2 things I've learned in the last couple of weeks

OK.... being a dad has a learning curve... I'm constantly evolving and learning as I go. Here's what I've learned recently:

• While prancing around in your boxers with wedgie might sound like a good idea -- it's not. Please... let me explain. I'm goofing around with Reagan and Luke the other day and, for some reason, they want to play Superman and Wonder woman (or whatever Superhero they were trying to be) in their underwear. Well, it was almost bedtime... "so... sure. No problem kids... play in your underwear" I say. And they are having a great time and want me to play. So... you know... I'm down. So, I'm prancing (and I stress "prancing" ... there is positively no shame in my game when it comes to playing with the kids) around pretending I'm a Superhero and then Reagan says "I've got a wedgie" and pulls it out. OK, I know what you're thinking. Yes. She knows what a wedgie is. I blame Kelly. She must have taught her. Well.. then I think it would be really funny to say "Daddy's got a wedgie" and then run around and be goofy and..well.. you know... the kids will think I'm the greatest Dad ever. Unfortunately, things don't always go as planned and/or envisioned. So I hike my boxers up and run around saying "Daddy's got a wedgie! Daddy's got a wedgie!" Well, this sends Reagan into super hyper orbit. She goes crazy! I mean... she was JACKED up. She says "I'll fix it Daddy!" and comes running at me. And I'm not joking. She makes a b-line for me (w/hands extended) likes she's been shot out of a cannon. Before I have time to react, she plows right into me at full speed. Which would have been fine. Only she's about waist high to me. So, regrettably, my man grapes take the blunt of the force. I drop to floor like a sack of potatoes and let out a high pitched "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Reagan just laughs uncontrollably as I lay on the floor... in my boxers... with my self-inflicted wedgie. So, moral of the story.... running around your house with a wedgie isn't all that it's cracked up to be -- no pun intended.
  
• Juvenile t-shirts are not always such a good idea: You've seen the shirts. They're fairly ubiquitous these days. Sold at Target, the Mall, online etc they have goofy sayings like "I do my own stunts" and "Ladies Man" or whatever. Well, anyway... I recently bought one of these juvenile shirts figuring I would just wear it around the house. What did my shirt say, you ask? It said "I love hot moms" -- what can I say? I thought it was funny and, well, my wife is hot...and she's a mom... so, it worked for me. I would have preferred that it say "I love my hot wife" but for $9 it was close enough. I think it's important to note that Kelly was with me when I bought this (admittedly) sophmoric shirt. And, besides... I'm thinking Kelly is the only one that'll see it...so.. you know...no harm, no foul. Well...not exactly. A couple of Saturday's ago, I'm home with the kids by myself while Kelly takes her Dad out to lunch. Everything is going great until about bed time. Disaster strikes. Reagan fell and hit her head on the coffee table and got a pretty big cut that I knew would need stitches (which, on a side note, there is nothing worse than seeing your daughter in real pain... I would have given anything to have me be the one get hurt instead of her). So, I load Reagan and Luke in the Explorer and head to the emergency room. I'm feeling like a big loser and a crappy Dad. I mean, I don't get a ton of alone time with them and then the one time Kelly does leave me alone, we're going to the emergency room. Anyway, I get her to the hospital and I fill out their little form (you know... under the auspices of finding out what's wrong and doing "triage" -- but really making sure that you have insurance and that you'll pay) and I notice the nurse giving me kind of a funny look and focusing on my shirt. I assume it's the blood that got on me as I held Reagan and that she knew I was home alone and failed miserably in my parental duties. Then, it hits me. I look down and realize I'm wearing a shirt that says "I love hot moms"... uggh. So, anyway...just like when your mother tells you to always wear clean underwear in case you have an accident and you have to go to the emergency room... I have created a new axiom -- let's call it "the distributive property of adulthood" which dictates that you not wear juvenile t-shirts because you never know when you're going to have to take your child to the emergency room.

So... that's what I've learned recently. I think I'll send these in to Dr. Dobson so that he can include them in his next book. To my knowledge, he hasn't touched on these subjects yet.