My mother says I used to be funny, used to write entertaining little musings that she enjoyed reading about her grandkids. But, according to her, I don’t do “funny” anymore. I thought about what she said and read through my recent columns and blog entries. While there is a grain of truth in her comments -- I don’t write as much about the nitty-gritty of my family life as I used to when my twins were toddlers and I also had a newborn -- I’d argue the point that I’ve lost “the funny.”

 

Thoughs and feedbacks from our readers.

 

Our son will be dressed in shorts and a short sleeve shirt. I’m pretty sure the shirt will be sans any Superhero images. He’ll have a backpack, which will also contain his lunch box. I will have packed his favorite lunch and added some snacks so he won’t get hungry and I’ll include a hand-written note that reads “Have a fun first day of kindergarten. Can’t wait to hear all about it. Love, Mom.”

 

I was trying to channel one of the greatest humor columnists on the planet, Dave Barry. When my 9-year-old twins were mere tots, I wrote a column mocking pediatric safety mania that had managed to cloud the minds of well meaning parents, making them fearful that around every corner of their home, danger lurked for small children if the adults didn’t implement each single safety recommendation to ward against any possible mishap, no matter how remote.
 

As a columnist who’s both male and a father, I get a lot of e-mails early in the summer from people trying to publicize their fatherly items and services, which, unlike the e-mails I get around Mother’s Day, almost never involve spas. (Why doesn’t anybody think Dad might like a good seaweed wrap?) They tend to feature things like mowing and grilling, which American men are required to master before they’re allowed to procreate. That’s in the Constitution somewhere.

 Here I am at mid-forty, feeling more comfortable about myself at a time when I should be uncomfortable. A daily trip to the mirror is proof of that. But for some reason, I don’t care. Okay, I care. But not in that obsessive way I used to—in that self-conscious, self-doubting, I am still a thirteen-year-old, kind of way.

 

 

By Peter Chianca
My earliest dance recital memories involve the time I was in elementary school and went to see one that featured my sister and about a dozen other 4-year-olds in royal blue tutus, standing in a line and … well, I’m not sure you could call it dancing, but they were certainly moving. This lasted for about three minutes, after which we watched as the rest of the show dragged on until sometime in the next decade; I may be wrong, but I think I might have hit puberty before it ended.

 

By Heather Kempskie
I'm no Dad. You guys possess a certain quality that eludes most women. I'd say most Dads enjoy the bathroom humor that accompanies the potty training years, I'd also dare to say that take pride in finding new ways to flip, swing and toss a child during Daddy playtime. But I'm really talking about the more meaty stuff that makes co-parents - us moms - realize the importance of Dad.

 

 By Meredith O’Brien
She was larger than life, literally filling the giant screen in the packed movie theater brimming with youthful energy and cheap 3-D glasses. Her flowing hair was expertly styled. Her glittery make-up was done just so. Her clothing, while not overtly sexy, had a playful, perky pep. Her on-screen buoyancy was contagious, as evidenced by the shrieking response it elicited from the audience.

 

By Peter Chianca
I should start off by saying that both my wife and I enjoy reading to our kids. We have different tastes, so we tend to split up the reading duties; for instance, she is reading my daughter the entire “Chronicles of Narnia” series by C.S. Lewis, while I tend to show my son old comic books in order to point out which character is the Hulk (the green one).

Fortunately for him, Tim doesn’t have much interest in comic books. Unfortunately for me, though, we went through a protracted period where the only story he was interested in hearing was “The Three Little Pigs.” After 30 or 40 nights of this I found myself wondering why he couldn’t just fall asleep while watching violent cartoons like every other kid in the world.

Picket Fence Post

 By Meredith O’Brien

Years ago, when my twins were toddlers, I longed for grown-up time. I spent so much of my days discussing the plot nuances of “Blue’s Clues” that I craved time with fellow moms without my kids in tow, so I could feel like an adult, at least for a little while.

In an attempt to resurrect my social life, I joined my local Mothers of Twins Club, which provided me the escape I needed. Despite the scheduling acrobatics I performed to make the monthly meetings and the chaos that preceded my departure, once I got there, I’d marvel at my ability to carry on an uninterrupted conversation for more than two minutes. I made friends with several of the moms and started joining them for post-meeting drinks where we’d muse on topics other than potty training, like politics or our favorite TV shows. I felt positively cosmopolitan.

By Meredith O'Brien
Someone's got to speak up for our boys. They are getting the short shrift. American parents - moms, mostly- are ignoring the basic aesthetic needs of their sons while pouring time and money into their daughters. As the mother of two sons, I feel it's my job to advocate for the boy species.

But first, let me back up a bit and explain myself.

 

By Jodi Sampson
It was a small lump, nothing to be concerned about I told myself. Besides I had already done the "cancer thing" with my son. Michael was diagnosed with a brain tumor at 21 months, and given 6 months to live. He is now a happy and healthy 10 year. It was clearly someone else's turn.

My routine mammogram went as planned. The small lump, I was told, was nothing. It wasn't until I had come home from a friend's funeral, which had died from breast cancer, that I got "the phone call." They would like me to go in for a biopsy, but not for the lump issue. Something on the other breast looked "suspicious." I immediately thought they were wasting my time. I could not have the big "C."

By Peter Chianca
Regular readers of this column (my parents, shut-ins, etc.) might recall how my typical summer family vacation involves a trip to New Hampshire's Storyland, a theme park whose mascot is a fiberglass Humpty Dumpty that looks like it might have been forcibly removed from the top of a Midwestern waffle house. Their entire lives, my kids Tim and Jackie (now 5 and 8), have thought this was the pinnacle of family fun - at least until last month, when we took them to Disney World. We did this because we decided that, as parents, we were just not broke enough.

Ages & Stages.
By Elizabeth Esse Kahrs

I have one of those sports watches—you know the type—black, plastic and waterproof with a Velcro strap and an Indiglo light. I wear the watch when I’m out for a run and I also wear it to bed so that when I wake up in the middle of the night with my mind reeling around obsessive thoughts, I can time that, too. In truth, only when I dress up (replace my baggy jeans for the snugger ones, slap on some mascara and put on some earrings) do I remove this watch and replace it with it’s more decorative cousin—the metal one.