The Blame Game

My son John is 7 years old. Like many 7-year-olds, he is a smart kid who is reading above level, and hence believes he knows everything. To wit: I recently asked him to pick up clothes he left on the floor of the living room.

"Dad," he said, "why do you always have to blame ME for everything I do?"

Um, because you did it, I told him.

At the end of a fun family weekend, I told the kids I enjoyed playing cards, basketball, eating out, and Shamrock shakes.

Not to mention watching Harry Potter.

But I told them my favorite part of the weekend was when the kids played together nicely for two hours. Apparently miracles do happen in the Muggle world. 

John groans and says, "Really Dad? Why do you always have to focus on how we're improving? Why can't you just enjoy the good times?" 

Oh I do, John. I do.

Reaching a New Summit

We just returned from a family reunion in the Smoky Mountains. On our way there, my son John, 7, said he was worried the mountains would erupt. We told him they're not volcanic, and our vacation didn't involve Tom Hanks or Meg Ryan.

He said, "then why do they call them smoky mountains?" 

John asks a lot of deep questions these days. For example, the other day he asked me, "Why do you wear underwear to work?"

"Because it's professional," I said.

"But sometimes I don't wear underwear," John replied, "and I'm a professional."

"A professional what?"

"A professional kid."

That's what I want to be. A professional kid! Coincidentally, I've learned that my debut thriller novel, Sleep When You're Dead, will be published Oct. 21 by TitleTown Publishing and distributed to a store near you by MidPoint Distribution. 

It's a dark mystery that carries the same sense of humor as this blog--What My Kids Don't Know Hurts Me. In the novel, a killer is posing victims as statues to recreate famous paintings, and it's keeping residents of Green Bay up at night. But not narcoleptic reporter Casey Thread. He can't stay awake. When his girlfriend, Elena, disappears from the shadows of a pro football stadium in Green Bay, Casey teams with Nell, an FBI agent, to find Elena before she becomes one of the killer’s statues. The stress of the pursuit exacerbates Casey’s narcolepsy, causing him to suffer sleep attacks at the worst moments. 

​My agent, Joel Gotler, represents thriller authors Michael Connelly (the Harry Bosch detective series), Sue Grafton (A is for Alibi alphabet series), and James M. Cain (The Postman Always Rings Twice), and has sold movie rights for films such as CHOCOLAT, L.A. CONFIDENTIAL, IN THE BEDROOM, and LINCOLN LAWYER.

Visit www.ChrisHollenback.com for more info, including a video trailer, a countdown to publication day and pre-order information. Thanks for your support!  

###

Finger-Licking Good

My son John, who is six, asked me at breakfast which finger was supposed to be stuck up in the air, and which to never stick up. Little did I know he'd turn it into a class project at school with this handy diagram:

John also recently pointed out how lame my theoretical super powers would be. "If we were super heroes, my power would be lightning," he said. "What would yours be?"

"Love," I said. "Love is all you need."

"LOVE?" he said indignantly. "Eeeewww."

John would have been so disappointed in the Dalai Lama, who visited our town this week, spreading his message of kindness. At least John and His Holiness could have agreed on the digit diagram.

The Fun -- and Pain -- of the Holidays

During the holidays, my brother and mother visited. My daughter, 7, said, “Spending time with you is the best present of all.”

My brother said, “Aww. Belle, you always know just what to say.”

My son John, 5, responded by saying, “Yes, and if you had a white beard you’d look just like Santa!”

While John might have bruised his uncle’s ego, it was nothing compared to what he did to his own father. The kids got Disney Scene It, a game involving watching DVD clips of Disney productions and answering trivia questions about them.

Belle and John, both incessantly seeking control, fought over the remote. John, strong as a Clydesdale, ripped it away and clocked me right in the orbital bone. Nearly plumb knocked me out!

John, always knowing just what to say, said, “Oops. Sa-weee.”

Then not 5 minutes later, Belle is showing her uncle how she can bounce her new soccer ball on her knees and for some reason, as it's getting away from her, she kicks it full force -- right into her uncle's face from point blank, hitting his check and glasses.

Fortunately, his blow didn’t hurt. I was the one who ended up with the egg on my orbital bone.

Here’s to the holidays. And to them ending—so I can heal.

The Necessary Evils of Parenting

I recently went to the dentist. The hygienist was very nice. Her poker was very mean. That is, the tool she used to scrape tartar off is also the one she uses to poke the gums of customers. What could be the purpose of this?

I asked a friend who is a hygienist, and she said it's to see how your gums react. Isn't that a bit like shooting a squirrel to see how it would react?

Alas, dental appointments are necessary evils, as are Family Fun Nights. You know, the Friday nights when the school welcomes all parents into their petri dish to inhale as many germs as possible while kids share food and toys at alarming rates. At the most recent infestation, my kids were playing bean-bag toss while eating the greasy free popcorn handed out by volunteers. Bean bag, popcorn, mouth. Repeat.

The next three nights, my five-year-old, John, woke up hacking.

If a parent declines to go to Family Contagion Night, said parent is a deadbeat. And your seven-year-old looks at you with a sad countenance, replete with a fat lip ala Cindy Lou Who from The Grinch.

Going to Family Fun Night is a necessary evil.

Then there's changing clothes. Locking my door for privacy is a necessary evil, even at home. The other day, my five-year-old ran down the hall, slammed full speed into the door, bounced back up and wiggled the handle. "Hey, Dad! Wait 'til you see our costumes!"

I didn't know it right away, but I'd soon learn that it was quite necessary to see the kids impersonate Eminem and Paris Hilton:

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I Can't Believe We're Having This Conversation

Earlier this school year, a boy went to my seven-year-old daughter's school locker between classes. He offered her a real ring and said they were boyfriend and girlfriend. After school, when Belle told me this, I couldn't believe "it was starting" so early. I felt like Homer Simpson:

I couldn't believe she and I were having this conversation when she was seven. So I told her that it was great she found a friend she liked so much. However, it was inappropriate to be dating someone at age seven. And even more inappropriate for him to be offering her valuable merchandise.

Belle frowned. "When can I date someone, Daddy?"

"When you're 60," I said.

She looked worried. "Seriously?"

"No, but not until high school."

"So what do I tell this boy?"

"Tell him you'll be friends, but you can't be his girlfriend right now because you're both seven and it's inappropriate."

"But Daaaaaad, what if no other boys want to be my boyfriend?"

At this point, I decided to boost her confidence, but I'm not so sure now that was right call. I said, "Belle, you're so smart, talented, and pretty you'll have boys lining up in high school to be your boyfriend."

She winced, rolled her eyes and said, "Daddy. Awkwaaaaaaaard."

Almost as awkward as a new poll showing that, in Wisconsin, Packers Quarterback Aaron Rodgers is now more popular than Santa Claus or Mother Teresa.

I respect all three. But while Rodgers does a lot of charity work--especially for the American Family Children's Hospital with kids who have cancer--he shouldn't be more popular than the saintly Teresa. In fact, I can't believe I'm having this conversation, either. Then again, I never saw Mother T throw a 60-yard touchdown on the run.

As for Santa, I can see Rodgers being more popular. After all, Rodgers is a real person. And, he never got booed by Philadelphia Eagles fans.

At least Rodgers wasn't voted more popular than Abe Lincoln or Jesus.
We'll leave that to Denver fans' view of Tim Tebow. And, of course, the poll participants ranked their approval of THEMSELVES higher than all of the above. Talk about awkward.

Thinking With His... Stomach

My five- and seven-year old kids have a new game they love to play. It's called "Something's Changed."

The person who is "It" spins around and the other players try to memorize how the person looks. When the person who's It leaves the room, s/he changes something about his/her appearance. The other players try to guess what has changed.

My wife was It, left the room, removed her socks, and declared, "Something's changed."

My five-year-old son, John, guesses, "You removed your nipple cover!"

He had been referring to her bra, of course, which thankfully was still in place.

My wife flexed her toes and said, "Um, no, that's not it."

I said, "John, this is a FAMILY game. Let's keep it clean."

I have no idea where he gets these notions, any more than I know where the party band LMFAO gets theirs.

Although, in John's case, research may have an explanation. An article in Psychology Today suggests that our moods are determined as much by our stomachs as our brains. Comfort food releases chemicals that make us happy.

That's certainly true for John, who is happiest when he eats. Like the time he giggled while placing a half gallon of milk upside down on the top of his head.

"John!" my wife scolded. "Put that back in the fridge. Where’s your brain?”

John shrugged and, in all seriousness, pointed to his tummy and said, “Here?”

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////