The other morning, closer to six o’clock than seven, I got out of bed to find my older daughter sitting in the hallway reading a book. I tried to say, in a kindly way, that she should get the heck away from the door of her room because if she woke up her sleeping sister I’d kill her.

She replied that her sister wasn’t in bed. Oh, I said. That changes everything. I poked my head in their room to confirm the story, and, sure enough, I saw only a thick horseshoe of stuffed animals framing the emptiness where a little girl ought to be.

It was strange for there to be such quiet in the house when both girls were awake. So I went looking for the little one. She wasn’t in their other upstairs room, the one that holds the dressers and desks the tiny sleeping quarters can’t quarter.So I looked downstairs. The play room was quiet. I almost said empty, but that would be laughable. It’s a volcanic eruption of toys. But no child was in among them. So I checked the kitchen, the family room, the dining room, the pantry. I looked under tables and sofas, because she likes to hide.

Nowhere. The doors were still locked, so she hadn’t escaped the house. But I was beginning to worry. Where the heck could this kid have gone?

Remembering that insanity was not necessarily a bad thing, I figured on repeating my search in the hope of a different result. I started back at the very bedroom that both her sister and I had concluded was childless.

The stuffed animals were still there. But, wait. There was one among them that might not be a toy. On closer inspection, it was none other than the lost child herself, balled up and asleep in her own bed, but cleverly camouflaged as one of the thirty or so fluffed beasts that co-habitate that space.

All was well.

But not entirely. Because I couldn’t help but notice, as I backed out on tiptoe, the other bed was starkly empty in contrast. “Empty” empty, not just kid empty.

A week earlier, my older daughter, in a fit of something resembling maturity, had decided to clean out the 30+ animals (yes, I counted them) in her own bed. Plus the six extra blankets (okay, maybe only three), and three extra pillows of wide-ranging sizes, and a handful of other toys that had infested her sheets. Now there were only three or four stuffed companions, a pillowy animal, a sheet and a blanket. There was actually room for a kid to sleep on that mattress.

And it was impossible for a child of any size to get lost among the batting-filled menagerie. For years, I had railed against the bedlam that was her bed, the avalanche of fabric that spilled on the rug every time its inhabitant shambled to the floor. How many times had I threatened to throw things away if this fire trap was not tidied up!

And then, one day,… it was gone. All the clutter and madness. That glorious heap in which a child could literally get lost.

They say you’ll miss it when it’s gone. And they’re right.

Sure, I know, I’d curse it just the same if it all came back. But I won’t let that practical reality disturb the bittersweet sentiment I get from remembering how it once was. And maybe I won’t get so upset the next time her sister goes missing. As long as I find her — eventually — among all those fuzzy, furry icons of childhood.

Have you ever wondered why they call it Spring Break? Okay, the “Spring” part is easy. But the “Break?” It’s because it’s a test to see how long you can have the kids back home from school before you break.

I’ve gotten used to the kids being in school at least a few hours a week. It’s unbelievable how quickly you can get used to having those few hours to your own thoughts. Before long you can almost imagine yourself sane again someday.

And then, bang! It’s “vacation” time. For who?

Maybe for working parents who see this time as a change of scenery and a chance to cram in some quantity time with the kids — out of which they can expect a few wonderful moments of quality time. But for the stay-at-home parent, it’s all overtime. Hopefully, though, I’ll get paid in a few extra quality moments.

Still, it does mean no blogging for me this week. Sorry, folks. Instead of biding your time here, go spend it with your kids.

Then write (in the Comments below) about your own wacky adventures. There should be more of that on this blog anyway. You know what they say, “It takes a village to survive raising a child.”

See you next week. If I don’t break completely.

The girls’ favorite lunch spot is the sandwich shop where I met my wife. Not because they are sentimental, but because there’s a TV that plays “Tom & Jerry” cartoons on The Cartoon Network at lunchtime. Even without the sound, “Tom & Jerry” rules in that environment since it is almost entirely visual, unlike today’s “hip and edgy” cartoons that rely on puns and sarcasm.

Parents love it too, because they can get a moment’s peace to read the paper or chat with other grown-ups while the kids giggle their heads off at a cat being clocked with a tire iron. (Except for that one mom who complained that it was too violent. What did she ask for instead? FOX news! I only wish I were joking.)

Anyway, I can always tell when the commercials come on. Not because the laughter subsides, but because my kids start chirping, “Oooh, I want that! Can I get that? Why don’t we have that?…”

You would think that they were deprived children. Okay, they may be, in the sense that they have to go to a sandwich shop to get cable. But not in the sense that toys don’t overflow their playroom, bedrooms and (secretly) the store room in the basement where we hide things we think we can finally be rid of.

How can kids with so many toys want more toys? It very sincerely concerns me about what I have done to spawn such consumerist tendencies. (Oh, now I remember. I let them have grandparents.)

But, philosophical issues aside, it suddenly occurred to me today that my kids are not alone in these tendencies — or in the possession of grandparents. They have lots of toys, but want more toys, which they will promptly forget about and want even more toys.

So, while other families can spend the college fund keeping the kids adequately provisioned with toys, I figure that I could fund the college fund by starting a toy rental business.

Here’s the pitch: Rent a must-have toy for a couple weeks, days, or even hours, until the kids get bored with it, then bring it back to get the next must-have toy.

Just think of the headache you’ll save in yelling at the kids to pick up the playroom. Just think of the space you’ll save in your home. Just think of the money you’ll save by renting for a fraction of the price of buying.

Just think of the money I’ll make by thinking of this idea first! And to think that I owe it all to toy commercials.

Wow. Who knew TV could actually help someone get an education?

This seems to be the message of the entire parenting book section of the book store. “You’re doing it wrong!” Meanwhile, it occurs to me that it is about time for Captain Dad to put out his own book on parenting. So how about that for a title?

You’re Doing It Wrong!

Has bestseller written all over it, don’t you think?

The current semi-official term for what I do is “caregiver.” At least, that’s the one I read and hear all the time. And I can appreciate that. It means that I give care (if I am reading that correctly), which has a nice sentiment.

But there’s a flip side that troubles me.

If I’m the caregiver, then that makes my kids the caretakers.

Sorry. I don’t like that. I want to be the caretaker.

No, no, not like a janitor is a caretaker, although I am the guy who sweeps up all the time. But I mean caretaker in the sense of someone with authority. You know, like a zookeeper.

Now, that’s a caretaker. The guy with the keys to the cages. I say when feeding times are. I know who gets peanuts and who doesn’t. And, yes, I sweep up afterward.

But I’m the one in charge. That’s what I like about the word.

Not that kids are wild animals… all the time. Still, they do need taking care of… all the time. It’s my job to do that.

So I am the caretaker. Even when they don’t give a care.

Let me put it another way. When a kid runs out into the street, to take care means you leap in front of any cars, snag the kid by the collar and fling her to safety. If you make it out in one piece yourself, that’s a bonus. If you don’t, you end up in the hospital — where you are attended by a professional caregiver.

But better you than your kid.

Maybe this is the thing that bugs me. Nurses and doctors are also called caregivers. But it’s just a job. Which means they go off the clock now and then — and don’t even have to be on call.

A caretaker doesn’t have that luxury. Everything is his problem. All the time.

Now, of course, “caretaker” doesn’t mean that all I do is take, take, take. In truth, it is the opposite. It is give, give, give. Until I’m sucked dry, some days.

So “caregiver” does make some sense.

I don’t know. It’s a semantic pickle. And I have no solution for it.

I tried “careforer,” but that sounded even more ridiculous.

“Caredoer?” Ew. That’s just disturbing.

“Careagent?” Hmm, that actually has some possibilities, except for the implication that I get a 15% cut of any care given, taken or otherwise tendered.

I went so far as to consider “Care Bear,” which my kids would love but would probably get me sued.

Why do I even care what title I’m given? Or take? I don’t know, but I do. Obviously so do the people who put together the surveys that categorize other people.

But maybe my beef is not with what they call me. Maybe I just don’t like them being the ones who determine what I’m called.

Hey, wait. What kind of chucklehead am I? They don’t determine what I’m called. I mean, if they stood at the edge of the playground shouting, “Caregiver!” — or even “Caretaker!” — would I come running? No!

So maybe what I’m called should be determined by the ones I give care to/take care of.

“Dad.” With or without the “Captain.”

Last week I discussed such towering intellects as Erma Bombeck and that other guy, Whatshisname, the one related those bagel makers. I also touched on my children’s precocity of speech, with words like “umiak” and “angoola,” thus capping off a pretty highbrow week on the old Captain Dad blog. Which is undoubtedly what prompted one thoughtful reader, Suzanne Cullen from the AuPair.org blog, to send me a wonderful article on the 10 Ways To See If Your Kid Really Is a Genius.

After what I wrote about my kids, however, I can only assume that the article was directed at my readers, not myself. Don’t worry, Suzanne, no offense taken.

Nor should anyone else take offense if the article isn’t directed at them either. It sets the bar for genius IQ at 140, which only about one half to one quarter of one percent of the population can clear. Somewhere between one in 200 and one in 400 people, that’s four to eight times as exclusive as Mensa. So you’re really in quite a lottery to get into that target audience.

But I read it anyway, because who doesn’t enjoy daydreaming about their kids’ futures, while checking Priceline.com for airfares to Stockholm? If you’re lucky, it will be quite a while before the dream is shattered by the realization that one genius per every 200–400 people means that there are roughly a million geniuses in the US alone.

Sheesh. Even geniuses can’t get a competitive break. So don’t clear a space on the mantel for that Nobel Prize just yet.

It’s a bit of a buzzkill, I know. Not unlike finding out that your kid is not a genius. Which 99.5% of us do. And yet, despite that whopping rarity of genius, the media coverage leads you to believe that ungeniusness dooms your child to a life of “You want fries with that?”

Perhaps I should ask the fine folks at AuPair.org to compile a list of 10 Ways To Cope With the Heartbreak of Having an Average Child.

I’m only half joking. I hear lots of parents talking about having their kids tested to get into the Gifted Program in our local school system, which accepts the top five to ten percent, not merely the top 0.5%, and I find myself rooting for 100% of them to get in, despite the statistical absurdity. Their voices are filled with such a sticky mix of anxieties. Part of it is the desperate hope of getting a private school education on a public school budget (and who can blame them in this economy?). But part of it is a product of that social pressure to have a special child. As if not getting accepted somehow diminishes their child. Or them as parents.

I have not gotten my kids tested for the program, and part of the reason is that I am afraid of what emotion I might attach to it. I only hope and pray that my pride in my children would not increase or decrease based on the results. The author of the article tackles such fears head-on by noting, “Gifts come in all shapes and sizes, however, so do not be disappointed if your child’s IQ is not as high as you would wish.”

The operative word is “gift.” Yes, yes, yes, I know, sometimes the word “gifted” is overused to the point that you want to give someone Shaken Adult Syndrome. But if you can muster the restraint and reflect on it, it’s really the perfect word. Because that’s what intelligence is. A gift. Not a virtue. Not something you — or your parents — can take credit for. High or low, we did nothing to deserve it.

It was simply given to us. Unconditionally. Like the love and nurturing we should give our children, however smart or unsmart they turn out to be.

Which is something we can take credit for.

I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging (note: I’m a parent, so of course I want to brag; I said I didn’t want to sound like I’m bragging), but my daughters spoke amazing words at early ages. And not just in English.

How about Inuit? Did your child ever say words in Inuit? I distinctly recall the word “umiak” spoken, presumably after something reminded my pre-toddler of an Eskimo boat.

But my precious prodigies spoke not only Inuit, but many other languages too. Without nannies, without in vitro tapes, without anyone’s help.

They are on record for saying “yes” in Russian (“da”), “lake” in Italian (“lah-goo”) and “the day” in Latin (“la diem”). Yes, I know that there are no definite articles in Latin, but the child was less than a year old. You have to make allowances.

And I haven’t asked a Hawaiian to confirm it — because I trust my girls — but my older daughter, then not quite four, translated my nine-month-old’s utterance of “angoola” as “keep hula dancing.” Top that!

You all know the old Albert Einstein definition of insanity, to wit, “Doing the same over and over again and expecting different results.”

But what does that say about a world where doing the same thing over and over again does produce different results?

Because it does happen. If you’ve ever looked for a lost stuffed animal at bedtime, you can back me up on this. You look in the same room over and over again and still fail see that ratty little bear (or bunny or lamb or walrus) even when it is sitting in plain sight, under your nose, on top of that pile of Legos.

So, convinced that you are losing your mind, you look again and again, until you do see it. And the day can finally end in peace. The insanity can cease. At least until morning.

Einstein does not acknowledge this fact in his theory. I’d contend the statement does not even rise to a theory. It’s a mere observation. There is no provision for the mechanism of the insanity nor for its origins. It took a greater genius to develop a relevant theory. Erma Bombeck.

It was she who famously posited, “Insanity is hereditary. You can catch it from your kids.” Why she did not receive a Nobel Prize for that insight is a mystery for future geniuses to ponder.

The point is, Einstein, lost in his wonderful world of the theoretical, missed this practical reality. Kids are—

Look, I’m sorry. I know the ramifications of what I am about to say. I know you love your kids and you would never say anything bad about them or allow anyone else to say anything bad about them.

But…

They’re crazy. You know that, right?

How else could you explain them fighting over the heel of the loaf of bread,… but crying bloody murder if you fail to trim the crust from their sandwich?

Crazy. So you dutifully cut the crust off the next sandwich you make.

And they cry that they wanted it on this time.

Or when they want you to flush the toilet because the noise is too scary — until you walk by a bathroom with an unflushed toilet and you do the only sensible (and sanitary) thing, only to have your toddler scamper in from two rooms away shrieking that she wanted to flush it this time.

No rhyme. No reason. The only predictable result is that you will lose if you try to guess what’s going to set them off.

Crazy.

What kept the peace last time won’t work this time. What they ate last time they won’t touch this time. Doing the same thing twice always produces a different result. At least in Parent World.

So why wouldn’t that stuffed animal be where it wasn’t only a moment ago? Crazy makes sense in a crazy world.