In the summer of 2007, Scott wrote seven fatherhood columns -- one per week -- on a short-term assignment for The Charlotte Observer. These were all published in the "Carolina Living" section of The Observer and are reprinted here, in chronological order. All rights are retained by The Observer, which has been quite kind to allow Scott to put these and other stories he wrote for The Observer on his own Web site. Enjoy.

After three, our quiet hope is delivered

By SCOTT FOWLER

EDITOR'S NOTE: Observer sports columnist Scott Fowler, the father of four children under age 10, will write about the perils and wonders of fatherhood this summer.

My wife had talked me into this baby. I remembered this on the way to the hospital as she gasped in pain in the seat beside me, on the way to deliver our fourth child.

"We waited too late this time!" said Elise, gripping the armrests tightly. And I wondered.

She was talking about a matter of minutes -- that we should have headed toward the hospital and its promise of a blessed epidural an hour ago. I was thinking bigger. We were both in our early 40s and about to embark on life's most frantic, rewarding and exhausting adventure once again.

We have three boys -- ages 9, 6 and 3. The chaos in our house already exceeds all recommended daily allowances. Like most parents, we love our kids deeply and messily. We have no supernanny, no extra bedroom and, very often, no idea what we're doing.

This fourth child was our final chance at a girl. We had not found out the sex of any of our children before their birth and this one, too, would be a surprise. We would be happy in either case. I quietly hoped for a girl.

"I'll hurry," I told my wife, and then was silent again. I knew from experience that to risk small talk in this situation was to risk a beheading. My wife is a lovely and calm woman under almost all circumstances, but during labor and delivery, she could barely tolerate my presence. A few times during earlier pregnancies I had cheered her on with a "You're doing great, honey!" and was rewarded with a glare that would melt Greenland.

Friends and family had greeted the news of Elise's pregnancy the first three times with delight. When we warily broke the news about Baby No. 4, the most common response was a shrug followed by: "Haven't you figured out what is causing this yet?"

The average American family has 1.8 children under age 18, according to the latest government figures. We were sprinting toward non-conformity in a society where the average restaurant also has no table designed to comfortably fit six people and a stroller.

We picked out names anyway -- Reynolds for a boy, Georgia for a girl. Elise survived the pregnancy with stranger cravings than ever -- almond-butter-and-pickle sandwiches for breakfast, sushi for dinner.

It was after midnight on a warm May evening when we left for the hospital. I drove up to a traffic signal I knew from experience could result in a 90-second wait if you caught it wrong, and we did. The intersection was deserted. I started to run the red light.

"Stop!!" Elise screamed.

Startled, I slammed on the brakes, throwing us forward.

"Ow!" she yelled, doubling over in pain. "Don't you dare get us pulled over!"

For the rest of the trip, I drove like Morgan Freeman in "Driving Miss Daisy." Nice and slow.

We made it to Carolinas Medical Center. She got her epidural and excellent care from a battery of nurses. And the baby, who had been in no rush for almost 41 weeks, suddenly decided to hurry.

The main nurse had to hold the baby's head inside Elise's body for a few moments while the doctor made it back into the room. But he got there and calmly assumed the baby-catching position.

"Scott," the doctor said, "when this baby comes out, I want you to tell your wife what it is."

"Um, OK," I said.

And on cue, the baby scooted out -- a gorgeous, wrinkled space alien covered with slime.

The doctor, the nurse and my wife all looked expectantly at me.

"It's a ... uh. ..."

I was distracted by the umbilical cord. It was huge! Had our other children's been that long? I also hesitated because I knew if I made the wrong call, it would become a family legend.

"Scott?" the doctor asked.

The baby was crying. He shifted it into a different position.

I took a close look. Then another.

"It's a girl," I said, my heart swelling. "It's a girl!"

Ah, how reality rankles:
Time for Barbie camp?

By SCOTT FOWLER

Observer sports columnist Scott Fowler, the father of four children under 10, is writing about fatherhood this summer.

After our fourth child was born last month, I called home from the hospital to tell the boys.

There are three of them -- ages 9, 6 and 3. They still didn't know whether they were getting a baby brother or sister. We had found out ourselves only two hours before.

My mom answered the phone and said Salem, the 6-year-old, wanted to ask me something. I prepared for the "boy or girl" question.

Instead, he asked: "Where's the cinnamon? I want Nana to make me cinnamon toast."

That was our first reminder that the world wouldn't stop spinning for this baby girl. Our euphoria over Georgia's birth was quickly tempered by the reality of life. The baby slept when she wanted to, but the two older boys still had to be gotten off to school five days a week.

So, as newly minted parents of four, we heaved a sigh of relief when school ended for the summer. No more schedules for three months. We would avoid the early-morning rush to school, sleep longer and count on the older kids to entertain each other.

But on the first full day of summer break, a proclamation came down from the older boys at 9:30 a.m.: "We're bored."

The rest of that day was a mess -- a smorgasbord of post-partum and post-school letdown. When people tell you to "enjoy your kids, they grow up so fast," they are not talking about days like this one. As my wife later put it, "That was the day the fairy tale fell apart."

We were angry with the older kids for being so high maintenance. They were lashing out, likely getting used to the way this baby would put a crimp in their parental one-on-one time.

It was one of those days -- you know the type -- where nothing very bad happened and yet all of us felt bad. Especially my wife.

"Boys," she told them after yet another screaming fight between two boys had broken out, "if you're going to act like this this summer, I'm going back to work! Full time!"

"Nobody would hire you," our 9-year-old, Chapel, goaded her. "You just had a baby."

"Yes, they would!" my wife shot back. "And you'd have to go to either day care or summer camp. I don't care what kind of camp, either -- it might be Barbie camp. You'd have to sit around all day and play with Barbies."

"No-o-o-o-o!" the two younger boys screamed, horrified.

"There isn't such a thing," Chapel said uncertainly.

I decided it was time for our go-to pitch: the chart.

For the older boys, it had occasionally worked before. I'd post a list of their chores in the kitchen for a week or two. They would check them off. After a certain number of days, they'd get to go to a movie or Ray's Splash Planet.

The problem: The chart's magic was temporary. Like dieters in January, the boys were always gung ho about it for a few days and then became lax.

But we badly needed a few good days. So I typed up lists of 10 things that each boy had to do each day to be able to watch TV (only at night) and to have dessert after supper.

All were first put on clean-up duty.

Chapel, the 9-year-old who has constructed a shrine to the Teen Titan superhero "Kid Flash" in his room, had to read silently for 45 minutes every day and say "I'm sorry" when warranted.

Salem, the 6-year-old with the sweet tooth, had to eat more vegetables and put up the silverware.

London, the 3-year-old whose over-exuberant love of his sister poses a constant threat, had to have his bushy red hair checked for ticks each night and could touch the baby only when she was awake.

And it worked -- well, a little.

At least so far, we haven't sent anyone to Barbie camp.

But the summer is young...

10 ways kids bury ideal beach trip

By SCOTT FOWLER

EDITOR'S NOTE: Observer columnist Scott Fowler will write about fatherhood on Tuesdays this summer.

The perfect family beach trip is a myth.

Heading to a beach in the Carolinas is a rite of summer for many folks, including our family. Each year, prompted by nostalgic memories of when my own parents took care of every detail, I envision an ideal vacation. It is full of happily independent children, wonderful books, great food, daily sports and unseasonably cool days.

Alas, when you are the father of four children under age 10, like me, this is not the way the beach works. In fact, no matter if you are single or a parent of eight, this is not the way the beach works.

I love the beach. But it is idealized so completely in our Carolina culture that it takes a few days there to remember what it's truly like.

Here, then, is a report fresh from the sand -- 10 family-oriented facts about visiting the beach with small children that you won't find in the travel guides:

1. A shark will not attack you or your family at the beach. The prospect of a shark attacking, however, will occupy the minds of your children all week. As my 6-year-old declared in his best Jacques Cousteau voice: "Bull and tiger sharks come out at twilight. Put your foot in the water, and they will eat you to death in ONE SECOND!!!" His brothers nodded solemnly.

2. Who decided kites are an ideal beach activity for kids? They'd rather have you read them Tolstoy aloud than fly a kite for more than five minutes.

A father who spends an hour working on a kite will be rewarded by his kids offering a brief squeal of delight when the kite goes aloft. Within minutes, though, he'll be holding that kite himself while the kids go poke a dead jellyfish.

3. "Poking a Dead Jellyfish," in fact, should be an official beach game for all families. So should "What Did I Just Step On In the Water?" and "Who Clogged Up the Beach House Commode?"

4. If you are a parent applying sunblock to your children, you will be so intent on smearing it all over them that you will do a terrible job on yourself, resulting in a first-day burn.

5. If you're waiting in line to get a table at a beach pancake house, three other parties of six will have arrived 60 seconds before you (one of them is probably our family. Sorry).

6. If you're going to play miniature golf, you'll first pay $8 per person per 18 holes. Then you will get behind a group that thinks it's entertaining to whack their multi-colored golf balls into the road and go to the counter to ask for another couple to bounce off the fake giraffe.

7. No trip to the beach is complete without a trip to the urgent-care center and/or a call to your home pediatrician.

8. If the house you're staying in has one of those "Big Mouth Billy Bass" novelty singing fish, as ours unfortunately did, gird yourself for a few hundred choruses of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" and "Take Me To the River."

9. There's a reason the word "sand" is encased in "sandwich."

10. Small children love to be carried to and from the beach.

"Parts of my legs hurt," declared my 3-year-old each time we faced the 200-yard walk through the dunes access path. His legs magically healed each time he saw the waves.

The kids also prefer that you carry the shovels, the pails, the seashells and the umbrella.

However, they are perfectly fine if you leave the kite behind.

Sweetest word to parent is 'almost'

By SCOTT FOWLER

Our 3-year-old did something dangerous the other day.

Actually, he does something dangerous every day. Most 3-year-olds are hard-wired like that.

But this was worse than normal.

The quarter-mile road that separates our house and my in-laws' house is frequented by UPS trucks and construction vans. There are some woods near the grandparents' house where our three boys -- ages 9, 6 and 3 -- often play.

One afternoon, London decided he was bored with what his two older brothers and a 9-year-old cousin were doing. So he figured he would walk home. By himself.

Everyone was oblivious. Two kids were picking wild blackberries. Another was drawing. I was gone. My wife was at our house with the baby. Grandmom was in her house, 50 yards away, cooking lunch. She believed the kids were safe since they knew (or so we all assumed) not to go near the road.

And then London -- red-haired, strong-willed, 3-foot-2 -- went on a walkabout.

He strolled down the curvy road, where foliage and tall pine trees hide all cars and trucks from view until the last second.

And you know what happened?

Nothing.

He showed up at our house, barged in the back door and started playing. My wife was on the phone and assumed her mother had dropped him off. It was 15 minutes before she figured out what had happened. Then, she tried to quell a retroactive panic attack.

"You walked home by yourself?!" she said. "Honey, you can't do that! That's so dangerous!"

London tried to defend himself. "I had my shoes on," he said. "And no cars come-d, so I didn't get runned over."

I still get jittery late at night thinking about it. What if? What if?

We've tried to put the fear of God into our 3-year-old on this subject. But his solo walk got me thinking about the word "almost."

For adults, "almost" is usually a bad word. You almost won the lottery. You almost got that promotion. You almost made it to the NFL. (There are exceptions. Try this sometime: Ask a room of adults about the time they "almost" got in a car wreck and wait for the stories).

Generally, the words "almost" and its close cousin "might have been" falls into a category for adults best described by 19th-century poet John Greenleaf Whittier. Whittier wrote: For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: `It might have been!'

When I read those words again recently, I thought to myself: "No way this guy had kids." I looked it up -- Whittier was a lifelong bachelor.

For worried parents with young children, some of the happiest words in life are "It might have been (but thank God it wasn't)."

Your child almost gets run over. Almost gets his eye put out. Almost pulls his sister's arm out of its socket. Almost gets a concussion. Almost gets bitten by a snake. And that's not once a year. That's once a week. All of us parents who have mostly had "almosts" to contend with -- we are a thoroughly blessed bunch.

We are supposed to live in a far safer world now than we did as kids. I grew up in Spartanburg with no bike helmet, no car seat, no life jacket and two wonderful parents who often could not have told you exactly where I was.

I remember riding in the bed of a red pickup with 10 other Little League teammates as the coach sped down Interstate 85. And throwing lawn darts. And watching a small firecracker blow up in my hand. How did any of us make it to adulthood? How will our kids ever get there?

Kids are far more resilient than we give them credit for, of course. But we can't help it. We are a generation of paranoid parents, haunted by what might happen when the word "almost" disappears.

Mom and Dad's lives go from
falling in love to rising in love

By SCOTT FOWLER

My wife and I have been married for 10 years this week. For all but the first 10 months of our marriage, we've also been parents.

We don't do everything well, but we are good at being fruitful and multiplying. We have produced four kids at last count. And believe me, we count all the time to make sure we're not missing one.

When I was younger, I heard many sets of parents call each other "Mom" and "Dad" rather than by each other's first names. That's sad, I thought. They are so consumed with children that they have turned into nothing more than parental teammates.

Now we refer to each other as "Mom" and "Dad" almost all the time. When she says my first name, I know either I'm in trouble or one of the kids is.

Long ago, we had time for romance. That was before I stopped sending flowers and started giving her presents like a wheelbarrow for our anniversary and a screen door for Valentine's Day (in my defense, she asked for both).

We almost missed each other's lives entirely. We went to the same college for four straight years without meeting and worked at the same newspaper for two more years on different floors without coming in contact.

Finally, Elise and I met on the "down" escalator at the Observer, between the third and second floors. She was funny, smart and breathtaking. An hour before our first date, I wrote a giddy note to myself that read in part: "I don't know what will happen tonight or in the future, but here's a guess: Elise and I will get married one day and I'll one day show this letter to our child."

We got engaged on that same escalator and were married eight months after we met. I read that note at our wedding reception.

Free time -- what's that?

Then the babies started coming. She quit work to become a stay-at-home mom. I began to admire different things about her. She still looks great in a black dress, but her wizardry with car-seat installation and coolness in an emergency room seems far more important now. As a father, I do my best. But I'd be lost without her.

We wonder what we did with all the free time we had before becoming Mom and Dad. How was it possible that we thought we were so busy back then?

We hardly ever have serious arguments, but we do annoy each other. She doesn't like the way I burst into song with little provocation. If she mentions that one of the boys has 19 kids in his class, I can't help it -- I immediately break into Steely Dan's "Hey Nineteen." A mention of an appliance bought in "1999" makes me start screaming Prince lyrics and dancing. Believe me, no one wants to see that.

As for Mom, she has turned into such an Al Gore "Save the Planet" disciple that she monitors paper towel usage, insists on cloth diapers and won't run the A/C unless the clocks are melting like in the Salvador Dali painting.

More chaos, more laughter

I know we have a good marriage, though, partly because I know what a bad one looks like. Elise was never married before. I was -- a tumultuous, childless union in my 20s.

Kids always change a marriage. I'm convinced they change most -- certainly ours -- for the better. Our lives are far more chaotic than they were a decade ago, but we laugh much more.

Once, we were falling in love. On the good days -- when the three boys are catching fireflies in the yard, we are sitting on the back porch and our baby daughter is cooing -- I feel like we are rising in love.

At moments like that, I glance over at my wife and smile. But not for long. I've got to look back at the kids, counting heads to make sure we aren't missing one.

How does a 9-year-old
get to be a food snob?

By SCOTT FOWLER

It was Holy Communion Sunday. My 9-year-old boy and I stood in line until it was our turn to take a small piece of bread from the pastor. Then we dipped it in the cup of grape juice that served as the church's standard substitute for wine.

I ate mine, said a brief prayer and returned to our pew. My son was already there, and when I sat down he tapped me on the shoulder. I looked at him and he held out his piece of bread, now purplish with grape juice.

"Take this," he said firmly.

"Why didn't you eat that?" I whispered.

"It's white bread," he said. "I only eat wheat."

Not ready to have that argument at that moment, I took the bread, glanced around to see who was watching and swallowed it. That's another one I'll have to explain at the pearly gates one day.

Our 9-year-old son has developed into a food snob, and we're not sure how. But what we do know is that his habits present yet another hurdle in a familiar set of challenges all parents face, namely:

The Food Game.

It's a tough game to win for parents because kids these days can afford to be picky. Food is everywhere in America. You can't fool them anymore with that old truism: "There are kids starving all over the world, so eat it and be thankful you've got it!"

Parents are often enablers in The Food Game. Both my wife and I are guilty of turning into short-order cooks to please our brood.

Three different lunches at home to satisfy our three boys, ages 9, 6 and 3? I hate to say it, but we've done it. Two of the boys like tomatoes, one doesn't. One likes spinach, two don't. Two like bananas and so on, and so on. The baby, fortunately, is no problem yet -- at two months old, she's all breast milk, all the time.

My mom was a dietician, so I grew up eating relatively healthy for a Southern boy. I'm a stickler for keeping a lot of fruits and vegetables at the house and for the kids drinking either milk or water at mealtime. But that's about as far as I go. I can't claim any credit for our 9-year-old's food quirks

Who knows why kids develop obsessions?

Chapel has obviously been influenced by his mom the vegetarian, but there's more to it than that. He has to have whole wheat pasta and wheat bread rather than the kinds made with white flour. He won't eat real hot dogs, only veggie dogs. He is also prejudiced against pre-packaged school lunches, particularly the kinds known as Kid Cuisine and Lunchables. He clandestinely charted the food brought by the other kids in his third-grade class last year based on its unhealthiness.

Lest you think he is the healthiest-eating kid you've ever heard of, know that he dislikes about 80 percent of all vegetables and lives for dessert, no matter what it's made of or how unhealthy it is.

We do our best to make our kids eat right, like all parents. But it's an uphill fight, given the preponderance of fast food in America and all the ads for sugary products geared toward children.

And we forever seem to find ourselves at restaurants that have French fries as the only side dish available on all child's plates.

Could it be really be that hard to throw a fruit cup in there as a choice? Or raw carrots and dip? That takes all of 10 seconds to prepare.

In other news, our beloved pastor retired recently after 17 years at our church.

I'm praying my son had nothing to do with it.

Yes, I drive a minivan -- and 6 more answers to questions you keep asking

Hint: Forget being cool, remember to get a pet,
break some news gently

By SCOTT FOWLER

For my final column about fatherhood this summer, I thought I'd answer some of the most frequently asked questions I've had since this column started a couple of months ago, both via e-mail and in (sometimes silly) conversations.

Q. What kind of car should parents drive?

Give up entirely the idea of being cool. You're a parent, so by definition, you aren't cool. You can get away with a relatively fashionable car up until Kid No. 2, but after that, it's all over. We have two well-used minivans. I never thought I'd be less cool than when I was driving my first-ever car -- a dust-gray 1976 Ford Pinto with a cracked dashboard -- but now I am. On the positive side, I've got 17 cupholders.

Q. If you've got kids, is it required that you have a pet?

Yes. But we have not had good luck with pets recently. Our dog, Heidi, died of old age a couple of years ago and our cat, Helen Crump, just ran off. My kids on some days are desperate enough for a new pet that they adopt Japanese beetles. I encourage this, because Japanese beetles are cheap and replaceable. We have yet to break down and get something with a little longer life span, but it's only a matter of time.

Q. Aren't you a little old to have just had your fourth child?

Darn right. I'm 42, and our four kids are all younger than 10. I know older parents sometimes get annoyed when it is implied they shouldn't have had kids so late, but I think the best way to handle this is to acknowledge it and make a joke at your own expense.

For instance: Glenn Perry, a well-known local doctor who just had a child at age 55. Says Perry whenever the "older-parent" subject comes up: "Maybe if I buy Pampers and Depends at the same time, I'll get a discount!"

Q. When most parents seem to have one to three children these days, how do you break the news to people about babies No. 4 or beyond?

I like what one reader told me. She knew her mom might not take the news of her impending fifth baby too well. So she sent her a postcard to announce she was pregnant again.

I think e-mail also works in some touchy cases. It allows people time to digest the news without spitting out a reaction both you and they will regret.

Q. Besides Harry Potter, what are some of the best books for kids to read?

Try "The Dangerous Book for Boys" if you've got a son ages 7-12. I still love Dr. Seuss for younger kids, particularly "How the Grinch Stole Christmas." The "Magic Treehouse" and "Berenstain Bears" series are great.

Q. How much attention should I pay to my kids' dreams?

A lot. Not because kids' dreams are terribly important, but because they give you a good chance to see what your kids are thinking about. Also, they are entertaining.

My middle son, Salem, once told us all he had a bad dream that he described in five words: "A Tyrannosaurus Rex ate me."

The next morning he awoke happily and announced he had had a great dream the night before. What was it?

Smiling sweetly, Salem said: "A rhino ate Daddy."

Q. Why are you stopping the fatherhood column?

My real job is writing a sports column for The Observer. And my sports world is about to get very busy again.

But this has been a pleasure. Who knows? If enough people enjoyed it, maybe we'll try it again sometime. You can find my previous columns on fatherhood at www.charlotte.com/581.

Hug your kids, have a great last few weeks of summer, and thanks for reading.