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As great of a responsibility I have, as a parent, to teach my children the lessons they will need to grow up to be non-felons, it has become apparent that an unexpected bonus of this parenting gig is how much Swee’Pea and TheMonk have taught me.

Those who know me will tell you that I’m a bit scatter-brained. I’m often thinking a few steps ahead of what is happening right now and I often lack the patience to be “in the moment.”  At the start of each work day, for example, I’m already thinking about what I have to do that day, who I have to call, what new initiative I want to spring on my unsuspecting staff, what I’ll have for lunch that day, whether the Snicker’s bar in the staff fridge will still be there that afternoon, and how will the Village People survive now that the YMCA has chosen to be known, simply, as “The Y?”

These are serious considerations and since it is my job to ensure the kids get off to preschool (which is rapidly winding down, but that’s another blog post), I am often challenged to get my day started by two five-year-olds who insist on making farting jokes instead of getting their shoes on.  Inevitably, I’m herding two little ones into a car while trying not to spill my morning cup of coffee all over my non-iron shirt that was recently sprayed liberally with wrinkle releaser.

By the time I park the car curbside at their preschool, I’m already counting the minutes wasted and how I just KNOW that the Snickers bar is a goner.  As I try and usher the kids out of the car along with lunch boxes, sweatshirts, and napping blankets, I rush towards the front door only to find Swee’Pea stopping every few seconds to pick a yellow dandelion flower which she calls, “Dandy flowers.”

“C’mon, Swee’Pea! We’re late, Honey.  Please hurry!” I implore.

She hears me but she’s not really listening to me. (Something that seems to run in the female side of our family, I’m afraid.)  Again, I beg, “Swee’Pea! Daddy needs to get to work! Please, Sweetie, hurry up!”

Swee’Pea might hurry for a brief second or two - long enough to give me hope that she’s finally decided to get in gear but, inevitably, she stops to pick yet another flower.

And as we finally get closer to the door, I might beseech one last time, and she’ll finally listen and scamper her skinny little legs over to me while I hold the door open for her.  She and her brother enter and as we put their things in their cubbies and get ready to join their friends on the playground, I bend over to give hugs and kisses.

As I receive my hugs and kisses, Swee’Pea thrusts her tiny bouquet of yellow Dandy Flowers in my face and says, “Here Daddy. I picked these for you to take to work.”  I take the flowers gently in my own hand and as I say my goodbyes and wander down the hall towards my car waiting outside, suddenly the world doesn’t seem so crazy and it slows down enough around me to allow me grasp what’s really important.  And I clutch the rapidly wilting flowers in my fingers and try and remember that before long, picking flowers for Daddy won’t be as high on her priority list.

So I stop and smell the Dandy Flowers.  I’ve never smelled something so sweet.  Even that Snicker’s bar in the fridge.

I arrive at 5:15 on a Friday afternoon. A three-day weekend looms and the preschool is decidedly empty compared to most afternoons. The remaining kids are out on the playground and I head out to greet Swee’Pea and TheMonk.

Swee’Pea sees me first and races towards me. About half-way there, however, she is distracted by a boy in her class. This boy, Jack, is also a twin but I only know him as a boy who likes to wrestle his brother to the ground and likes to sing the chorus to Queen’s We Will Rock You. As Swee’Pea passes him she throws on the breaks and heads over to give him a hug. I take note of this and, possibly, give Jack my most fatherly stank-eye practiced to-date.

As we head out to the car, I ask Swee’Pea about Jack. “Do you like playing with Jack, Swee’Pea?”

“Yes,” she replies. “I’m going to marry Jack.”

I casually reach up and push my eyeballs back into their sockets before I calmly ask, “Did you say Marry, Swee’Pea?”

“Yes.” she replies. And, then, she adds the dagger to my heart. “I’m serious, Daddy. I’m going to marry him.”

I get into the drivers seat of my car as we continue the conversation. I’m curious so I inquire why she likes this Jack so much.

“I like to play with him, Daddy.” She tells me.

I say, “That’s nice, Swee’Pea. But remember, boys who play with you have to treat you nicely. They have to be nice to you all the time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.” She dutifully replies.

And it seems she did understand. Later that evening, over dinner, I recount our conversation for Mommy’s sake. We talk about Jack and I can tell Swee’Pea is a bit embarrassed to be talking so much about this boy. But as I wind down the conversation, about to change the subject, Swee’Pea suddenly announces.

“Boys have to treat me right.”

That’s my girl.

Swee’Pea is wrong.

It is my job, as her knowledgeable father, to point out the occasional missteps that my daughter makes in hopes that she will be grateful for each and every opportunity to learn from her father.

“Swee’Pea, that’s not right.” I say.

“Yes it is.” She replies with a level of confidence that only a four-year-old can possess.

“No, Sweetie, it isn’t. ‘Cheating’ means ‘breaking the rules on purpose.’”

“No it doesn’t.” replies Swee’Pea while looking me in the eye, daring me to contradict her again.

“Sweetie, it does too. I’m sorry but you’re wrong on this one. I’m just trying to help you understand.” I say this in my best, “I’m being the patient and loving father” voice and I’m sure my words will have the desired impact. I study her face and wait for the wave of recognition that I am, indeed, correct to wash over her face and to admit my superior knowledge. It’s coming. I can see it beginning to take place. Her face is transforming into a…

*Sigh* *Eyeroll* “What…ever, Daddy.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

Lately, once I get home from work, the twins have been eager to play “Ironman.” Now, this has nothing to do with the movie Ironman. At least, I don’t think it does. All it really resembles in Swee’Pea and TheMonk playing the hero/heroine while I play the villain. This means fending off flying almost-five-year-old bodies while protecting things important to me, least of all my family jewels.

But I’m crafty. I distract with a flying pillow. I duck at the last minute, sending little bodies flying as well. I bob and weave like a skinny, Mexican, Muhammad Ali. I counter-jab with couch pillows and occasionally pick up a wiggly preschooler and body slam them onto a stack of couch cushions.

The kids gang up and attack me from different sides. TheMonk will be pinned beneath me screaming for mercy and yelling for his sister to help when Swee’Pea will announce, “Have no fear! Super Girl is here!” And before I know it, Super Girl is giving Daddy an elbow to the head.

But, until recently, I always had an ace in the hole. If I ever got into unexpected trouble I could always pull out my secret weapon. You see, I happen to be an expert tickler. My fingers are nimbler than four-year-old nose picker. I’m lightning fast with both hands. No preschooler can escape from my wiggly fingers.

TheMonk seems to have noticed this. And one thing I like about my son is that he’s a thinker. He always wants to know how things work and how he can solve problems. And tonight, he figured out how to solve the tickling problem.

“Daddy, I’m the good guy and you’re the bad guy. Let’s pretend that the bad guys don’t have tickling powers.”

Dammit. How do I argue with that?!

When you first learn you are becoming a father, certain things run through your mind. First and foremost you think, “HOLY CRAP!” But after that, many other things run through your thoroughly frenzied mind that include playing catch with your son, waiting up late for your daughter, paying for college, and having someone to bring you cold drinks on a hot summer’s day.

But there are also some things you don’t think about. For some reasons, no one thinks of the toys you step on in the dark, kids wiping boogers on your pants, Taylor Swift or screaming for no apparent reason. Unless, of course, you’re screaming because of Taylor Swift.

But there are also things you don’t think about that end up being a total bonus to being a Dad. Never in a million years do you think of these things prior to having a kid or, even, right up to the moment they occur. Instead, every once in a while fatherhood hands you something so funny and awesome that when it happens, the only thing you can do is giggle. And,of course, take a picture.

Swee’Pea showing me her “owie.”

His voice is high-pitched over the phone. As I hold my cell phone to my ear in the silence of my hotel room 2,388 miles from home, TheMonk talks to me while he makes car noises and playing with whatever car is in front of him. He is multi-tasking nicely - a skill that will certainly serve him well over the years.

But today I notice that his voice sounds different. He seems more articulate than when I left three days ago. He tells me about his day (which, apparently, wasn’t all that exciting) and I’m wondering if it is possible that he’s grown so much in verbal skills since I left. But then, without warning, he tells me, “Daddy, I miss you. Daddy, I love you.”

And my heart melts as his little four-year-old voice pierces my soul and I’m left sighing on my bed in some hotel room 2,388 miles away from where I’d rather be. And while I’m enjoying my conference and learning so much, I am painfully reminded that home is where the heart is. And right now my heart is with a little boy who misses his Daddy.

I miss you too, Monkey. I love you too.

Daddy’s coming home.

I unlock the front door after another day at work and Swee’Pea and TheMonk notice my arrival from the other room. “DAAAADDDDYYYY!!!!” they scream as they barrel towards me like out of control bowling balls. I quickly set my stuff down and get down on my knees to accept the avalanche of love I’m about to receive.

After receiving my hugs and kisses (and doling out a good amount of my own), I begin to talk to Swee’Pea and TheMonk about their day. On this day, Swee’Pea had to go to preschool on her own in the morning as TheMonk had a doctor’s appointment so he could have his stuffed-up ear looked at.

Swee’Pea tells me that TheMonk missed chapel that morning at preschool.

“He did?” I ask. “Did you like chapel?”

“Yes.” replies Swee’Pea.

“Well, what was chapel about?” I inquire.

*Sigh* “It was about Jesus, Daddy. It’s always about Jesus.”

I swear I saw her roll her eyes.

He lies quietly on his side as he pushes his tiny hot wheels along imaginary streets in a town that exists only in his head.

She sits quietly on the couch, pad of paper and some markers in her lap, creating her latest masterpiece that, no doubt, will amaze me when she rushes over to show me.

They don’t know that I’m watching them from behind the newspaper that is in my lap. It’s times like these that I can take a step back and marvel at the two not-so-little ones before me. It seems like yesterday that I held them both in my arms at the same time. And suddenly, we’re making plans for a 5th birthday party.

My mind races over the past almost-five years and it’s funny how I remember only the good. Even the bad, incredibly tiring days seem somehow more pleasant than any of those days have a right to be. I remember early morning snuggles with bottles. I remember a lot of firsts. First baths. First solid foods. First steps. First words. And first days.

I remember dancing in the mall. I remember tantrums that were so awful they are now funny. I remember endless days of Swee’Pea chasing Nutmeg the cat. And I remember the day she finally caught her. I remember when TheMonk didn’t say anything and how now we can’t get him to shut up. I remember.

And as I look at these two beautiful children, I feel a sense of pride in having had a role in creating such wonderful little beings. They are well-mannered, smart and a lot of fun to be around. I marvel that their mother and I have been able to do this one thing so very, very well.

And as I look back at the past, I also have an eye on the future knowing that time will not slow down. The next five years will go by just as fast and the five years after that and the five years after that. And when I think of how much further we have to go, one thought crosses my mind.

Don’t screw this up.

The alarm on my phone pierced the serenity of the night.  It was early.  Or it was late.  3:00 a.m. does that to your brain - all you know is the only place you should be is wrapped up under the covers with your tattered shorts and “I’m Wearing My Twitter Shirt” t-shirt.  Instead, you find yourself filling up a travel mug with a poor man’s mocha of freshly brewed coffee and hot chocolate, pulling an old beach chair out of the garage and heading to the local elementary school to register your kids for kindergarten.

I arrive at 3:45 a.m. and there is already a group of 10 or so people waiting in front of the school auditorium.  They say the early bird catches the worm, but the early parent also guarantees enrollment in the area’s only full-day kindergarten.  There are 100 spots for kindergarten in this school and those who arrive after 7:00 a.m. will be out of luck.  They will also have to wait all day in the auditorium to register as it take each parent approximately 10 minutes to register.  That’s six people per hour. It’s gonna be a long day.

But for me, it’s a long night.  I settle into my beach chair at 3:45 and sip my mocha and make small talk with the lady to my right.  She lives in my neighborhood so we chat about home values, our kids and the fact that the school district really should change the way people register for kindergarten.  This. Is. Insane.

Before long, but long after my legs have turned numb, the sky begins to lighten and, thank God, the custodian arrives to open the restrooms. After a trip to the little boys room, I’m a new man. Soon after, the doors to the auditorium open and we are escorted into the warmth of a carpeted multi-purpose room that has a stage, basketball hoops and fold out tables. Being the newbie that I am, I did not realize I should have picked up the enrollment forms ahead of time. So, I quickly grab a couple of packets and furiously scribble all the needed information in record time. I am ready when my number is called at 8:30 a.m.

But, it turns out, I’m NOT ready. The first person I speak to is the school nurse who informs me while cringing that our shot records are not up to date. These are the same shot records that we scheduled an appointment in February with our pediatrician to make sure they were up to date. And now? After almost 5 hours of waiting, I’m about to lose what little sanity I have left. I know it. The Nurse knows it. Luckily, I ask, is there anything I can do? She summons over the head admin person, explains my situation, and asks if they can hold my spot. Once we hear yes, she tells me to go get my kids and go straight to the pediatrician’s office. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200 but also, do not leave without getting those shots.

So that’s what I do. And the kids? They deserve a frickin’ award after being unceremoniously plucked from daycare and ushered over to the pediatrician where they are given FOUR shots without a single tear. In fact, Swee’Pea actually giggled the entire time - which totally confirms my suspicions that no one will EVER figure that girl out.

Two hours after I’m told our shots aren’t up to date, I arrive back in the auditorium where they are serving number 23. I proudly show them my updated records and, duly impressed by my speed and determination, I am allowed to register the kids for kindergarten. Mission accomplished.

Now, they better get straight A’s or there will be hell to pay! (What? They don’t get grades in Kindergarten? Who do I talk to about that?!)

I hear her cry out late at night. She should be sleeping as bed time was at least three hours prior. I rush to her room, like a masculine Ms. Clavelle and as I open the door I see her tear-stained face clutching her stuffed kitty as she cries.

I quickly approach and begin to stroke her sweaty, matted hair. I ask her what’s wrong, expecting her to tell me she had a bad dream. Or maybe she has to go to the bathroom. Instead, through her sobs, she exlaims, “I don’t wanna go to school!”

And there it is.

Ever since we began talking about preschool - a real preschool and not the in-home preschool/daycare they go to now, I sensed that Swee’Pea has been scared about going. She is a worrier, that little one. She turns things over in her head and thinks about it until there’s nothing left to do but cry in the night.

I comfort her with soft caresses and I whisper, “It’s okay to be a little scared, Swee’Pea. It’s normal to feel scared about trying something new. But you know what? When you try it anyway, you feel so much better.”

A few more words of comfort and some gentle goodnight kisses is enough to send her back to sleep. And the next day we talk about how we want her to talk to Mommy and Daddy whenever she’s scared because using our words to talk about what scares us makes us feel better so we don’t cry in the middle of the night.

Swee’Pea agreed to talk to us but ever since I haven’t been able to get my own words out of my mind. When you confront things that scare you, it makes everything better. And then I think of all the fearful things that reside in the pit of my stomach that keep me from reaching my full potential. And my words suddenly felt hollow.

How can I look my daughter in the eye, encourage her to confront things that scare the bejeezus out of her, and not do the same myself? I have always promised myself that not only would I never lie to my children but I will always try to be the best role model I can be. So it has to start with me.

Since it’s fairly close to the new year, I’m going to call this a resolution. I resolve to look fear in the eyes and kick it’s ass in 2010. No longer will that nervous pit in my stomach overrule what I know needs to be done. No longer will I procrastinate because the idea of doing something makes me sweat. No longer will fear hold me back and keep me from realizing all that I can be. And no longer will I feel like a hypocrite when I look into my daughter’s eyes and tell her that trying will help the fear go away.

Fear can suck it.