As a father of six years, I finally had my first “Holy crap, my child is going to be smarter than me!” moment.

Granted, I knew she was on to something when she started playing complex bass and treble clef chords on the piano — not to mention her ability to read music (I can only play by ear, and even then it’s only to poke around). I also like how she questions and shows an interest in almost anything.

But last week she reached a tipping point. I had gotten a new mixer (pictured) for Christmas. I was mixing some music and she immediately gravitated towards the mix deck. “You wanna try?” I asked.

She looked up with a beaming smile and nodding head.

I then proceeded to teach her about beat matching, BPM syncing, cross fading, pitch bends, and killing the bass of incoming songs to produce seamless transitions. After a little instruction, and help from Virtual DJs track visualizer, she blended her first mix: Deadmau5 + Rhiana.

I was blown away. I stepped out of the room to gloat to her mother, and while I was away she managed her second song blend. Lindsey and I just laughed, we were so impressed. A six-year old beat matching pop songs in the other room.

Look, I don’t expect nor particularly want Sadie to become a DJ. And she was only demonstrating initial interest; having fun doing something daddy does. But in that moment, I had a parental epiphany. I realized that I want to teach her everything I know (including art, science, writing, math, athletics, music, the whole she-bang) for as long as she’ll listen. Then she can combine the adopted disciplines learned from her mother and I and couple them with ones she discovers on her own to create something entirely new.

Now that’s what I call a mash-up.

My dad won’t like me for repeating this on the intertubes, but it’s too good not to.

Growing up, my old man would regularly sneak off to his tiny toilet room to get away from his loud wife and six, know-it-all children. It was one of those “bathroom within a bathroom” type deals where the toilet had its own lockable door—you know, for added privacy and to keep the fumes from offending a significant other using the sinks, bath, or shower.

Funny thing is, that toilet room would have been claustrophobic for an undersized gnome. While sitting on the toilet, small children could have (and regularly did) touch opposing side walls with ease. It couldn’t have been longer than six feet.

Nevertheless, my dad would retreat there for what seemed like hours, reading Rand-McNally maps or whatever almanac or resource books he left in there. It was his sole sanctuary, that is until he took over the entire second floor after the kids left home.

As a stunning teenager, I remember thinking something like this: “Dude bought this big ole house and everything in it, and yet the only space he has to himself is a 6×3′ toilet room.”

Now, as the children have begun overrunning my own house, I have found myself in similar situations. Granted, I have it better than he did. I enjoy a private home office that is only occasionally open to the kids for impromptu dance sessions (since my desktop doubles as the house’s best hi-fi). And my “toilet room” is much larger than his.

But I still stay in the bathroom longer than I should. The only difference is instead of Rand-McNallys, an iPad comes with me.

(Note: I defer all flagging concerns to George Costanza)

Since first subscribing to the daily paper this summer, I’ve been exposed to more Dear Abby columns than a 1950s trophy wife. The last one I read was horribly political, so I decided to guide the advice-seeker myself. Here goes:

Dear Smooth Harold: My husband wanted to postpone having children until we were more financially secure. But I really wanted a baby, so he agreed, though only after I promised to return to work once the baby was born. That was a year ago. We now have a wonderful 2-month-old, and since “Avery” cam along, I realize how important it is for me to be at home with her. My husband disagrees. he says we need my salary in order to meet our financial obligations, and he is angry and upset that I won’t return to work. But I think there’s nothing as important as the nurturing a mother give her child. Who’s right?—R.F., Southern California

My reply:

Dear R.F.: Why on Earth would you ask me, a complete stranger, such an important question without knowing my background first? I could be a baby-snatcher for all you know, or completely against everything you believe in! But alas, perhaps you’re at your wits end and have no one to confide in. If that’s the case and you don’t feel comfortable anonymously researching different opinions online or posting to a message board, then I’ll indulge you. And I assure you I’m neither a baby-snatcher nor a posturing moral hypocrite. (more…)

I didn’t think anyone could be more headstrong than my second child. The pictured cutie with Gene Wilder hair—my third—proved me wrong.

“No!” she answers without fail, even if it’s something she wants. She does it so often, I often mutter under my breath, “Don’t tell me no. I’m your father.”

It’s futile. I realize this. But it’s a coping mechanism.

Someday, however, I’d really like to speak my mind. ”Stop telling me what to do!” I’ll say with authority. “I’m bigger than you!”

She’ll then look up to me with bright eyes—her face about to break into a cry. And I’ll cave.

How can something so small—a tenth of my weight, even— wield so much power?

At my daughter’s request, I read James Rumford’s Don’t Touch My Hat (a family favorite) to her kindergarten class.

I tell ya: I felt som’n fierce having 15 pairs of innocent eyes look up to me from a cozy reading rug while showing and telling the story. As I read, there was a sanctity and innocence in the room I haven’t felt in a very long time—maybe not since leaving public school.

Admittedly, I’ve done a lot of satisfying things this year. I’ve even managed a few professional coups. But this is unexpectedly near the top of my “most gratifying” list for not only this year, but previous years as an adult and father.

More than anything, I’m humbled and honored that my daughter invited me. Magic is soaking my spine. And Rumford is dead on: It’s your heart that counts, not your hat.

PS — Vampire Weekend, you have no idea. The kids do stand a chance. I’ve seen it in their eyes.

The baby woke at 8:00 am today. She downed her bottle in five minutes. Played for 30 minutes. Ate for 30 minutes. Then played for another 35 minutes before giving the univiersal “I’m tired” signal: She cried.

By 9:45, she was dozing off in her crib. She doesn’t always take a morning nap this early; sometimes she’ll go until 10 or maybe 10:30. But like clockwork, our other two did this as well.

Noting that, imagine if adults could only go two hours in the morning before requiring a nap. Corporate America would get grouchy and fussy by 10:00 am!

The May issue of Wired Magazine has a fascinated piece on injectable vasectomies that can be reversed with a follow-up shot. The procedure, dubbed by Wired as “the biggest advance in male birth control since the condom,” is flawless so far in clinical trials and dirt cheap to administer. Cool.

But I resent the article’s assertion that if successful, the procedure would “increase the chance” of humanity escaping poverty (p. 171). People aren’t poor because they have a lot of kids. They’re poor because they’re oppressed, complacent, or both. Offspring have nothing to do with personal wealth. (At least mine don’t, and I’m a freakin’ thousandaire!)

Of course, if you’re an absent parent and express your “love” in the form of material gifts, than yes—parenting children can be expensive. But otherwise, children have less impact than you think when it comes to a sinking or swimming family.

Music has always been a big part of my life. I’m good on my feet and have better rhythm than most other white men. Happily, my first-born (and subsequent children) share my affinity for song and dance.

I first noticed Sadie’s liking to music when she began shaking her hips as six-month old — while I played “Africa Unite” by Bob Marley on a sunny afternoon. Amazingly, for what was then a first time parent, she was moving to the beat. How could this be? How does a human only 180 days old recognize, understand, and know how to dance to the beat?

It must be genetic.

To this day, Sadie spends a large portion of her time banging on piano keys, moving to the beat, strumming my guitar as she passes by, dancing to Kids Songs DVDs, and requesting playback of her hokey poky CD. She enjoys music more than most, as do I.

Did I pass it on to her? I don’t know, but I’m convinced there’s some inheritance involved. How couldn’t there be?

While I appreciate other forms of entertainment — like film, video games, and books — music would be the last thing to go in my book. It’s more than just entertainment, it sets the pace of life. And as corny as its sounds, singing just makes everything better.

Originally published January 23, 2008

Now we have proof. Scientific proof that suggests couples with a disproportionate number of daughters like us tend to be more beautiful than those who conceive more sons.

Of course, since 50 percent of the world is female, that might also suggest that half of the world is beautiful, which can’t be right. (Thanks, Sara)

My first two kids are Mama’s Girls. They regularly lunge for their mother whenever shy or after being apart for a time.

And although the pictured cutie still reaches for her mother, it’s fun to see her get anxious with outstretched arms, ready for hold, upon seeing me. Especially since my other two just looked at me funny as babies.

I don’t confuse either behavior with love. But I’d be lying if I said it isn’t nice to be liked.