My daughters are twelve and seventeen. It seems like a lifetime ago when my wife and I had to put safety latches on all the cupboards and drawers. We had to make sure that we moved anything that could be dangerous if ingested out of their reach. Any sharp objects had to be up high or hidden for their safety.

I remember the day when we could remove the latches and locks, when we could put items back in their proper places. I never thought I'd have to move items out of my girls' reaches again...but, that's where we are now.

No, it's not the liquor in the house. It's not weapons or cigarettes, because we don't have either. 

"Where is the tape dispenser?! Does anyone know where the tape dispenser is?" I remember bellowing a few months ago.

My two, wonderful and innocent angels responded, "No," not looking up from their phones. "I haven't seen it," added the twelve-year old. 

Where could it be, I wonder. I ask my wife. I look all over the home office. I check the bathroom, the garage, even the refrigerator. Then, on a whim, I check the girls' rooms. What do you know? That same 12-year old who told me she hadn't seen it, had left it on the desk in her room. "How'd it get there?" She asks.

Not long after, a similar situation occurs with the Apple TV remote. "I haven't used it in months," says one of my cherubs. Yet, after an extensive search, I find it wedged between the cushions precisely on the sofa where said cherub generally resides. 

Then, last week, I'm looking to grab the tweezers out of my bathroom, the personal sanctuary that my wife and I share off of our bedroom, to rid myself of the surprise hairs that emerge as we hit a certain age. No go. I go through this now regular questioning of suspects (my daughters), to which I get the same response: "Wasn't me." 

I go into my seventeen-year old's room two days later to ask her a question, and my eagle-eye spots the tweezers under a pile of papers, dirty dishes, and clothes on her computer desk. "There are my tweezers," I exclaim.

"Oops, my bad," she says.

And, that's what precipitated the change in our home. We now have hiding places for our tape, tweezers and remote control...high and out of reach from our "little angels." It might be time for us to invest in a drawer lock again. Guess what comes around, goes around.


​image courtesy of ©MorgueFile.com/Alvimann

I've always been my kids' hero. They looked up to me. I was bigger, and stronger, and I knew stuff they didn't. If something went wrong or if something was scary, my daughters came to me to feel safe.

Both of my girls, now 12 and 17, have had to deal with OCD and anxiety issues. When we discovered our oldest was struggling with OCD eleven years ago, it was a very scary time. I didn't know how to help her, but it was my job to figure it out. So, with the help of my wife, I did research. I humanized the OCD so she could understand it. I even wrote a fun, yet helpful, children's story about a girl suffering in a similar way as my daughter. And, through some really tough times, we have learned to harness her OCD.

When the younger one started exhibiting similar anxiety issues, we had an arsenal to start with in order to combat this disorder. And, my girls always looked to me as the guy who has helped them through these troubles. 

That's my job as "Dad". I'm the protector, the one to come to when help is needed. But, then, not long ago, I was taken down a notch or two. 

I started suffering from insomnia. It wasn't bad at first. To be honest, I didn't even think it was a real issue, but it progressed slowly. Then about a month ago, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I was suddenly a walking zombie. I couldn't function. I was always tired. My brain wouldn't work at the speed it normally could, and it wasn't nearly as sharp. I was forgetting things, and my train of thought was often derailed. 

Suddenly, I was no longer my daughters' hero...at least in my eyes. How could I be? How could I be there for them when I needed someone there for me? I was too tired to go to the amusement park. I had to opt out of a trip to Yosemite. What would this mean to our relationship, I wondered. Would I be that guy who was listless and never did anything with his daughters, and they would remember the man that I used to be?

I was so afraid that "Dad" would mean something new in their eyes. And, I didn't want that. 

So, I decided to attack the problem the same way I would if my daughters were the ones suffering, because, the truth is, they would be suffering if I didn't get this under control. So, I did research. I spoke with professionals. I tried this idea and I tried that technique, and as I started to see a light at the end of the tunnel, I started to see dark at the end of the night...I began sleeping again.

I'm not exactly where I want to be yet as far as sleeping, but I am right back where I want to be as "Dad": going to amusement parks, planning summer trips and having the relationship with my girls that I want. 

My issue is a common one, and could happen to anyone at anytime. I don't know if I would have been able to pull myself out of it so quickly had it not been for my daughters, had it not been for the desire to keep the relationship with them that I'd forged all their lives. Being a dad saved me. My daughters saved me.

My eldest daughter recently turned seventeen. She's at the age where friends are her entire world. We are fortunate that she has wonderful friends, but all she wants to do is be with them, talk with them, FaceTime with them, and text them. She's very expressive with her friends.

Yet, when it comes to me and her mom, she's far less expressive. She doesn't offer much. We're always asking her about things. And, she's polite, but often shrugs or offers monosyllabic answers. This has been going on for two or three years now. We love Riley to death, and we know she loves us, as well, but she just rarely shows it.

So, when I start to feel down about how she no longer snuggles up to me, and tells me she loves me, and wants to tell me all about her day, I remember back to a class assignment she had last year, when she was sixteen (caught up in her social circles then as she is now). One of the questions of the assignment was: "Describe an important person in your life and why they are important to you."

She had shared the assignment with me once it had been graded and returned. I go back to this whenever I start to miss my "little girl". She wrote:

"An important person in my life is my dad for a variety of reasons. My dad is the reason I was able to start my charity, begin my business and stay so motivated. When I was little, my dad introduced me to the things I could be doing in the community and found me an overwhelming amount of opportunities. I am where I am today because of his support and help. My dad is my number one fan and he is right by my side, cheering me on in everything I do."

I hold on to this, because a year ago I wondered if she still needed me, and appreciated me, like I do at times today. This proved that she did, and it makes me feel good to think that she still does. Teens may not show their appreciation, but apparently they still feel it.

image courtesy of ​https://www.flickr.com/photos/lenifuzhead/64070148

I'm supposed to be the grown-up, but, really that's not fair. The only reason I'm supposed to be the grown-up is because I'm old...that's it! Not fair! You know what I mean. People look at us (our kids, especially) and they see what we saw when we looked at our parents: old people who apparently knew what they were doing. But, you and I both know that we're not as confident as we may appear at times, and we definitely don't feel as old as our bodies dictate.

My seventeen year old, Riley, is working on a major video project, and she asked her little sister, Grace, the twelve-year old to help her by creating some kind of video animation or something technical that I don't understand (guess I really am old). Grace just loves her older sister and wants so badly to make her happy when she's asked a favor from her. So, Grace enters Riley's room today and asks if the animation was sufficient. And, Big Sis doesn't even look up at her and shrugs. Grace asks if Riley would like her to fix anything. Riley says, "I don't know."

Now, I'm mad. Grace comes back and says that she doesn't like how her sister is treating her. I tell her that she's just learned that next time Riley asks a favor, she should politely decline (which, I know Grace would never do...she loves Riley far too much). But, I'm angry because although Riley is my daughter, she was blatantly rude to my other daughter, and that's not something I take lightly.

Well, about thirty minutes later, I'm telling a story to my lovely wife, Mary, when the twelve-year old enters briskly and starts to talk to her mom over me. I stop her and ask if this is an emergency, because I'm telling Mom a story. Grace looks at me and just continues to say what she wants to say. So, I tell her, "Maybe you didn't understand, but I am talking to your mother, and you are interrupting. That's acceptable if this is an emergency. That's why I asked. So, now, is this an emergency?"

Unbelievable. She ignores me again, and starts to talk to her mom. I can't believe this is a child I have raised. Where in the world did she learn this level of disrespect (interrupting has always been a huge pet-peeve of mine)? So, I lose it, and I revert back to the kid that's still inside me, and I go off telling her that I stood up for her when her sister was rude to her, but then she turns right around and is rude to me. I say that she's on her own from now on with the Big Sis thing. She can fend for herself. One rude turn deserves another.

I know...very mature. But, that just goes to show us (at least me) that there's a part of me that will remain that kid, that young person who is winging it, the boy who really doesn't know how to parent, but acts like he does. I think (pronounced "hope") we all have that child within us, and I'm saying that when he or she comes out, don't sweat it. Let him rant, then tell him it's bedtime. He just needs some sleep.

​image courtesy of ©MorgueFile.com/TheresaOtero