They're right, you can't herd a cat

So there I was, pitted against a wily beast.

A creature of such cunning, such prowess I knew the odds were heavily against me.

But I refused to give up.

First, I tried sneaking up on the beast from behind, but my ninja-like skills have been slowed by old age, well middle age anyway, and the furred critter made good its escape.

Perhaps enticing the beast with food would bring it close enough for me to get my hands it.

And then again, perhaps not.

Said beast remained just out of arms reach, foiling an otherwise brilliant plan.

A few other attempts were made to grab the wayward animal, but in the end I had to admit defeat.

I had been outsmarted and outmaneuvered by a one-year-old cat.

Young Daughter wanted a pet of her own, so a year ago we picked up a kitten.

Her name is Lisa, a.k.a. Little Cat, and she is your typical cat that does typical cat things.

We decided she would be an outside cat, so we let her explore the backyard in short stints and she seemed fine with that because every little sound scared the snot out of her.

A bug farted and she sprinted for the backdoor like a pack of wolves were after her. Sure it was pretty big bug, but she is not exactly coming across as a fierce creature.

And I am OK with that as it should improve her survival odds in the great outdoors.

And it's not like we live in the deep forest or harsh jungle. We live in your typical suburban neighbourhood mostly devoid of vicious predators.

There are, however, coyotes in the surrounding hills and we occasionally hear them howling and yipping at night.

And that is why I ended up spending a good portion of my evening trying to herd a cat into the house.

It was near dark and Lisa bolted out the back door as fast a cat can bolt, which all cat owners know is pretty fast.

In a flash she was out the door and down the stairs.

She jumped the fence and settled in our neighbour's yard as my wife muttered some words under her breath while watching Little Cat take off.

Not wanting Lisa to spend the night outside, my wife made numerous attempts to corral the kitty back into the house, but to no avail.

You know what they say about herding cats?

Well, it's true. It is an impossible task.

So with my wife stressed out and Young Daughter having a slight meltdown at the prospect of her beloved kitty surviving on her own through the night, I was asked to assist. (Like I am some sort of cat-herding expert or something.)

I spent the next while trying to get Little Cat into the house where there was no risk of coyotes, eagles, cougars, polar bears or any other nasty chompers that might want to have a snack before bedtime.

I tried to explain to everyone that this is what outside cats do: they go outside. She will not have been the first feline in history to spend the night outdoors and I had all the confidence in the world there was a pretty good chance Lisa could do it.

But to appease the Missus and Young Daughter, I did my best to get Little Cat into the house.

However, as darkness enveloped the land, I knew it was a lost cause and finally convinced everyone there was nothing more we could do.

Reluctantly, everyone headed into the house, leaving Lisa to her fate and all hoping she would return in the morning – which she did.

As soon as the Missus got up, she checked for Little Cat who was sitting at the back door with a very proud look on hear face.

She had done it, she survived her first night in the wilds of suburbia with out so much as a scratch.

The Missus was relieved, Young Daughter, oh, hell, we were all relieved.

I learned a couple things that day: Little Cat can make it on her own and it really is impossible to herd a cat.

Copyright 2016, Darren Handschuh

Teenage crisis averted - for now anyway

It was a disaster of near biblical proportions.

A calamity so great it threatened to destroy the very fabric of existence: Teenage Daughter missed her bus.

Oh, the humanity. The horror, the...wait a minute, that's not such a big deal.

Well, it may not be a big deal to an old guy like me, but to Teenage Daughter it is a catastrophe of Red Cross levels.

You see, because she missed the bus she would not be able to meet up with her friends, and if she could not meet up with her friends then she could not hang out with her friends and if she could not hang out with her friends, her life would be over and what's the point of carrying on.

Hearing the devastating situation brave Teenage Daughter was facing, I jumped to action. I dropped everything I was doing, ran to my car, hit the gas and raced to where Teenage Daughter was so I could re-unite her with her long-lost friends, thus preventing the fabric of human existence from being shredded and life on the planet would not cease to exist.

You are welcome.

I suspect the non-parents out there don't appreciate just how close the human race came to complete annihilation.

Missing that one bus could have set in motion a series of devastating events akin to the Mayan 2012 predictions of global doom.

Or at least that's how things were playing out in the mind of Teenage Daughter.

While I have never been a teenage girl myself, I am the proud father of such a being.

Teenage Daughter is a bright, funny, beautiful young woman who has such raging emotions and hormones she can go from cheerful one second to her head spinning around and puking green stuff the next.

Such is how the teenage girl mind works.

I did not know any of this when she was born. The day she arrived on this earth I saw a perfect little human. After having two sons, I was thrilled to have a daughter.

I literally wanted to run up and down the hospital hallways shouting “It's a girl! It's a girl!”

But, considering she was born at 1:20 a.m., I do not think others on that ward would have appreciated my jubilant display of joy.

It was a moment I will remember as clear as day for the rest of my life, as I will the birth of my sons.

When my boys were going through the teen years I thought, “This isn't so bad.”

For about year, each boy went through a phase where they were angry all the time, always at odds with us and each other. But that passed and some very charming young men emerged.

I soon learned having a teen daughter was a little more um, how should we put this - involved.

With the runaway emotional freight train that is a teen girl, it took some getting used to the rapid mood swings and outbursts of tears and laughter in the same 60 seconds.

Everyone I talk to with daughters share similar stories of woe and strife.

Apparently that is just how the teen girl brain develops as they struggle through those emotional days of not quite being an adult and definitely not being a child anymore.

But in the midst of the teenage-generated disasters, there is a wonderful young woman emerging. One who is fun to hang around with, one who is witty and charming and has a real heart for helping others, especially children.

Yes, somewhere under that emotional hurricane is an amazing young woman.

I know the days of chaos and strife will pass and my daughter will break free from her teenage cocoon an incredible young lady.

With each passing moment I know that day is getting closer.

In the meantime, I will continue to do my best to keep the fabric of the universe from collapsing and killing us all.

Again, you're welcome.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

How did the world survive before 'The Tape?'

It is by far one of the greatest inventions ever created by the human race.

The automobile: handy, but hard on the environment.

The computer: a vital part of modern life but a real pain in the...

Those may be fine inventions that have helped human kind, but sitting very close to the top of the list is The Tape.

Men already know what tape I am talking about. There could be only one sticky item of which I speak and that is duct tape.

I can hear men throughout the Valley grunting their approval for the multi-talented creation that men, real men I might add, have embraced throughout the world.

I love The Tape.

I do not know how the world survived without it. Had they had a whole bunch of The Tape on Titanic, well, let's just say the movie would had to have a much different ending.

Instead of what's his name sinking to a frozen death, he would run around like a man possessed, taping up the hull saving the ship and the fair maiden.

What else on this planet other than The Tape could have pulled off such heroics. Nothing, that's what.

Your arm got cut off in an industrial accident? No problem, just grab The Tape, a few well-placed strips and it's as good as new.

The Tape also comes in a variety of colours, greatly increasing its applications to everything from fixing clothing (yes, I did close a rip in an old jacket  with The Tape one time) to holding the international space station together.

Is there no end to the marvels of the shiny wonder.

But even though there are more uses for The Tape than there are corrupt politicians, my wife still mocks one of man's greatest achievements.

I know, I don't understand it either. She just does not see the value of this invaluable aid to humanity.

Despite witnessing first-hand the prowess of The Tape, still she mocks.

Without The Tape, a return trip from Saskatoon would have been a disaster. It was in the spring and we had a van load of six people and enough luggage to trek across the Andes and back crammed into every nook and cranny the silver Mazda had.

I even put on a roof-top carrier because the teenage girl we were bringing back from Toon Town had as much luggage as the rest of us combined. She had a make-up box that was just slightly smaller than a pool table. Why she needed that much face goop is beyond me.

Anyway, we were heading down the No. 1 with a blistering wind crossing the road. The air was moving at approximately 3,000 km/h and the dust was so thick in spots it was a near, um, brown out I guess you would call it.

A big rig passed in the other direction and nearly ripped the lid off of the car top carrier. I remember looking in the rearview mirror and seeing all these bags of stuff bouncing down the road. It did not fully register those were our bags until I spotted one of my daughter's dollys in a green dress skip across the asphalt.

I laid on the breaks, pulled over and ran back to collect everything. We did not lose anything, but we still had hundreds of kilometres to drive with a car top carrier that had seen better times.

What to do, what to do? I only had to think for a few seconds before the answer became clear.

The Tape.

I grabbed a role of the silver-coloured saviour and wrapped it around the front of the carrier, thus sealing it from blowing open, thus saving the trip and the world, thus once again proving it is an invaluable addition to the human race.

Viva la Tape.

That was many years ago. The Missus still mocks, but for at least a few hours on that fateful day, The Tape rule supreme and even the little woman had to admit The Tape was a darned fine invention.

Copyright 2015, Darren Handschuh

Hola from the real Mexico, where many lives were changed

Turning off the rugged, pothole-filled paved road, a caravan of vehicles made its way along a dirt road through the barrio of a coastal Mexican town.

For several of us, it was the first time we had ever been to Mexico, let alone deep into a neighbourhood of shacks, small rundown travel trailers and peace-meal homes built from whatever material could be found.
The homes sit atop an old landfill and pieces of plastic, glass and other materials poke through the light-brown dessert sand.
By North American standards, it looks like a slum, but for the people living in the barrio of Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point) it is home and not an uncommon neighbourhood. With a wage of mere $40 a week, it can be a challenge to provide even that.
While only a few kilometers from a pristine collection of resorts, condos and towering luxury buildings, the barrio might as well have been on a different planet, the contrast is so stunning.
As we pulled up to one particular shack, we were warmly greeted my Meetay, Jasmine and Charlie. Charlie is not his given name, but because of the difficulty our Canadian tongues would have in pronouncing his real name, he told everyone to just call him Charlie. So we did.
I thought our mission was to change the life of this Mexican family, but when it was over it would be my life and the outlook I have that would be changed.
Charlie and his family were typical of so many in the area. Honest, caring people who were doing their best to scratch out a living in an economy where wages were dollars a day and a litre of gas cost the same as Canada. Alcohol is cheap, milk is not.
We piled out of rented cars into the hot Mexican sun and immediately got to work building a ‘house’ for this warm and genuine family.
The house, by North American standards, was really not much to look at. A rectangle box with two doors, two windows and a tiny bathroom area, it measured 220 square feet – roughly the same size and the garage of my Okanagan home.
Dozens of wheelbarrows of concrete were mixed by hand to make the floor and foundation. The family was hooked up to electricity only a few months ago. Water was from a small pipe sticking out of the ground with a garden hose attached to it. There were no cement mixers, just wheelbarrows, shovels and large hoes with holes in them to mix the cement.
Prior to our arrival, the building material was dropped off at Charlie’s home. Someone had to stay at the home at all times to watch over the pressboard, bags of cement and two-by-fours. Charlie assured they would be safe.
“It’s OK, I have my 45,” he said not referring to a handgun caliber, but to his dog, whose name was 45.
First the forms were made to contain the cement mixture before everyone grabbed a shovel or hoe and began the laborious task of mixing the concrete.

Gravel and cement were first mixed dry before water was added and the whole thing was mixed yet again. When the last wheelbarrow was dumped, we turned our attention to framing the walls that would be put up the next day.
As the work progressed, neighbourhood children came over, shy at first, but by the end of the build they were running up to some of the foreigners they had bonded with, wanting piggyback rides or to sit in the sand with them and stack small pieces of cut wood in a game they had just made up. The children were a delight and irresistible to hang out with. Besides, it was also a good excuse to take a break from mixing cement, or later, swinging a hammer for a few minutes. Who could deny someone a chance to interact with a small child with huge brown eyes and an even bigger smile. These beautiful children would remember the people who played games with them and gave them their time long after the memory of the builders had faded.
A few venders showed up as well to ply their wares, but they were not aggressive like the ones in the Old Port market who do whatever they could to entice you into their shop.
“Amigo, you buy. You come look. We make deal.” were oft heard phrases in the market crammed with vendors, restaurants, taxis and more vendors all clambering to get the attention of the gringos. If you were white, you were assumed to have money.
Because we were there during the off season, there were not too many white folk to be found so the ones who were there were besieged by vendors. After a short while, I must admit it became very irritating to be constantly declining offers to purchase something, as you would no sooner decline an offer from one when another would attempt to get your attention. The sidewalks salesmen were relentless and almost overwhelming with their omnipresent sales pitch. Nothing had a price tag and everything was negotiable.
In contrast, the sellers at the build site sat patiently near the side of the road and waited for us to come to them - which we did at the end of each working day. Bartering is a given in Mexico, but most of us could not bring ourselves to haggle too much knowing these people were barely surviving and the few greenbacks we gave them would feed their family while our wallets would barely notice the absence of a few pieces of paper.
The first day’s work done, it was time to head back to base camp for a meal and time together before going to bed. We would be up before the sun to get as much work done as we could before the afternoon heat bore down on our winterized Canadian bodies.
Day two saw the walls go up, a roof put on and the first layer of stucco (a mixture of sifted sand and cement) as the swarm of pasty-white Canucks labored shoulder to shoulder with Charlie, his family and neighbours. When the first walls went up and the shape of a building began to form the volunteer work crew was re-energized, as real progress could be seen. Once the walls were secured, the roof was added and sheets of Tolko pressboard covered the entire structure.
Tar paper and chicken wire was then added to the exterior before it was back to the wheelbarrows and more hand-mixing cement and sifted sand for the first layer of stucco.
Day three had ther final coat of stucco added, windows and doors installed and finishing touches to the structure that would more than double their living area.
Through it all, Meetay could not stop smiling, a joy that infected the 20 people who travelled from the Great White North to help 1 Mission build yet another home for a deserving family. The heat of the day was barely noticed as we closed in on completion of the home and the excitement of making such a huge difference. The look of pride carried by Charlie was not lost on any of us.
A faith-based organization, 1 Mission builds 75 homes a year for the people of the barrio – for free. All that is required from those receiving the home is to put in 200 volunteer hours helping their neighbours. 1 Mission has been operating in Rocky Point for several years and have built some 300 homes; a feat that has not gone unnoticed among the barrio community who treat 1 Mission and its workers with respect.
As the last nail was driven into the door frame, you could not help but feel a sense of accomplishment, an inner joy for helping out such a deserving family and a humbling feeling of just how blessed we in Canada are to live in such a rich and luxurious nation.
For the first time in her life, 12-year-old Jasmine would have her own bedroom. Charlie and Meetay would take the other room and their former house would be their kitchen and common area. As a brief ceremony was held at the end of the build, Meetay and Jasmine could not hold back their tears and several of the builders also found themselves filled with emotion.
It was wonderful and fulfilling to spend time with ‘real’ Mexicans. To see the ‘real’ Mexico and not just some sanitized Americanized version of the nation that so many people visit, but few really experience.
These were just regular, everyday people, and we were blessed to be able to share a short portion of their lives. The unpaved roads, roaming dogs, blowing dust and sheer poverty in which so many Mexicans live was so far from anything I have ever seen in Canada, it takes a few days to process.
In this Mexico, there are no swimming pools, no waiters catering to your every whim, no maids cleaning your room while you lounge at the beach with a tequila, and I loved every minute of it.
We spent five days in Mexico, three building the home and two at a resort only a few kilometers away. By far, spending time with Charlie and his family was the more enjoyable of the two. It does the soul good to help others, there is a joy that cannot be found poolside as you sweat in the midday sun and rinse dust from your teeth or nurse a finger that got in the way of a swinging hammer.
I would highly recommend it. There is reward in giving of yourself to help others. The time at the resort is reduced to a few photographs and souvenirs, but the house built memories that will last a lifetime. The resort offers a few days of luxury, the home offers a family a life-changing blessing – both Charlie’s family and my own.
While my family and I chose to support a Christian-based group, there are many agencies working in communities throughout Mexico that could use some free labour. So perhaps the next time you go south, considering skipping a couple days of a king-size bed, big screen TV and room service to experience the real Mexico and to get more than just a tan. By helping out you will get a sense of satisfaction, lifelong memories and the knowledge that you made a difference in the life of someone not as blessed as you. You will not regret it.

How parenting has made me ready for the circus

Who would have thought being a parent would give me the skills needed to be in the circus.

There is a whole bunch of circus-related duties I could perform, all from the skills I picked up as I helped the Missus raise three adorable children.

They really are good kids. They are not perfect little angels (like their father was at that age), but they have good hearts, mostly stay out of trouble and have high morals and standards.

But like all young adults, the teen years brought moments of great challenge for their parental charges and it was during those tumultuous years I honed my many circus skills.

I could be a clown. Ask pretty much any teen what they think of their parents and they will agree mom and dad are qualified to wear a red nose, funny wig and outlandish make up.

All teens seem to go through a phase where mom and dad are an embarrassment, old fashioned and don't know anything. It is amazing the 'old people' can walk and talk at the same time they are so incompetent.

Of course, I never thought that of my parents. Just like I never copped an attitude, thought I knew everything or considered them an embarrassment. It was always, 'Yes, mother' and 'Yes, father,' 'What ever you say father.'

No, really, that is how I was as a teen, honest.

Anyway, circus clown is more of a title bestowed upon parents by their children than one they have to work for.

But there are other circus jobs parenting is a perfect training ground for.

Lion tamer. Who has not walked into the lions cage – a.k.a. a teenagers' room to 'discuss' something only to come face-to-face with a ferocious beast.

Sticking your head in a lion's mouth is kiddie play compared to dealing with a hostile teen.

But the good thing about a teen, especially a teen girl, is if you wait a few minutes, their mood will change and the danger will pass. However, as all parents know all you have to do is wait another minute and a new mood will emerge, and so on and so on.

Such it the life of a parent.

When the kids are younger, parents develop skills as a juggler. My wife pretty much mastered the skill of holding one child and chasing another while carrying an armload of groceries.

If a professional juggler really wants to impress me – do all that fancy stuff they do while looking after an ankle biter or two, now that raises the difficulty level to extreme.

Another circus skill is tightrope walking. I am currently in the learning process of this one as I deal with a very emotional teenage daughter.

When it comes to dealing with a young lass who is being assaulted by a hurricane of hormones as she makes the transition from child to woman, walking a tightrope is a must-have skill.

I am quickly learning you have to achieve just the right balance between discipline and freedom.

If the discipline is too heavy handed, you aggravate the situation and said daughter throws up a wall of teenaged anger and defiance and things escalate from there (see lions den.)

Too much freedom and they could get into trouble, but not enough freedom and they feel repressed, spawning that anger and defiance I was talking about.

So it is a fine line, a high-wire balancing act of majestic proportions to find just the right amount of parenting and the right amount of letting them make their own mistakes and figure things out themselves without getting into too much trouble.

So being a parent has developed many skills that are applicable to becoming a carnival performer, and believe me, more than once I have thought about running away and joining the circus.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

Making my man brain shop like a girl

So the little woman turns...another year older this week (like I was going to tell you her age).
And as the husband, it is my job to purchase items that let her know I am thinking of her on the date of her birth.
And that means I have to go shopping – for girl stuff.
Shopping for tools, motorcycle gear and other cool stuff is not a problem, but making my man brain think like a girl can be a challenge at times.
Every time I wander around the ladies' section of a shopping establishment, I always feel out of place, like everyone is watching me.
But why would they care there is a male in the female shopping area? It's not like I am trying the clothes on, or prancing around in a bra or anything.
The song “One of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn't belong” plays endlessly in my mind as I stumble through my gift-purchasing duties.
Occasionally, I will see another lost soul, a.k.a. a husband shopping for his wife, and we look at each other with a knowing glance and nod slightly as if to say, “Present for the little woman hey pal, don't worry you can do it.”
When my teenage daughter's birthday rolls around, the shopping is easy. Step 1: purchase card. Step 2: sign card. Step 3: put money in card. Step 4: give daughter card with money in it. Simple.
The same gift-giving path is taken with my sons as with my daughter.
For a teen, cash is the perfect gift.
But that just does not seem right when it comes to the Missus, although a close family member did get her a gift card to Canadian Tire one year, which she appreciated, but did have to wonder at a little bit.
I prefer the gifts I give my beloved to be more personal, to say she means enough to me to make an effort to go beyond simply stuffing a few bills into a dollar store card.
But it is the same story every year – several times a year actually if you count Christmas and our anniversary – I spend time looking for a unique item, something different, something she would not expect and then when my man brain fails to come up with anything new and refreshing, I run to the department store and buy a bunch of clothes.
It is kind of a cop-out, but that old standard has never let me down. I will get her a few other items as well – CDs, DVDs etc. - but clothes typically make up the bulk of the gift.
Fortunately she likes getting new clothes, and I can say with some level of pride, I am pretty darn good at picking out items of the fashion variety. The key is to avoid the clothes designed for teens and clothes designed for grannies.
The little woman would not want a sweater that would look good on my mom, nor would she care for clothes that she can trade with our daughter.
So there is a fine line I must walk, which I usually do – or least she says I do, but I do see her wearing the clothes I bought her in public, so they could not have been that bad.
And wrapping presents is easier than ever since I discovered gift bags. What a wonderful idea: take the present, put it in a bag, put some of that decorative paper stuff on top so she can't see in before opening it and 'ta-daa' the wrapping is done.
And for the record, I would just like to state I have never forgotten my wife's birthday or our anniversary.
I wish I could claim this was because I am such an awesome husband and my wife is always first and foremost in my thoughts, but a lot of it is simply a matter of survival. Besides, I just don't think it would be that comfortable to sleep in the garage.

Copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh

A pox upon you thieving little rats

 Dear thieves: you suck.

The other day, my daughter was relieved of her iPhone. It was taken from her backpack while she was in school.

We immediately canceled the service, essentially turning the phone into a paperweight and leaving my daughter very upset.

She learned a couple valuable lessons: never leave your phone in a backpack, and thieves suck.

I hate it when people steal my stuff. I worked hard to get what I have and then you just come along and take it. Did I mention you suck?

I have had a vehicle broken in to 14 times. One van we had was hit five times. The first time was when we were at a hiking trail and they caused $600 damage just getting in so they could steal my wallet – with $40 cash, my credit card - that they managed to put a couple hundred bucks on before we cancelled it – and some old-guy CDs that I am sure ended up at the side of the road before they were even 10 minutes down the road with their ill-gotten loot.

The next time that same van was broken into was in our driveway and they took some change, a couple tools and few other items.

From that point on, I did not even lock the van and left nothing of value in it, but three more times someone rifled through it looking for my stuff to put in their pockets.

Over the years, I have had hundreds of dollars with of cassettes stolen, various tools, a radar detector (which made the cop smile when I told him) and a bunch of other minor items.

Nothing major, but still an invasion of my privacy and violation of my personal space.

I take it personally when someone steals my stuff and for a few minutes indulge in the dream of calling down the wrath of God upon them before calming down and realizing my anger will only harm me.

But I must admit, for a little while it was fun to imagine all sorts of nasty things happening to them like boils and hard time chained to a fat guy with zits while they break rocks in the sweltering heat all day.

Might be a little extreme for a stolen cellphone, but for a few moments it did make be feel better.

Somehow the imagined wrath of aggressive vengeance calms a frustrated soul.

The van we have now has an alarm system, but the other day we left it unlocked and a couple items went missing: some change and a stethascope my wife uses at work.

My guess is it was the work of kids and our van was a target of opportunity.

Ya, it was my own fault for leaving it unlocked, but that still does not excuse the actions of the these little rats who deserve to be...

Well, let's just say what comes around goes around and I am sure the universe will administer some sot of punishment – I just wish I could be there to see it.

Copyright 2014 Darren Handschuh

My little girl is not so little anymore and I don't like it

I guess there is a double standard.
When my boys were younger, I had no problem with them growing up. Older sons meant more help for me around the yard (well, that was the theory anyway.)
It meant they could take on more responsibility, be more independent and with each passing day they were one more step closer to striking out on their own and forging their personal path through the world.
It is inevitable that they become masters of their own domain. It is repeated constantly throughout not only the human kingdom, but the animal world as well.
In certain animal clans, sons are eventually considered a threat to the papa and he 'encourages' them to leave the pack. Some animals take it to an extreme level.
If a papa bear finds another male in their territory, woe be to the invader. He will go after the other male with all the ferocity he can muster, no matter the age of the other bear and even if it is his own offspring. Momma bear will step in and defend baby bear. And papa bear better watch out because hell hath no fury like an angry mom.
We humans tend to be far less aggressive in encouraging our young ones to venture out on their own, but when they come home and find all their stuff in boxes, that is usually a pretty good sign it is time to go.
I have not done that (yet anyway) because I want to support my kids through post secondary schooling and other challenges, but rest assured there will come a day when I will go papa bear on them if they decide living in the parental den is easier than creating their own.
I may be human, but humans are mammals and mammals are animals and animals eventually kick their offspring out into the unsuspecting world.
So I had no problem with my sons soaring through their teen years. I had no problem with my boys becoming men. I looked forward to it on many occasions.
So what does this have to do with a double standard? I also have a daughter and for some reason there is a whole different outlook for 'daddy's little girl.'
I don't want her to grow up and become a teen and act like she is all grown up. I certainly don't want her to look like she is all grown up.
Some of what I am feeling may be because she is the baby of the family and it is hard to watch your youngest grow up, but a lot of it is she is my little girl.
It struck me like a freight train the other morning when she was heading off to school that my little girl is not so little anymore.
What was that stuff on her face? Make-up! What! She is not old enough for make up. She is barely in high school.
And what do you mean you and your friend want to meet a couple boys at Timmies? Boys are icky, remember? Boys are gross.
At one time, her room had pictures of fairy tale princesses on the walls, then it was teen heart throbs (such as what's-his-name, you know, that Beaver kid.)
Then one day she took down all the posters and asked if we had any spray paint. Um, OK, feel free to express yourself, it's your room. She invited me to look at her 'new' room and it was the bedroom of a full-blown teenager.
Posters had been replaced by groovy spray-painted drawings, there was not a dolly in sight and her music has gone from Veggie Tales to the latest pop songs.
I know my little girl is not a little girl anymore, but that does not mean I have to like it.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to put on my martial arts uniform and sharpen my collection of knives – one of those icky boys is stopping by.

copyright 2014, Darren Handschuh