When it comes to talking to my 16-year-old daughter about sex, I must admit that I usually leave that to her mother. The other day, I brought up the topic with my daughter. Indeed, one of us did freak out. It wasn’t me.
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My daughter, as I have shared with Blogenberg readers in the past, is movie star beautiful. Some times I think it’s a bit unfair. No matter what she accomplishes — academically, in sports, at her job — it’s often met with a bit of “ho hum.” As if the message is, “you’re gorgeous, so of course you succeed, whether you try or not.” It’s not fair, but I think it’s reality. Of course, all of us would prefer to be blessed with amazing good looks than not.
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Today is Saturday. This morning I took my 16-year-old twins to SAT prep. Then I picked them up. Then I dropped them places. Then I came home to find that my dog had gotten into a bottle of medicine. Then I took her to the vet so they could induce vomiting. Then I came home. Then I went and picked up my 16-year-old son. Then I dropped my 16-year-old son and his friends off at another friend’s house. Then I came home and worked until 11:30 at night. Then I reflected on what a wild life I have at 51-years-old.
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Still sorry about the coding error above. Word Press doesn’t seem to be in any rush to fix it.

My wife and I have decided that the holiday season, Christmas to New Year’s day, has become much too complicated, much too stressful. We have made a decision to simplify everything we do — less shopping, less presents, less driving, less cooking. Now we have a year to effectively communicate to our clearly identified, carefully segmented target audiences.

We have determined a clear and simple message: “The holiday season is, for us, a time to enjoy each other and our family, and reflect on an important religious event.”

We are committed to message discipline.

We are committed to delivering this message in a consistent fashion throughout the year.

We are committed to engaging third-party ambassadors who can reinforce and echo our message — relatives and close friends of similar mindset.

And we are committed to enacting our program, no matter who may suggest I am Scrooge.

Happy 2011 messaging.

My 16-year-old daughter is driving my pick-up truck. I am in the passenger’s seat, her twin brother in back. We pull up to a traffic light. A worn looking man is standing on the median. “Homeless. Hungry. Please help,” read his cardboard sign.

I give to these guys (and women), when I can. I don’t know who they are, or what they do with the money. I figure that’s between them and God.

At the traffic light today, I go to my back pocket for my wallet, and ask my daughter to roll down her window. “I’ve got it,” she says, reaching in the back seat for her purse. She has a job and works hard for her money. She gave the guy five bucks.

I got tears in my eyes.

I have irrefutable proof that me and my family are not snobs: we are legitimately excited that a brand spanking new 7-11 has opened up around the corner from our home.

The National Football League has some beautiful new commercials for it’s Play 60 campaign to motivate children to get out and play, to be active for at least 60 minutes a day.

But every time I see this spot on television, it saddens me. Our culture has slipped to the point where we need a high-priced public education campaign to try to get children to go out and play.

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My 16-year-old son has just accepted a scholarship to play college lacrosse. InsideLacrosse.com did a very cool report about it. But one kid posted a comment: “He’s really not good at all.” My son could care less. But it ticked me off. It’s weird to see your son so viciously attacked online (just kidding about the vicious part) — but it is weird, and it bothered me. Fortunately, other kids posted comments like, “He is very good,” and “He tears it up.”

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I yelled at my two teens this morning for being slow getting ready for school, holding me up from getting to a meeting. My dog got very upset. First, she walked over and stood behind my wife, her tail drooping, rubbing up against my wife’s legs for “safety.” Then, she walked over to me and got up on her hindquarters, her paws up in the air, until I leaned down and hugged her. My dog gets very stressed when one of her peeps is upset.

For nearly two weeks, Blogenberg has been a single dad, as my wife has been out of the country. Tonight, the gloom lifts, my wife returns, and, hopefully, the fog of exhaustion that has enveloped Blogenberg will lift.

Some snippets from the last two weeks:

My 16-year-old son opens our refrigerator and, after staring into it for several long moments, says, “Man, it’s like we’re homeless.”

Again, my 16-year-old son, responding to a directive I gave him says, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my entire life!” (Wow, he has no idea how much more ridiculous life will get.)

My 16-year-old daughter: “Why can’t I get a nose ring? Me and [name of best friend] want to do it together.”

Plus, I’ve been sleeping with laundry. Every time I do laundry I’ve just piled it on our bed waiting for somebody to fold it. Alas, clearly nobody in the house other than my wife knows how to fold laundry.

Thank goodness the long gloom of single fatherhood dissipates tonight.

My wife is once again going out of the country, leaving me to take care of myself, two teenagers, and a dog. Pray for us.

I’ve noticed that my teens have been hoarding food, hiding it in their closets, as experience has shown them that I’m not much of a cook.

(What’s the big deal about living off Chipotle and Five Guys Burgers?)

I am a bit worried about the grilled salmon my son has hidden inside one of the many, many basketball shoes he owns.

And clearly my wife has little faith in my ability to maintain the household. She has already scheduled the cleaning woman to come in the first day she is back home.

First of all, Blogenberg apologizes to the legions of Blogenberg regulars out there. I have been doing a poor job of posting. Don’t worry, things are going well. But I’ve just been so worn out that writing has not come easy.
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I’ve posted before about fathers who are too involved in their children’s sports, how I understand the temptation, and how I work hard to remember it’s not me on the field. My 16-year-old son is now being recruited by colleges to play lacrosse, which means visits to schools and meetings with coaches. It’s never been clearer to me why it’s so important for the parents of a student-athlete, at any level, to be quiet and stay out of the way.

Whenever a coach gives us a campus tour, like today, as we visited a major northeast university, I walk a step behind and let my son interact with the coach. Whenever we meet with the head coach in his office, I make sure my son does most of the talking, with me playing second fiddle.

Lacrosse is America’s fastest growing sport. As a result, there’s a lot more talented players than there are spots on Divsion 1 college teams. Invariably, we hear that a coach is considering two, three, or four high school players for the position my son plays, which is goalie, and that’s it’s really intangibles that will lead the coaching staff to decide which player to offer a spot to. The coach today noted that one of those intangibles is the parents, that he’s not interested in a player who brings overbearing parents or parents who scream at refs during games. He noted that when he goes to tournaments to watch players, he’s also keeping an eye on parents. Of course, I immediately told this coach that I am a saint.

In Washington, DC, at least, the stupidest example of media buying I’ve come across is currently airing on sports talk radio. It’s a spot for a bakery. It’s targeted at men. The gist of the spot is that, you, Mr.-about-to-get-married, can save money on your wedding cake at our bakery. Huh? Has any man ever, in the history of weddings, had any say — any say, no less the deciding voice — in what bakery provides the wedding cake?

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I had lunch with my boss the other day. That’s right, my boss. It’s interesting — a number of people are hesitant to state that I have a boss, now that I have merged my small shop into a much larger, more established firm. Some folks have referred to Richard, who is my new boss, as my “partner” or “colleague.” No, he’s my boss. I’m very comfortable with the concept, even after being on my own for 16 years. Maybe if he were a putz, I might be uncomfortable, but if he were a putz I wouldn’t have joined his firm.

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I’ve shared previously that my 16-year-old son is a very good lacrosse player. He’s a junior in high school. College recruiting season has started, and he’s being recruited by a number of Division 1 schools. He’s excited. He’s having fun visiting campuses, meeting coaches, staying in dorms, etc. And, very important to me, he’s humble about it — not bragging to friends, classmates, and teammates. He’s also somewhat overwhelmed by it all. Imagine being 16, every night conversing with at least one college coach via email, scheduling campus visits, etc. He wants it to wrap up, so he can decide where he’s going to go to school and where he’s going to play. I just keep telling him that, yes, it is overwhelming, but be sure to enjoy it, let it play out, to take your time and have fun. I remind him that, of the thousands of high school lacrosse players in the U.S., how many of them wish they were in his shoes.

I want this time to be something he remembers fondly, so that, when he’s old like me, then he can brag to his friends!
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What I may be most proud of though, is the fact that his twin sister and his older brother are his biggest fans, proud that he’s being recruited, and interested in regular updates. My wife and I must have done something right to have three children who really pull for each other.

Apparently, my wife figured this out quite some time ago. Me, I just discovered that 16-year-old teens aren’t always lying or covering up when they don’t tell you the full story. Instead, they are talking in code. The problem is, nobody gives parents the code book.

Indeed, being a parent of a teenager is like being a British anti-espionage agent in the first years of World War II. We know the enemy’s code. We’ve got the Ultra intercept. But we only have the code partially decrypted.

My daughter told me, “I’m going to Becky’s after school Friday.”

I simply responded, “Okay.”

Apparently what she was telling me is that I’m going to Becky’s and I’m spending the night and I’ll call you on Saturday when I want to be picked up.

When I learned the full meaning late Friday evening, I thought I was being manipulated. No, my wife pointed out, I just didn’t check the code book.

What code book?!?!