Follow My Son's Orders

Nothing like making my prince into a king for a week two years ago....

First, I was King for a week--best job I ever had. Then, Britney ruled my world, before I let the Pros take over for a week.

This time, I'm staying closer to home, and giving the little guy a chance.

I'm allowing my 7-year-old son Daniel to have the one thing kids all over the world want more than anything else. Total control. Lord, have mercy on me.

When I told Daniel that I had to do whatever he wanted for a week, he literally shook like a wind-up toy and giggled at the same time, his laugh building to mad-scientist-scary levels.

He was rendered virtually speechless, though the one sentence he got out he repeated over and over.

"Oh, I'm going to like this. Oh, I'm going to like this. Oh, I'm going to like this totally!"

I felt like I'd just handed Lamborghini keys to a 16-year-old. Bill Gates' business acumen to Donald Trump.

That all took place the night before Day 1. So I wondered if Daniel would remember his powers first thing the next morning.

This is a boy who forgets to wear clothes, and, when he's playing with his Legos, he'd forget to breathe if it wasn't involuntary.

Daniel, however, was not going to forget having total control over his Dad. When he awoke Monday morning, he came to the office smiling like it was Christmas.

"Dadddddd," he said coyly, "what's your silly thing this week? You can't say no to me, right?"

Did you ever wonder how you'd feel if you'd been born centuries earlier and were forced to walk the plank? I now know the feeling.

From my new perspective, sharks circling below my feet seems equally inviting.

"We might need some ground rules on this," I said weakly. "I mean, I'm still your daddy."

"Can you make me breakfast and let me eat in front of the TV?"

Okay, that's fair enough, and actually a pretty basic request for a kid. "And don't worry, I won't force you to go to Toys 'R' Us everyday and get me a toy."

Maybe not, but obviously he was thinking about doing it.

He went on to request a glass of milk and insist I call to make a playdate with his friends since they were off from school.

As the morning wore on, I realized Daniel had yet to fully grasp his true power.

We played the board game "Sorry," and after I let us tie in the first game, I was winning handily in the second game when I realized he didn't know he could control the game's outcome if he wanted. He's not a benevolent boss, he's a clueless one.

After I won, he stuck out his hand and said, "Congratulations." Suddenly, Frankenstein's monster came to life.

"Actually, I declare that I won," he said, and laughed hysterically. The scheming has begun.

He began prefacing his sentences with "I declare" and following his requests with two quick hand claps, as if to say, Chop chop now, and get to it.

"I declare you make me lunch." Clap clap. "I declare more milk." Clap clap.

I declare I'm going to be haunted by those clap-claps like Ichabod Crane heard the thundering clap-claps of the Headless Horseman behind him.

He caught me writing that last sentence. "What are you writing?" he asked.

"Just some thoughts, nothing important," I said.

"I declare," he said, "tell me what you're writing." Clap clap.

I declare I'm dumber than Gilligan for coming up with this idea.

Day 2

Daniel rat-a-tat-tatted requests at me first thing Tuesday morning as if he'd been thinking about them in his sleep. Maybe he was, since he's grinning like a clown now that he's running the show.

He wanted to play on the computer, he wanted breakfast in front of the TV, and then, after a glance over his shoulder, Daniel said, "I have 'a declare' for you since Mommy is sleeping."

In other words, he was about to make a major request and there was no one around to stop him.

"I declare you buy me a Lego Monster Crab set," he said.

"You know this is just for one week, right?" I asked him.

"I know, but the week is just starting," he said.

It's only been one day?

Anyway, we looked up the price online and came to an agreement: I'd buy him one small toy sometime during the week, but that was it. He couldn't make a daily toy request.

"I'm glad you don't go to work because we have lots of time for play time," he said.

I'd say he's laying it on a little thick, but that comment actually seemed genuine. Of course it was nicely timed after I just said I'd buy him a toy, so you never know.

As we were eating, Daniel made a predictable request: "I declare no school all week."

"We can't do that--you'd get in trouble," I said.

He responded, "I declare that you say you made me do it, so you get in trouble." Clap clap.

I've worked for bosses who've made similar requests, oddly enough. They didn't clap-clap afterwards, at least not in front of me, but otherwise the similarities are eerie.

Later, walking home from the bus stop, Daniel asked to get ice cream after dinner, to which I agreed. But Daniel's ever-reliable forgetfulness kicked in after the meal.

"Remember," I said to him, "we have something to get after dinner."

He forgot about the ice cream, and as he tried to remember, I wished I had a way to see what his brain was thinking.

If so, I'd have watched image after image of Lego toys parading by, each more enormous than the one before.

"I can't remember," he finally said.

"If I have to remind you what you wanted, maybe you don't really want it," I said.

"I declare you remind me what I wanted," he said.

He's growing into such a fine little dictator. My pride runneth over.

Good thing for him he made up for it as he ate his ice cream.

He turned to me--with chocolate ice cream-covered lips, nose, and cheeks--and said, "Daddy, I declare I love you. This is the awesome-est week ever."

Day 3

Daniel has fully embraced his ruling power and he's planning and acting accordingly. "I declare we go to Burger King on Saturday," he said.

"Why Saturday?" I asked.

"Because that's the first day I don't have lunch at school," he said. "And that's when I can get my kingly crown."

The king wisely turned to his council to help maximize his authority. At his friends' house, he asked Eli, "What should we make my dad do this week?"

That reminds me of a joke:

Boss: "What's worse than having an impatient boss?"
Employee: "I don't know, wh--"
Second Boss: "Two impatient bosses--and we both can't wait all day for you."

Anyway, that's why I picked up Daniel after school and drove to Toys 'R' Us Wednesday.

Eli suggested Daniel request a Lego Monster Crab Clash toy, and that's what Daniel opted to do with his one and only Buy-Me-A-Toy command. It cost about the same as a Starbucks coffee, though it'll be enjoyed much longer.

I made him wait a day before we went to the store, though, just to be certain he really wanted the Monster Crab toy and it wasn't a passing fad. He assured me he did, and that he couldn't wait to get it.

Still, Daniel's mind can wander like an Appalachian Trail hiker, and in some ways he's like Coach from "Cheers."

In one episode, Coach receives a phone call: "Walt, Walt, it's good to hear from you! I'm so glad the operation's over! I didn't want to say anything beforehand, Walt, but I didn't think going in there your chances were too good. [Pause] Oh. It's tomorrow?"

Daniel's "Coach" moment occurred exactly eight minutes into our drive to the toy store from the school--where only moments earlier he'd been pulsating with excitement about getting the toy.

I looked in the rear-view mirror and said to Daniel excitedly, "Here we come, Monster Crab!"

He looked around, smiled, and said, "Oh, yeah. I forgot why we were driving out here."

I guess I should just be happy he gets my name right. Occasionally.

[In the photo, Daniel holds up his new toy in his left hand, and the ice cream cone he requested I make for him when we got home, as he watches TV--his version of the perfect day.]

Day 4

Word is out on the street in little-kid land: Daniel can make his dad do whatever he wants.

When we arrived at the bus stop Thursday morning, I'd like to think the kids were looking at me so wide-eyed because they saw me as a kind, caring, involved dad.

But that'd be more delusional than thinking my hair isn't receding like the tide.

The bus-stop kids looked at me with such wonder because they couldn't believe it was true. "Do you really have to do whatever Daniel tells you?" asked 9-year-old Elliot.

He, his 11-year-old brother Calvin, and 10-year-0ld Jack were looking at me like they were lions and I was raw meat just thrown into their den.

They wanted in on the bossing-around action. I was like a shiny new toy, and if I came with a remote, they'd probably karate-kick each other for control.

"Well, I do what he says, with some exceptions," I said.

"I'd have you do my homework!" said Calvin.

"Mom, you've gotta do that for me," Jack said to his mom.

"No way!" she shot back, a voice of sanity finally.

I explained that I don't do everything--for example, when he told me to keep him from school and to take the rap for it--but most of his requests were fair game.

"There's been a lot of chocolate ice cream this week," I said.

I could see the kids trying to think of ways to make this pay off for them. And for Calvin and Elliot, it almost did.

Their mom Ann called later in the day to say she was on her way home from work but would be late to get her boys at the bus stop. Could I take them until she got home?

"No problem. But," I joked, "since they can have Daniel tell me what to do, they may never want to leave."

We both laughed, but I thought I heard her engine rev louder.

I hoped she didn't get a speeding ticket in her race to prevent do-whatever dad from spoiling her kids worse than child TV stars.

Calvin and Elliot weren't off the bus 20 seconds before they wanted to confirm their new reality. "Can we ask Daniel to have you do things for us?" Elliot asked

"Yep."

"We want ice cream!"

For kids, ice cream is the adult equivalent of free all-you-can-eat surf-and-turf, empty Caribbean beaches, skiing without lift lines, and a private visit from Oprah all rolled into one.

Turns out, though, that Ann was able to out-race Smoking and the Bandit, as well as the police, so she drove up as the three kids and I were walking up the block.

And while Daniel didn't get to have his friends over, he recovered.

After all, there's only one thing better than chocolate ice cream: relaxing in your favorite chair as it's hand-delivered by your own personal servant.

Day 5

Daniel hasn't bossed me around much the last two days, almost as if he's forgotten he can. I'm beginning to feel like last year's Christmas present.

And when he does command me to do something, it's pretty basic. I'm on a five-day streak of making him breakfast and cleaning up for him afterwards, but then I'm forgotten.

Now, I know how Wheezy, the squeaky penguin in "Toy Story 2," felt.

Daniel did unveil one new wrinkle as I was cleaning in the kitchen: "I declare you freeze!" he shouted.

So I did, and he cackled uproariously. He has enormous potential as a future evil mad scientist.

He froze and unfroze me for a few minutes--just because he could--and then left me frozen for two minutes.

I happened to be in front of the kitchen's heating vent, so I told him I was melting, and when I fully melted, I would catch him and hold him upside down by his toes.

He panicked, screamed "You're unfrozen!" for some reason, and took off running as I chased him.

In his haste, he forgot that he has power over me, and at any time could have frozen me again, or commanded me to stop, or even told me to dance like a funky chicken.

He may have the mad-scientist laugh, but when he panics, he thinks like Igor.

Instead, he jumped on the couch and immediately declared it "Base!" He has a wonderful way of discovering "bases" just when he's about to get caught.

It's a superpower bank robbers would love, and it will serve him well in his evil mad-scientist future.

He sat there catching his breath and laughing as I waited to catch him when he stepped off base. Then, the light bulb went on: "I declare the whole house is base," he said.

Good move; when in trouble, pull out an egomaniacal power play. Very evil mad scientist: I'm so glad he's found his calling so early in life.

Days 6 & 7

As requested, I took Daniel to his much-awaited Burger King lunch Saturday--so he could get his "kingly crown"--but then he forgot about me and moved on, barely capitalizing on his power for the rest of the weekend.

He did declare that we wrestle, which for us is one part Ben Affleck-bad acting (me) and one part battle to the death (him). He somehow just manages to win our best-of-seven matches, 4-3, every time.

However, this match would be different. "I declare you use your worst-est strength so I win," he said.

After his laugh-filled, too-easy pin, he changed his mind, so I won the second match. Almost. "I declare that didn't count," he said.

So maybe he misused his power a little. Still, when I mentioned that Sunday would be his last day, he didn't fully take the bait.

"Okay, then I'm going to think of something good tomorrow," he said. It wasn't my responsibility to tell him he could think of something good today, too.

No, when it comes to abuse of power, my friend Phil is my Lex Luthor. Sure enough, he stopped by Sunday to pick up his son Sam after a playdate with Daniel and immediately stepped into the role of Agent Provocateur.

Phil, a diehard Pittsburgh Steelers fan who probably wears Steelers footie pajamas, whispered a request in Daniel's ear, and Daniel lit up like the White House Christmas tree.

Daniel said, "I declare you say, 'Go Steelers!'"

"Okay," I said, pausing. "Ghost healers."

"No, Go ... Steelers!" he corrected. So I did.

That was followed by requests to cheer on the Boston Red Sox (Phil's other son Eli's team), the Yankees (Daniel's team), and to say, "Boo Phillies!"

While it was nice that Daniel rescued me from the Island of Misfit Toys after a few days of relative inactivity, I suddenly wished to be back on the island.

"You don't have to listen to Mr. Handwerk," I told Daniel.

"Hey, I'm not the one who comes up with these ridiculous rules," Phil said. "I just abuse them."

After Phil left, Daniel took the opportunity to make his standard request. "I declare ice cream for dessert," he said, before unloading his big command.

Sitting at the kitchen table with me, he lowered his chin to his chest, stared intently at me with what he considers to be his serious face--and what I consider to be his face I try hard not to laugh at--and said, "I declare you give me $10."

His concept of money is only slightly worse than mine, so to him, $10 is just about all the money in the world.

If I laid out just $3 worth of pennies and nickels on the table, he'd think he could buy Disney World.

He wasn't thrilled when I overruled his $10 declaration, but it was good preparation for the beginning of the end.

With less than five hours til midnight--and roughly two waking hours for Daniel--his reign of error was drawing to a close.

After I said goodnight to him, I asked if he enjoyed his week. He said he did, and I told him this was the last night.

Ahhh, but my favorite evil mad scientist didn't go down without one last shot.

He needed just an instant before he shouted, "I declare I get to do 'I declare' forever! Sweet mama batooty!"

Celebrate Like a Pro

Fond memories of celebrating life's big little moments from two years ago.

Day 1

I came up with the idea to celebrate like a pro while watching yet another athlete celebrate his own personal wonder and glory after something as routine as a tackle during a football game.

Athletes have taken self-aggrandizement to new levels. Sure, they look ridiculous, but I imagine they're enjoying their own little magnificent celebration.

That got me thinking: Why should they have all the fun?

Could you imagine an accountant running around his office, arms raised in glory, each time he balanced the books?

Two lawyers chest-bumping each other in court when they win a case? A dentist doing the Tiger Woods double-fist pump when he's finished with a patient?

Maybe not. But I'm going to do my part to bring unbridled joy into normal, everyday life this week, to celebrate little victories throughout the day.

And there are no refs around to penalize me 15 yards for excessive celebration.

To start, I went running yesterday and as I neared the end, I picked up the pace and crossed an imaginary finish line with my arms raised in victory. I win!

No one came in second, of course, but still ... I win!

I think it'll be more fun to celebrate with others.

So when Linda mentioned she was happy with the progress of a class she's helping to teach, I said, "Let's celebrate!"

I opted for the move that's big in football these days: the raise-your-hands, sideways-jump, bump-hips-in-mid-air move.

We jumped and bumped, colliding like bumper cars, and Linda stubbed her toe on the trash can as she landed.

Maybe athletes celebrate so often because coordinated enough to do it.

She reminded me of Arizona kicker Bill Gramatica, who tore his ACL celebrating after a field goal.

Linda was okay, and actually enjoyed it enough to try again. As I walked away after our second celebration, she said, "Wait, that's fun. Let's do it again."

Welcome to Celebration Nation!

Later, I applied for a job and decided to celebrate with the Phelps Flex. When his relay team won a surprising, last-instant gold in the 2008 Olympics swimmer Michael Phelps screamed and flexed in celebration.

So, I tore off my shirt, flexed, and let out a primal scream. Good thing I don't live in an apartment.

Fortunately, there were no cameras to capture my celebration because Phelps' six-pack bears no resemblance to my 1-pack. But it was fun--so I did it again!

Daniel wanted to be a part of Celebration Nation, so to commemorate his finishing his homework last night, I decided we should chest-bump. (Variety is the spice of celebrations!)

We stood a few feet apart, ran towards each other, and leaped.

Since Daniel is almost two feet shorter than I am, it was really more of a stomach-face bump, and I had to catch him from falling backwards to the floor as we landed.

But he loved it, so much that he then did two belly bumps with Linda.

The week may not make much sense--do many of my weeks? Being a superhero? Listening to Britney?--but it sure is a lot of fun.

Now, where can I do the Lambeau Leap?

Day 2

Linda and I showed off our celebratory skills to our friend Carol when she stopped by. With a running start, we did a high-flying chest bump in our living room as she stood watching.

Then, I turned and went to let Carol in on the fun, but as I went airborne, she remained earth-bound and unmoved. "I'd hurt myself if I did that," she said.

She may not be a leaper, but Carol knows a thing or two about celebrating, since she asked, "Does that mean you're going to do The Worm?"

You bet! Some celebrations are well-known, such as The Worm, where athletes drop to the ground and see-saw back and forth like a worm.

There's also the Lambeau Leap, The Merton Hanks Funky Chicken, and the Ickey Shuffle.

But I needed to do some serious research on fun to find enough moves to continue varying my celebrations. It turns out that football and soccer are the clear leaders in ways to get your groove on.

That makes sense since there's less scoring in those sports than in basketball so celebrations are expected.

Baseball and golf are more buttoned-up than a TV news anchor. And does hockey still really count as a major sport?

I guess I could pretend to be a NASCAR driver and make doughnuts on the front lawn if I'm feeling really crazy later in the week.

I found 46 different ways to let the world know you're wonderful. Among the obvious are the Deion Sanders High Step, the Heisman Pose, The Mutombo Finger Wag, and Shawne Merriman's Lights Out Sack Dance.

Soccer's contributions include the Brandi Chastain, The Airplane, the Maradona Jump, and The Klinsmann, named for legendary star Jurgen Klinsmann, who would dive onto the ground with his arms outstretched as if flopping to draw a penalty.

Among the all-time best celebrations is the Kirk Gibson Fist Pump, which he performed after a game-winning homer in the World Series. I'll save that for a special occasions.

I wrote out my list and put it in my pocket for reference, knowing each moment worth celebrating deserved an appropriate move.

Armed with my fun facts, I was ready to take on the day. I did the Funky Chicken after I'd cleaned the kitchen, and, after I contacted someone I'd been hoping to reach, I did the Ickey Shuffle.

Then, I donated a couple dozen books to the library, so I did Deion's High Step, the tail end of which was witnessed by a family exiting the library.

The mom raised her eyebrows--I wasn't sure if it was because I was doing it poorly or that she wanted to join in.

I went back inside to get a book or two and celebrated two good choices by doing The Shhhh, which seemed fitting given the setting. It's a celebration an athlete does when he's so good, he's unsuccessfully trying to keep his dominance quiet. I know the feeling.

I heard great news from a neighbor, whose wife's cancer is in remission, so I gave him a shoulder shimmy and back pat, an understated celebration akin to how a player would interact with his coach.

That's appropriate since the man is in his late 80s, and I knew when I told Linda later we could be less restrained.

After I told Linda the good news, I decided we should do the Maradona Jump, a leap where you lift your legs and pump your fist skyward.

Linda looked particularly joyful, so I took her picture; unfortunately, her back's a little weak and after a few takes, she felt a pinch.

Linda should have followed Carol's approach. Perhaps I don't give athletes enough credit for staying in such prime celebratory shape.

Day 3

My celebrations are a little stiff--not surprisingly, the one I did yesterday that looked best was The Heisman in a restaurant.

Performing The Heisman is the only time my stiffness pays off.

My brother and his wife had given us a gift card, and at the restaurant I'd taken a chance by ordering mozzarella fondue.

I love one of those two words, and though I wasn't sure I'd be fond of fondue, I figured I'd take a shot.

After Linda and I devoured it the way the three bears ate Goldilocks' porridge, I decided The Heisman would be the best celebration given the table's tight quarters. We looked good, although when do you ever see two Heismans together?

One reason my celebrations look Herman Munster-esque is, well, reflected in that reference.

I'm in my mid-40s, my knees are peanut brittle, and I played team sports when celebrating a score meant you were showing up your opponents.

In other words, I'm old and I have no practice with this kind of thing.

I scored one lone touchdown in my life on a kickoff return and I did The Barry Sanders--I handed the ball to the ref quietly and simply.

I hit a playoff game-winning jumper in high school and celebrated by high-fiving a teammate. I was crazy like that.

Seven-year-old Daniel shows promise, however. His willingness to celebrate at any moment, and his desire to shake-and-bake to create a new move each time bodes well for his celebratory career.

Now if only I could get him to actually play more sports....

After I beat Daniel in Chutes and Ladders, I broke out the Billy "White Shoes" Johnson, where you shake your legs back and forth and hold your hands over your head like you're under arrest.

I had him do it with me, but he declared, "This isn't cool."

He's got it point. It really is Celebration 1.0 in a Celebration 9.0 world.

When my parents called to say they'd finally sold their place, Daniel said, "Get up and celebrate!" and showed me his new move.

He high-fived me, we spun, bumped backsides, did a blind backward low-five, pivoted, and finished with a high-five.

"You always have to finish with a regular high-five, Dad," he said earnestly.

A regular old high-five is the climax? I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.

I'm going to celebrate that with an old-school Jordan-beats-Ehlo jumping triple-fist pump.

Day 4

I geared up for poker night with the guys by reviewing my list of well-known celebrations in the afternoon.

Since Cowboys fan Brian was coming over, I figured I had to perform Terrell Owens's Stomp The Star, though I did consider the possibility that Brian could pull a George Teague Stomps Owens and blindside me.

To be safe, I decided to skip the Stomp.

I thought it'd be cool to break out The Worm during poker, so I figured a little practice wouldn't hurt. It looks like a fun, easy little thing to do.

I couldn't have been more wrong. What boneless, breakdancer-wannabe athlete came up with this move? I dropped to the floor, attempted to gyrate like a worm, and nearly broke my spine.

I'm beginning to think I shouldn't be so hard on athletes with celebratory moves. More power to them if they can start shaking without braking.

Okay, The Worm was out, but that still left Chad Ochocinco's Squirrel, his Riverdance, or his Give CPR To A Football.

There was also the Atlanta Falcons' Dirty Bird, the Barry Bonds Home Run Twirl, Sammy Sosa's 'Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky, and an array of soccer moves.

However, the more I read my list, the more I realized I shouldn't practice after all, since the spirit of the celebration should overcome me, making the move organic, more in the moment.

Which is exactly what happened when the guys arrived, and, shortly into the evening, Brian showed off a card trick that fooled the fools.

I stood up to celebrate and coaxed him into performing Ochocinco's The Squirrel with me.

Ochocinco wouldn't have recognized it.

Unfortunately for my celebration plans, the night devolved into an episode of The View. (Hope that doesn't make me Barbara Walters.)

We talked and talked, the cards sat, my checklist of celebrations remained untouched, and, I'm sure, the guys sighed in relief.

I can't blame them; they had seen me dance like Britney last week.

I was hoping to bust my moves in celebration of winning hands, but the evening produced more card tricks (2) than poker hands (1).

There were fewer chances for celebration than Emmy night at Susan Lucci's table.

Still, as the guys prepared to leave, I dragged them outside at 12:15 for one pre-planned celebration.

I wanted to enjoy the exuberance of a Fun Bunch High Five, the touchdown celebration created by the Washington Redskins in the early 1980s.

So I directed the guys into a circle on my front lawn in the wee hours, we swung our arms as we counted to three, and jumped into a group high five.

The joy was ... not exactly like celebrating a Super Bowl touchdown. Or as Steve said, "Well. That happened."

Good thing they're not humoring me.

Day 5

Not everything I've done this week has been a cause for celebration. Linda was eager to see Avatar, so we ducked into a matinee ... and it laid an egg.

The movie's stunning visuals couldn't overcome a rehashed, B-movie plot, and soap-opera-quality drivel for dialogue.

Looking back now, I should have waved the Dikembe Mutombo No-You-Don't Finger in the theater.

Or maybe I should have wagged my Mutombo Finger at Linda when she proposed a nightmarish double feature: that we go shopping after the movie since we were in the area.

A lousy movie followed by food shopping? I had less to celebrate than a Detroit Lions fan.

Thank goodness the kids came to my rescue. Daniel and his friends love the idea of celebrating, so I'm the Pied Piper of Partying this week.

Kids think life is one big celebration and that somehow they're missing out if they're not always in a state of total joy. I tend to agree with them, though they can be demanding little happy campers.

One time, Daniel and a friend played for three hours straight, running, joking, laughing--and after uproarious laughter, Daniel paused for 10 seconds, turned to me, and said, "We're bored. There's nothing to do."

I didn't have that problem the other day because I was ready when Daniel and next-door neighbors Emma and Abby arrived after school.

They were my Celebration students and I was going to school them on the wonder of The Lambeau Leap.

I had three of us sit on the couch pretending we were in the front row at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, where Packer players jump into the crowd after scoring a touchdown.

I moved the coffee table and cleared a path for the fourth person to come sprinting toward us and leap into our arms.

As I explained what we were doing, the three of them looked at me as if I were teaching quantum physics.

It was good that crazy Mr. Roach's game involved three things kids love: running, jumping, and laughing, so they bought in like I was Willy Wonka.

After Emma timidly jogged toward us and then was quickly mauled by adoring fans, the three of them got into the spirit.

They were diving in, with knees and elbows flailing, and bodies tumbling like laundry in a dryer.

When I see ESPN highlights, I sometimes think it'd be fun to be in the crowd for a Lambeau Leap, but now I'm not sure it could top the comical pile-ups we created.

Who wants Green Bay and 10-degree temperatures when all you really need are a couch and a couple of kids?

Day 6

Daniel and I needed a celebration for the opening of his pretend restaurant in our basement--Chez Roachez.

We were also celebrating his first customer (his Mom), and his restaurant's first real dollar bill (my money).

If he's smart, Daniel will serve his Mom three times a day since her "meal" included water from our faucet and food from our closets.

He made 100 percent profit on his first day of business, while his restaurant cost me money.

I figure I've got about four years until I'm working for him.

To celebrate his success, we raced up the basement stairs like we were Rocky climbing the Art Museum steps and raised our arms in triumph while shouting, "Adrienne!"

I even made Daniel curl his lip and mumble as he "Adrienne'd" his lungs out.

I'd love to be there Monday if a schoolteacher asks Daniel what he did this weekend.

"I opened a restaurant, ran up the steps like Rocky, and did a Lambeau Leap," he'd say. "What did you do?"

We also performed Shawne Merriman's Lights Out Sack Dance just before bed to celebrate the completion of an original lego creation.

As we stood ready to dance, Daniel ran to the light switch and flipped it off when he heard the name of our proposed dance.

"Then the lights have to be out, Dad," he said.

An instant before he flipped the switch, I saw roughly 83,000 Legos lying in wait on his bedroom floor, each one set to pierce my feet as I gyrated in the dark like an elephant on hot coals.

I could see myself sitting in the ER with a sprained ankle having to explain to some Doogie Howser, M.D. exactly what I'd done.

"Well, as we started to do the Sack Dance in complete darkness, I stepped on a Turbo Blaster."

That hardly qualifies as the weirdest thing a doctor has been told. In fact, I once contributed to an injury I'd love to have heard my brother explain to his doctor.

We were kids and we were walking to a friend's house when I felt the need to help solve the nation's gas shortage.

When Paul heard my ear-splitting contribution, he turned to run out of smelling range, and in so doing, fell awkwardly down a hill, tearing his ACL.

I'd like to meet the doctor who could keep a straight face hearing that one.

Meanwhile, Paul spent his time on crutches awaiting the moment he'd be able to pin me to the floor so he could release his own gas-shortage solution directly in my face.

Clearly the two of us wasted our youth when we could have been profiting off our mom by opening a "restaurant."

Or at least a "gas station."

Day 7

We visited Linda's mom Joan Sunday, and I was eager to include her in the celebrations. When you have a fun 80-plus-year-old mother-in-law, you take advantage of it!

Daniel and I previewed what was ahead by performing the post-soccer-goal move The Airplane around her second floor as soon as we got there.

I knew Joan and I wouldn't be doing the Ozzie Smith Flip together, but I had confidence she would look better than Phil Mickelson doing his Inch-High Victory Leap at the Masters.

Joan was a skier in her day so I was determined to find a celebratory dance to showcase her moves and coordination, something Tyler Hansbrough's Proof-I-Have-No-Rhythm celebration failed to do.

She served us bacon for breakfast--I could already feel a celebration on the horizon as it sizzled!--and it dawned on me that bacon is a rare wonder food.

Unlike my beloved pizza, I can eat bacon for any meal without incurring others' wrath: breakfast, brunch and lunch (BLT), dinner (bacon cheeseburger), breakfast/dinner aka brinner (plain ol' bacon again), or supper (bacon-wrapped pork).

God bless Betty Crocker, I can even enjoy the taste of bacon with something as healthy as a salad, thanks to the wonder of Bac-Os.

Later, Daniel and I celebrated his building of a new Lego creation (in no time flat) amidst the chaos of the 2,700 Lego pieces he'd brought to Joan's house (in no order).

I gave him the choice of two post-goal soccer celebrations, either the Shirt-Over-The-Head or the Run-Away-From-Your-Teammates.

After seeing my brief demonstration of the Shirt-Over-The-Head, he said those people are "Weirdos."

Right, completely unlike an adult and child who were about to run around the house celebrating Legos.

Daniel escaped his teammate for a while, but I caught him finally in the kitchen. Thankfully, Joan is a kid at heart and rolls with everything.

Either that, or she acts better than Meryl Streep and I'm as clueless as Inspector Clouseau.

The answer came soon enough. Before we prepared to leave, I decided we needed to celebrate our visit with Joan. It was time to pull out the big gun.

"We need to celebrate today by doing the Kirk Gibson Home Run Fist Pump," I exclaimed.

Cricket. Cricket. Cricket.

The three of them have the collective sports knowledge of pine tar.

I showed them the move as I ran around the kitchen table pretending it was a baseball diamond, and--forget Betty Crocker--God bless Joan she loved the idea.

That's how Joan, Daniel and I ended up running around Joan's kitchen table after our pretend home run swing, fist-pumping furiously, celebrating our game-winning home runs.

It was fitting to finish a week of legendary celebrations with a first: "My first and only home run!" Joan said.

All Britney, All the Time

It hurts even just to revisit this week from 2 years ago...

Day 1

I realized the true horror of this week's challenge exactly 42 minutes and 20 seconds after I started.

That's when the album I was listening to on my iPod ended and I pushed a button to replay "... Baby One More Time."

All week, during every waking hour, I'm going to listen repeatedly, endlessly, to the debut album by Britney Spears.

I not only won't listen to any other music, but I'll listen to the album in its entirety constantly--at home, in the car, even at friends' houses.

All ... the ... time. I'm sure my friends can't wait to hang around with me this week.

"Is this a cry for help?" said one friend when I told her of my plans. "Seriously--isn't this how they torture people?"

I felt like I owed my computer an apology as I downloaded the pink CD Monday morning. "Trust me," I told my laptop, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."

I had to remove 11 songs from my iPod to make room, so to keep it simple, I eliminated a whole album, Bob Marley's "Legend." I didn't consider it one "Legend" being replaced by another.

The fun began at 5:41 a.m. with Britney--if I'm listening to her all the time, I think we should be on a first-name basis--singing the words, "Oh baby, baby," from the first song, "... Baby One More Time."

The album ended at 6:24 ... and then began again. My first thought: What have I done?

It all started Sunday night as my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin and I discussed my plans for the week.

A friend and loyal reader, Stacey Pleasant, suggested that for one week I should listen only to some type of awful music. I, um, of course, don't own such music.

The worst CD I feel I have is "Saturday Night Fever," so I told Caitlin that's what I'd be doing. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was allowing Caitlin to speak.

"Why don't you listen to Britney Spears?" she said.

"Because I don't own any Britney Spears," I said, for once proud to have better musical tastes than someone.

"I do," she said. "I have a CD in the car--I'll go get it for you."

If I were smart, I'd have tackled her to the ground right then and there.

Unfortunately, I'm not too bright, which is why I currently have the lyrics, "The sky may fall/And the stars may too/But I will still/I will still love you" piping into my ears.

Where did I go wrong with Caitlin? I raised her right, forcing U2, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin on her.

But Britney Spears? I don't know whom to blame, but there was probably a gateway song that led Caitlin down the wrong path. Most likely something off U2's ridiculous "Pop" album.

"I have all of her CDs," said Caitlin, twisting the knife even further.

She performed some quick calculations based on waking hours and the length of the album and estimated that I'd listen to Britney's album 158 times this week. I think she noticed me cringe involuntarily.

"You won't last," Caitlin said. "It's funny that this is going to kill you, but it's even funnier what it's going to do to Linda. She's going to have to listen, too."

"Funny" wouldn't describe the look on Linda's face when she heard of my plan and how it would also involve her.

"Why would you do that?" she asked, as if I were 4 and had just painted my face with peanut butter.

I listened to the album in its entirety 20 times during the first day, so I'm happily below Caitlin's initial estimation of 158 for the week. On the negative side, I ... listened ... to ... Britney's ... CD ... 20 ... times!

And I thought the lyrics to Saturday Night Fever's "Disco Inferno" were dopey. I long for the pure genius of "Burn, baby, burn/Disco Inferno" compared to "Hit me baby one more time."

Day 2

I took Britney with me everywhere Tuesday so she could experience a healthy dose of normal life in small-town suburbia. Lord knows Britney doesn't often hang around the neighborhood of normalcy.

She sang to me in the library, as we shopped for groceries and went to the bank, and even as I went for a run.

I don't recommend Britney as a workout partner. The teen-angst ballad "From the Bottom of My Broken Heart" is not the fiery rocker I needed for motivation.

Then, my friend Ron e-mailed Britney, me, and a group of college friends to say he had a free ticket to his company's suite for the night's 76ers game.

When others passed, Britney and I took him up on the offer, though Ron wasn't expecting me to bring company.

"I should have checked what you were doing this week before I asked you," Ron moaned after I e-mailed that I was bringing Britney.

When I met Ron before the game, he let me plug my iPod into his car's stereo system so we could both enjoy Britney. Though for Ron, I don't believe "enjoy" is the right word. Endure? Tolerate? Suffer through?

Those words could also describe what Ron experiences on a night out with me.

For the day, I listened to the album 16 times, a few less than Monday because I slept in a bit.

Nothing cures insomnia like knowing you have to listen to Britney as soon as you wake up.

Day 3

I fear I'm suffering a bit of a Stockholm Syndrome with my captor, Britney.

I have Britney on the brain every waking hour, singing sweetly in my ear at times, purring in a come-hither growl at others.

Her voice is inside my head constantly and she's saying such nice things to me.

She tells me "the reason I breathe is you" in one song, and sings in another that she was "born to make me happy." I'm starting to believe her.

Her confoundedly catchy songs and my non-stop listening to the album--54 straight times through Wednesday--have broken my anti-Britney defenses.

I'm horrified to admit I've started singing along with several songs.

Even worse, just before I fell asleep Wednesday night, I had the lyrics to "Thinkin' About You" bouncing around my brain. "I spend my nights/Thinkin' about you."

Every album has clunkers, but at the beginning of the week I wondered how I'd be able to distinguish junk from junk. I thought I'd have better luck mining for gold in a landfill than finding a tolerable song.

After a quick review of the song titles, I was certain "E-mail My Heart" and "Soda Pop" would be Bjork bad and by far the worst songs on the album. I was right.

However, the rest of the songs are more likable than a yellow lab puppy.

There's a reason the album shot to No. 1 in 15 countries, sold 25 million copies, and is the biggest selling album worldwide by a teenage artist.

On Monday, the songs all twirled together like cotton candy and I could barely tell when one ended and the next began.

Now, I can hear hints of Anita Baker, Natalie Imbruglia, Debbie Gibson, and Ace of Base, all in a good way. If that's possible. (I did mention my mild case of the Stockholm Syndrome, right?)

There's even a techno cover of Sonny & Cher's "The Beat Goes On," and, believe it or not, the piano intro to "Thinkin' About You" sounds similar to Motley Crue's piano solo on "Home Sweet Home."

I ran that idea by Linda to make sure I wasn't losing it. She agreed with the piano part but withheld judgment on my sanity.

Perhaps the only person happy about my newfound fondness for Britney is Caitlin.

We compared songs we like, dissed the bombs, and she wondered whether we liked certain songs because they were hits or because they were good songs.

I solved that one easily enough, since I had no clue which were singles, except for the title track.

While I've made Caitlin happy, I'm sure my poker buddies won't let me forget my Britney crush when we play next week. We've listened to a lot of music over the years while playing poker, and never once has Britney made an appearance.

Though the guys should be ecstatic I didn't force her on them by going All-Britney next week.

I'm in bigger trouble with my friend Tim, whose iPod holds possibly every song ever released. Except any by Britney--I checked with his wife Coleen the other day.

When I'm at his house, I'll sometimes flip through his iPod and I'm always amazed to find hidden gems. The other day, Little River Band's "Reminiscing" popped up, followed by a classic Sinatra song.

Now, however, thanks to my Britney bonding, I can forget getting near his iPod. I'll be lucky if he lets me in the house.

I hope he remembers, though, I'm the victim here. A victim of love, but still.

Day 4

I've stumbled onto a sociological experiment as I listen to Britney. I'm finding that how Britney is perceived depends largely on a person's age and sex.

Young females--and in at least one case, an older one--think Britney is the Beatles, Elvis, and Sinatra all rolled into one.

Caitlin and her friends fall, and I do mean fall, into this category. So does our 8-year-old neighbor Emma, who virtually exploded when she came over and heard Britney on my iPod.

"You're listening to Britney Spears?" she yelped.

Now that's a question that humbles a man.

"My grandmom likes Britney Spears," Emma said, and I let her continue to see where this would go. "She has it on her karaoke and sings it every day. 'Oh baby, baby!'"

The secret's out, Emma's grandmom. Sorry about that.

While her grandmom may be Britney's oldest fan, Emma is not her youngest.

I was babysitting for friends' kids yesterday, and their 18-month-old pointed to my iPod earbud while I was feeding him. So I put it near his ear so he could listen.

His eyes popped wide and he smiled like Emma. It seems young people enjoy Britney more than ice cream for breakfast.

Linda is not as giddy. She's not jealous about how faithful I am to Britney, or that I have another woman's voice in my ear.

Linda is a rhythm-and-blues rocker through and through who grew up on Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir," and other marathon rock classics with meandering guitar solos. The heavier, the moodier, the better.

A week of Britney's bubble-gum pop is worse than if I wired the house with elevator music. "I need a break," Linda said, as she lowered the volume on Britney at one point yesterday.

I assume it was a break from Britney and not me, though Britney and I are becoming frighteningly inseparable to Linda.

Every time she enters a room where I'm listening, Linda glares like Clint Eastwood at my Britney-blaring iPod docking station.

My iPod occasionally shifts into pause-mode on its own and I swear it's because of Linda's look. However, my iPod is getting older; maybe it just has good taste.

Days 5 & 6

I've decided to re-make Britney's classic "... Baby One More Time" video this weekend. I know I'm not quite ready since I poked myself in the eye practicing.

I could pretend I'm surprised I did it, but anyone who knows me would see through my act. It's more surprising that I've only hurt myself once while practicing. (Or is it more surprising that I'm actually practicing?)

I'm so dancing-challenged that I make a hat rack look like Gene Kelly.

I feel a little sorry for poor Britney. I took her with me all around town and she was less welcome than vegetables in a kid's lunchbox.

I wore my iPod to go ice skating on the community lake where she (and I) were met with rolls of the eyes by my in-the-know neighbors.

At night, I tried to sneak my iPod near my music aficionado friend Tim and he jumped back, saying, "Get that thing away from me!"

In the afternoon, I played Clue with some friends while Britney blared from my docking station.

Our play was a little slow and some of us still didn't know which game piece we were halfway through the game. A meeting of Mensa minds it wasn't.

"It's Britney's fault!" one friend said in frustration. "She's making us dumber."

Can a person's dimwittedness be blamed on their choice of music. If so, after this week I'll be dumber than a Jim Carrey movie.

Actually, it'd be a brainless buildup decades in the making for me. I've made more poor musical choices over the years than occur in a season of American Idol.

I used to think New Edition was cool but Bruce Springsteen was for losers. (Let that one sink in for a minute.)

I own more albums by Triumph than the Beatles, and I know all the words to Kajagoogoo's "Too Shy."

If bad music killed brain cells, I'd be dumber than SpongeBob's friend Patrick Star by now.

Some might say my decision to listen to Britney all week only confirms it.

Day 7

I broke up with Britney last night. "You're going to miss her aren't you?" Linda asked.

Like I miss the chicken pox.

Alright, several songs on her "... Baby One More Time" debut were so bouncy they ended up lodged in my brain.

I'm sure I'll pay for that when I'm 93 and suddenly start singing, "Born To Make You Happy" in the doctor's office.

But I never again want to hear the inane, reggae-tinged background vocals in "Soda Pop": "Open the soda pop./Watch it fizz and pop./Open the soda pop./Clock is tickin' and we can't stop."

No need for me to look up the lyrics; I've got probably 98% of the whole album memorized, though I don't intend to add that to my resume.

I heard "Soda Pop"--and the rest of the album--122 times during the week.

To put that in perspective, if I wanted to listen to my favorite album once a week from now on, the 2012 Summer Olympics would arrive before I heard the album as often as I heard Britney's debut this week.

Marathon runners have nothing on what I've endured.

While under Britney's spell, I thought when Monday morning rolled around that I'd rush to my iPod and crank Led Zeppelin's "Rock and Roll" to cleanse my musical palate.

Nothing like a bad-to-the-bone rocker to wash away Brit's bits.

But what I really wanted was silence. It wasn't just that I was listening to Britney all week, but she also wouldn't leave me alone.

I was never anywhere without her tagging along, teeny-boppin' in my ear the whole time.

Earlier in the week, Caitlin asked if I'd keep any of Britney's songs on my iPod when the week was over, and I told her no, but, oddly, I might.

"(You Drive Me) Crazy," "Sometimes," "I Will Be There," and "Thinkin' About You" wouldn't be the worst songs on my iPod.

I collect bad songs like the Tooth Fairy rounds up teeth.

My musical misfits include Nena's "99 Red Balloons," England Dan & John Ford Coley's "I'd Really Love To See You Tonight," and Mr. Mister's "Broken Wings."

My purchases alone in the 1980s contributed to the popularity of so much bad-'80s music. Billy Squier and Flock of Seagulls can thank me later.

Anyway, to end the week, it was only fitting that I break out my best Britney gear and be-bop on camera to the title track.

As usual, I had my break-dancing boy as backup, Caitlin played house DJ (and cringed), and Linda was the director.

The choreography was all mine, with inspiration from Britney's video, which you can see here.

I think even Britney would admit my video will make you think.

Exactly what it will make you think, I don't want to know.

No Money

A little Christmastime fun from two years ago.

Day 1

My initial plan for the week was to spend no money. It seemed a perfect way to imitate Charlie Brown and enjoy Christmas without the over-commercialization of the holiday season.

It's also a great way to get out of buying my wife a gift.

To make my week even more challenging, though, Linda suggested I completely remove the idea of money from my life.

No talking about it, no paying bills, I can't even hold money. I also can't ask someone to buy me something I may want.

I don't see too much middle ground for how this will play out; it's either going to be enormously easy, or harder than selling beach umbrellas in Alaska.

On the first day, I realized I didn't plan well in advance by stockpiling my weekly necessities. My potato chip supply has shriveled like Shrinky Dinks, and I can't ask for more.

Hopefully, Linda will recognize my forlorn puppy-dog look as I stare at the closet whimpering and she'll realize she needs to make a chip run.

Or, she may take advantage of my misfortune and stock the house with grapes and apples and bananas and wait me out like a hostage negotiator.

Eat healthy or don't eat. Hmmm, tough call....

I had a Monday morning meeting in the city, so to avoid paying a turnpike toll, I took the long way. I also went out of my way to find a free parking spot.

In the office building, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a tiny alcove with a vending machine full of cheer. The candy was nestled all snug in its place, while visions of Doritos danced in my face.

Shaking off the machine's siren call, I finished my meeting and returned home. With four days until Christmas, I'd already finished what little shopping I needed to do.

My final trip late last week typified why I really shouldn't be allowed to shop.

My 17-year-old daughter Caitlin likes music and she loves to cook, so her Christmas list included items listed this way: "Live at Piedmont Park" by Dave Matthews Band, "Live Trax Vol. 6" by Dave Matthews Band, mandoline, straight rolling pin, citrus juicer, etc.

The problem for cooking-clueless me was the placement on her list of mandoline, near the music.

I'd never heard of a mandoline slicer, so I went to a music store to price out the mandolin I thought she'd misspelled.

I decided against spending $179 for the mandolin, even though the owner was willing to throw in a free lesson.

When I told Linda about my experience, she gave me the frightened look I often get when I say something to her, the look that says, "Some days I wonder how he finds his way back home."

Day 2

My dad was a banker, so I should know so much more about finances than I do.

However, my mom was a nurse, so I also should know more about science and medicine, but nope, I'm 0-for-2 following in my parents' footsteps.

The concept of compound interest makes me as woozy as having blood drawn.

I write, something they both learned to do as first-graders.

I've never liked money because I was told repeatedly as a kid that it wasn't important in life. It can't buy me happiness.

It can't buy me love (this wisdom from the Beatles, who backstroked in money and then toweled themselves off with thousand-dollar bills).

And, silly me, I believed what people told me.

The fact is, money could have bought me happiness Tuesday around lunchtime, when I was craving Burger King fries.

I'm realizing I don't spend much on big-ticket items--not exactly shocking news to Linda--but I dribble away money on little pleasures.

A post-dinner ice cream run for the family, or a mid-day Cheese Puffs pick-me-up, or a few iTunes songs. I've played "Viva la Vida" more often than Coldplay in concert.

Much as I wanted the fries, I stuck to my plan. That's why Tuesday night, I pulled into a gas station, drove to the side, and switched seats with Linda so she could pull up to the pump and pay for gas.

In my wallet, I've got one dollar--less temptation--and a $50 restaurant gift card that was an unexpected early Christmas present from my brother Paul and his wife Lisa. Does using it this week count as spending money?

I'll know I'm conflicted if the card starts singing to me in my dreams: "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back/I want my baby back, baby back, baby back/Chili's baby back ribs."

Days 3 & 4

For most of my life, I waited until Christmas Eve to buy the last present I needed. I liked the excitement and energy of last-day shopping, the customers' panic, the crowd swirling like storm clouds in ever-changing directions, the general chaos all around.

I get that same rush now on Christmas Eve by bowling with six other families and our 20 combined kids from age 2 to 12.

Shoppers' have nothing on the pure chaos resulting when a 5-year-old starts to swing a 10-pound ball facing the wrong way.

One youngster held the ball to his chest and shotput the ball and himself down the lane. And I still just barely beat his score.

Of course, since I couldn't spend any money, Linda treated me to the bowling but she turned into Scrooge after that. Halfway through, I asked her leadingly, "Do you think a Coke would taste good now?"

"No, I'm okay," she said.

"You could get one right over there, if you thought someone might drink it," I pleaded.

"Oh yeah, you could. I mean, someone could buy one, but you can't."

I think my dehydration led to my bowling woes, which is why my score was under 100 but just ahead of a 4-year-old.

My pride over besting the little dudes was nothing compared to Phil strutting around the lane after beating the four youngters he was paired with.

And he needed a tenth-frame strike before he could celebrate the win. "Sadly, that's among the highlights of my athletic career," he admitted.

We made our traditional post-bowling fast-food trip, this year to McDonald's. Without money, I feared I'd have to wait to eat until I got home, but Linda treated me to something without my asking.

The freeloading life is easy. No money, no problems. Though I'm beginning to feel like I'm part of Linda's personal posse along with Daniel as we follow her around and rely on her for handouts.

Am I becoming Kevin Federline?

Day 5

It's hard to spend money on Christmas day. Most places are closed and, unless you're traveling to visit family and need to buy gas, most people are too content or too stuffed to move.

Buying something December 25th is as tough as getting off the couch after dinner.

Ah, but where there's a teen, there's a way.

I accompanied Caitlin to pick up Chinese takeout for lunch since a fridge full of food to satisfy Fat Albert just wouldn't do.

I, however, found enough for three Meals O' Meat: bacon for breakfast, leftover Christmas Eve steak for lunch, and a Christmas dinner roast to complete the carnivore carnival.

And with leftovers a-plenty, my consecutive Meals O' Meat streak might last until the chair collapses beneath me.

My wonderful cash-free Christmas featured one minor meltdown.

Seven-year-old Daniel, at times, can have the mood swings of a pregnant elephant. Contagiously laughing one minute, ready to fight the world the next.

Throw in the build-up of Christmas day and his 3:30 a.m. overly excited wake-up, and you've got a combustible mix ready to go Jekyll & Hyde at any time.

That moment arrived as soon as he opened his last present.

The one thing Daniel wanted more than anything was something no one could buy: his long-lost stuffed animal, Puppy, which vanished last spring. In his letter, Daniel asked Santa to find Puppy and return him.

I had no idea how much Daniel missed Puppy until he opened his last gift--a Lego set he wanted, but it wasn't Puppy.

The tears flowed, perhaps also because Christmas was "over," and the look on Daniel's face was devastating.

And, thanks to Caitlin's camera work, the moment was captured for all time.

Someday, Daniel may get a good laugh over the picture--not anytime soon (unlike his big sister), but someday.

Of course, in fairness to Caitlin, Daniel drew a picture for a Silly Sentences assignment that's hanging on our fridge that reads, "My sister drove off a cliff. Big boom!"

The great thing about kids is their resiliency, and 45 minutes later Daniel was elbow-deep in Legos and as jolly as Santa Claus himself.

Who needs money when kids give you everything you need--and sometimes a little bit more than you need....

Days 6 & 7

The first time I earned money working a regular "job" I was 10 and I delivered an afternoon daily newspaper that cost 10 cents.

I'd ride my bike all around the neighborhood, or when it rained, my parents would drive me--clearly a losing proposition for them considering 1976 gas prices.

I'd collect from the subscribers once a week--I still remember an older woman who always gave me a 10-cent tip--and I'd store the money in a kitchen cabinet until my boss came around every two weeks to collect.

Seeing the cash pile grow was the highlight of the job.

How much have times changed since 1976? Afternoon daily newspapers don't exist, most papers publish free versions online, and I suspect most papers now don't rely on 10-year-olds to handle billing.

I recalled my first job yesterday after I realized I couldn't spend any money to buy the Sunday paper.

It turned out to not be a problem: I read much of it online without spending the $1.75. No wonder newspapers are going the way of the Pony Express.

I managed to remain cash-free for the week's final two days until late Sunday. We were out of milk and Linda wasn't able hit the store.

I gave in and drove out to buy it. Of course, I had to walk by the chip aisle--Linda hadn't replenished my now-depleted supplies, so I missed the chips and I know they felt the same.

I was right, they did miss me. A sign on the racks offered free dip if you bought two bags of chips. I was only gone a week and they're already hard up for business.

Their deal worked, though--I know exactly where I'll be and what I'll be buying first thing Monday morning.

Be a Shepherd

Here are some things other people think when they go to the mall.

I hope Macy's sells MuuMuu dresses in my size. I can't wait to get an Auntie Anne's pretzel or three. And how is Spencer's still in business--doesn't matter, I'm buying a disco ball this time.

Here's what I thought as I got out of my car at the Oxford Valley Mall.

Should I take my shepherd's staff or not? Without it, I'm just a guy in a blue bathrobe--and that's weird. And can my bathrobe pocket hold my phone, camera and car keys?

I opted to take the staff, and I proudly marched into the mall as a shepherd, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, a pale-blue bathrobe, jeans, flip-flops, and toting a tree branch as my trusty staff.

What could possibly go wrong?

Let me start at the beginning, however. After compiling my ensemble and before Daniel left for school, I surveyed the home crowd.

"Do I look like a shepherd?"

"A weird shepherd," said my wife Linda.

"The best shepherd Yardley's ever seen!" I countered.

"I don't think Yardley's ever seen a shepherd," replied Daniel.

I may be a shepherd, but Daniel was a prophet, gauging by the reactions I got all day.

"One of those days, huh?" said a father at the bus stop as he eyed my attire.

My first shepherd's tasks were to herd Daniel to the bus stop and then herd all the kids onto the bus. Done and done.

So I set off on an early-morning walkabout to continue my shepherd duties. The local bike shop owner saw me and said with a laugh, "Is that your usual morning get-up?"

"I'm a shepherd," I said, stating the obvious.

"Good," he said. "Yardley needs a little more spice."

No, what Yardley needs are more sheep.

With no sheep, my Facebook friends provided ample suggestions for possible herding options. Turtles, adults, kids, trees (?!?!), ducks, geese, shoppers, shopping carts--there seemed to be hope!

Unfortunately, I was unknowingly playing a game of hide-and-seek against the world--and losing badly since I couldn't find much to herd.

All I encountered was a jogger, a cyclist, and a small cardinal I tried unsuccessfully to herd.

I considered trying to herd cars along Main Street, but that's not a shepherd's job. That's being a parking attendant, and who'd want to do something so silly?

Since the sheep weren't coming to me, I decided to go to the sheep. In the suburbs, that means the mall.

On my drive, I saw a flock of 20 or so geese meandering near the road, so I jumped out and herded them across the road and safely into Lake Afton.

Or maybe they just waddled to the lake when the creepy-look abbot wannabe headed their way.

Anyway, I reached my destination, walked through Sears, into the mall itself, and headed down the escalator to begin herding.

I suppose not surprisingly there aren't a lot of sheep or people at the mall at 2:15 on a Monday. The place was emptier than a birthday party for John Edwards.

I guess to the untrained eye, a flock-less shepherd could be a sad, pathetic, perhaps even dangerous-looking character.

Which is probably what the security guard riding a Segway on the upper level thought as he looked down on me.

With Linda's pre-mall warning ringing in my ears ("Don't get arrested!"), I suddenly pictured myself in a small mall holding cell with a purse snatcher, a shoplifter, and a goat-herder.

Thankfully, the goat-herder would save me from embarrassment. I mean, clearly goat-herders are the bottom of the barrel, so we'd have a laugh at his expense.

While mall workers gave me odd looks, and the security guard kept pace from above like an unwanted guardian angel, I ducked into a sneaker shop.

As if a shepherd would need sneakers...

The move got me out of the guard's view for a bit. I then continued my herding search, happily whistling an appropriate song ("Baa, Baa, Black Sheep").

But wouldn't you know it: the guard found me again. And now he was clearly tracking me from the upper level, following my moves closely.

Wait, that meant only one thing: he was trying to herd me to the exit! And it was working. He was forcing me where he wanted me to go.

Oh, the irony of the shepherd being herded against his will.

And the guard didn't even have a staff!

Hang Around With An Imaginary Friend

A birthday-week celebration 2 years ago with a "friend."

Day 1

I couldn't figure out what challenge I should use to celebrate my birthday week until my daughter Caitlin and I came up with having an imaginary friend visit me.

My son Daniel came up with his name: Bob. (I must be doing something right if my kids know I'd enjoy interacting with an imaginary friend all week.)

I actually wanted to name my friend Anthony; that initially was going to be my older brother's name. But when my pregnant Mom told Mary Ellen, her grade-school age sister, what she was considering, Mary Ellen quickly ended the name's viability for all future Roaches.

"Ewww, you can't call him Ant Roach."

So yesterday morning, I drove to the train station to pick up Bob O'Marley, a long-time friend from Montserrat, known as the "Emerald Isle of the Caribbean," and a future vacation destination.

That is, once I convince Linda to visit a breathtakingly gorgeous island with one small glitch: it's home to an active volcano that erupted in 1997 and destroyed more than half the island.

Other than that.... But hey, Montserrat and Ireland are the only two places in the world where St. Patrick's Day is a public holiday, so it's got that going for it. Which is nice.

I picked up Bob at 11--he was the only person at the station, so I was a little late, but he said he didn't mind. I took him home and introduced him to Linda, who treated us to a birthday lunch.

At first, Linda was a little uncomfortable as I talked to Bob loudly in the restaurant, but she warmed up once she got to know him.

When the waitress came over, Linda told her she'd probably have a burger, "because we're having chicken tonight," then pointing to Bob, added, "and Bob definitely likes chicken."

I don't know what the waitress thought, but Bob and I were impressed.

In fact, Linda and Bob apparently hit it off very well. At one point, she said she was laughing at a joke Bob told her, but she wouldn't tell me what he said. Bob said it wasn't really that funny, that Linda was just being nice.

I think we'll all have a great week. Bob thinks so, too.

Day 2

When you think like a 9-year-old as I do, the day after your birthday is worse than the day after Christmas.

At least on Dec. 26, people are still enjoying the holidays, you have presents to play with, and you're off from school. But the day after my birthday is like indoor recess with Al Gore.

Good thing Bob was around to cheer me up. Daniel, Bob, and I played kickball--Bob fields as well as Linda--and it was nice to have an impartial umpire for controversial calls.

Daniel calls me out on plays if his throw is within 30 feet of me. So we turned to Bob when in doubt.

"Bob doesn't think you got the call right, Daniel," I said. "He thinks I was safe."

At first, Daniel went along, but he quickly sized up how to game the game. "Bob can be on my team, Dad." And soon enough, Daniel was telling me what Bob thought.

I expected Bob to give me a 2-to-1 advantage in any contested discussions this week. But I can see Linda first, and now Daniel, are trying to co-opt him. Can't they see Bob wouldn't turn on me?

It seems everyone wants a piece of Bob. The Phelans came over with a birthday card for me and they asked how Bob was.

In particular, their 4-year-old daughter was curious because she has her own imaginary friends, Paco and Kaneequa. After they moved to their new house, Paco and Kaneequa had a child named Lila.

Bouncing like she was on hot coals--or had to go to the bathroom--their daughter was so excited that I had an imaginary friend, too.

She pulled her mom Coleen down to her level and whispered something to her. "Not today, honey, maybe some other time," Coleen told her.

"She wants to know if she can have a playdate with Mr. Roach," Coleen conveyed. "And Bob."

Day 3

I don't usually go grocery shopping. But I've got to get Bob out of the house--he thinks I'm boring.

He's probably right; I can be more of a homebody than J.D. Salinger. Bob's itching to meet people, and I have to admit, I haven't been introducing him enough.

At Barnes & Noble the other day, a staffer came up to us and asked if we needed help. I said, "No. Do you, Bob?" The staffer moved on before I could formally introduce him to Bob.

So I figured I'd take Bob food shopping. Here's a tip: If you're looking to avoid the crowds, shop at 11 on a Thursday morning. It's hard for Bob to meet people when aisle after aisle is as deserted as a Foghat concert.

I was glad to see Bob's tastes haven't changed after all these years. We still like the same food, so shopping was a breeze.

Linda was on her way to work as we pulled up the street after our trip. "We did well," I said with a smile, as I rolled down the window.

"What did you get?" she asked, returning my smile and knowing she never should have let me near a store with more chips than a casino.

"It wasn't just me--it was Bob, too," I explained. "We only spent $24, but we got a lotttttttt of stuff."

"But is it a lot that we need, or is it $24 worth of junk food?"

(One aside: That's another reason I don't go grocery shopping. Linda pretty much nailed what we bought.)

"Bob will eat them, too," I said.

Linda got into her car, saying, "I think Bob needs to start paying rent."

Days 4 & 5

Hi. Bob here. I'm writing John's entry today.

He's off looking up Larry Bowa's batting average on his baseball card or listening to his Donny and Marie album, or some such ridiculous thing. I figured I'd better step up.

It's pretty much been that way all week; if there's a job to be accomplished around the house, I'm the man. I love the guy, but John could spend all day perfecting his Wiffle curveball.

I found his toolbox in the basement and wrote my name in the dust covering it.

At least he's not lazy now. When I'd go to his house when we were kids in the pre-remote control days, he'd make me change the channel all the time, even pretending to like That Girl so he wouldn't have to get up from the couch. (Note from John: who was pretending?)

His friends seem nice enough--clearly they're a tolerant bunch. We had dinner at Tim and Coleen's and I got to play with their daughter's imaginary friends, Paco, Kaneequa, and Lila.

Coleen told John she wondered if Paco and I would get along, but he was a nice guy. As Colleen said, "Paco and Kaneequa have matured a lot since they had Lila."

Earlier in the day, John was working, so Daniel decided he wanted to play Rock, Paper, Scissors with me. John looked at Daniel like he was crazy--has John looked in a mirror lately?--but Daniel and I had fun.

Except he won every time. John said he was happy Daniel hadn't lost to me--then he'd have been really worried.

Yeah, imagine if a kid lost a game to his dad's imaginary friend. Who's the crazy one in that scenario?

Day 6

Bob loves to talk about the popularity of his name, and he's got a point. The name Bob is everywhere.

Bob is a haircut, a Microsoft computer program, an FM radio format, the airport code for Bora Bora, and a video game.

And, Bob reminds me, there's Bob the Builder, Bob the Tomato, SpongeBob Squarepants, and Bill Murray in "What About Bob?"

As Bob points out, John is just a toilet.

Bob was telling me all of this because my mother-in-law was coming over for a night and I was a little apprehensive about introducing her to Bob.

It's tough enough interacting with an in-law; try introducing her to your imaginary friend.

But Bob was convinced that he'd be a hit because, to his point, everyone loves Bob. Bob doesn't lack for confidence.

Turns out, he was right. My mother-in-law was pleased to meet him, and had some charming conversations with him. Then again, Joan likes me, so clearly she can get along with anyone.

Later in the day, Phil and Gray came over, and Phil asked Daniel if he liked Bob. "Yeah, he's okay," said Daniel before bounding out of the room. Phil looked at me and just shook his head.

I guess I should worry about that. Really, I just hope Daniel doesn't miss Bob too much when he has to leave tomorrow.

Day 7

I just dropped Bob off at the train station; I'm gonna miss that guy. I don't think I'm alone there. Bob made a lot of friends this week and brought out the kindness in so many.

Whether it was Gray checking to make sure she wasn't sitting on Bob's lap during a visit, or my mother-in-law smiling at Bob and shaking his hand, people looked out for Bob.

Daniel would occasionally playfully punch Bob, but Bob got him back Sunday night.

Daniel and I were in a best-of-9 strawweight vs. super-heavyweight wrestling match. Tied 4 pins to 4, I broke out the surprise and tagged in Bob to double-team Daniel.

The poor kid was laughing so hard he couldn't break free, until Bob let him go, and Daniel rallied to pin me. Bob's such a softie.

I gave Bob a big hug at the station--a couple in a car nearby looked at us kind of funny for some reason--and left him to wait for his train.

If you're ever in Montserrat on vacation, look him up, and he'll show you a good time. Just ask for Bob.

Be a Yes Man

More fun from 2 years ago.

Day 1

I've decided to answer "Yes" to every question I'm asked this week. It sounds simple enough, but I hoped to fly under the radar for a few days at home.

Otherwise, I fear seven days of housework and healthy eating once my wife finds out.

I was safe through the middle part of the first day, even though I had to share my potato chips at lunch with Linda when she asked, "Is it okay if I have some?"

Now, I consider myself to be a generous guy; if someone asks me for something, I can share, no problem.

Except when it comes to my junk food--then, it's every man for himself. There can be no sharing when it comes french fries, chips, ice cream, cookies, and the like.

The problem is, Linda is a Communist with food. What's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine, and if we all share, there will be enough for everyone. What a Pinko!

I, however, am a Junk Food Dictator. What's mine is mine, what's yours is mine, and I may even take some from the kid, too, if I feel like it.

I've gotten upset if Linda eats more than two of my french fries, because, well, they're mine and I had plans for them! I was going to eat them! And they're mine! So clearly, one of us has a problem.

The potato chip debacle aside, I was still safe until dinner, when 7-year-old Daniel asked what I was doing this week.

I walked quickly toward him, intending to answer him quietly, and hoping Linda hadn't heard. No such luck.

"Yeah, what are you doing?" she asked. And now, the troubles begin, I thought to myself, bracing for a week of manual labor--washing, ironing, dusting, cleaning--will it ever end?

When I told them, Daniel nearly fell off his chair in excitement because he immediately realized it would benefit him.

"I think I'm going to like this thing," he said. "This is going to be awesome!"

And then he laughed like an evil mad scientist for a few seconds before stopping himself, and saying, "No, it's not that funny."

The brain of a 7-year-old is the eighth wonder of the world.

"Can I stay up late tonight?" Daniel immediately asked. "Can I stay home from school tomorrow?"

Good thing Linda was there to answer, or this would quickly have become Daniel's dream week.

Linda offered a surprisingly tepid reaction to my plans; she worried that by answering yes to whatever she asked, I'd simply be humoring her.

When she asked if that was the case, of course I had to say yes. "So you won't be telling me the truth about how you really feel?" she asked.

Yes again--she wasn't picking up on how this conversation was going to go.

That's when I realized I'm in big trouble if she tries on an outfit this week and asks, "Does this make me look fat?"

Day 2

Linda and Daniel initially took different approaches with their newfound power.

Linda is like a person dipping her toe in the pool, testing it little by little, wondering if there's something lurking in the water she can't see.

I can see her working out the concept: After eight years of marriage, he finally has to listen to me and do whatever I say? What's the catch?

I think for her it's more unnerving than having a college roommate nicknamed Psycho.

Her requests have been minimal. She asked me to sweep the house, but it's not as if she's forcing chores on me like I'm her personal Cinderfella.

Once, just to test me, she asked me to stand and wait while she worked on her computer. So I stood there, waiting, watching, hovering .... "Oh, will you please go somewhere else?" Yes!

If Linda was slow getting into the water, Daniel was doing cannonballs off the high dive.

I asked if he wanted to play a game and he decided he did. "And, Daddy, can you set it up and clean it up when we're done?"

Before dinner, he asked, "Daddy, can you not have any chips all week?" and laughed himself silly.

Dinner brought their two approaches together like a rain cloud over me. Smiling so hard he could barely get out the words, Daniel asked, "Daddy, can I watch TV after dinner?"

Linda, noticing I'd shoved some vegetables aside, said, "Can you please eat more celery?" She followed up with, "Could you please not eat any butter?" as I went to butter my bread.

Now I know how Coca-Cola executives felt after seeing New Coke bomb: What was I thinking when I came up with this idea?

For an instant, the power trippers tripped up each other.

As soon as Linda asked me to bypass the butter, Daniel jumped in: "Daddy, can you please eat more butter?" "Could you not eat any more?" Linda retorted. "No, don't listen to her," Daniel shrieked, "Can you eat more?"

I'm Frankenstein's monster and they're playing Ping Pong with my brain.

Daniel ended the day still reveling in his almighty power. "Daddy, can I have dessert?" As I trudged off to get it, I heard him say to Linda, "Mommy, we are living the life!"

Day 3

What's the first word most babies learn? No. It makes sense, since that's what they hear much of the day.

"No, don't touch the oven." Or, "No, don't eat that," or maybe, as was the case with our son, "No, Daniel, don't lick the cat."

It's amazing what kids learn when we're not teaching them. When Caitlin was 3, she and I were playing together while I watched college football on three or four different channels all afternoon.

As we moved around the room at her dolls' tea party, I kept saying, "Please hand me the remote," or simply, "Remote, please," so I could flip back and forth to the different games.

After a while, she asked for some ice cream. We were still trying to teach her manners, so I said, "Okay, but first, what's the magic word?"

She paused, thought for an instant, and said questioningly, "Remote?"

I'm reminded of that because it took Daniel just two days during my Yes week to learn when it's best to ask me questions: when Mom's not around to say no.

Last night, as soon as Linda left the room, Daniel turned to me quickly and said, "Can I have dessert again tonight?"

We try not to let him eat dessert every night, so he knows this week is his chance to bend the rules. He's cashing in like a politician spending other people's money.

Of course, he probably learned his tricks from me when I didn't even know I was teaching him.

For example, we ate dinner at our friend Katy's house last night, and she got a laugh out of my Yes week. "Oh, we can have fun with this," she said to Linda.

I knew I had to derail the conversation before the two animal lovers had me saying yes to owning four dogs, three cats, two pandas, and an emu.

Being the thoughtful guest, I preyed upon their weakness. "Wow, Katy, that's a great picture of your dog. That's so long ago--how old was she then?"

To quote legendary wordsmith Emeril, "Bam!" The conversation went off in another direction, and I escaped unscathed and emu-free.

I may not be able to say no, but there are plenty of ways to avoid saying yes.

Days 4 & 5

I was a little worried heading into poker night with the guys. It's not good to provide ammunition to a group that would mock the Dalai Lama.

I'll be like a wounded animal in the wild having to answer, "Yes," to whatever they ask.

It started when Phil e-mailed to say what time he'd pick me up. "You'll sit in the back--yes?" he wrote. I was just glad he didn't ask if I'd like to be tied to the back bumper.

I arrived and Brian's 8-year-old son Robert quickly ran to get something. I knew that was a bad sign.

He returned holding a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap and I was handed a Dallas Cowboys mug that was mine for the night.

Prodded on by his Dallas-loving dad, Robert asked, "Mr. Roach, do you like the Cowboys?" I mustered a weak, "Yes."

"Do you want to wear this hat?" An even weaker, "Yes." I guess this proves something has to be wrong with you to be a Cowboys fan.

Fortunately, that was as bad as things got. Maybe the guys are getting soft as they age and get softer around the middle.

Or maybe they're getting forgetful. Or maybe they realized admitting to be a Cowboys fan is punishment enough.

Day 6

Linda got a taste of the Yes life today. As Daniel was getting ready for bed, he decided he wanted to give her a homework assignment.

He told her she had to write a three-part essay on what a Lego pirate ship should have, what a Lego Space Police ship needs, and what a Lego Power Miner should have.

And her essay had to be finished before he woke up the next morning.

"Unlike me, you could have said no," I reminded her when she told me of her task.

"When your son asks you to write an essay, you do it," she said.

Sure enough, Linda wrote her assignment in detail, explaining what was needed and why. She completed it more diligently than probably most of her homework in college.

I asked Daniel in the morning if he saw all of Mommy's work. Was he proud of what she did for him?

"I read it already," he said, picking up the paper, looking at it dismissively, then dumping it back on the table. "B-minus."

Turns out, he was nicer to Linda than it appeared to me. He awarded Linda a Lego badge, though he also threw out a challenge.

"I like the blast-off shoes in the Space Police section, but you can get a better grade by re-doing the pirate and Power Miner sections," he said.

And he didn't let her forget her chance for improvement. "Mommmmm," he said, chasing her all morning. "You can do better."

Sometimes "No" is a beautiful word.

Day 7

As anyone with kids knows, you spend an inordinate amount of your time with them answering questions.

That's not a bad thing, but it's frustrating when you say no, and the question gets asked again four minutes later, then again 12 minutes later, then once again just because the kid hopes to wear you down from a no, to a maybe, to a yes.

They know how to manipulate the system better than an Enron executive. Once, I overheard Daniel say to a friend, "When my Dad says, 'Maybe,' it means yes."

So it was a nice break for one week to be relieved of my behavior-monitoring duties as a dad.

And I know Daniel enjoyed Yes Week, too, considering all the times he asked me to have dessert, to stay up late, and to watch TV. He controlled me like I was a Wii remote.

However, he's not a fan of trying the idea himself.

As he was got ready to start making cookies with Linda Sunday, I told him to just say yes to whatever Mom says and to learn what she's doing. "You can do what I've been doing all week," I said.

"A kid could never do that all week," Daniel said. "It's impossible, dude."