Raising Reagan

I have a feeling of calm today.

Even after hearing the news last week of the terrorist plot to blow up one of the biggest building in Dallas...only blocks from where we used to live...I still feel at ease.

I now know that the terrorists are just toying with us ...because if they were truly serious, they would inject strep throat into the government offices. No...not into the politicians themselves, but into their children.

I'm fairly certain that NOTHING can bring a seemingly functional family...or already dysfunctional government office... to a screeching halt than when a four year old...like Reagan...get's strep.

No school. No sleep. No fun. She became the patient, we lost our patience.

Reagan began her flu-like symptoms last week around Wednesday. As the temperature went up, she equally wound down. It would probably be wrong to sometimes wish their kid had a fever, but anywhere over 102, and they usual Chevy Chase prat-fall antics cease, and all she wants to do is watch her shows...quietly...ahhhhhh.

Other than a few doses of motrin and the concern of explaining 'swine' flu to a four year old ("No, Reagan, you're not turning into a pig...any more than usual..."), getting past the flu is doable.

Strep, however, involves seemingly unexplainable throat pain ( "Daddy, why can't you make it stop hurting?!" is a tough one to swallow). Even worse is the lack of sleep, which then leads to night terrors. I mean HER night terrors, but eventually it becomes ours as well!

Once sleep exits the building, so does the functionality. All of the sudden there's subtle arguments over who's going to sooth the crazy kid tapping her throat in the other room, or what's for breakfast or even how to properly flush a non-working toilet. We were less tired after running a half marathon!! So now NO one wants to do anything, and NOTHING productive gets done (which really, is what the weekends are for, no?).

This morning was a tough go, but Reagan has been on her antibiotics...aka...'magical pink fairy milk'...(hey...whatever it takes)...for over two days now. The note from the doctor says that the school may take her back into the germ factory that introduced this pain to her/us in the first place, after this had occurred. But re-delivering a sick kid BACK into school prompts looks from teachers and parents alike that...well...prompt further explanation that your child is, in fact, NOT turning into a pig.

Besides...if we keep her out of Pre-K, the terrorists win.

Some of us get our '15 minutes', and we don't even know it.

The sweet little girl, who's sweet little dad took her to a sweet little Philly's game is getting all kinds of national attention because Daddy got a foul ball, and she sweetly threw the sweet ball back. Sweet. They were on the Today Show today, and all around the talk circuit, with all the hard pressing questions..."Why did you do that?!?!"...."because...". She's THREE! Why do they do anything?

I've been a baseball fan all my life. My Dad took me to the Red's games in Cincinnati, and I'll always remember them! I've been to Dodger Stadium, Coors Field, and recently Fenway Park. No matter which field, I've always hoped for that one foul ball...never mind a home run ball...and I'm still waitingl That Dad on TV finally got his wish. He got that ball. And he did what any respectable grown up should do, and that's not spill his beer. Well that, and he gave the ball to the kid. Any kid with the sad, deserving look and coal-blackened cheeks of 'Oliver' would do, but he happened to have his own with him. Bonus.

Then...his dream was gone. She chucked the ball back onto the field. Hey, you give a 3-year-old a ball, and she's going to throw it! As fathers, we try, and teach and train our chidren to the likes of Rocky in the Siberian snow drifts, to catch a damn ball...and throw it back. This man should be a major league coach with the arm on that kid. I toss a ball to Reagan, it will hit her in the eye, she'll laugh, then throw it forward with great speed...but the ball will hit the dog behind her somehow...it's a great mystery.

Some guys I pretend to not know would have rather thrown the kid back...so although his dream of that one foul ball disappeared like a Taylor Swift speech at a Kanye party (Kanye says he could've thrown it back better), he should be proud. Not only did he do the right thing and give his kid a hug and say 'that's ok'!, but he somehow saved his dog, her eye and overall 'awwwww' of a country.

First of all, I apologize for the few day off from the blog. I've made it my intention to blog 2-3 times a week at a minimum, but we've been gone...mentally and physically.
We took a trip to Boston. This was a trip that Sarah and her sister had put together for their Dad's (Papa's) 70th birthday. He's a history buff (ex-teacher, in fact), and ex-coach, so they knew he'd appreciate the history of Boston, as well as a trip to Fenway Park. In fact, we almost all enjoyed it!

We made a drive to Lexington and Concord. We climbed the monument at Bunker Hill. We saw the Old North Church where the lantern's of some old schmo named Paul Revere (apparently NOT of Beastie Boys fame, to my embarrassment). Great trip indeed.

Now the funny thing is, is that we've recently had conversations about Reagan, and whether or not she's old enough for Disney World. She's absolutely into princesses, talking dogs and souvenir's that may require another mortgage, so we're convinced next year may be the year.

With that in mind...we somehow NEVER though to consider if she was old enough for Boston. Granted, the trip wasn't 'for' her, but any time you bring a four-year-old, it becomes ABOUT her. So no, Lexington and Concord was of no interest to her. The only Concord she knows is the grape variety shown on a half empty, sticky jelly jar. If the Old North Church had remotely looked like Cinderella's castle, that MAY have won her over slightly. The only thing this child was interested in, is the soft pretzels at the Old State Building. This is the sight of the Boston Massacre as well, which I find is an odd place to sell soft pretzels and roasted nuts. "This is the sight of the dreaded Boston Massacre!! Eight colonials were shot to death here that eventful day, thus leading to the freedom of our country!! Want some nuts?"

We'd go to Fanuil Hall...the oldest marketplace in the country. The Union Oyster House...the oldest restaurant in the country, and we stayed at the oldest, continuously operated hotel in the country...but if The Girl didn't get a Boston Massacre soft pretzel, all this freedom was for not. In her eyes, we may have just stayed British. Next year Goofy had better be carrying a stick of pretzels.

While laying awake in bed this morning, and desperately awaiting 7:00 so I can hear a bad Al Roker joke to claim as my own, I found myself perplexed by something else that I thought was a joke indeed.

Allow me to introduce to you the F.F.P.S.

This, my friends, is "Fun, Fair, Positive Soccer". A league for our athletic children, that will no doubt be nothing short of a joyous, harmonious experience for all.

Just imagine...no standings, no scores, everyone plays and everyone wins!! JUST like in REAL LIFE!! FINALLY a league that we can all relate too! I just know that if little Reagan were take the field, despite running up to and missing the ball nearly every time, she would still see a magical rainbow of colors appear in the sky, Coach Pink Unicorn cheering her on from the sideline, and grape kool-aid after the game.

No more parents arguing!! Your kid just took out my kid with a ferocious pre-k slide tackle? You, sir, are getting a giant Hug and a juicebox!! Come get ya some!!

Wow. Trophies for everyone, no tryouts, balanced teams. It's Stepford Soccer! But I DO have a few questions. Since nothing matters in sports but to just play the game, why have a registration deadline? Just come on out when you're ready! Whoohoo!! Check the website for practice times? Why? We don't need practice since everyone plays and nobody wins!! In fact, don't even worry about injuries!! The magical smurf doctor will swoop down from his soccer ball shapd cloud and fix 'ya right up! Off you go now!

You know, as we celebrate the anniversary of the F.F.P.C (concert) of '69 (Woodstock), and preparing our children for their future in such a glorious, wonderful way, I was thinking...we could apply this same concept to so many other things!!
Just think about it...Fun, Fair, Positive REAL ESTATE!!! YES!! You'll get exactly what you want for your house, everything will work...no repairs necessary, and you don't even need to qualify!! Ok, ok...that last part we've been through before.

Alright then, how about Fun, Fair, Positive Employment!! Resume? What's THAT?!! HAHAHA... you look like a sharp feller!! Come on in and sell some of these here mutual funds that are worth millions!! ...ok...Hundreds!!! Who cares!! Everyone wins!! Oh, you don't know how? that doesn't matter, we preach the F.F.P. way!! So you lost Mr. Johnson's portfolio...here's a trophy anyway!

"I'm sorry your hurt your back, sir...who's your insurance provider?", "why, I have F.F.P. Insurance!!" Suddenly a rainbox appears over the reception desk, she actually smiles for once (this IS magical!) and "You, sir, will be seen RIGHT NOW! Just have a seat in this recliner..."

Fun, Fair and Positive. THAT is what life is truly about. No rules, no effort, no score. So all this 'manners, education, being a good winner AND loser (more loser, to some of us...) and 'responsibility' crap we've been going on and on about ad naseum? What a waste of time!

In response, Sarah said this morning "no kid of mine is playing anything fair!"...she just doesn't see the colors yet.

One of the things I've enjoyed doing recently, aside from picking up hidden dog poop (our dog's version of 'adjusting', apparently...she's a shih-tzu, ironically) is leaving a little early to pick up Reagan and watch her play at 'the playpark', as she likes to call it.

At the end of every weather-permitting day, The Girl's class mercifully unchains them, allows the shackles to fall to the floor, and lets them run and scream like crows over carrion on the fenced-in playground. It's been fun to watch because last week, there was little interaction because she was so new. Yesterday and today were noticeably different, with plenty of germ-sharing snot interaction with all. Ahhh...so proud and happy she's building new relationships that will last life-long...or at least into the next week. I even took a picture.

Then, I realized that as I am sitting alone in the parking lot in my black car with tinted windows in the back, unshaven, and donning a ball cap and dark sunglasses...and an iphone camera...that I am soliciting looks from the teachers and a few parents that were different from the look that says 'ewww...bad fashion guy'. They weren't looking because of my disarmingly good looks, but because they were thinking they may need to disarm ME! I'm THAT guy skulking the kids in the parking lot!

Next thing you know, Baptist Barney Fife storms over with his police light adorned golf cart and starts lapping my car with fire and brimstone in his eyes. Since this is a 'churchy' school, I'm fairly certain the only thing they're allowed to beat you down with is a heavy dose of 'the spirit'.

I decide to antagonize them a little, and make my way, slowly, mind you, to the carpool lane. I was followed and I'm pretty sure radio'd in to a higher authority. Once in line though, I put the tag in the window that let's them know for one, I'm allowed to be there and moderately safe, and who I'm there to pick up...legally. The law peeled off to pursue other evil-doers.

Once I was recognized as one of the less creepy parents, the looks on their faces changed. It was actually nice to see said look go from "Oh!! You're a child stalker"! to a smile and a "Oh!! You're a lazy, unshaven stay/work at home Dad"!! Whew.

Today was the end to what we probably should consider the end to a success first week of school.
Sure there was that wardrobe malfunction, but we all learned from that...mostly that some of us are going to need better dance moves for the future.

There also was an open house last night, where I learned that I have indeed inherited the motherly curse of "I hope you have a kid JUST LIKE YOU". Great. I was informed last night that Reagan got into trouble because she was doing the project like she wanted and not listening. I'm not sure where she got that trait, but I don't care...I'm going to raise her like I want!

And today being Friday, we picked back up with our two school-year long routine of McDonald's after school on Friday. Cheeseburger, fries, white milk and apple slices, please.

The sign of things to come however, again came in the carpool lane. Come to think of it, I could blog just about life in the carpool lane.

Reagan's not used to going to school five days a week. Last year the days were a little longer, but she only went three days, so this week there was a little more anxiety about leaving the car. So on the way to school, as the last few days, Reagan made me promise a hug and a kiss before the warden yanks her out of the car and checks her outfit for nip-slips. She actually made me promise it three times before we got there.

Now today being Friday, it also apparently was cult-like spirit indoctrination day. I thought the t-shirt in our bag the other day was a freebie, but apparently it is to be worn the days that the kids 748 years older than her play football against other institutions. So we pull up, and there, before her ever widening eyes...were the middle school cheerleaders to help with the unloading.

The car had barely pulled to a stop before the seatbelt was off in the back...she usually can't seem to reach it! The hands and face were flattened against the window as if she'd never make it out alive. "Daddy!!! It's my favorite!! Cheerleaders!!" I'm not sure what biblical passage they'll teach in class that will relate to how close she felt to her She-God at that very moment.
Car stops. Doors open. Reagan's out. No hug and a kiss.

As parents of a girl, there's really only one basic responsibility. Sure, there's the basics of providing for food, shelter and fabulous jeans and 'tops' (oh no...not shirts...tops), but it goes further than that. Our job is to keep her off the pole. Nothing against Candy, Mercedeeees and all the others trying to pay their way through college by shaking their money-makers in the land of watered down drinks and bad carpet, but we're shooting for something...er, anything...a little different.

We took a step backwards today, while at the same time earning a stern talking to at her new school...on only day three. Neat.

I had an appointment at a big production shop that does music videos, commercials, etc., and was talking to them about doing voicework for them. Since I'm only usually used to getting Sarah and Reagan bathed, fed and off, I typically am fixing myself up after they're off contributing to the world. So because I added me to the morning mix, I was a little behind and not thinking very clearly. I dressed Reagan in a pair of nice shorts and a cute 'top'...that had...dare I say...spaghetti straps. Sarah said she hoped it was ok that she had that on, and I said 'oh sure...that looks great'!! Just in case I was wrong, as I tend to be, I packed another shirt...sorry...top...in her backpack.

As I drop The Girl off at the carpool lane...non-luxury lane please...we had the luck of the draw of being met by the head of the lower school (we used to call them 'principals'...whatever). By the look I received, you would have thought I dressed her in a black trashbag...which can be very practical, mind you, should one find one's self at a music festival, say, in Memphis...I digress.
I assured her that there was a backup top in the backpack should everyone else make the same facial expression she was making.

Just then, as she innocently jumped out of the car, heading to her fun, education-filled, only third day of the new school, her top shot down as if preparing to milk a litter of kittens. Now the look said something completely different. I yelled as I sped off "don't forget that backup shirt should you need it!".

Hoping I had someone completely different when I drove back up to that carpool lane for pickup, I got my wish. The problem was that I got her teacher this time. Reagan climbs in with a fine and chipper "hi Daddy!!", and there was that top...I don't know how it could fall down AND rise up all at once, but this magical 'lack of a top' did just that...both nipples AND navel exposed. The teacher 'kindly suggested' we "save that top for the weekends". I'll do just that...and make sure she chooses a better name than Candy or Mercedes.

We're back from Kansas City and slept in our new condo for the first time last night. Today, Reagan awoke in her new room, and is the first day of her new school year in a new city, at a new school, with a new teacher and new friends. I think what our life needs right now is just a LITTLE more uncertainty and unfamiliarity. It would be new to not have anything new for a while!

You put so much thought and effort into the one GOING to school...making sure they look nice on the first day, have a nutritious lunch, everything's in their backpack, and assuring them that they'll meet new friends that you forget what YOUR level of anxiety is going to be! Sarah and I had a hard time dropping her off this time. I think WE were more nervous for her than she was!

That being said, there was some element of entertainment that made the whole experience better. The parade of school moms. I'm not certain, but apparently there was a note in the welcoming packet that announced the contest for 1st day costumes. Prizes seemed to be issued for mostly athletic clothing on one human being, botox 'expression' contest, and a trophy for the 'stilleto's in sweats' race. Actually, this crowd would never be seen in 'sweats', unless maybe they were intentionally worn for some sort of 'ironic' fashion statement...and they'd be cashmere.

Luckily women tend to only judge other women, and Sarah was with me looking sharp for work, so the attention was off me and my Gap pants and Chuck Taylors. I have no shame in my drop off uniform, but my biggest concern is that when I drop her off tomorrow without Mom there, someone's going to hand me a mop and inform me of the juicebox spill by room 19. Finally, something that's not new!

Well Sarah and I are off again. Well...we've been considered 'off' for a while actually, but I mean we're leaving again. We're off to go pick up Reagan from Kansas City, where they have been kind enough to keep her captured there until we got back from Italy and finished with the move. It's a quick trip, but we're ready to be 'home' for a while now...wherever 'home' is!

So we're leaving our half-empty condo that is in a condition somewhat reminiscent to those Roman ruins of which I spoke last time, and headed to the condo down the hall, that is equally destroyed. Ahhh...life in transition.

Now poor Reagan, who slept in a couple different beds while in KC, is coming back to the one room in the new condo that is pretty much finished. It was important to us to hang pictures, crucify a princess kite to the ceiling and make the bed so she can feel at 'home' again. It's probably the last time we'll see her bed AND room in that condition anytime soon, so we actually took pictures.

There's enough pink in there to employ Pepto Bismol as a sponsor. Actually...the way my voicework biz is going, that's not a bad idea! Not to mention I may get nauseous if I see another cardboard box...Note to self...

It's back to life, and back to reality. The trip with Sarah to Italy although not restful, was beautiful, exciting and awe inspiring. It really makes you wonder, as you stand in St. Peter's Basilica, or a 500 year old wine castle in Chianti, or the Academy museum in Florence with Michelangelo's David...if there are, in fact, any four year old's in Italy. How else can something stand, in such good condition, for so long?? The only place, I'm convinced, that there are four year old's, is in Rome...where the ruins are.

Sure, I think there are babies all over Italy, then once they reach the age of two, they are shipped to Rome where things are already crumbling (albeit beautiful), and then when they are old enough to crush grapes with their feet with marker painted all over them, they are redistributed back to their families.

It is for this reason that, as we move in to our condo this week, Reagan continues to stay with one set of grandparents who have vowed to guard her like an angry centry at the Sistine Chapel. We envisioned movers bringing in boxes...Reagan promptly prying said boxes open...probably in the doorway...then movers slipping on packing paper, crayons and beheaded Barbies as they bring in the next round. I'm sure there's an insurance rider specifically for four year old's involved in a household move.

We do miss our girl, and can't wait to see her this weekend for sure. She'll be happier too, as, I'm convinced, the amount of punishment and time outs is in direct correlation with how much time a parent has had drinking wine in Tuscany.

Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither is our condo...what with all the unpacking, decorating, moving of furniture multiple times by order and whip of Sarah Caesar. This weekend we'll go get Reagan and deliver her home to her new bedroom, which will be as neat and glorious as the Romans would have originally had it.

Then, I give it one day. Maybe not even a full day. And shortly thereafter we'll be conducting tours through our own ruins...describing it's once glorious condition... minus the tigers, lions and gladiators and such. Well...I hope. Thankfully those post-four year olds are crushing grapes somewhere outside of Rome.

Today is another big day. Not as much for Reagan, but for Sarah and I because we finally get a nice timeout of our own, but we get to do it in the land of fine wine, meats and cheeses. The better news is that that doesn't mean Randall's grocery store for once...we're headed to Florence, Italy!

I was tasked with flying The Girl, Reagan, up to stay with her aunt while we're gone. Two flights up, two flights back. Seemingly no big deal, and anyone with ANY amount of kids will know, that solo flight back is amazingly quieter, no matter WHO is kicking my seat and blaring their Dora DVD behind me.

The bad news, and you'll have to pardon the subject matter here, is that we tacos the night before. Living in the Southwest, there is no shortage of taquerias, taco stands, etc., and we love them all, but for some reason, making them at home is delicious, fun and has about 16 tablespoons less grease that has turned many shirts into tie-dyed suitable for Woodstock (early on Woodstock, when shirts were still on...I'm assuming).

So here it is. I had gas. Bad. I seriously felt like someone had taken a prized california cantelope, that had been studded with chinese throwing stars all over it, and shoved it into where my abdomen grows. The problem now though, is that we're on an airplane. It's a full flight, all seats are taken, and I'm the one in the middle. Reagan to the left, complete stranger to the right.

Now the good thing about airplanes and gas, is that airplanes are loud. So one could potentially do a 'test run' if you will...and I know you have. No noise, no offensive stench, no offense, right? I already knew from explaining to Reagan on the way to the airport what a skunk is, and that there must have been a family of them illegally hitchhiking on the highway, that this was not an option.

The flight lasted roughly four hours. Well, actually, 1-1/2 hours, but it felt like four. I was so excited that we had finally landed and were approaching the gate, a bathroom, and my salvation.

The plane powers down, the AC is off, and that comforting noise that may have once saved me is now gone. The Girl, who also had tacos the night before, just rips one that must have made the luggage below shift. You've got to love four year olds. I'm in pain, worried about the social consequences of my flatual actions (I made that word up, yes), and she just let's it go.

After my joy for HER relief, and my nod of 'wow...impressive', I look to my right. The older gentleman who obviously hadn't gotten the 'Stetson cologne' memo a number of years back looks back at ME with disdain! How rude! Now I have a choice. I can either own it, or be 'that guy' that blames his kid for some bodily function that HE does! So I assume the unspoken blame, and shrug my shoulders back. Sorry. If he only knew there a stowed away family of skunks lurking in the overhead cabin!

I'm not sure if the plane needed to refuel or not, but we had plenty of gas.

(Note: Stay tuned for notes on the flight back and the serial killer I sat next to. I'll try to post while in Italy at some point! Thanks again for reading, and the kind comments!)
Grazie and arrivederci!

So today was the big day. Not only did we sign the paperwork so we can finally move into a place that has more space for Texas roaches to roam (we just kept stepping on each other in the current place), but also to meet the admissions staff at what we hope will be her new school, St. Holy Martyr of Peace, Mercy and Holy Baptism Is It Expensiveth.

Sarah was already dressed for the interview because she has a 'real' job. I thought it might be best to at least appear that we're one of those 'desirable' families, and wear a shirt with a collar AND buttons. We also voted on a shower and shoes...it's a big day.

The initial greeting was very nice. This particular school had an absolutely beautiful campus and was obviously very well maintained. The fact that our daughter is going into pre-k, and i'm already using words like 'campus' was a little uncomfortable at first. This school STARTS and pre-k, and goes up through high school, so it did make sense. I was, however, wondering just how much of the tuition went to 'ivy vine straightening'...impressive.

After our handshake and their obligatory looking over of us, they take Reagan away for 'testing'. The last couple of days we busted out the Hooked On Phonics we bought from the discount bin at Borders to 'practice', only to realize that if she could just remember that the alphabet doesn't start with 1,2,3, we'd be ahead of our usual game.
We were told that the test would take an hour and fifteen minutes, and it did. Reagan doesn't do ANYTHING for an hour and fifteen minutes except argue over why she can't have a twelfth licorice rope, so we were understandably concerned about how it would go.

They took us on a tour of the 'campus', probably to distract us from wondering what they could possibly be doing in there, short of drawing blood and running brain scans. We saw all of the facilities, even those used through the high school grades. I can't even imagine the day she stops pulling her dress up at the grocery to show the butcher department her Ariel panties...let alone compete for varsity volleyball.

We all met back at the admissions office eventually, asked if we had any further questions, and sent us on our way. Nothing regarding the test, nothing about whether we're 'in', nothing about if they found any signs of activity from the brain scans...just a quick, mildly polite "we'll let you know".

In our own debriefing in the car (not the Ariel panties kind, this time), Reagan told us they asked about our dog, Maggie. "Oh? What did you say about Maggie"? "That she sometimes poops on the carpet at home". I guess we'll start picking up some more applications.

Thanks to the John Mayer song, "Say What You Need To Say", that is used in some greeting card commercial I heard this morning, I remembered that it was awfully difficult to leave comments on this blog. I have supposedly fixed that now, and it should be a lot easier. You may now critique, comment, suggest, reminisce, commiserate, or even just tell me to go to Hell.
Whatever it takes to get that damn John Mayer song out of my head.

Yesterday was a sure sign that despite the 90 plus degree temperatures and 70% humidity, the year is, in fact, moving right along. Between January and May, the days went by faster than a four-year-old at a mall with a Claire's and sugar. Then it slowed dramatically. Either the moon, stars and planets aligned JUST right, along with an eclipse thrown in for good measure to anger ancient Gods, or school let out.

Yesterday, however, was a sign that Summer break IS, in fact, ending, and the allegedly cooler months are in our future. We made a visit to the Houston Texans training camp, which means football is just around the corner, which means SCHOOL is starting...despite those angered ancient Gods and whatever I did to tick them off.

As I mentioned in my last post, we're in a new city. And with moving to a new city, comes finding a new school for Reagan...and fast. Most 'good' schools (or at least the ones that people consider socially acceptable...that's the most important thing, isn't it?), have applicants a year in advance we've learned. Because our move was so sudden, we've made calls to as many schools that start with 'St.', or such and such 'school of...' as we could, only to get a muffled, mocking laugh from a 'marmish' admissions ruler.

We did find one that we think we'll like that had room for The Girl. Apparently begging, high application fees and switching faiths works for some of those rulers.

Next comes all the applications, shot records, references and birth certificate. We purchased our last house with less paperwork. We couldn't find Reagan's birth certificate immediately (most likely in a box within a box on a moving truck somewhere), and had to order a new one. We were going to do that immediately anyway...Sarah has plans for her to run for President in 32 years, and we'd hate for her to be 'Obama-ized' for making it through a successful college career, public service and election and NOT having a birth certificate.

This week we also have to go to Reagan's admissions 'testing'. With everything else we've seen in this process, that test will probably be somewhere between the MENSA challenge and a Political Science final at Yale. The biggest test she's had to date is whether she can poop AND wipe...so I'm not expecting this to go well. Plus if you ask her now, 'Reagan' is spelled, it's 'R.A.G.M.K.'

They'll feel bad for her and put her in school, which this year (pre-K) will be 5 days a week. I'll have more time on my hands, the weather will be cooler, the days faster, and my trip to Claire's will be considerably less exciting.

What a great afternoon. It's absolutely pouring down rain, and The Girl (Reagan), is asleep in her tent in the bathroom.
I thought of just leaving the post at that, but felt I should explain. God knows she'd end up on some 'weird, bathroom-sleepin' kid' list that may circulate to a college we'd love for her to go to, and she'll argue with us about...

The Mom, Sarah, took a great job for her and our family to a new city. Reagan and I had to stay at the old house until someone either purchased our house, or decided to borrow it for a while in the form of a lease. That period of time lasted for about four months...the wine cooler was filled and emptied many times, and most sharp objects were hidden from plain sight.

Either way, we made it out safely, and we're ALL together...staying in a small 1-bedroom apartment, a lot like the Residence Inn off the main drag in Sopchoppy, FL. (never been to Sopchoppy...just like saying the name...and assumed they had a Residence Inn). So at night, The Girl sleeps in said tent in the living room, The Beast (our Shih-Tzu, Maggie) in her kennel, and we sleep in the bedroom. Naptime comes, I drag the tent into the bathroom, turn on the cave-like shower light and fan, and she sleeps like a college girl that partook from the sorority beer/malt liquor bong one too many times and ended up on the floor of the bathroom.
Oh. Don't worry. I can hear if she were to miraculously awake and decide to voluntarily bathe herself and turn on the tub water.

We do have a bid on a place that we really like, and will hopefully being moving out of this cell, er, 'condo' soon. But in the mean time, we've been making it work for a little while now.

It's funny, you put so much time into finding the right Realtor (I just recently found out that is capitalized), who will find 50 places that would be right for your family, with the right number of bedrooms and bathrooms, and the right sized kitchen with the right appliances, etc...and all you need is the right tent. One that could even be used on a vacation to Sopchoppy. SOPchoppy. Sopchoppyyyy...

Well, the girl is asleep with her nap, and I figured this was as good a time as any to get started. The girl being Reagan. Me...I'm her Dad, Chuck. She's now four years old as of yesterday, and I'm 40, going on 60...or maybe it's just the effects of a cold...swine flu...who knows...that I'm feeling.

I'm no web expert, professional writer, previously failed blogger looking to try a new one or anything like that. I'm a 'work' from home Dad that also takes care of 'The Girl', as we endearingly like to call her. Oh, I put 'work' in quotation marks like that, because I do commercial voicework for radio, I've also dabbled professionally in photography, etc. Some consider it work...others look at me curiously as if I may as well be standing at the busiest intersection in town with a weathered fedora in my outstretched hands and a cardboard sign asking for your change. I've actually considered that, and would it would probably be more profitable for me to do just that.

Regardless, Reagan's Mom, Sarah, said this would be a good idea...in an obvious attempt to get me to be a little busier. She is a die-hard professional...the kind any of us would like to be like. She has the motivation, enthusiasm and drive to make million-dollar decisions every day. MY 'drive' is to the grocery store to get more Easy-Mac.

Reagan's the best. And I'm hoping that this will be a nice outlet to introduce her life to you, as well as mine as a father...or at least my attempt at it! So welcome to RaisingReagan.com. Look for a lot more to come, and feel free to contribute, make suggestions, etc, when you feel the urge.
Well The Girl is up now. She's frowning at me as if to wonder where my fedora of change is...gotta go and update that cardboard sign.

Of the Raising Reagan blogging system! This is only a test.