Fatherhood Friday! On The Peanut's favorite movie - Coraline.

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. - G.K. Chesterton

The Peanut has a new favorite movie. UP has been her reigning favorite for months now (like her daddy the girl is all about Pixar...in fact, she helped me compose this list) but it has been supplanted by a movie that is based on a book I have loved since the first time I read it many years ago. The film adaptation is not perfect (what film adaptation truly is?) but it is an excellent movie and I am thrilled that she has chosen it as her new favorite.

Coraline, a stop-motion animated film directed by Henry Sellick (The Nightmare Before Christmas), is based on the book of the same name, written by Neil Gaiman (The Chesterton quote at the beginning of this post is actually the epigraph for the novel Coraline. It was the hook that drew me to the book as I am a huge admirer of G.K. Chesterton. I was sad that the quote was left out of the film). Neil is a writer of astounding uniqueness. He is the 2009 winner of the Newbery Medal for The Graveyard Book. I have read Coraline aloud to my fifth graders for years now and this past year added The Graveyard Book to our read-aloud list. The kids loved both stories, eagerly anticipating the next day's reading. Many bought or borrowed copies to read along with me as I read. Neil does not write only for children. He has also written several novels and many short stories for adults. His novel American Gods is an amazing book that will completely blow your mind. It is in my top ten list for the best novels of all time. If you have never read anything by Neil Gaiman you should.

Now.

Well, finish this first but then get on over to your local independent book store (if you live in Delaware, Browseabout Books is the best) and see for yourself what I am talking about.

I couldn't wait to show Coraline to The Peanut. As an already avowed fan of The Nightmare Before Christmas, I knew she would not be spooked by it. It does have some admittedly creepy parts but I wasn't worried. So last Tuesday night we popped some popcorn, turned off the lights, fired up the big screen, and sat back to enjoy. The Peanut has watched the movie once a day since that night. She has shown it to her auntie and her uncles. She talks about it to whomever will listen. She has called her grandparents to tell them about it. She loves the character Coraline, in fact she wants to be Coraline for Halloween, something that makes me very, very happy.

For the unfamiliar, Coraline Jones is a 12 year old girl who moves into a huge Victorian house that has been chopped up and divided into several apartments. She has no brothers or sisters and since she has just moved, has no one to talk to or play with. Her mother and father are both writers and are seemingly more concerned with their daily work than spending time with Coraline. They repeatedly tell her to leave them alone, find something to do and let them work. The only people Coraline has to talk to are two retired, dotty actresses (Misses Spink and Forcible) who occupy the basement apartment of the house, and a strange and possibly insane Russian man (Mr. Bobinski) who lives in the attic apartment of the house and claims to talk to mice. The film introduces a boy named Wybie who is about Coraline's age (he is not in the novel) who is also very peculiar. Coraline also encounters a black cat, who in the film version, hangs around with Wybie. In the book, the cat is aloof and alone, very cat like behavior for sure.

Without any real options for interaction Coraline sets off to investigate the old house and finds a strange door. This door ends up leading to a world that is a mirror image of Coraline's own but with some very real changes. The most noticeable is that her parents, not her actual parents but her "other" parents, have black buttons sewn into where their eyes should be. They are as attentive and loving to Coraline as her real parents are not. Her Other Mother cooks wonderful feasts with every imaginable food a 12 year old could ever want and her Other Father sings wonderful, Coraline centered songs and tends an amazingly beautiful garden that comes to animated life for Coraline. The other parents dote all their time, energy, and attention on Coraline. It is a world that seems designed primarily for her enjoyment. All the people from Coraline's new life in the real world, the two actresses downstairs, the Russian mouse circus trainer from upstairs, and even Wybie are present in the Other World, all with black buttons sewn into their eyes, all there for one purpose - to please Coraline. The cat also makes an appearance in the Other World, but aside from Coraline he is the only creature who does not have the button eyes. And he has no love for the Other Mother.

Coraline returns to this magical world repeatedly, each time having more and more fun. When the Other Mother asks her if she would like to stay, Coraline tells her of course she would. Who wouldn't? Coraline is given whatever she wants in this world, even the toys in her room fly around her room and talk to her. It is a child's dream world come to life. The Other Mother is happy to hear that Coraline wants to stay. There is one catch. Coraline has to let the Other Mother sew black buttons onto her eyes. Then Coraline can stay - forever. Naturally, Coraline balks at this horrifying idea and at last the movies tagline, Be Careful What You Wish For, makes sense. Coraline now sees the Other Mother's world for what it really is - a trap. Coraline then sets out on a quest...but to give any further away would spoil the story for you.

There is much about the character of Coraline that as a father I hope to see my own daughter grow to exhibit in her own character.

Coraline is unique, a trait she seeks to cultivate instead of hide like I see so many kids(and adults for that matter) doing today. Everyone wants to be the SAME, same clothes, same hair, same friends, same music, etc. Coraline strikes the watcher (and more so in the book, the reader) as a young girl who is very comfortable in her own skin. She has a self confidence that says I am who I am. I love that about her.

Coraline is a very brave girl. Not only is she brave, she understands the definition of true bravery. A beautiful line of dialog from the book that illustrates this was not included in the movie. Coraline is talking with the black cat as they are walking down the tunnel and back into the Other World. She is talking about being brave in the face of what they had to do, confront the Other Mother. She tells the cat a story about a time when Coraline was much younger and she and her dad were out exploring. They had startled a wasps nest and her father took the brunt of the stings so she could get away unharmed. Later he had to go back and retrieve his glasses which had fallen off in the mad dash to get away from the wasps. Her father told her that protecting her from the wasps wasn't the truly brave thing...it was his only real option, the only thing he could do in that situation. But going back to that place later to retrieve his glasses, knowing those wasps were still there, that was the truly brave thing. Coraline tells the cat "But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. That was brave." The cat then asks why that was brave. Coraline replies, "Because, when you're scared but you still do it anyway, that's brave." That's a good reminder for all of us, myself certainly included. Bravery is not the absence of fear. It is continuing on and doing what needs to be done in the face of fear itself.

Coraline is also extremely smart. Many times throughout the course of the story she is called upon to use her wits to get her out of tough situations. Sadly the movie fails to show this trait as strongly as the book because the movie changes the end (if you really want to see how clever this character truly is, read the book). A character of lesser intelligence and quickness of wit would be is deep trouble against the Other Mother. Coraline uses all her talents to their utmost effectiveness.

Coraline is not only smart, she is also wise. On Coraline's quest to escape the web that is the Other Mother's world, a character attempts to entice Coraline to stay. The dark figure first recounts for her all that is negative about life in her real home; how she will be bored, how her real parents will pay more attention to their computer screens than to Coraline herself, how she is too smart for the people in her world, how they are so neglectful and unintelligent that they cannot even get her name right (the adults in Coralines house always call her Caroline instead of Coraline, a mistake the adults in the Other Mother's world never make). The dark figure then tells Coraline to stay away from all of that foolishness, to stay in the Other Mother's world where everything will be perfect, where every day will be better and brighter than the one before it. Coraline then strings the figure along, asking if she can have all manner of things she wants, no matter how fantastical or expensive or impossible they may be and the figure ensures her that she can have all that and even more. Coraline than stops the figure short with an exasperated sigh. "You really don't understand, do you?" she asks the figure. Here the movie slips up again by leaving out the great dialog from the book. In the book Coraline goes on to say, "I don't want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted? Just like that, and it didn't mean anything. What then?" The dark figure doesn't understand. Coraline understands at age 12 that the wish to be given everything your heart desires is a foolishly empty one. What meaning would your life have if you got everything you wanted? What would you have to dream about, to strive for? Such a lesson from a novel written for young people.

If you have not seen the movie or read the book, I encourage you to do so. Watch the movie first. As excellent as it is, the book is far superior to the film (which is always the way it is, and in my humble opinion, always should be). Coraline is an excellent role model for girls. She is an excellent model for boys as well, but so much of the literature available for young people focuses on male protagonists. It is good to have a tale where the girl is the hero. This is an excellent book (and movie) for a young girl to experience and learn from. It is storytelling at its finest, a tale that entertains, moves, scares, and ultimately teaches. What more could we want from a book or a movie for our children?

It also has many important lessons and reminders for all of us "grown-ups" as well.

The BSOD - a TRUE International Problem.

Tomorrow at approximately 3:30 PM Eastern Standard Time it will have been one week since a great tragedy occurred. The foul pestilence that has darkened my soul is not something that is uniquely mine to endure. This horrid occurrence happens to many and goes by different names in many different parts of the world.

In Germany the event is know as Der Blaue Schirm des Todes und der Geschlechtskrankheit. It is accompanied by much swearing and forced consumption of NON-ALCOHOLIC beer, the likes of which my PG rated blog will not allow me to describe. Know that not even the call of Oktoberfest can break a person from the hold of the Blaue Schrim (or the Geschlechtskrankheit for that matter).

In Italy, Lo Schermo Blu Ha Assassinato La Mia Madre Ed Ha Causato Ai Miei Bambini La Grande Vergogna as it has come to be known, affects the entire community. When it strikes, a solemn parade is formed, with the dead machine laid out in a tiny coffin. The march begins at the afflicted's household and drags its way through the streets of town to the door of the local stregone di calcolatore. The afflicted's family is required to dress in black every day they are kept apart, until they are reunited.

La Pantalla Azul Ha Dañado Mi Alma, Causada Mi Perro Para Ir Estéril, Y Causado Dios A Dar Vuelta De Mí En Vergüenza is cause for great sorrow in Spanish speaking countries. There is a direct link between the suicide rates of middle aged men and this horrible event.

The Chinese government denies that 不甚而Godzilla可能击败的蓝色屏幕 occurs but smuggled cell phone videos and You Tube footage say other wise. Truly the 蓝色屏幕 is an international scourge that needs to be addressed.

Here in America you may have experienced this traumatic event yourself. There is no support group you can attend, no 12-Step-Program-To-Recovery you can purchase. Here, as in other nations around the world, you are on your own, left to seek refuge in a world that has been violently turned upside down.

I have attempted the following penances to help gain absolution from this vile affront to simple happiness. Some have worked...others have not.

- Curl up in a fetal ball for days on end, sucking on a thumb while drooling profusely and muttering the word "blue" over and over again.

- Construct an effigy of Bill Gates from blue Play-Doh.

- Burn the effigy in the backyard, using copious amounts of gasoline if the Play-Doh will not light. An M-80 can also be used if you have access to one.

- Plead ignorance with the county fire marshal when he arrives to arrest you for breaking several ordinances.

- Prank call Bill Gates and tell him, using a Franco-Hungarian accent, that Steve Jobs is more of a man than he will ever be. Cackle manically. Then hang up.

- Head to a house of worship. When the local cleric asks of you your problem, inform him of your desire to cure the screen of blue. Ignore, as best you can, the echoes of his laughter when you try to sleep at night.

- Set off the sprinkler system in the local Apple store in the hopes that you might appease the gods of Microsoft that they might have pity upon your festering soul.

- Paint yourself an electric blue color from head to toe. Hang a sign around your neck that says VISTA. Then walk around the local mall babbling aloud that your boot record is corrupted.

- Attempt to construct a functional laptop using your daughter's Lite-Brite and a Sony Walkman. Burst into hysterical tears when this pathetic attempt fails.

- Try not to scream too loudly when you awaken at 3 in the morning for the 5th night in a row with the phantom feel of your laptop keys lovingly caressing the tips of your fingers.

- Write a pointless blog post about your problem, attempting to distract yourself with the mediocre use of humor. When your wife reads the post and doesn't think it is very funny, don't let her see how a piece of you dies inside.

If anyone else out there has other ways of dealing with The Blue Screen of Death...please...for the love of all that is bright, shiny, and NOT BLUE...help me, because as they say in Holland, "Het blauwe Scherm heeft me machteloos gemaakt en veroorzaakt mijn vrouw de naar liefde van de een andere mens en niet zelfs ABBA kan streven helpen...".




If you desire to know the English equivalent of the German, Italian, Spanish, Chinese, and Dutch phrases used in this blog post, I have included them in the comments section of the blog. Or you can plug them into Yahoo's Babel Fish and experience the joy of finding out for yourself.

Fatherhood Friday - Daylight Savings Time...With Bibles.

Click the image above to catch other fantastic Fatherhood Friday posts at Dad-Blogs!

Yesterday afternoon, as I was putting the finishing touches on what was sure to be the most inspiring, life altering, moving post in Fatherhood Friday history, a horrible tragedy occurred. My laptop burped, hiccuped, froze, gasped...then spat the dreaded BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH at me. Ordinarily I rather enjoy the color blue. But the particular shade of blue that Microsoft chose to use for the BSOD is truly frightening, a color that must be mixed and created in the bowels of hell itself, somewhere around the 8th or 9th circle most likely, where Satan does most of his creative work.

After much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth (and that was just the calls to Dell Support!) I took my beloved laptop to a local wizard, with the hope that he will have her healed and once again back in my loving embrace.

Needless to say, the article for today's FF is floating somewhere in the 1st circle of hell, awaiting deliverance. Until I can make that magic happen I offer a post I wrote back in March about a conversation between myself, The Wife, and The Peanut during a morning commute.

I hope you enjoy and, if you get a chance, light a candle for my laptop.


Daylight Savings Time...With Bibles...

Making our way along the hallowed asphalt of I-95 on the 40 minute commute this morning, the wife and I were having a discussion concerning daylight savings time. Had you been a fly on the window, you would have been witness to a conversation that went something a little like this...

Wife: I am really super tired this morning. Like I ran a marathon and lost kind of tired.

Me: Hrmm. (While driving and Twittering on the phone at the same time...an activity I do not recommend)

Wife: I said I am really super tired this morning. Almost painfully so.

Me: (Putting the phone down and concentrating on the road before I mistakenly plunge the three of us into a fiery death) Why is that?

Wife: Well the clock right now says that it is 7:00, but the internal clock in my body is telling me it is really 6:00 because of the time change. So...I'm tired.

Me: (Pausing to digest the comment) That's crazy.

Wife: No it's not actually. It takes the body several days to adjust to the change of time when daylight savings time occurs. It's true, I saw it on Oprah once.

The phone beeps. I pick it up, new Tweets coming in. Swerve to miss car in front of me that was driving too slow. Heart rate increases. Resist urge to toss an offensive finger gesture to little old lady driving the Pinto I almost rear ended. Put phone back down, resolving not to pick it up again while behind the wheel.

Me: (slightly out of breath from my racing heart) That's silly. The clock said 10:00 when you fell asleep (You read correctly...10:00...I know, right?) and 5:30 when you woke up...as always.

Wife: Yeah but that was really going to sleep at 9:00 and getting up at 4:30.

Me: (Pausing once again while I try to get my head around this logic) But...it's still the same amount of time.

Wife: No...its not...its an hour earlier.

Me: But...its still the same amount of time.

At this point The Peanut, sitting in the booster seat in the back, breaks out in a rousing chorus of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. I can't make this stuff up. Not sure if it borders on broadening my daughter's horizons or bad parenting that she likes the Beatles...but it is the truth.

Me: Sweety, please sing a song that is not about mind altering drugs...we will be at preschool soon.

(REALLY don't want that call)

The Peanut ignores me and continues her Beatles tribute. I guess there are worse things...

Wife: It is not the same because my body -- Peanut, sweetheart...it's diamonds, not bibles -- because my body is used to the time the way it was, not the way it is now.

Me: (At this point feeling like I have taken LSD myself) WHAT? Whatever time the clock tells you, that is what time it IS. I went to sleep at 12:18...got up at 6:05...that six hours felt like the six hours all the weeks before it. I don't understand this metaphysical trickery you are talking about.

Peanut: Mommy...why does Lucy like diamonds? Are they like the diamonds you have on your ring?

Wife: Yes sweety...Lucy just likes expensive jewelry. Honey, I really think more people would agree with me on this than they would with you.

Me: No way. Maybe it is a male/female thing. Most guys I know don't walk around whining about their "internal clocks" being messed up because of daylight savings time.

Wife: That's because most men aren't smart enough to bother to read their internal clocks. Trust me...all normal people struggle with this when the time changes.

Peanut: Lucy in the sky with bibles...Lucy in the sky with bibles...

As you can see, our morning commutes are quite interesting.

I would like to pose our morning's debate question to my 6 blog readers out there. Which side of the fence do you live on?

Are you in my camp where the clock says what it says and you don't need to rely on tricky, mind/time bending excuses for why your body feels off?

Or are you in my wife's camp, where your "internal clock" takes days or weeks to reset because it is now confused. (No wonder women can't program VCRs)

If you feel so inclined...drop me your opinion (along with any other comments or backyard BBQ recipes) in the comments section here.

And, if you feel further inclined, subscribe to the feed here at the Hideaway. I LOVE my 6 readers...but there is always room for more!

Whose Grill Cover Have Your Tongs Been Under?

Cooking on another man's grill is like sleeping with his wife.

Strange thought? Allow me to explain.

We are in scenic Leesburg, Virginia as I write this, spending the weekend with great friends and their young son, one of The Peanut's three boyfriends. More on that preschool love triangle at another time.

Earlier tonight our lovely hostess was preparing a vat of guacamole for a delectable snack before dinner. She was using an extremely sharp knife to cut the avocados in half so she could remove their large pits. As she worked the kids were in the other room playing with Go Diego, Go dominoes. The Peanut suddenly (and loudly) experienced a moment of selfishness and needed some time alone. I escorted her upstairs where we had a rudimentary review on the concept of sharing. The conversation could not have lasted longer then a few minutes. When we had finished our little review ("But daddy, sometimes kids just don't want to share, that's how we are!") we went back downstairs to find our hostess on the floor clutching her left hand, wrapped in a towel, to her chest. Her skin was pale and her expression pained. Being the Sherlock Holmesean genius that I am I took in these facts, put them together with the knife and half cut avocado that sat discarded on the marbled counter top, and deduced that something very bad had happened while I as away.

Moments later our host whisked our hostess away to the ER to have her laceration evaluated. This left The Wife, The Peanut, The Peanut's Friend, and myself. Our hostess had already prepared the food for dinner before attempting finger removal surgery on herself, so all that was left for me to do was to cook it.

I wheeled the grill out of the garage and set up shop in the driveway. I went into my Pregrill-Start-Up procedure, a list I have honed over many years of trial and error. As I made my way through the list, preparing my host's grill for a symphony of outdoor cooking, a strange feeling began to overcome me. I felt weird, as if God himself were looking down upon me in sadness at a transgression I was making, however unintentional it might be. It took me several minutes to figure out what it was. Not until I had slapped the first naked hamburger patties on the grill did it hit me.

This wasn't my grill I was cooking on. This was another man's grill. The basic set up was the same, but in many ways his grill differs from mine. I suddenly felt myself cringing to adjust the dials that control the degree of the heat. I found myself stealing furtive glances over my shoulder as I cooked, as if waiting for someone to drop from the sky, pointing a finger at me in righteous anger, demanding to know why I was defiling the grill of another man when my own sat cold, lonely, and unused back in Delaware.

And that's when it hit me. Cooking on another man's grill is like sleeping with his wife. It is a shameful, forbidden act, even when you are granted permission to do the cooking. I felt soiled when I was finished, guilty. When I get home...how will I break the news to my grill? What do I say? That the Virginia grill meant nothing to me? That I thought of only my own grill the entire time?

Guys...what do you think? Is my comparison a fair one? Have you ever found yourself in a similar situation?

Girls...What do you think? Is your man as obsessive about his grill as I am or do you think I need some deep psychological help? Or maybe both...

Make a comment...please help me feel better about this unfortunate transgression.

Idiotic Parental Phrasing or "I MEAN it this time!"

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Last Friday I took The Wife and The Peanut to Dutch Wonderland for the day. For those unfamiliar, Dutch Wonderland is a great amusement park for kids and families. If you live anywhere near Lancaster, PA, I highly recommend a trip. It was a perfect day. The temperature was 80 degrees with nary a cloud to be found in the sky. The park was not overcrowded. It was one of those perfect days that seem to be experienced only in books, the kind you wish you could bottle and save to experience again and again.

About three quarters of the way into our day The Peanut decided she wanted to go on a log ride that is located at the front of the park. Naturally, she chose to have this epiphany as we were wandering around at the back. The Wife's parents and her grandmother were with us for the day and her grandmother was getting a bit walked out so I engaged my caring, yet highly intelligent Husband Brain and suggested that we take the Sky Ride across the park. This suggestion was met with much rejoicing and we hitched a ride fifty feet or so above the park.

The Sky Ride at Dutch Wonderland is a typical ride that can be found in amusement parks across the country. A white plastic seat to sit with your legs dangling above the earth while a simple bar across your lap is all that is keeping you from plummeting to a messy end on top of the heads of your fellow park-goers below. With only a small canopy above your head, it is a pretty open ride. So, after ensuring that my left arm was clasped tightly around The Peanut's shoulders to prevent her from slipping (she probably wouldn't even fit under the bar but in my father's all-things-not-directly-controlled-by-me-are-accidents-waiting-to-happen vision I was taking no chances) I looked around and enjoyed the slow, gentle ride.

The Sky Ride is set up on a continual loop so that while you are going to one end of the park, other people are passing by on their way to the other. You don't pass close enough to touch, but it is pretty close. About halfway through the ride a young mother and her two boys approached. Mom sat in the middle of the two boys who looked to be about 5 and 8. The two brothers were clearly having an intense argument and the mother was literally caught in the middle. Her patience level was as depleted as the buffet at an over eaters convention. As their Sky Cart pulled even with ours I heard her hiss at the two boys "Knock it off right now. I'M SERIOUS!"

"I'm serious."

One of my all time favorite completely ineffective parenting expressions. Why do parents use this phrase or its distant cousin, "I'm NOT KIDDING!"? Think about it for a minute. When you yell at your child (more on the total ineffectiveness of yelling in a future post) that you are "serious" or "not kidding" do you realize what you are telling them? You are telling them that all the talking you did before you threw out that wonderful phrase is null and void. Unimportant. It's OK son...you don't have to obey me unless I tell you "I'm serious" or "I'm not kidding" or, my all time favorite "I MEAN IT THIS TIME!" What? The other three times you stood there with the veins in your forehead popping out, spittle flying out of your mouth with more velocity than Bill Cowher, you were KIDDING about those?

Why do parents cut their own legs out from under themselves like that? It is the equivalent of parental suicide. It is taking a gun to your credibility and blowing a hole right through it. Parents who use these ridiculous phrases are empowering their children to grow into immature whiners who feel entitled to be given consequence-free-chance after consequence-free-chance after consequence-free-chance by the world when they mess up. I'm sorry I was speeding and almost killed all the passengers in my car, officer. Don't write me a ticket, let me have another chance. Please?

Uh-uh. It doesn't work that way in the real world. So why do some parents raise their children like it does?

What kind of children would we be raising if all parents meant what they said the FIRST time they said it?

3:10 to Yuma - A Cautionary Tale?

I watched 3:10 to Yuma last night.

3:10 is a fantastic movie. For those of you who have not seen it yet I highly recommend that you go to Blockbuster, or Netflix, or Redbox; whatever movie rental service you use and pick it up.

Yuma is the story of a struggling rancher who is being crushed under the weight of the debts he owes against his land. He sees himself as a failed soldier (he is a civil war vet), a failed husband, a failed father...basically a failed man living a failed existence. The countryside is in the grip of a prolonged drought and Dan Evans (Christian Bale), his wife and two boys are not even barely getting by. On a trip to sell some cattle and confront the men who are seeking to drive him off the land, Dan and his boys interrupt the notorious criminal Ben Wade (Russel Crowe) as he is robbing a stage coach. Later, after Dan goes into town to try to find the man he is indebted to, he sees Wade again and distracts him long enough so that he gets captured. The rest of the movie follows Dan and a band of men who are trying to get Ben Wade aboard the 3:10 train to Yuma so he can stand trial and face the hangman's noose for all the murder and theft he has had a hand in. They are pursued ruthlessly by Wade's gang, lead by his second in command Charlie Prince (masterfully played by Ben Foster).

I am not a film critic or reviewer. You may be reading this wondering what a western (even an EXCELLENT western) has to do with a post on Fatherhood Friday.

Dan's eldest son William goes against his parent's wishes and follows the men and eventually joins them in their quest to get Wade on that train. His disgust with his father is evident from the very beginning of the film. And one can hardly blame him. When we first meet Dan Evans, he has the look of a perpetually beaten dog. He is a defeated, failed man. He knows it, his sons know it. In the beginning Dan is telling his son that when he walks a mile in Dan's shoes, he will understand why Dan does the things he does. William looks right into his father's wounded eyes and coldly tells him "I ain't ever walking in your shoes." It almost seems like a challenge. 'Come on dad,' he is saying. 'Get mad. Fight for something!' Dan does nothing, simply sighs and moves on, accepting the rebuke as the truth he himself believes.

Failure is my biggest fear as a father. Hell, failure is my biggest fear in all areas of my life, not just fatherhood. It is very much a male thing. As men we feel deep inside that need, not just a desire but an almost flesh and blood need, to succeed, to be seen as competent. Because fatherhood is such a big part of who I am, failure in that arena is truly frightening.

But it really shouldn't be that way.

I know am going to have moments where I will fail as a father. I already have. I have made mistakes, I know I will make more. It is an inevitable fact of life. There is a bit of Dan Evans in me. That part of me that just wants to withdraw to a deep, dark cave when I fail. It is easier to turn from my failings than it is to confront them head on. That is what Dan did for so many years of his life. In the movie he gets to a place where he just can't take it anymore and has to risk not only his life, but also his son's life to break out of the cocoon of failure he has lived his life in. To make good on all his failures with one single act; one single, dangerous act.

I strive to never even get close to that point. We as fathers should not be afraid to fail. It is going to happen whether we like to admit it or not. And when it does happen we need to deal with it, admit to it. Whenever I fail my wife or my daughter, I should not be afraid to admit to them that I blew it. For my daughter especially, it is vitally important for her to see that with life comes failures and that when we make mistakes we need to learn from them so that when a similar situation arises we don't make the same ones. I want to teach her to think of failure as a tool instead of a disease, a tool she can use to make her a stronger person.

I don't want to spoil the movie by revealing how things turn out for and between Dan and William Evans. Watch the movie. And as a father, learn from Dan's mistakes. It's OK to let your children see you fail.

That gives you the chance to teach them how you stand.

Who Am I? or Why The Ninjas Won't Get My Daughter!

I came to a realization today.

I am one of "THOSE" parents. The kind I swore I would never be.

I made this discovery at 6:46 PM, July 5, 2009.

I was sitting on the deck of mom's place at the beach enjoying a good book. The weather, for early July, was unbelievably great. Cool, with a strong breeze that caressed the brow and carried with it the smells of the sea. I was completely immersed in the novel I was reading. Life was good, front cover illustration of a summer magazine good.

As I reclined and read, The Peanut approached. She is usually very good about waiting for me to look up at her when I have my nose in a book unless there is something she really wants. Since most times she approaches me when I am reading the reason is because there is something she really wants, the previous sentence is an outright fabrication.

She approached and launched her not-as-tiny-as-it-used-to-be body at my exposed and vulnerable lap. Bodily harm ensued. I won't dwell on the damage incurred here as this is a family friendly blog, but I will surmise that guys reading this are cringing and women reading this are smiling (would someone please answer for me why women find these types of injuries so amusing?).

When I was able to breathe again, I asked what she needed. She told me she really wanted to go to the park because, and I once again quote directly, "There are girls playing over there that are not my friends and I know they want to be my friends daddy."

Mom's place sits right next to a playground complete with a sandbox, several swings, wooden climbing structures, plastic slides, and several picnic benches. All playground accoutrements are arranged on an open piece of land, surrounded on three sides by trees. It is a great park, one that the Peanut and I have spent a lot of time at together. But lately, as in this occasion, she has been asking to go sans daddy.

The playground is clearly visible from the deck so I gave her my blessing to go forth and create as many new friendships as possible. She ran off to do just that and I settled back and resumed my reading, seeking to recapture the reverie I had been so enjoying.

And that is when it happened. As I resumed my reading I heard a noise that came from the direction of the playground. I don't know what it was, can't even remember it to describe it here, but it was a noise of unknown causation...and it had come from the direction my daughter had just departed for. I was up off of the couch in an instant, eyes searching the playground for The Peanut. I found her immediately, climbing around with two other little girls. All appeared well. No aliens or Russian spies attempting to kidnap my daughter. I sighed and returned to my spot.

After I picked the book up off the floor where it had fallen, I dusted it off and spent a minute or two finding my place. I found the last sentence I remembered reading and tried to pick up the thread. Seconds after I found it, a high pitched yell reached my ears.

I shot up off the couch like it was on fire - again; my book went flying - again. I ran to the edge of the deck, certain that The Peanut was being mauled by a 500 pound, HIV infected Rottweiler with rabies. But no. She and her two new friends were playing a game of tag on one of the wooden tree house climbing structures and they were doing what little girls tend to do when they are having fun chasing each other. Yelling and screaming, pig tails flying.

So I walked back to my couch and picked my book off the floor - again. After waiting a few minutes for my heart rate to climb back down to medically acceptable levels I returned to the same sentence. I read it and about seven or eight others that followed, trying to get back into the story. But my eyes kept leaving the printed page and gliding to the park, tracking The Peanut's red shirt.

The park is less than ten yards from the deck I was sitting on. It is fenced in on all three sides with a huge pavilion taking up the entire length of the fourth. The only human beings in the park were The Peanut and her two new friends. There were no exposed wires, dangerous animals, unfilled excavation pits, or unexploded WWII era land mines. No open flames, loaded firearms, or horribly distraught Michael Jackson impersonators (too soon?) anywhere to be found. Short of me standing right next to her, holding her hand, I am pretty sure she was as safe as she could possibly be.

Yet I could not return to my reading. Suddenly the idyllic afternoon I had been enjoying had become the possible stage for horrifying scenes of indescribable danger. I had to keep on eye on The Peanut. Peril lurked in every corner of that playground, I knew this to be true. When people walked by I smiled and pretended to be simply looking at my daughter playing with her new friends, a care free, happy smile on my face. I even kept the forgotten book open in my lap.

All the while keeping constant vigil for the midget ninjas that were going to drop out of the sky at any minute and fall upon The Peanut and her friends.

I did not breathe a sigh of relief until she was back in the house for dinner, sweaty and dirty, but by no means bleeding or bruised.

When did I become this parent?

Or worse...

Will I always BE this parent?

I survived the Great Delaware Earthquake of 2009...and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.

No really.

We had an earthquake at around 9:45 this morning. I was tutoring a kid in math, talking about ratios and percents when the 95 year old building we were in shuddered from top to bottom, like it had been struck by a very large, fast moving truck. The shuddering of the building was accompanied by a low rumble, more felt than heard.

It did not last long, two seconds maybe. We all ran into the hall to find several other people. All were very confused. One secretary started calling maintenance guys to make sure one of them had not gotten blown up in some freak explosion. They were all fine, confused, but in possession of all the fingers and toes they had brought in to work with them.

Immediately people took to Twitter. In about 20 minutes it was posted there that we had felt a 2.8 magnitude earthquake. Now, before anyone in California or any other earthquake rich region begins to laugh at me, you have to realize that Delaware is not a place where earthquakes happen frequently. The last one we had, which was less than a 2.0, was back in 2005. The earth here is usually as still and quiet as a Britney Spears concert is loud and obnoxious (that was for you Erin). SO...while this would barely even register on your radar, Californians, for me it is a fairly big deal. Let me have my little earthshaking moment.

When your day begins with an earthquake, it generally should be looking up from that point on.

Got some good writing in today...1,073 words to be exact. Wanted to keep going but sleep keeps pulling me by the ear.

Heading to the beach tomorrow for several days of overcrowded fun. I hope to get much reading, writing, and beaching in.

If the earth will stop shaking us around, we should be in good shape!