MyThreeDaughters

My Three Daughters has just celebrated “our” (and as you know “we” here at MTD.com like to refer to ourselves in the plural…makes us sound like a whole tsunami of bloggers) 100th comment.
Wow, only took a year. Huffington Post, we’re coming for you.
Anyway, thanks to everyone who reads and takes the time to post comments. I love comments; makes me feel like I have readers. I find it funny that my “Daddy blog” has almost entirely Mom readers.
And the winner is, the person who posted the 100th comment: “Just Mary.”
“Just Mary,” you can collect your prize: a no-expenses paid evening with the three charmers. You get to re-live your previous motherhood experiences of screaming, finger-pointing, tattle-tailing and diaper changing, while Wife and I head out for an evening at a local restaurant.

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The mother of today has come a long way, baby, to the point where she can bring home the organic humanely raised bacon that hasn’t been fed antibiotics, and fry it up in the pan.
But the basic elements of being a mother have not, and probably will never, change.
No doubt when I was growing up, I had no appreciation for what my parents pulled off. But now that I see it up close with my own wife, I have no idea how any mother pulls this off.
As a mother’s day tribute, I’ll list a few of the things my kids’ mom did this week:
Made sure homework got done, Monday through Friday (because in this day, kids have homework in first grade, but that’s another blog post rant).
Packed an insanely healthy lunch every day.
Monday: Made sure Fontaine took a flower out of the garden for “Teacher Appreciation Week.” (Teachers get a whole week, for some reason; Moms get a day, and in truth they get a couple of hours, maybe).
Tuesday: Cleaned up spills, wiped fannies, changed diapers, made lunches, picked up Fontaine from school, planned dinner, did laundry, then went to work and got home at 11 p.m.
Wednesday: All of the above, gave $10 of her hard-earned money for the teacher’s gift, wiped more fannies (I’m talking about our kids here), went to work for training, got home shortly after 10 p.m., then baked three or four dozen cookies until well past 11, for a fund-raiser for hungry people.
Thursday: Went to Fontaine’s school, with two-year-old Rosebud, made copies for teacher (which she’s done every Thursday morning all year) for an hour, went to the store, dragged kids around, bought snacks for T-ball, bought lunch for teacher for appreciation week, delivered it to school, got Rosebud down for a nap, went back to school to pick up Fontaine, let kids play in mud puddles, brought them home and gave them baths, had a clue about what we could fix for dinner.
Friday: Went running (why she came back, I have no idea), returned, made homemade macaroni and cheese for teacher appreciation lunch, delivered it, picked up Fontaine, went to work.
Friday night: Went to work for five and a half hours and served the demanding public.
Reward: A 30-minute Mother’s Day tea at pre-school and probably some hand-made “cards.”
I could do this, maybe, for one week, but only if I really had to, sure as heck not all day every week for years, and I’d be walking around cursing under my breath at least 50 percent of the time.
She never complained.
And a guy who hits a jump shot at the end of the game is a “hero.”

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Fontaine’s been busted a few times of late, steering her statements toward the outskirts of the truth. Just little things, like whether she had anything to do with the disappearance of some apparently delicious cherry-flavored Rolaids.
Just little things that, if they continue, that will lead to her being not trusted and kept on lockdown in her room until she is 21.
I know a lot of kids go through this phase. Usually, I just say, “Hey, I think somebody’s pants are on fire.”
But tonight, I was listening to a Grateful Dead song, “Althea,” when I heard a line I thought was appropriate. So I called it out:
Hey that’s a good line for someone: “Loose with the truth, baby, it’s your fire. I hope you don’t get burned,” get it?
Without flinching, she looked back at me: “You’re trying to be mean to me, that’s the only thing I get.”
Wow, girlfriend’s quick.
But she did get it.
O.K., so no more Jerry Garcia as Dr. Spock. I guess that’s why one was a rock star and the other a parenting expert, and why I am neither.

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I’m a very small person. Tiny. So let’s say on the rare occasion I am right, I don’t mind calling attention to it.
Last year, I wrote a piece making fun of the “micro-blogging” site Twitter.
I had read that Twitter was a service for people “who don’t have time for e-mail.”
People post things on Twitter like, “Went to grocery store, bought food.”
“Ten minutes later: Got home, put food in pantry.”
I strongly implied (O.K., I said it outright) that anybody who had time for Twitter must not have much of a life or anything going on worth Twittering about.
Sure, Ashton Kutcher and Oprah raced to see who could tally one million Twitter followers/stalkers first, but just a wild guess that they do have better things to do and have their people Twitter for them.
Anyway, come to find out, the country isn’t as completely messed up as I thought. The good folks at Nielson have reported that six out of 10 people who sign up for Twitter quit after a month.
What’s the matter, Twits? Figured out that reading and writing the most mundane and tedious of life’s tasks turns out to be…mundane and tedious?
I would say, “I don’t want to say I told you so,” but I think I just did.

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After a little more than a year, My Three Daughters is about to celebrate. Someone, who knows, it could be you, will write the 100th comment.
Remember that Nissan commercial: “Dogs Love Trucks”? Well, bloggers love comments.
We’re going to block the streets of downtown, have a parade, hire skydivers, shoot off fireworks, and cash in a 2-for-1 coupon at Moe’s Southwestern Grill, even though Moe’s is among the long list of places we patronize that has not yet stepped forward with advertising support.
Probably, right now, four, five, six people are simultanously posting comments and it could be any one of you.
Ready, set…

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