"Power 96, please."

They jump into the car and, without saying hello, request their favorite radio station. Or at least the station they want to listen to at this particular moment.

I may not hear a word from them for most of the 20-25 minute trip home, save an occasional request to change the station. But I'm lucky this time. Often, I remind myself, they jump in with iPods attached to their ears. And their phones are always on, sending text messages as quickly as they can receive them.

I'm no better. Checking e-mail on the Blackberry, looking to see whether someone I'm following has said something interesting on Twitter, even checking my Facebook updates at times.

No, I can't point a finger at them without three fingers pointed right back at me.

As a stepfather, I don't have a lot of rules that are identifiably mine. But there's one thing I insist on: The gizmos are not allowed at the dinner table. That's my rule, one I am not shy about enforcing, with a gentle but visibly annoyed, "please put that away while we're eating."

I don't have to imagine what it would be like without these gizmos. Like many of you, I need only remember.

Remember when phones in the house had cords? When, in order to be on the phone, you needed to be in a particular chair?

I love the gizmos. I do. But they're supposed to connect us to each other, not disconnect us from each other.

Resistance is NOT futile! Has anyone managed to do an effective job of unplugging? I could use a few tips, if you've got 'em.

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Last week I asked a couple of experts, stepfamily coaches, about the biggest challenge facing step-parents. They agreed discipline is at the top of the list. I'm not so sure, but it's certainly near the top, in any event.

Anyway, I've noticed a tendency in myself to focus on the challenges of being a stepfather, but I haven't really focused on the rewards, which are plentiful. Again, I asked for advice. The answer I got back from Arkansas family mediator Bob Collins was so good, I thought I'd just run it without further comment. So, without further comment...

When I became a stepdad in 1994, I was shocked to find that my 14-year-old stepdaughter was less than thrilled to have a new adult in her life to tell her what's what. Go figger!

Over the next four and a half years, she did her dead level best to chase me away. Verbal and physical attacks, silent treatments, and much worse failed to scare me away (they certainly scared me, just not away).

When my stepdaughter finally accepted that I was telling the truth about sticking around, she began calling me Daddy, saying she loved me, and she asked to adopt my last name for her high school graduation gift. I thought my heart would explode!

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The cell phones go on their chargers in the kitchen at 10 p.m. on school nights. Period. Or else. Or else… what?

I feel strange answering that question. Turn off the phones or I’ll, or I’ll, or I’ll tell you to turn them off AGAIN, this time in italics!

They’re not impressed.

“It’s 10:15. Time to put the phone away,” I say.

“I will,” each one responds.

Will? What’s this “will” garbage? I didn’t ask them to put it away later. I told them to put it away now.

Or else…

And I’ve got nothing.

Discipline is a challenge for any parent of any teenager. And while this isn’t a scientific or comprehensive social poll, the experts on stepparenting seem to agree that the challenge of disciplining teens is magnified for stepparents.

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Are you Superman? You know, invincible? Able to withstand pain and injury, maybe whiz around the world and turn back time if you screw something up and hurt someone unintentionally?

Rocky Kaller wants to know. He’s 17, got his driver’s license last year, and has already shown considerable common sense about an issue that affects us all: people who text while they’re driving.

Are you one of those drivers?

I am. And I shouldn’t be.

Ordinarily, I’d be afraid to make such a confession. Who wants to admit they’re doing something so obviously dangerous and avoidable? My older stepdaughter takes her driving test in a couple of months. What kind of example am I setting?

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Anyone remember this classic (and compelling) anti-drug ad from the 1980s?

Happy 4/20!

In case you don't know it, today is some sort of counterculture holiday. If someone wishes you a Happy 4/20, you've been identified as a marijuana smoker, past, present, future or indifferent.

My 16-year-old stepdaughter got a Happy 420 text message this morning.

What the?

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It took my wife's pregnancy and my blunt doctor to get me to quit smoking.

My wife told me the day before Father's Day 2008 that she was expecting our first child. I vowed then that I would stop smoking, that I would stop sneaking around and pretending no one noticed my bad habit. I'd made such promises before. I made that promise before I got married, before I assumed parental responsibilities for my wife's two daughters, now teenagers. Still, I didn't quit. I only smoke when I drank, of course. Except for those few I snuck at work. And on the way to work. And on the way home from work. I thought I was kidding people. I thought people didn't know. And I was lying to myself and everyone around me, and fooling no one. For a cigarette.

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All children, except fake ones, grow up.

Fake ones, like Charlie Brown and Richie Rich, don't have to. They can be children forever. I think that's what we like about them. Calvin will always be a 6-year-old boy testing the boundaries of imagination with his stuffed tiger, Hobbes. The Family Circus will always comprise two adults and four children (and PJ will never, ever talk).

In real life, you can't trap someone in childhood, no matter what. Time ultimately catches up: the 13-year-old and 11-year-old I met a few years ago, the ones who went with me and their mom to Busch Gardens to brave the 90-degree drop of Shiekra, they remain 13 and 11 only in memories and photographs.

And fictional characters aren't immune to aging. Arnold and Willis Jackson eventually become Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges. It's inescapable. No one cared much what the Beaver did as an adult, or who the Brady Girls married, or where Zack and Slater went to college. And don't even get me started on what happened to the Little Rascals!

Now Mattel and Nickelodeon want to prepare us for a pre-teen Dora the Explorer. Forget the hysteria of the blogosphere on this one: she's not Dora the Tramp or Dora the Streetwalker. She's a 10-year-old girl now, in a new incarnation that will be available in toy stores this fall.

Sometimes the aging of comic or fictional characters can be delightful. I loved the idea of Peter Pan growing up to become Robin Williams. And it was great watching the kids of For Better Or For Worse go from toddlers to spouses.

So is this new Dora a good idea? I don't know. Some marketing guru somewhere thought it was a good idea. And marketing gurus never make mistakes, do they?

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All this talk about "sexting" has me concerned.

A recent article on SunSentinel.com tells the stories of several Central Florida teens who have been labeled sex offenders because they shared naked pictures of their teenage ex-girlfriends over their cell phones.

Where to begin?

While I have been concerned about my teenage stepdaughters and their fondness for various gizmos (the iPod, the cell phone, the digital camera, the cell phone with the digital camera), it hasn't occurred to me that they might take pictures that might come back to haunt them.

Yes, I am concerned about the difference between stupid kids sending inappropriate text messages and predatory criminals exploiting children to satisfy their lusts. They are, in my mind, separate issues. The predatory criminals are a law enforcement issue. To a greater extent, the kids being stupid kids - well, that's a parenting issue.

I honestly don't think our kids recognize the permanence of these digital photos. Back in the day (you remember back in the day, right?) we had film, and we had to take the film out to be developed, and you knew a stranger's eyes would see each and every image you shot. Casual, personal nudie shots, while not unheard of, were far from normal. At least, the potential for embarrassment was very real.

Not anymore. Now these images can be deleted with the touch of a button. The problem, of course, is that they can be copied just as easily. And forwarded. To e-mail boxes. And cell phones. And next thing you know, that photo you took just for your boyfriend is making the rounds at your school. Or worse. Ask Vanessa Hudgens. The High School Musical star was mortified in 2007 when her nude pictures surfaced on the Internet. And she's not one of the "bad girls" of Hollywood. She's the one our teens are watching, and the one whose error in judgment we need to explain.

So what can we tell our kids about the dangers of "sexting" (not from a criminal law point of view, but from a healthy childhood point of view)? Read on for some tips from the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy.

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She bounces on the bed. I yell. She keeps bouncing.

This is a common lament from parents of step children. Not the bouncing on the bed part, but the fact that orders are ignored.

A Miami mother is struggling with how to discipline her 3-year-old stepdaughter. Wise parents who've been there and done that, we need your help.

What steps should she take in disciplining her stepchild?

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The news breaking today is that Chris Brown and Rihanna have reunited. That's according to People magazine.

Once again, the two superstars are, whether they intend to or not, sending messages to teens about what's proper behavior and what's acceptable. That's the price that comes with being a role model.

I think my stepdaughters are pretty sharp about what they would allow, but I also think some pretty sharp people have nonetheless been the victims of domestic violence. So we intend to have another talk with the girls about the boundaries they should set in their lives.

In the meantime, I don't envy Chris Brown or Rihanna. They're private pain is a public discussion, and that is one of the prices of fame.

By taking Chris Brown back, Rihanna has told the world either that he's innocent or that she's forgiven him. If he's innocent, that's great. If she's forgiven him, then she's taken a huge risk. It's a risk that's hers to take, and hers alone. I can't judge her for it.

I'm not an expert on domestic violence. I just interview them from time to time. And they tell me that episodes of violence are often followed by apologies and promises to change, and then by an attempt at reconciliation. After that, it can only go one of two ways: either the violence doesn't happen again, or it does - and worse.

If this was indeed an abuse case, then for Rihanna's sake, I can only pray that Chris Brown proves himself worthy of her trust and forgiveness.

Anyway, that's what I plan to tell my kids. What do you plan to tell yours?

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A coworker sent me this link to a Chicago Tribune article with a disturbing observation. Remember the accusation that entertainer Chris Brown beat his girlfriend Rihanna? Well, it turns out some teens think she had it coming. I’m not kidding. Here’s the beginning of the Tribune article:

Ed Loos, a junior at Lake Forest High School, said a common reaction among students to Chris Brown's alleged attack on Rihanna goes something like this: "Ha! She probably did something to provoke it."

In Chicago, Sullivan High School sophomore Adeola Matanmi has heard the same.

"People said, 'I would have punched her around too,' " Matanmi said. "And these were girls!"

As allegations of battery swirl around the famous couple, experts on domestic violence say the response from teenagers just a few years younger shows the desperate need to educate this age group about dating violence.

Their acceptance, or even approval, of abuse in romantic relationships is not a universal reaction. But it comes at a time when 1 in 10 teenagers has suffered such abuse and females ages 16 to 24 experience the highest rates of any age group, research shows.

***

I heard the rumors, too. It didn’t take long for them to pop up. My stepdaughter came home from school the day after the allegations were made public and let my wife and me know exactly why Chris Brown beat Rihanna (a talented entertainer in her own right). And while she didn’t say Rihanna deserved it, she might as well have. After all, so the rumor went, what Rihanna gave Chris Brown was worse than the beating he gave her, wink wink.

First, my wife and I explained that schoolyard rumors are usually best left in the schoolyard. Only two people witnessed whatever happened, and it’s not likely that one of them called up a friend at Cypress Bay High School to spread the word.

But the bigger lesson, the one we hope stuck, was that violence in romantic relationships is unacceptable. I could tell my stepdaughter with near certainty that Rihanna didn’t deserve it because no one deserves to be beaten like that. I don’t care what she did. If you’re a man, you don’t hit her. Maybe you'll yell or scream or get loud in the heat of the moment. But you do not get physical (unless self-defense is an issue, which may happen but is certainly not representative of abuse cases).

I know some men (and some women) can explode if the wrong buttons are pushed, and without a doubt, it’s unwise to intentionally push those buttons. But I want my teenage stepdaughters to know that it is never, ever right to let a man strike them.

Erica Herman, director of social change at Women in Distress, succinctly shot down the notion that victims of domestic violence provoke the attacks against them. "Domestic violence is about power and control," she said, addressing a different rumor about the Brown-Rihanna altercation. "He didn't hit her because he was angry. He hit her to gain control."

We don’t know what happened. In our family, we hope Chris Brown is innocent, and we hope those pictures of Rihanna that surfaced on the Internet were faked. But if they’re authentic, then someone hurt this woman. And if it was Chris Brown, then he should pay. The shame of this whole thing is that our family is fond of this talented singer, dancer and actor. He’s a heck of an entertainer – I’d bet he could get a standing ovation at a cemetery.

But if this charge sticks, then he’ll have gone from Chris Brown to Bobby Brown, from undeniable talent to disgraced has-been (if only in my eyes). No, I wasn’t expecting perfection out of him. But I was expecting him to refrain from beating his girlfriend. I don’t think that’s much to ask at all.

If you’re a victim of domestic violence or of violence in a romantic relationship, you didn’t have it coming. You didn’t ask for it. It's not normal and it's not your fault. And there are places you can turn to for help. If you’re in immediate danger, call 911. If you need counseling in Broward County, call Women in Distress at 954-761-1133. In Palm Beach County, call Aid to Victims of Domestic Abuse at 1-800-355-8547.

Elsewhere, call the Florida Domestic Violence Toll-free Hotline at 1-800-500-1119 or the National Domestic Violence Toll-free Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

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My son was born a week and a half ago. My feet haven’t quite touched the ground yet, but I’m back at work and still trying to take stock of how much things have changed.

Shortly before Leo was born, I asked readers for a bit of advice. The feedback was good and profound. A reader named Cathy wrote, “There's a good line from a Steve Martin movie...there's no way to be a perfect parent but there are a million ways to be a good one.” I liked that. A personal friend told me to remember “the days are long, but the years are short.” Very, very true.

The two pieces of advice I have are not nearly as profound, but I hope they help more than one dad-to-be out there. Here it goes:

First, learn to swaddle the baby. You’ll mostly need this skill on night two, when the baby realizes his change of environment is permanent. He’ll feel a little more secure if he’s in that snug environment. It’s likely the nurses and other hospital staff will be able to help you with this, but you’ll be proud to be able to do it yourself.

Second, assuming you’re going to be spending a night or two in the hospital with your wife, do yourself one favor. Bring an air mattress. The sofa bed you’ll be sleeping on is not fit for human backs. True, you’ll be so tired those first two nights that you will manage to sleep anyway. And your discomfort is nothing compared with what your roommate will have just endured, but still.

I hope you weren’t expecting anything more profound. I don’t have it, yet. I can tell you that I feel so much closer to my wife. I feel closer to my stepdaughters, too. I don’t share a blood relationship with Kay and Pax, but my son is their brother, and that cements us as a family. From the day I married their mom, I promised Kay and Pax that I would love them as my very own. But how could I have known what that meant? I didn’t have a child of my own until a week and a half ago.

Now I have three, because I understand now what that promise meant.

Everyone is different. I can’t tell you that you will become closer to the members of your household. I can’t tell you that your relationship with your wife will become deeper and more meaningful. That’s not advice. It’s been my privilege to experience, and it is my wish for you.

My advice? Learn to swaddle. And bring an air mattress. Your back will thank you.

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I can vouch for the influence parents have over their communities.

When I was way too young to remember, my dad was on the front lines of the civil rights movement. He represented white people pushing for change, he represented his faith as a Presbyterian minister, and ultimately, he simply represented his family.

Recently, one of my brothers found this clip about him from an old 1961 edition of Jet Magazine. He was quoted, “Let me tell you of several incidents when Jesus was caught in the act of sitting-in,” said Henry Warren Kunce. I cannot begin to express my pride!

So it’s not a stretch for me to see the value in National Parent Leadership Month that honors and celebrates parents for the vital roles they fill in their homes and communities.

But, not everyone has the opportunity to take on a mission like the one my dad did.

Still, other issues are just as noble, like Prevent Child Abuse Florida. For many, it’s a cause way too close to home.

The organization engages parent leaders in developing program strategies and public awareness materials through its Florida Circle of Parents program, to prevent child abuse and neglect through mutual, self-help parent support groups.

Based on shared leadership, mutual respect, and inclusiveness, the free, confidential and non-judgmental groups are open to anyone in a parenting or care-giving role.

There are 54 groups throughout Florida.

Find a Florida Circle of Parents support group in your area.

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Well, here goes everything.

If all goes according to plan, the next time I report in this space, I will be a biological father for the first time.

I've been a stepfather for the last 19 months, but it's not the same thing. I wasn't there for their births, for their first words or their first steps. I didn't see them off to school for the first time ever, and I missed maybe 100 dance recitals and performances. I've done what I can, screwed up plenty, tried to understand and tried to get them to understand.

I feel as though I have evolved so much in the last two years. I'm no longer the clueless bachelor stepping into fatherhood, but neither do I feel ready for what's coming in just three days. This tiny little boy is about to show up and change everything I've ever known.

Can I confess to being nervous? (Could I possibly deny it?)

One of the things I hear all the time from parents is that they wish they knew then what they know now: about parenthood, about being a father, about life, about children, about what makes a marriage strong...

Well, you can't go back in time, but you can throw a little bit of your hard-earned wisdom in my direction.

So let me have it. Give me one piece of advice, a piece of advice you wish you'd had before you became a dad for the first time.

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The first time I heard of Amy Juergens, she was speaking directly to me about the need for parents and children to be open when it comes to talking about sex.

Amy is the protagonist of “The Secret Life of the American Teenager,” an ABC Family series (Monday nights, 8 p.m.) about those crazy, promiscuous kids and all the trouble they get into – including 15-year-old Amy’s unplanned pregnancy. My younger stepdaughter, 13, has started to get into the show.

Tacked onto the end of each episode is a PSA featuring Amy, lead actress Shailene Woodley, telling parents not to assume their kids are having sex just because they ask about it (and telling teens not to assume their parents don’t care if they don’t bring up the subject). Teen pregnancy is preventable, she reminds viewers.

Splendid.

I don’t know yet what to make of this show. Its creator is Brenda Hampton, who was also responsible for the long-running, family-friendly WB series “Seventh Heaven.” I’ve seen two episodes of “Secret Life,” not enough to form an opinion, but enough to form an impression – it’s making teen pregnancy into bad sitcom fodder, and it’s sugar-coating what happens next in a way that can’t be undone with a well-meaning PSA.

In last Monday night’s season premiere, Amy married her boyfriend, who is not the baby’s father. Now, I’m not going to say that such things never happen. I’m sure they do. But it’s not reality for most teen mothers. In fact, according to stayteen.org (the Web site Amy sends kids to at the end of each episode), fewer than 8% of teen mothers end up marrying the baby’s father. I doubt a statistic even exists for the infinitesimal number of teen mothers who marry someone other than the baby’s father before the child is born.

When parents split, Dad doesn’t smugly set up an apartment in the garage. One parent actually leaves the house. Divorce is ugly. Teen pregnancy is agonizing. People get hurt. True friends reveal themselves and, unfortunately, so do false friends. And most of the time, it’s not funny.

And yet, there’s something about this production that keeps me from dismissing it or selling it short.

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Okay, confession: I don’t know how to help my kids with their homework.

There are plenty of reasons. A big one is that I’m a stepfather; I wasn’t around to watch or influence the development of their study habits. And helping a kid with homework is a major bonding experience. I suspect it develops over time: they learn how to work with me, and I learn how to work with them. We didn’t have that, and in some ways, I think it shows.

My wife, who is a teacher, exhibits a superhuman amount of patience. I, on the other hand, lose my cool at the slightest hint of a lack of effort. I hear what’s being spoken, but I don’t hear what’s being said. I remember one time, I asked one of the girls what a steamboat was. She answered that it was a boat. I just about lost my mind. “If you don’t want my help,” I snapped, “don’t ask for it!”

That showed her. Yeah, it showed her that I lack the patience and understanding to really help her. I learned, way too late, that I should have been listening for the unspoken words. You know, words like, “I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at with that question. Please clarify. Are you trying to ask how it is powered or how it changed commerce in the 1800s?”

My wife hears those unspoken questions and answers in ways that I envy. Our girls don’t like admitting they don’t know something. They’d much rather take an educated guess or, more frequently, a wild guess. I find that frustrating, but I wouldn’t if I spent more time helping them and less time taking their responses as a lack of effort.

So the bottom line is that I need help being a better parent when it comes to homework. And there is help available locally.

The Learning Tools page on the Palm Beach County School District Web site is a treasure trove (one problem: their link to “Helping your student get the most out of homework” seems to be broken. You can find it here). [UPDATE: The school district fixed the link on its page. Many thanks!]

The Broward County School District has a nifty parental involvement page that includes a link to another good article, Homework strategies for busy families. It also links to a list of the Top 10 things teachers wish parents would do. Here’s a shocker: number one on the list is “Be involved.”

I’m finding that one of the benefits of helping them with their homework is how much I’m learning.

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I recently filed an article for SunSentinel.com about MySpace safety. Here's how it started:

Do you know who all your kids' friends are? Do your kids know?

Attorney General Bill McCollum is betting they don't, and that's just one of the challenges parents and children face when it comes to Internet safety.

"I go into a school and ask a class full of children whether they have MySpace pages," McCollum said. "They all have them, from sixth grade up. And I've never been to a school where there wasn't at least one student with more than 400 'friends.'"

Parents and children need to view friend lists on social networking sites with suspicion, McCollum said. "They call these people friends, but they don't know them."

Read the rest of the article here.

I'm a little bit worried about the amount of time our girls spend on MySpace, but mostly grateful that they both had the wisdom to set their pages to private so that they can only be viewed by their friends. The real issue, as far as I see it, is the fact that they have hundreds of MySpace friends.

McCollum's warning struck a chord with me as a parent, and I remember asking the girls if they personally knew everyone on their friend list. They insisted they did, but I have a confession: I didn't follow through. I didn't sit with them and go through their list, profile by profile, to make sure they knew everyone they were befriending. Should I? Would you?

I did want to pass on something helpful I stumbled on: The Kim Komando radio show put up a decent MySpace dummy page showing potential safety issues raised by the posting of private information. If you click on that banner above, it'll open that site in a new window. You may be surprised at how easy it is for your kids to post information that makes them vulnerable.

There's something else on that site, too: a "Ten Commandments" for kids online. It has you and your kids promising communication and cooperation when it comes to Web surfing.

Novel concept.

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Say this for the wholesome teens of Disney’s “High School Musical” franchise: there are worse things they could do.

At first glance, there’s not much difference between the halls of East Side High and those of Rydell High, the school attended by the students of “Grease.” Each school has impossibly bubbly teens who break out into song with little warning. And somehow, everyone knows the words to every song, along with the accompanying dance moves.

But the similarities pretty much end there, especially if you’re a parent. I think if my mom and dad had really listened to the lyrics of the “Grease” soundtrack, they would have banned it from my house. Oh, sure, “Summer Nights” was harmless enough on the surface (although when Danny said “She was good, you know what I mean,” I didn’t). But did you ever listen to the lyrics of “Greased Lightning”? How on earth did we get away with playing that song and dancing to it in the presence of our parents?

Ah, but in the late 1970s, Grease really was the word, wasn’t it? It had groove. It had feeling. It had… well, it had a little bit more than young children should see and hear, no? Because Grease really wasn’t a high school musical. It strikes me that Grease was produced in the 1970s for people in their 30s who were in high school during the 1950s. With a wink and a nod, it mocked truly clueless adults along with the unrealistic expectations of wholesome perfection. We all knew what Troy Donahue wanted to do. And when Rizzo was in trouble, we worried with her.

What was the message of Grease, anyway? Was it that you need to be a floozie (or just look like one) to get your man or to fit in? Or was it that you need not be ashamed of your sexuality?

And what is the message of High School Musical? Looks to me like the message is to be true to yourself and to your friends, and have a little fun in the process. They are a wholesome bunch, aren’t they? Even the villainess of the piece, Sharpay, ends up being so darned nice when all is sung and done.

The world of High School Musical is an innocent one, a world free of cynicism, a world that almost screams, “please, let kids be kids just a little while longer!”

Here’s the big difference: HSM is for people looking forward to high school. Grease is for people looking back on it.

Or maybe I’m just thinking too hard. As a stepparent to two teenage girls, I hope you'll forgive me forgive me for applauding HSM a little more than Grease. At least while my girls are still kids.

Go Wildcats!

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A recent study by the RAND research organization shows that teenagers who watch “sexy TV” are more likely to become sexually active and pregnant.

I know what you’re thinking. “Duh.” Ok, well, that’s what I’m thinking.

My wife and I are pretty lucky. Her daughters, 15 and 13, are still thrilled when an all-new episode of Hannah Montana airs on the Disney Channel. But we can’t kid ourselves. When it comes to trying to maintain a family-friendly atmosphere, we are outgunned, outnumbered and out of our minds if we think they’re not going to be bombarded with words and images of sex.

I mean, they’re into hip-hop. Hello!

A movie came out a couple of weeks ago called “Zack and Miri Make a Porno.” Granted, the ads for the flick didn’t air on the Disney Channel. But they did air during the World Series. So now our girls know that if they should live platonically with a male roommate and find themselves low on cash... Aw come on, guys, we have to sit through these commercials during a baseball game?

But really, who has to go to the movies for this stuff, anyway? Whether it’s “Desperate Housewives” or “Two and a Half Men,” “Gossip Girl” or the revamped “Beverly Hills 90210,” our television sets just ooze sex.

Was it that bad when I was growing up? I saw a guy in a leather jacket snap his fingers and have a half dozen girls flock to him thoughtlessly. Was that lust? Or parody? How about a constantly-on-the-make man living with two women? Love, exciting and new?

Somehow, as racy as things were in the late 1970s and early 1980s, those shows seem so tame in comparison to what we’re getting today. What happened, anyway? How did we get from Potsie looking at a girlie magazine and picturing "a sweater on that" to Rachel letting Ross know it's okay (only to learn it was a juice bottle), and from there to "OMFG" in an orgasmic ad campaign?

And you know what scares me? In 25 years, we’re going to be amazed at how tame “Sex and the City” and “Gossip Girl” were.

Solutions? I can only think of one: If my kids are getting their values from television, television isn’t the problem. I am.

Time for us parents to step up. We need to be filters, and I don't just mean blocking their eyes from the things we don't want them to see. We can manage that to a certain extent, but if you want to know how successful you'll be at keeping these things from your kids, ask yourself how successful your parents were keeping them from you.

What I'm thinking is that if we as parents can establish right from wrong, if we can let our kids know what's appropriate and what's inappropriate, what's safe and what will hurt them, then they'll process the images they get according to the values we instill in them.

Somehow, I think they’ll respect us for it.

Failing that, we can always try keeping our kids in a bubble. I doubt that'll work, though.

Sigh. Anyone know where I can find “Little House” reruns?

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The girls shrieked one of those high-pitched, make-an-appointment-with-the-ear-doctor-to-make-sure-there-was-no-permanent-damage kind of shrieks. The kind that tells you you’re watching a scary movie with a couple of impressionable teenagers a few days before Halloween. And you live on the ground floor muuuuhahahahaha.

This particular film, if you want to call it that, was “Vacancy,” starring Luke Wilson and Kate Beckinsale. It’s charming family fare about a lovely young couple who learn the motel they’re staying in doubles as the set of a snuff film, and they’re the stars of the next movie in the series.

You know, the kind of movie you want to watch with impressionable teenage girls.

It’s not the worst horror movie I’ve ever seen, but definitely not the scariest.

Yes, I did ask myself (and my wife) whether this movie was too intense for the girls. This wasn’t exactly a Disney flick, and some of the violent scenes were pretty graphic. Aren’t they too young for this stuff?

Well, I saw John Carpenter’s “Halloween” in theaters when I was 9. I saw “Mother’s Day” and “An American Werewolf in London.” I was 15 when “A Nightmare on Elm Street” was released. Oh, and can’t forget “Dawn of the Dead.” Caught that on video back when video was new.

All before I should have been allowed to see R-rated movies without adult supervision.

Aside from messing me up for life, the movies did no lasting damage to my psyche.

So should I worry about the movies the girls are seeing?

Yes, for two reasons. First, I want to make sure they can handle the images being thrown at them. Second, and more importantly, the stuff being passed off as “scary” these days simply isn’t. There hasn’t been a really scary movie in theaters since “The Sixth Sense,” and even that isn’t scary once you realize what it’s about.

Now, the original “Halloween” was scary, and I had to explain that to the girls the other night. This movie was scary because it seemed so possible. There was nothing supernatural about it (until later movies devolved into a sort of self-parody). And even then, the notion that you could kill the bad guy and still have to fight him was fairly new to audiences.

Today’s scary movies aren’t scary. They’re gross. “Saw.” Please. They should change the name to “Saw that Already.” Look at “Vacancy” again and ask yourself, how original is a movie about an isolated motel where bad things happen? Anyone? Anyone? Hitchcock? Beuller? Frye?

I know, I’m being as snobby as the generation right before me, the people who think “Rosemary’s Baby” is a horror movie rather than (as I see it) a sure-fire cure for insomnia.

Whatever. The point is… okay, I have no point. It’s Halloween this week. To each his own chills.

Boo.

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I wrote an article a couple of weeks ago about a fired Seminole Police Department officer accused of molesting his daughter.

The night I wrote that, I was having dinner with my wife and stepdaughters, and we were taking turns talking about our day. When it was my turn, I suddenly became tongue-tied. Incest between a father and a teenage girl is not something I was prepared to discuss with two teenage girls. I was reduced to a kind of vague, abstract, “a man did a bad thing” summary.

Is it possible I did a disservice to the girls and to myself? By tripping up over a difficult subject, did I send a signal that sensitive topics are off-limits, making it less likely the girls will feel safe talking to me about other sensitive topics? Well, it’s more complicated than that, as my wife points out. And there’s nothing wrong with showing some sensitivity.

In working on a follow-up article about where victims can turn for help, I also decided to look for answers about discussing the subject with teenagers and other children.

“Parents should be able to have the comfort and ability to have a conversation about a tough subject, and this is a tough subject,” said Timothy, one of the Helpline advisers for Stop It Now, a Mass.-based non-profit that seeks to prevent the sexual abuse of children. “That lets them know you’re approachable, that it’s okay for them to bring it up.”

Deborah Donovan Rice, executive director of Stop It Now, expanded on that point: “I find the best way to approach this topic is in the context of a larger conversation about how we express ourselves sexually,” she said.

Good point. And good stuff on the subject of abuse at www.stopitnow.org.

Timothy (the telephone counselors on the Helpline, reachable at 1-888-PREVENT, don’t disclose their last names) points parents to another site, www.advocatesforyouth.org, for advice on talking to children of all ages about sex.

The one tip that seemed to recur in my own search for advice is that the conversation has to be age-appropriate. You may want to talk about good touch-bad touch with the younger ones while being more candid and mature with teenagers. The bottom line is that they need to know they can talk to you.

This isn’t a conversation I’m looking forward to. But if the opportunity should arise, I think I’m a little better prepared.

You should be, too.

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Apparently, this didn't start with me, and that makes me feel better.

When the girls were younger, before I met them, their grandfather used to pick them up from elementary school every afternoon. He was telling me yesterday that he would often ask them, "What did you learn in school today?"

"Nothing."

"The teacher didn't talk?"

"Yes."

"So you already knew what the teacher was going to say?"

"No."

"Then the teacher said something you didn't know before?"

"Yeah!"

"Good, so what did you learn?"

"Nothing."

Grandpa should be happy to learn, then, that the girls have since made progress. Not long ago, I asked the older one what she learned in Spanish class.

"Stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stuff."

Gotta admit, she had me there. Everyone knows the difference between "stuff" and "stuff," right? Sigh. Maybe I'll have better luck with the younger one, who just got back from a CCD class (Catholic religious education).

"What did they teach you in CCD class today?"

"Things."

"What kind of things?"

"Things about God."

Imagine that. In a religious education class, no less. "Like what?"

"Things about God."

Note to stepchildren, grandchildren and all children: changing the emphasis you place on particular words doesn't change the answer. Note to stepparents, grandparents and all parents: No matter how many times you ask, and no matter how many ways you ask, they're not going to answer if they don't want to talk.

Maybe next time I'll send a text message. Resistance is still futile.

I'll say this much for "things" and "stuff": It's better than "nothing."

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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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