The scariest words ever are, “Mom, Dad, I’m pregnant,” as spoken by a teenaged girl.

At least those are the scariest words for me.

My wife and I saw the movie Juno over the weekend and I was forced to look at parenthood from an extremely uncomfortable position. As the father of two girls, ages 2 and 4, parenthood is still about providing and developing. Real parenting apparently takes place when real life enters the picture.

Watching this movie really bummed me out because it made me realize that before long my girls—angels that adore their daddy—will get to the point that they want nothing to do with me. How depressing is that? And being that I’m 41, the generation cavern will certainly not help matters, no matter how cool I think I still am.

Watching this movie also made me assume the role of the father receiving the news that the movie father received. It’s certainly a scenario I prefer never to experience, but you never know what life has in store. God knows most of us have dodged bullets as we matriculated through our sexual development. Personally, I had to sweat out a couple of EPT’s back in the day. Fortunately I had favorable results.

So, what will I be like if I’m faced with what Juno’s father was faced with? It makes me cringe to think about it. It makes me want to go around and smack all your little boys, with their little peckers, and say “keep it in your pants buddy.” It makes me want to bang my head against the wall. It makes me want to enter a self-induced coma during the teen years so I don’t have to bear witness to the insanity. But deep down, I hope that if I’m ever faced with that scenario I’ll always keep my daughter’s best interests in the forefront. I hope I’ll find some level of coolness from a youth long since dead. I hope I’ll be the rock my daughter can lean on during a difficult time.

Maybe I’ll just force them to be nuns. That might be the best course of action for me to survive those horrific nights when they blow past their curfews.

For now, I’ll deal with temper tantrums, princesses, pretend balls, and two little girls that adore their daddy—most of the time. I’ll live in blissful denial that puberty will skip our house and my little girls will always be little girls.

La la la la la la.

As young boys, sure we are exposed to such demons as Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, et al. Later reincarnations of these little devils include the likes of Jasmine, Belle, and Ariel, the most evil of them all. We, the male species, are aware of these characters. We are casually familiar with their tales. But our familiarity is merely cursory. For it’s not until we procreate daughters do we truly get to peer into the eyes of the beast. And it is at that moment that we receive a true level of clarity regarding women and how they have developed into the beings we know today.

Let me explain.

For two years now I have been watching these movies with my daughters, reading these books to them over and over and over and over. Witnessing my girls morph into these very same characters with the aid of $50 costumes courtesy of Satan himself: Walt Disney. If you have ever stood in awe at the absolute drama that plays out with women regarding men, at their constant disappointment in us, at the never-ending nagging, at the unrealistic expectations levied upon us, at the massive nightmare that is created when mother and daughter converge to plan our weddings look no further than our own daughter’s cherished childhoods for the source of our pain.

Go ahead. Read some of these evil scriptures. Watch some of these propaganda reels. Study them. And learn how, from day one, our women are brainwashed into one truth: THE PURPOSE OF LIFE IS TO WAIT PATIENTLY FOR OUR PRINCES TO FIND US AND FALL IN LOVE WITH US AND TAKE US TO THE CASTLE HAPPILY EVER AFTER FOR EVER AND EVER AMEN.

So Joe-the-plumber, Al-the-security-guard, Randy-the-human-resources-administrator, and even Kyle-the-successful-Wall-Street-guy-but-still-not-a-prince: you are all 100%, unequivocally, hopelessly and permanently screwed.

As of the writing of these findings, there is yet no cure. No priests capable of the needed exorcisms. No salvation for MAN-kind. And due to this hopelessness, we will continue to disappoint our PRINCESSES-IN-WAITING. And know that as you walk through the Mall, hand-in-hand, and seemingly content, the real truth is that subconsciously your princess is gazing around the corner for PRINCE CHARMING, or PRINCE ERIC (Eric? Really? Is that the best we could do? ERIC?), or BEAST (obviously post transformation into Fabio’s cousin). Our women secretly yearn for one of these perfect specimens to save them from the hairy, underemployed, beer-bellied, slouch (you and me) that has imprisoned her in the tower. Basically, we are Shrek. And in real life, Princess Fiona may claim to fall in love with us. But we all know that S.O.B., Charming, is always lurking nearby.

My final proof occurred this morning as my THREE was watching Cinderella: the getaway scene. The coach turns into the pumpkin. The beautiful dress turns back to rags. The stallions back to mice. And my precious daughter exclaims, “Oh no, now she’s not in love anymore.” And my wife turns to her with a gleam and distant hope in her eyes, and calmly soothes her fears, “Oh sweetie, don’t worry. She’s still in love.”

Mitch McDad lives in Denver with his wife and two princess-loving girls.

What a load of crap.

Love is cleaning up the chunks. Note: both Lilly and Lulu contributed to this axiom in the last few weeks. And 3 and 5 year old puke is way grosser than 1 and 3 year old puke.

Love is finding someone to tolerate and be tolerated by, day after day, week after week, year after year.

Love is never having to say, “I’m sorry for checking out that chick (or dude).”

Love is managing expectations.

Love is letting your daughter use your favorite sweatshirt as a diaper because you’re stuck on the highway in a snowstorm on the way home from a weekend in the mountains and you ran out of pull ups and she has diarrhea.

Love is sometimes best left up to personal interpretation.

Love is challenging.

Love means spraying in the bathroom even though you’re really proud of your work.

Love done right involves more giving than taking, unless you’re home alone.

Love cures ennui, but it can’t cure diaper rash.

Love is blind, especially at last call.

Love is tearing up at your daughter’s ballet recital.

Love is tearing up when your daughter pile drives a knee to your stones when you are trying to put on Curious George for her.

Love is not bugging your spouse for sex when your spouse has the flu.

Love is remembering not to be a selfish prick even when you really feel like being one.

Love is lying to your mom about going to church, just to make her feel good.

Love is asking your wife if she’s dropped a couple of pounds during “fudge season.”

Love is letting your wife sleep in on Saturday morning AND Sunday morning.

Love is not expecting any reciprocation from the last one…but knowing deep down that you better get some reciprocation anyway.

Love means Tivo-ing the game and watching it when everyone goes to bed.

Love means watching Grey’s Anatomy with your wife once in while to show her you can pretend a little bit that you find her taste in TV shows even remotely interesting.

Love is a lot of freaking work.

Love has its rewards, but sometimes you have to look real hard to find them.

Love is simultaneously over-hyped and underrated.

Love is better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Love is Evol spelled backwards.

What is love to you?

My wife is not a full-blown Type A personality, but she’s definitely in that ballpark, where I’m no closer to Type A than a stoner with a year supply of Doritos within reach. We balance each other well, though our life as working parents is certainly overloaded with stress–just like everyone else. My one big complaint to my wife when the stress really gets to her is that many times, the additional stressors are things that she voluntarily thrusts upon us. She doesn’t really grasp the “stop and smell the roses” mentality of life, where I probably spend too much time sniffing.

What I need to realize is that though my way is a far superior way to view life (for me), it’s not necessarily a better way to view life for her.

As for Lilly, though the princess stuff is akin to Chinese water torture to dear old dad; she digs it, so good for her. I’ll just continue my daily, subliminal campaign to introduce “sporty” stuff to her and keep my daily vigil going in hopes that she outgrows it. In the mean time, I’ll keep playing the prince to her princess at our make-believe balls. I’ll keep allowing my girls to adorn me with wigs and tiaras and jewelry as they make me “so pretty.” And I’m sure I’ll one day submit myself to the mani-pedi that they’ve been trying to thrust upon me. So far, I’ve managed to stay nail polish-free. I guess that’s something.

So as the US and the World markets continue on their express train to Armageddon, and as we all fear for our jobs, our homes and our family well being–I suggest we all stop, sniff a rose, take a deep breath, think about what we truly are in the grand scheme of life, and borrow a line from Risky Business and say, “What the ____ (you know) .”

Despite the ineptitude of our government, and despite the political blame-game they choose to play in lieu of focusing on finding the best solution to a grave crisis, the world will keep spinning and life will march on in unpredictable paths. So grab your kids, or your friends, or your partners, or someone you admire and embrace their uniqueness and learn from your differences. And if they happen to be into princess nonsense, formulate an intricate yet sneaky plan to make them hate princesses and love “sporty” stuff.

Hey, it could work. It’s worth a shot.

Departed…..sans moi….as you may have surmised.

So what went wrong, Mitch? Overslept from a hangover? Nope. Too much LA traffic? Not at all, the cab ride from Santa Monica went like clockwork. Long security line? Ut ah, buzzed right through. So why aren’t you writing this at 40,000 feet, Mitch? Well…let me tell you.

You gals take WAY too long in the bathroom. As a husband to 1 wife, and a father to 2 girls, and an owner of 1 femi-canine–waiting on, coordinating, planning for, and enduring bathroom activity has become an all-encompassing aspect of my life. Usually, however, women sitting next to me at the airport don’t effect me in this regard. Usually.

As my Southwest flight began its cattle-call boarding process, being a high number in group C, I knew I’d be looking at a sweet middle seat in the back of the plane to squeeze my 6′ 1″, 220 lbs frame into–so I displayed zero urgency in hopping aboard.

Now, I’m no road-warrior, but I’m a pretty frequent and savvy traveler–I’ve got status on the that big gray airline that dominates Terminal B at DIA. I know how to board a plane. I’m NEVER that clueless dork that actually misses flights–well maybe never is a word I can no longer use.

I won’t get into the details of my good deed in order to protect the innocent, but the facts are such: 1) A stranger asked for some help, 2) I obliged, 3) I had, seemingly, enough time to perform said assistance 4) A woman spending an inordinate amount of time in a bathroom led directly to my seat being handed over to some other lucky traveler.

It’s too long and weird of a story to get into all the details, but suffice is to say, I was not pleased at the result. In her defense, the woman in question was horrified at the situation and even offered to pay for my ticket (which, of course, I refused). She continually harassed me with apologies until I finally got eye to eye with her, insisted she smile, and told her if she didn’t let it go I was going to get TSA to put her on the watch list. All kidding aside, she was very sweet and is most likely torturing her fellow passengers on her flight to San Francisco as I type. I’m sure that entire plane is aware of her sincere sorrow.

Am I a hero? Please. Am I a nice guy? Sometimes. Am I anxious to get home? Hell yes. I haven’t seen my girls since Wednesday and I miss them. And I miss dealing with all their bathroom needs. Because I am man and man’s penance for being born with inherent bathroom conveniences is to marry and have daughters and deal with their inherent bathroom inconveniences. It’s the Yin and Yang of pee-pee. And those forces keep the world spinning.

Besides, this isn’t so bad. The eye candy at LAX is pretty solid. I think Carmen Electra just passed by. I’ll see you all at DIA in five or six more hours.

Carmen…..Hey Carmen….Can I have your autograph?

So here’s the rub, her ultimate contradiction; she either can’t, or refuses to, put anything back in the same place twice.

If I had a nickel for every time she said, “Where are my sunglasses?â€? when we’ve gotten in the car, well…I’d have a bunch of nickels.

I’ve had to learn to channel surf telepathically because that stupid clicker has never sat in any one location a second time. (((Side note: someone please come out with a 4 or 5 tuner DVR in a hurry. MRS has so many shows set for series recordings ((hardly any of which she will ever watch (including eleven different versions of Law & Order that air in perpetuity on seven different networks)) that any time I attempt to change the channel, the DVR just prompts me, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.)))

MRS finally started leaving her keys in the car to end that continuous madness. (Second side note: please don’t steal our car.)

But my personal favorite is our DVD collection. That’s a damn fine mess. I have a better chance of guessing the next song on my IPOD in shuffle mode than finding the Madagascar DVD for THREE to watch.

So, I’ve pretty much resigned myself to a life of total guesswork and mystery. It’s always interesting. It’s often annoying. It’s never predictable.

At least I don’t have to pay the bills.

When my father fed a bottle to my first daughter, his first grandchild, he looked up and said, “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever fed a baby.â€?

None of us were caught off guard by the revelation. This was not news to us. Nor was the fact that he, though a father of three, had never changed a diaper and most likely never will.

This leads me to the revelation that despite today’s abundance of technological, health, sociological and educational advancements, compared to previous generations we are light-years behind. Instead of rushing to pick up kids at daycare, I should be stopping off for a cocktail on the way home from work and then entering my domain to an awaiting hot dinner, hot wife and quiet kids—all teeming with glee upon my grand entrance.

The problem is that somewhere in the last three or four decades we as a society have wrecked a perfectly functional lifestyle business model. We used to live predominantly in single-income households way back in the “good old days.â€? Now, oh so many of us are forced to ditch that set-up in favor of the more common duel income gig. And pardon my language, but that blows.

I used to think cramming for finals in college was stressful. I used to think dealing with a moody girlfriend was stressful. Hell, I can’t think of anything else in my non-parental life that was even remotely stressful, and the two items I listed didn’t really stress me out—I just couldn’t think of anything else.

Now I have the daily battle of getting my 2 and 4 year-olds dressed and fed and out the door. My wife and I battle about who gets the morning run versus the afternoon run. We both have erratic schedules and we both travel and we have no family in Denver, so that adds a hint of stress on top of trying to figure out the whole parenting thing.

As a third party reading this I would say, “shut up.â€? And then I would suggest, “why don’t one of you just quit your job and stay home?â€?

My answer to myself would be, “good idea.â€?

But we can’t. We’re stuck. Just like many of you. We can’t maintain our lifestyle on one income and we’re too selfish to downsize. Also, I don’t think either one of us could do the stay-at-home thing. I know I couldn’t right now. I definitely couldn’t have during the infant stage. Maybe in a few years when the girls are more self-sufficient I could do it. “Hey Lilly. Make daddy a martini and take out the garbage.â€? Yeah. That could work.

For you stay-at-homers, I thrust my envy at you. Not that your life is easy; it’s just that your grass is greener than mine. I’m sure mine must seem greener to you at times.

The bottom line is this: the ultimate stress maker was the initial decision to have kids. If my wife and I were D.I.N.K.s , life would be a 24-hour party. But there’s one small problem with that equation. I wouldn’t have my girls. And that’s just not acceptable.

Forced to make the decision again, I’d choose having my girls every day of the week and twice on Sunday. I guess if I had a “do-overâ€? I’d marry a really wealthy girl so we could have a nanny and I could not work, too. But what fun would that be????

So in a few days when we all celebrate our fathers, or we help kids celebrate their daddies, or we remember our fathers that are no longer with us, I have a few words of advice.

Men are men. Dads are dads. We’re very, very far from perfect. We’d rather burp the alphabet than read poetry. But until science develops a third gender, we’re all you’ve got so you might as well embrace us. In turn, we’ll try to be more understanding of all your femininities and we’ll continue to diligently put the toilet seat down.

And for those of you still searching for the perfect Father’s Day gift, or more likely, for those of you that haven’t even thought about it yet; this is what we want–

A nice cold beer.

And a little some-some before bed.

We thank you in advance.

Now that spring is here there are plenty of things to do with the kids to keep them busy. But for those of you still looking for viable activities there is a hidden gem in Parker that you may not know about.

The Wildlife Experience is a great place to have fun with the kids and provide them and interesting learning opportunity. They have fun play areas and activity space for younger kids, and an Imax-like movie theater with great films that both educate and entertain. The two movies currently playing are Whales and Australia. The Wildlife Experience also has ever changing exhibits that are usually very well done. Check out their thorough website to see all that TWE has to offer.

TWE also has a monthly Martini and a Movie night for the grownups if you are looking for something new on “date night.”

TWE is reasonably priced and serves a valuable purpose. A quote from the FAQ section of their website states that The Wildlife Experience’s purpose is “to promote understanding and appreciation of wildlife – both animal and plant life in a natural environment – and to inspire efforts to conserve it.”

The McDads have been members for a couple of years and we usually visit about once a quarter, as the movies and exhibits are always changing.

It also has a good, and cheap, cafeteria.

All in all, if you are seeking something new….this might just be the thing you’re looking for.

What have been your experiences with The Wildlife Experience?

The scariest words ever are, “Mom, Dad, I’m pregnant,â€? as spoken by a teenaged girl.

At least those are the scariest words for me.

My wife and I saw the movie Juno over the weekend—an excellent flick, by the way—and I was forced to look at parenthood from an extremely uncomfortable position. As the father of two girls, ages 2 and 4, parenthood is still about providing and developing. Real parenting apparently takes place when real life enters the picture.

Watching this movie really bummed me out because it made me realize that before long my girls—angels that adore their daddy—will get to the point that they want nothing to do with me. How depressing is that? And being that I’m 41, the generation cavern will certainly not help matters, no matter how cool I think I still am.

Watching this movie also made me assume the role of the father receiving the news that the movie father received. It’s certainly a scenario I prefer never to experience, but you never know what life has in store. God knows most of us have dodged bullets as we matriculated through our sexual development. Personally, I had to sweat out a couple of EPT’s back in the day. Fortunately I had favorable results.

So, what will I be like if I’m faced with what Juno’s father was faced with? It makes me cringe to think about it. It makes me want to go around and smack all your little boys, with their little peckers, and say “keep it in your pants buddy.â€? It makes me want to bang my head against the wall. It makes me want to enter a self-induced coma during the teen years so I don’t have to bear witness to the insanity. But deep down, I hope that if I’m ever faced with that scenario I’ll always keep my daughter’s best interests in the forefront. I hope I’ll find some level of coolness from a youth long since dead. I hope I’ll be the rock my daughter can lean on during a difficult time.

Maybe I’ll just force them to be nuns. That might be the best course of action for me to survive those horrific nights when they blow past their curfews.

For now, I’ll deal with temper tantrums, princesses, pretend balls, and two little girls that adore their daddy—most of the time. I’ll live in blissful denial that puberty will skip our house and my little girls will always be little girls.

La la la la la la.

MRS and I debated the pros and cons of spanking, when demon-child was present. MRS says, no way, and drops “How Toâ€? books on my lap. I say all this “time outâ€? stuff is bullcrap and some gentle but firm corporal punishment is what’s lacking in today’s parenting. I know it worked on me.

I’m curious what you parents think about this subject. Do you spank or not? Do you have some secret techniques you use to control your little maniacs? Or do you just let them run wild and hope they grow out of it?

Please help!!!!