents.  

And Amelia teaches kids “that making assumptions about what other people are thinking is not a good idea. She also subtly points out that adults don't know everything, even though they act like they do.”

Fine. Jean’s right. I know she’s right. So, the lesson here is to just suck it up and read with enthusiasm and let my girls enjoy the stories they love.

Pssst…but really, what books do you hide?

You and I know that a clean, dry bottom makes for a happy baby. And, it makes for happy parents.

Unfortunately, not all bottoms are happy. But thanks to two very cool moms, Jill Gaikowski and Melissa Larson, the world is becoming a much happier place – one bottom at a time.

As the founders of Happybottoms.org, they collect diapers to help struggling families in the Kansas City area. Since November, they’ve collected 36,700!

“I am collecting diapers as much as I can and getting them to those who need them,” Gaikowski said. “Our goal is to coordinate diaper drives that support low-income families through community partners.”

According to their website www.happybottoms.org, disposable diapers are in high demand because:

1. Safety-net programs such as SNAP (food stamps) and WIC (women, infants, children) do NOT cover diapers.

At some point, every parent thinks their kid is an angel. Well, our five-year-old daughter Lyda just confirmed it. She told me an amazing story about how when she was an angel in heaven, she picked Jeni and me to be her parents.

Lyda went shopping one day at the heavenly Target. It was August 13th. She remembers the date because it "felt like August, and it smelled like August. And, well, it really tasted like August."

She found Jeni on the "girl" shelf and me on the "boy" shelf. She picked me first, she said, because she loves me as big as the world. And Jeni and I were kind of like statues, just "heads and shirts."

"You had on a blue shirt and mom had on a purple shirt." (Naturally – our favorite colors.)

Then Lyda went shopping for the rest of our body parts.

"I picked out your bones, and your arms, and legs, and hair, and paint to color your eyes, and some peach-colored stretchy, flopppy stuff for your skin. I even picked out your toes," she said proudly.

"How come you didn’t get me some more hair?" I interrupted.

"Well, sorry," she said, "we were kind of in a hurry and we were really hungry. It was about 5:30 and we had to get back to God’s house to get something to eat."

"What did God serve for dinner?"

"Noodles, of course. We had noodles pretty much every night."

"Did you ever get sick of eating noodles every night?"

"No! God had lots of Parmesan cheese and parsley. And we had milk, but that’s about it."

"You said 'we.' Who else was with you?" I asked.

"There were other angels with me to help me pick you out. Your dad helped me pick you out," she said. "He was the only boy helping me. But, there were about 12 girl angels who helped me pick out mom."

"My dad helped you pick me out?" I asked. "That must have been a long time ago."

"Oh yeah, it was before you and mom were babies. Because you’ve got to start as babies, you know. We took all the parts over to God’s house and he put you together. I helped him a little, maybe this much," she said, holding her thumb and index fingers about an inch apart. "And then God put you in your mommy’s tummy and he put mom in her mommy’s tummy. And then I helped God get you and mom together, but that took a long time."

A long time, indeed, but it seems like we’ve always been together. Now I know why it "seems" that way, because we have been together -- always.

I must say I am comforted knowing that someone as wise and loving as Lyda helped piece me together and helped Jeni and me find each other. How cool that she picked us! No need to worry about anything, because it's all part of the master plan.

Check out more essays from Jim Cosgrove at www.mrstinkyfeet.blogspot.com.

Big sisters can be downright menacing sometimes. And every year about this time I’m reminded of that. The anticipation of baseball season takes me back to my childhood and my brief inglorious baseball career. And I remember an incident perpetrated by big sisters that devastated one of my teammates -- a kid named Jeff.

In the summer of 1978 Jeff and I played for the Southwest Optimists in Kansas City's 3&2 League. Our team was awful, but it didn’t matter. We felt invincibly cool in our polyester uniforms, stirrup socks, and metal cleats.

Jeff, like me, had enough siblings for his own baseball team, including a gaggle of sisters. The two of us would commiserate about how our older sisters loved to humiliate us – dressing us up in embarrassing outfits and pinning us down and dangling their long greasy hair in our faces until we nearly puked.

But the sister-load of humiliation came one summer evening, as our team was losing another game. Jeff was crouched down at shortstop and, as usual, I was riding the bench in the dugout. The opposing batter hit a bouncer to the second baseman. Jeff moved in to cover the bag and take a throw for a potential double-play. The runner barreling in from first lowered his hip to slide and thrust his legs into the air wielding the metal cleats on the bottom of his shoes. Jeff stood his ground, but, in a flash, he was leveled and left squirming in the dirt.

They call it “getting spiked”, and it’s never pretty. Those metal cleats tore through Jeff’s socks and deep into the skin on his shin, leaving a handsome, bloody gash. Our dugout erupted in fury as our coach ran onto the field and helped Jeff back into our dugout.

We gathered around him as he lay writhing on the bench. Our coach pulled up Jeff’s pant leg and slowly lowered his sock to expose the wound. Jeff objected, saying he was OK. Then the coach tried to remove Jeff’s shoe and Jeff protested even louder, “I’m fine, really!”

Our coach persisted in exposing the wound, and as he slowly tugged on Jeff’s sock to remove it, Jeff sat up and screamed, “No!!” But as the sock came off, he collapsed back onto the bench in thorough defeat with an arm covering his face.

And then with a collective gasp of sheer horror, we all gawked at the real source of Jeff’s protest. There, as if to match the blood dripping down his leg, at the end of his toes were five beautifully painted scarlet nails.

Those of us with big sisters felt our stomachs bottom out and blood rush to our faces as our hearts ached in empathy for our fallen brother Jeff. We turned away to avoid eye contact and to spare him further humiliation. I knew as well as the others that it could have easily been me sitting there with my painted nails exposed to the world.

Understanding the gravity of the situation, our coach slowly lowered Jeff’s leg onto the bench and gently draped his sock over his toes, as an ambulance driver shrouds a dead body with a sheet. Everyone slowly shuffled back to their places and left Jeff to quietly wish he could dissolve into the wood.

I have no memory of anything that followed, as I’m sure I was in a daze from repeating to myself, “Thank God it wasn’t me. Thank God it wasn’t me…”

So, now as a father with two girls who have no little brother to humiliate, I understand that they need someone to dress up, someone to polish, and to paint. Who better than me? I really don’t mind. My sisters prepared me for this.

Check out other essays by Jim Cosgrove at http://www.mrstinkyfeet.blogspot.com/.

Estrogen has been swirling around me all of my life. I have four sisters. I am still very close to my mother. And I once was the lone male writer for a woman’s magazine. One of the many things these women have taught me is to empathize with the everyday challenge most of them have with self image. Now I am blessed with two young daughters who will eventually go through it, and a wonderful wife who faces this everyday. There are many cultural factors that contribute, including the media and even our beloved sitcom moms – super moms like Carol Brady.

The Brady Bunch totally rules at our house. We’ve got the complete 114-episode DVD box set is constant rotation. We’ve got two lunch boxes, action figures, plush dolls, and the 500 piece puzzle (still partially finished).

It all started with some YouTube clips of the Brady kids singing. Innocent enough. Then, it turns out that my wife Jeni has the Brady Bunch album from when she was a kid. Ever since the first spin, Lyda and Willa have been dancing and singing along to hits like Sunshine Day and Time to Change.

Gradually this cute passing fancy has turned into a cute obsession. Lyda dressed as Cindy for Halloween last year. She thinks Bobby is the funniest kid ever and Peter is sooooo cute. And she claims the Bradys as her favorite singing group. I knew we were on a slippery slope when Lyda asked, "When do I get to meet the Brady Bunch?" This is not an unreasonable request coming from a girl who has met many of her musical heroes and has hung out backstage with some of them.

But there's something our Brady-centric household didn’t expect. Out of nowhere Lyda said to Jeni, "Mom, let's go shopping for some clothes and you can buy some skirts." Fair enough. So they go shopping and Jeni tries on a skirt and Lyda says to her, "It looks great! Can you wear that when you pick me up from school?"

By this point, Jeni was starting to get a complex that she wasn’t living up to the standard of the other moms. But what can we expect from a kid whose parents work from home in sweat pants and t-shirts, and sometimes pajamas?

So, then comes the kicker. As I'm tucking Lyda into bed one night she said, "Dad, when I grow up to be a mom, I'm going to wear skirts and dresses and lots of cool jewelry and high heel shoes."

"Around the house?" I ask.

"Well, mostly when I go out, but, yes, around the house. I'm going to have lots of clothes and lots of shoes just like..." you guessed it... "Carol Brady."

Poor Jeni. One-upped by the queen of mod moms. How can women compete with that Carol Brady wit, Carol Brady charm, and Carol Brady sense of fashion? As if the bar isn't set high enough already.

So, do you think we should introduce our girls to fellow TV super-moms Jane Jetson, Shirley Partridge, Clair Huxtable, and June Cleaver? Or should we just contain the damage and stop at Carol Brady?

(You can check out other Mr. Stinky Feet blog posts at http://www.mrstinkyfeet.blogspot.com/.)

Kids are loaded with questions. And they're willing to ask things that adults are too polite (or too boring) to ask. That's one of the reasons I think kids are so cool. I envy their insatiable thirst for being nosy and the naive charm that allows them to get away with it.

When I visit elementary schools around the country, I always look forward to the barrage of questions from curious little minds.

Is that your real name? Do your feet really stink? Why don't you just take a bath? Wanna smell my feet? Eeewwww...do you really have bugs in your basement? Are you telling the truth about that dinosaur dancing in his underwear? Have you met the president? Are you Miranda Cosgrove's dad? Are you famous?

Most of the time I just smile and nod vigorously like a bobble-head. But there is one question that gives me pause every time I hear it – Are you rich?

Many kids assume that since I carry a guitar and have my name on some CDs that I must be rich. And anybody who has been interviewed on TV by a local weather personality has got to be famous.

"It depends on your definition of 'rich'," I tell them. "By my standards, I am very rich."

I do what I love, and I love what I do. I get up with my girls every morning and read them stories and cook them breakfast. I sometimes get to nap with them after lunch. I play for a living. I get to travel around this great country and sing with kids. I've got food in my belly and a roof over my head. My family is happy and healthy. I own an automobile that works most of the time. I pay taxes, and I had a dental appointment this year.

That may not sound very rich to some people, but it feels pretty well-off to me.

(Here's an ironic aside... A financial planner had been hounding me for months to become his client. I finally agreed to meet with him, and once he found out how little I make, he hasn't called me back! Now, that's rich.)

If I'm ever feeling stressed about money and or some perceived "lack", I just plug my seemingly meager salary into a “world wealth calculator” (check one out at http://www.leastof.org/createyourown). I’m instantly reminded that I'm living like a king compared to most people on this planet. Check it out and you’ll be amazed to find that most of us in the U.S. are among the richest 10 percent in the world, and 25-50 times wealthier than a billion people.

Humbling indeed. Blessed indeed. I am living the dream.