There was an old man who lived next door to my sister's house when I was a teenager. I don't remember his name - let me call him Sal, just for kicks. He was a nice man, and we were on friendly terms.

"You're a good kid," Sal said of me once, "when you're sleeping."

In our north Bronx neighborhood, we often blasted music from our stereos out the window so everyone could enjoy the sounds. Thriller was all the rage then. We had Beat Street and Jam On It, Ghostbusters and Purple Rain, Roxanne, Roxanne and The Fat Boys are Back.

I was the nerd of the bunch, of course, occasionally blasting Thompson Twins and Neil Diamond songs, but that's a whole other story.

Our neighbor couldn't stand it, but also couldn't do very much about it. His complaints were gentle and good-hearted, and they fell on ears plagued by the selective deafness of adolescence.

So long ago.

Today I live with two teenagers. I can't name the bands or the songs that blare out from their music systems. It's a lot of thumping, and I can barely make out the words. I often can't tell the high-pitched instruments from the shrieks of the performers playing them.

I hear these noises coming from the kids' bedrooms as bedtime approaches.

Hey, Sal, about that apology I owe you...

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I love it when obnoxious, virtually unknown, foreign, painfully unfunny music awards show hosts tell me how to vote. Love it even more when they tastelessly mock the Jonas Brothers for the unspeakable crime of being virgins, especially when my stepkids are watching.

So you can imagine my wife and I had a blast watching the MTV Video Music Awards last night. My first thought when I saw the host, British comedian Russell Brand, was, "Who the devil is British comedian Russell Brand?"

Then the nitwit started talking, representing himself as a member of the global community and begging the U.S. to elect Barack Obama president. Now, I'm not going to declare my political leanings here, but I am going to recall something I observed four years ago: U.S. Americans really, really don't like it when foreigners tell them how to vote. If they did, President Kerry would be seeking his second term right now. In urging a vote for Obama, Russell Brand did as much to further the cause of John McCain as 10 Alaskan governors could hope to do.

Not content to have one foot in his mouth, Brand actually did the unthinkable. He kept talking. He targeted VP nominee Sarah Palin and her future son-in-law (in a bit that could have been a lot funnier than it was), then the Jonas Brothers (in a bit that wasn't even mildly amusing). Somehow, he worked a couple of "master of your domain" jokes in there, just to make sure parents were as uncomfortable as possible if they were watching with their younger teens.

"He's making me mad," my 13-year-old stepdaughter said. "He's making fun of the Jonas Brothers."

My wife and I looked at each other with a hint of relief. Turns out a 13-year-old girl, admiring the talent and wholesomeness of a trio of young men, actually proved to be smarter than a self-appointed representative of the global community. Bravo, kid.

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Do they even call them jukeboxes anymore?

Kayla stepped up to one of those gizmos at a restaurant the other day and scrolled through the music selection. She didn't want to play anything. She just wanted to see what they had. She returned to our table with a self-satisfied grin.
"They have Chris Brown, but no Jonas Brothers," she said. It's because the Jonas Brothers are lousy, she reasoned.

Lately, Kayla and Paxtynn have been locked in a battle of the fans. Paxtynn, 13, enjoys the Jonas Brothers. Kayla does not share her enthusiasm, which is fine. What irks me is that Kayla cannot seem to allow Paxtynn to enjoy her fandom in peace. Why would anyone like the Jonas Brothers when Chris Brown is so much better?

Oh, please. Since when do other musical acts have to be bad in order for the one you enjoy to be good?

Could you imagine Billy Joel fans hating on Elton John fans?

"'Daniel' is boring. 'Piano Man' rules."

"'Piano Man'? More like 'Piano Loser.'"

Chris Brown is a fun entertainer. The Jonas Brothers are fun, too. There's room in our house for both their CDs and both their posters. And, dare I say it? It's possible to be a fan of both, kids.

Not me, of course. I mean, why would I be a fan of Chris Brown or the Jonas Brothers when Linda Eder and Lea Salonga are still singing?

Don't know who they are? Why not? What's wrong with you?

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It's easy to quit smoking, the old saying goes. I've done it plenty of times.

I picked up the habit just a few years ago, a byproduct of where I was spending my free time. But when I got married last year, I decided to quit. And I did, for a few weeks. And I picked it up again. And I quit again. And I "secretly" kept going.

Turns out I wasn't kidding anyone. That smell? Yeah, kids smell it too. And they may be polite about it to your face, but they find it disgusting.

The other day we were walking into a restaurant and saw a woman sitting out front, smoking a cigarette. It was downright scary. Her skin was actually gray. I don't know what caused it, but the girls and I looked at each other and knew that the cigarette she was smoking couldn't have helped.

"Remember what you just saw if you ever think of taking up smoking," I said when we were far enough away from the smoker.

"I know," Pax said. "Lucky thing you stopped."

Ouch. She knew. I had kidded myself into thinking that the girls didn't know I had been smoking every day. Just stop in the early afternoon, and by the time you get home, no one will be the wiser, I thought. The girls weren't that dumb, thank you very much.

I really have stopped smoking. Haven't had a cigarette at all since July 11. They say you take it one day at a time, and that's true at first. But after a while, you do stop thinking about it. I don't remember what was "fun" about smoking, but I do know what's fun about being a husband, being a stepfather, anticipating biological fatherhood. To blow that away for the "pleasure" of a puff of smoke? Not me. Not anymore. Too much to live for.

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Know what I hate? A lot?

Pictures people take of themselves. Arrogant. Self-centered. Vain. Look at me! I'm waiting on line for a movie. Look at me! I'm sitting in a car. Look at me! I'm outside the lion's cage at the zoo. Can't see the lion. Can't see the zoo. But look at me!

Can't stand it.

In my day (yeah, I said it), we took pictures of OTHER PEOPLE. Get it, kids? That's why the viewer and the lens point in the same direction. Oh, you don't have viewers anymore, do you? You have "preview screens." You can see the results as soon as you're done and delete the pictures you don't like.

We didn't have that. We had to use FILM, and we didn't see how the picture looked until after it was developed! None of this "wait, look at me! Oh, that came out bad, let me take another picture of me and another picture of me until we get it right." We wouldn't dare waste expensive film on the off chance a picture we took of ourselves would come out right.

If God had meant for us to take pictures of ourselves, He'd have given us invisible arms!

Sigh. Remember when pictures were taken on special occasions? Family vacations, holidays, visits from long lost friends and relatives? Even standing on line at a theme park or the DMV!

Now, being on line at the movies is a special occasion that requires a picture. Being on line at McDonald's rates a pic. Heck, you don't have to BE anywhere! Being ONLINE is enough of a reason to have your picture taken by you for you. Click!

How do I look?

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"If it's a boy, will he be my step-brother or ... what will he be?"

Let me back up: Christine and I are expecting our first child together in February. She actually told me the day before Father's Day -- plopped the stick with the great big flashing neon "+" sign right in front of me. To be honest, I don't even remember my reaction. I think it might have involved some degree of drooling, squinting and deep breathing.

There is no single "big question" when you find out a baby's on the way. Every question is big. And one of the big questions we had involved my step-daughters. How would they respond? And how can we keep them involved so that they know we are all in one family, more than ever?

Well, so far, they seem to be excited. They want a brother (although we do not know the gender and would be perfectly happy with a girl).

But if it is a boy, is he a step-brother? How does that work?

Technically, I explained the baby would be their half-brother. But I don't like that term. It's perfectly useful for geneticists and whatnot, but not for real human beings. I've got seven brothers and sisters, none "full-blooded," but I wouldn't think of calling them "half-siblings" unless I needed a kidney or something and the doctors needed every little medical detail.

"Brother" or "sister" will do just fine.

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"Why don't you like spaghetti sauce?" Kay asks the question with a hint of disdain. You expect her to follow it up with, "What are you, stupid?"

What can we say? Pax is a fussy eater. She doesn't like pasta sauce so much. Yeah, I find it frustrating that she doesn't like it, especially after I've worked my "this-is-the-only-thing-I-can-cook-with-confidence" magic on it, but she doesn't like it. Okay, I've come to terms with that.

But Kay has gotten into the habit of asking, with attitude, why people have personal preferences -- particularly if she has strong feelings about something.

"Why don't you like that sauce?"

"Why don't you like this show?"

"Why don't you like that music?"

The translation always seems to be: "I like it, so if you don't, something must be wrong with you."

Why? Why? Why?

I know younger children have a habit of asking why about everything, but that's curiosity. Why is the sky blue? Why are leaves green? Why do we sleep at night instead of daytime? Why can't we see stars when the sun is out? Why is Paris Hilton famous?

You know, reasonable questions.

But on matters of personal taste, the "why" question as it's being asked lately... well, to me, it borders on rude. Pax shouldn't have to defend why she likes or doesn't like a particular food (or musical group).

Why does this bug me? And what should I do about it?

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"Oh, j/k."

What? I was befuddled.

"J/k."

My wife stepped in to translate. "Just kidding."

You know, that's where I draw the line. I completely sympathize with the mother in those commercials who can't get straight answers out of her daughter and her mother because they speak in text message abbreviations.

"IDK!"
"My BFF Rose!"

So one of the girls said something and was mistaken. What does she say? "Oh, sorry, my mistake"? No, that would be accurate. "My bad"? I got used to that one quickly, for some reason, regardless of the torture it does to grammar.

"J/k."

Just kidding. No, I wanted to scream! You were not just kidding. You were wrong, you were mistaken, you misunderstood something. I might be able to stomach the text abbreviations in actual conversation if the abbreviations made sense. But she wasn't just kidding.

So, here's my solution: when they speak to me or text me, it's proper English only. That means "was," not "wuz." Really, "wuz" is not an abbreviation. It takes just as much finger work, so no excuses. And if they insist on communicating using abbreviations and alterations that take a degree in linguistics to sort out, I'm taking their phones away and burying them in the backyard.

J/k.

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Quick - find your driver's license.

If you have one, there's a good chance you've already found it. It's in your wallet, or in your purse, or in your front pocket.

Remember when you first got it? How long did it take you to remember to carry it with you at all times?

I'm in the middle of a discussion with Kayla, my older stepdaughter, about this subject. She recently got her learner's permit, and over the weekend she wanted to drive from her grandmother's house to Blockbuster.

"Oh, wait," she said. "I can't. Never mind."

"Why can't you?" I asked.

"I don't have my permit. I left it in mom's car." (We were in my car at the time).

I spotted a lesson there. "Your permit is something you should carry on you at all times," I said. "You wouldn't think of leaving the house without your cell phone. You should treat your permit the same way."

That struck a nerve, but not the one I wanted to strike. What I intended as experienced counsel, Kayla interpreted as "attitude" (by the way, she wasn't entirely wrong about that. But it missed the main point, which was that she could be driving more if she followed that advice).

Lesson lost.

So help me out here. If you've got a child old enough to drive, how did you get him or her to realize the importance of carrying a permit or license at all times?

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Well, looks like I was right - about being wrong.

Yesterday I wrote about not being able to shake the feeling that my stepdaughters don't like me. But I did wonder whether I was being overly sensitive.

This morning I noticed a game on our kitchen table. It's called "Visual Eyes," and it apparently involves rolling dice with images on them and using those images to come up with common expressions. Never played the game before, but that's not really the point. The point is, it's a family game. It's a game that's no fun unless we all play it together.

Gametime is tricky in our household. Their talents are very different from mine. The girls are great at games like Rock Band and Dance Dance Revolution. I'm much better at Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble. So we need to find games that we can all enjoy, which is not always easy.

Card games work, but the games we play are really designed for more than four people, so they're better at larger family gatherings. Scattergories is a big hit with us, too. We've got Yahtzee but haven't played it yet. Now we have Visual Eyes.

When I asked my wife about this new game, she replied, "The girls got it for you."

Maybe they sensed something was off in how I was feeling Sunday. I just thought it was a very sweet gesture on their part. And shame on me for thinking they don't like me.

What games do you play? And how do those games draw your family together?

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I'm getting this feeling, and I can't shake it.

I feel as if the girls simply don't like me. I'm probably being overly sensitive, but the feeling has been growing lately. Yesterday was our first anniversary, and the girls said nothing to me about it. They wished my wife a happy anniversary, but I was on the other side of our car at the time. Maybe they felt their well-wishes to her counted for me, too. I don't know. When they reached me, they asked me to get a video game out so they could hook it up and play.

Maybe I didn't do enough. After all, it's their anniversary of being in my family, too. Maybe I should have gotten them a card or something.

All I know is that lately I've felt less like a "dad," step or otherwise, and more like "that guy who married their mom."

Any advice for shaking that feeling?

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I wanted to believe. So did my wife. So did the girls.

But when a modeling/talent agency told us our girls had been “chosen” to be represented, and all you have to do is pay $500 per child plus $40 a month (per child), forgive me, but I got skeptical. My journalist’s instinct, dormant through the early steps of the process, kicked in when the modeling agency started asking for fees up front. One Google search later and I was on the phone with my wife telling her to get out, with the girls and with her money.

If you’re about to enroll your child in a modeling or talent agency, do your homework. I’d have to do a little more journalism homework myself before naming the agency in this space. From what I’ve been able to gather, agents are supposed to get paid when they find work for you. When they start asking for fees up front, start sniffing. If there’s any hint a bovine has been to the bathroom, run.

I did, and I trust the girls may someday forgive me. But not on Friday evening. Not at first. And who can blame them? Seemingly nice people were telling them they have what it takes to be a model. They were on the brink of being discovered, and these nice people were going to help.

“They’re cheats,” I said after their mom pulled them out and tried to explain my reservations. “They’re not going to help you. They just want your money.”

“You don’t know that!” they each replied, and they were right, in a sense. I was going by my gut, by a few web sites in which people who had dealt with the same agency warned other prospective customers to head for the hills.

I realized, with too little tact, that in their eyes I was not protecting them – I was doubting them. I was doubting their beauty, I was doubting their talent, and I was doubting their marketability as models. None of that is true, but it is what they were feeling. A dream was within their grasp, and I yanked it away from them. I felt an ache in my heart. It has not gone away.

But if they’re going to be serious about modeling, acting or dancing professionally, we are all going to have to realize that there’s hard work and investment involved. No one’s going to knock on our door and hand us the opportunity of a lifetime.

Worst of all, there will always be people and companies out there eager to exploit our hopes and dreams.

I know I made the right decision. If the people we were dealing with are running a legitimate agency, they weren’t acting like it. And maybe I’ve only been a “father” to these girls for a year, but I’ll be cursed if I’m going to let some vultures break their hearts.

I’d rather have them angry at me.

If You've Got The Look, Look Out! Avoiding Modeling Scams

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A couple of months ago, I wrote about my younger stepdaughter's trip to the movies to see "Under the Same Moon (La Misma Luna)," a film about a 9-year-old Mexican boy who crosses the border illegally to reunite with his mother in Los Angeles. You can find it in Blockbuster now. We did.

Pax, now 13, almost jumped out of her shoes with excitement when she saw it. We had to rent it. Had to. This was not optional.

I won't go into a full movie review here, except to say that I do recommend it and that I have rarely seen a movie end on a more perfect note.

But what really impressed me was that a teenage girl with no connection to the grand debate about illegal immigration would choose to see this movie in the theaters, gush about it when she got home, and then insist that we watch it together as a family as soon as it was available.

Afterward, we talked about the movie a little bit, about the characters and the storytelling and about one character's act of sacrifice. But I didn't want to ruin a child's enjoyment of a film by delving any deeper into the issues raised by this one. We now have a common reference point around which we can frame future, more profound discussions. The truth is, she didn't like this movie because of its immigration themes. She liked it because it was about a child's love for his mother.

Knowing how lovable Pax's mother is, I can relate.

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"Can I drive?"

My older stepdaughter just got her learner's permit. I'm sure there are questions that strike more fear into the hearts of all parents, step and bio, but "Can I drive?" has to rank up there as among the scariest.

I hand her the keys. She gets into the driver's seat, adjusts the mirrors, turns the car on, looks behind her and begins to back us out of our parking space.

"Congratulations," I tell her. "You just failed your driving test."

She stops, puts the car in park and looks at me. "Sorry," she says. "Is your seatbelt on?"

I put my seatbelt on. "Go ahead."

She won't forget to ask that one again.

I'm (naively) convinced that nothing ages a parent faster than being driven around town by a teenager. I'm measuring her success by my silence. The fewer words I speak, the better job she's doing behind the wheel.

"You're too far to the right," I tell her. Poor kid. She's used to seeing the road from the passenger's seat. Now she has to adjust to being a couple of feet to the left. Worse, she has to adjust to my reminding her of this fact every single time the car veers a little to the right. My wife kindly reminds me that I might be overdoing it. After all, I'm used to seeing the road from the driver's seat. I need to adjust, too.

I think we all do.

"You can step on the gas," I tell her. "It's okay."

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The name of the movie was “Under the Same Moon.”

Never heard of it.

Pax told her mother about it on Sunday, and later was eager to tell me about it. Seems much of the movie is in Spanish, with English subtitles. It’s a border story, about a boy seeking to reunite with his mother.

I had to admit, I was impressed.

Pax is my 12-year-old stepdaughter. She was out at the movies Saturday with her friend. Everything they originally wanted to see, such as “Superhero Movie,” was sold out. So they chose this film about one of the most controversial subjects around – illegal immigration. And she liked it. She wants us to rent it so we can see it as a family when it comes out on DVD.

This is not what I expected at all. I tend to think the movies I like are dull to my two stepdaughters, the other of whom is 15. This is especially true of those movies that aren’t really made with the younger audiences in mind. We’re in that period now where Disney-esque youth fare is still acceptable to the girls. I would think Pax is as likely to buy a ticket for “Under the Same Moon” as she is to bring a worn copy of “War and Peace” to the beach.

But she did, opening the door to an intelligent conversation about the struggles, morality and other themes inherent in the illegal immigration debate.

When I was about her age, I stunned my friends by going to the movies, by myself, to catch a showing of “On Golden Pond.” You have to picture me in that theater – a pre-teen Latino catching a movie about Henry Fonda and Katherine Hepburn aging. Not a lot of people in that audience who looked like me.

And probably not a lot of pre-teen girls at a Saturday evening showing of “Under the Same Moon.”

I don't want to push it, but I wonder if she and I can bond over other movies. Maybe we can trade. I'll sit through "High School Musical" again, if she'll sit through "12 Angry Men."

Okay, maybe I'm pushing it. But I don’t know why it surprises me when Pax and I have something in common. Still, it does. And I’m really proud of her.

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Somewhere, my Abuelita is laughing at me.

My grandmother used to do all the cooking for the family, just about every night. She lived upstairs from us in an apartment building in the Bronx. She cooked typical Puerto Rican meals, heavy on the yellow rice (I hated yellow rice) and red beans (I hated red beans), occasional small pieces of steak (I hated steak), usually with onions (I hated onions). More than once, I would get a special serving of white rice and corn, so I could be spared the indignity of the meal Abuelita had spent so much time preparing for the rest of the family.

Fast forward... Years after Abuelita's passing, I'm a stepfather, and about twice a week, it's my job to cook for the family. Nothing fancy, mind you. I'm not much of a cook. But I make some fantastic spaghetti sauce, which becomes "pasta sauce" when you serve it with anything other than spaghetti. Sometimes, if I have one handy, I'll even cut up an onion to add that extra little bit of flavor. I love the taste of cooked onions. The other night, my wife asked if I could make sausage and peppers. Yum. And boil some spaghetti, too.

The sausage and peppers were just about ready when Christine and the girls got home. The younger one, Paxtynn, asked me when dinner would be ready. I pointed to the spaghetti, still boiling with about four minutes to go. "That'll be a couple of minutes," I said. Then I pointed to the sausage and peppers and said, "That's just about rea..."

"I don't like that!" she interrupted, as if to say, "You don't really expect me to eat the centerpiece of the meal you've prepared, do you?"

She is such a fussy eater. A hint of sauce for spaghetti, but no more. Ribs? She'll take two and eat half of one, leaving the rest on her plate. Rice? Sometimes, but not much. She doesn't like this. She doesn't like that (but she'll eat uncooked noodles straight out of the box like it's a potato chip -- I don't get that). No consideration for the work that goes into preparing a meal. Taste buds that can't handle taste. My masterpieces, unappreciated in their time. She's like a little, annoying, bratty, fussy... female version of me when I was her age.

When I remember that, I smile. Sometimes I laugh. She has no idea how much it stings when she points to food I've made and says "I don't like that." I never thought of what it must feel like to my Abuelita, who must be looking down at the situation right now and thinking, "Ah ha. Ahora sabes!"

"Now you know."

I do. And I know she's laughing. And I'm laughing with her. Lo siento, Abuelita. Y gracias.

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There’s a job that can sometimes be even harder than being a stepfather, and that’s my wife’s task. She is the moderator, the referee between the stepfather who doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time and the daughters who would like to know who that grumpy man thinks he is. Mom, after all, is the one who invited/accepted me into their family. The girls kind-of sort-of got a vote, but it was ultimately their mom’s decision.

And that puts her in a pretty tough spot. For example, I don’t know how to tutor the pre-teen. I do a pretty good job with college students, but the 12-year-old feels so much pressure hearing a question from me that she’ll forget how many inches are in a foot. It’s not that she doesn’t know – it’s that I can be so overbearing while firing even simple questions at them that the answers hide behind a defensive wall in their brains. I throw my hands in the air, declaring to anyone who’ll hear me that I can’t work with this!

In steps their mom, able to leap tall communication gaps in a single comforting gesture. Back off, she tells me subtly, gently. You know this stuff, she tells the kid, coaxing the answer out of her.

I don’t envy my wife when it comes to that role. As parents, we’ve been a team less than a year. Now she spends as much time teaching me how to be a parent as she spends being a parent to the girls. I get the luxury of not getting it right all the time. The pressure on her is greater: she has to be right when I’m wrong, right when the kids are wrong, right when we’re all wrong. And she never has the right to be wrong. Ever!

Not fair. And all I have to do to resolve this unfairness is get it right all the time myself. Yeah, sure. I can do that.

Honestly, I think she has some idea how much I appreciate her. I know I’d be a flop as a stepfather if not for her support. I’d like to be just as supportive of her role.

But how?

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Families have their own rhythm, their own cadences. They can speak to each other in ways outsiders can’t really relate.

When an outsider becomes a family member, as I did eight months ago, he quickly learns that the family language only bears a passing resemblance to his own.

I knock on the older girl’s bedroom door.

“What?” she calls out. It’s an impolite, get-lost kind of yell to my ears, regardless of whether she intends it to sound that way.

“Try again!” I yell through the door.

“Yes?” she replies, this time striking a you’ve-reached-Kay-how-may-I-help-you? tone.

That's more like it. The first response sounds like I have some nerve knocking on the door. The second strikes me as more polite. I'm happy.

The next morning, I knock on the younger girl’s door.

“What-ah?” she yells. When did the word “what” gain that extra syllable, anyway? “What-ah?” Sometimes-ah sounds-ah like you hear those-ah, old-time preachers-ah.

“Hey, I’m just checking to make sure you’re awake and getting ready for school. I don’t deserve the attitude.”

“I’m not giving you attitude!”

I love that. I get the attitude and the denial.

What I don’t get is that she’s telling me the absolute truth. She really doesn’t mean to be giving me attitude. Just like I don’t mean to sound like a holier-than-thou persnickety know-it-all who’s constantly correcting them.

They would know that if they spoke my language, and maybe I’ll go a little easier on them when I learn their language a little bit better. The good part? They’re comfortable enough with me that when they speak to me, it’s in their language.

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I started calling my older step-daughter “Seven” a few months ago.

In the Star Trek universe, Seven-of-Nine (called Seven by her crewmates on the starship Voyager), was a human who was assimilated by a race of cyborgs and spent most of her life connected to them through cybernetic implants. I picture my kid with a cell phone on one ear and an I-Pod in the other while holding a digital camera to take a picture of herself, or maybe a video of her declaring: “Actual human contact is irrelevant. Resistance is futile.”

What I wouldn’t give to unplug all the gadgets, hide the batteries and try to engage her in an honest-to-goodness, face-to-face conversation.

But then I remember.

I remember my first home computer, and the hours I’d spend on it trying my hand at programming (I was no darned good). I remember handheld football games from Coleco. I remember video games that left me glued to the TV set seemingly for days at a time, with occasional breaks for food and such. Oh sure, I balanced it by cracking open my books to do my homework. But the point is the same. And when I started talking to my high school friends on the phone, it did seem for a while that I was spending an awful lot of time doing it.

Maybe the kid’s reliance on gizmos catches my attention because I didn’t see her phase into it one gadget at a time. Maybe I’m right to sound the alarm that over-reliance on these things is a tad anti-social and, occasionally, a little more than annoying. Maybe I am, as they say, pointing three fingers at myself whenever I point a finger at the kid for doing pretty much the same thing I did at her age.

Or maybe it’s not such a big deal after all.

Maybe resistance really is futile.

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Is it possible, because the girls are 15 and 12, that I missed one of the toughest challenges of stepping into parenthood?

My wife thinks so. Early on, she banned a sentence from being spoken in our home, a sentence that declares emphatically who I am not. There’s an understanding that I am going to do my best to be a father-figure in every way I can. There’s an understanding that I won’t always be good at it, though not for lack of trying.

I’m not naive enough to think all will be bliss and joy in the household. It’s just that I’m lucky to have two girls who are mature enough to know who I am, in addition to who I’m not. It makes it less likely (though not impossible) that I’ll ever find myself at the receiving end of the biggest, boldest challenge to authority a step-parent can face: "You're not my father!"

How about it, fellow step-parents? Your kids ever remind you of your place (or lack thereof) in their genealogy? How’d you handle it? Any advice for those of us yet to encounter it?

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Stepping into a fatherly role brought up a number of situations I never anticipated. One of them: how do you convey affection?

Most of the times I’ve dealt with other people’s children, this was never an issue. But when Christine and I got engaged, her two girls were about to become mine. I got to know them better than I’ve known anyone else’s children, and they got to know me. We bonded. Soon enough, I wanted to be able to say, as casually as any father would, how I felt.

But I have to admit, it was a little awkward at first. For a short time, I settled on “I don’t like you.” They knew what I meant. Variations popped up.

“I don’t like you too. Very much.”

“I don’t like you, with all my heart.”

It was fun for about a month. Maybe less. Then Christine told me one day that the kids stopped liking “I don’t like you.” It was charming at first, but it outlived its charm.

So it was okay to just say it now.

Kay, Pax... I love you.

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I didn’t become a parent until I was 37 years old. Now I’m 38 and I have two girls, aged 12 and 15. That’s what I get for marrying their mother.

I’m fond of saying that we live in a one-story house, so there are no “steps.” It’s a charming expression, but not a realistic one. The simple truth is that I’ve got two girls sharing my home now, and I’m often at a loss as to how I’m supposed to behave. I’m not their “dad.” They call me by my name, as they should (their dad is still in the picture).

The girls have quirks I need to get used to. I have quirks they need to get used to.

I’m into musical theater, books and karaoke. They’re into hip-hop, wall posters and dancing.

I excelled as a student all through my school and college years. They're average students who might think “FCAT” is short for “Forget College After This.”

I sometimes teach grammar to undergraduate college students. They “tlk n txt msgs n dnt blv n vwls.”

Being a parent is something I’ve always wanted, but like most people, I expected to start from the beginning, with diaper changes, first steps, first words and first days of school. I expected I would be “Daddy,” not just “Mommy’s husband.”

And now I’ve got one teenager, and another about to become one. It’s like taking a final exam without having sat through the class. There are no makeup tests. No time to study. And it has begun.

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