Several years ago, when I still worked at home, I got some coffee. As I paused to open the gate at the top of the stairs and head down to the office, I set the coffee on the gray steel support that is the back half-wall of our kitchen. It left a ring.

For several days I walked by that steel support and saw the coffee ring. “Yup, still there,” I thought and went on with my day. I present it as a complete sentence but it wasn’t even a complete thought – just registration that the coffee ring was still there. But after several days the thought fragment jelled into a concept – “Yup, still there. I wonder when Sabine will get around to wiping it off.?” The remark made me confront what I was saying to myself.

In the weird world of men where our reptilian brains make compliments out of insults, that last thought was an homage to her skill as an efficient housekeeper. She cleans things better than I do. Or, as I have learned, more quickly and without thinking she could maybe instead watch the last quarter of the Broncos game, try to kill another 50 anti-terrors in Counter-Strike or even read another chapter of the book. She just cleans. Then plays.

But I had caused the ring. Why didn’t I just clean it up? So I did. I also noticed this thought had become a habit. Everywhere I saw little piles of things to do that I expected her to do but that I could just as easily do. So I started trying to do more. I started putting my own clothes away after they’d been folded. I started carrying my own bills from the kitchen counter to the office. I would empty the dishwasher if I found myself with an extra five minutes. Occasionally, I swept. After awhile, she noticed my housekeeping campaign.

“You don’t have to help fold. I like it but you could do the occasional load of laundry,” she said. So I started doing laundry too. It’s not like I wasn’t doing anything – we have the same division of labor breeder couples have had for years. I do the banking, enjoy doing the banking, and she enjoys folding laundry. We used to meet in the middle. But with her now working six or seven days a week, I’ve tried to pick up the slack even more. I notice the laundry detergent is getting low so I get some while picking up the ingredients for that night’s dinner. I stop by the pediatrician to get a prescription for Cy – she had been responsible for doctor visits. I call to sort out this or that.

This weekend she remarked that I’m taking over some of her role as mother since she’s not around as much. I think I’m just carrying more of my weight as father. Which is fine, I’ve been spending too much time behind a computer anyway.

And I like my kids more since I’ve been spending more time with them.

Recently after a long run I found myself sitting at the dining room table with Martha. Having chats is one of the benefits of kids getting older (alongside other advantages such as them being house trained or their being able to fetch a quick beer from the fridge (wine corks remain an as-yet insurmountable challenge, however)).

"So, you run every day now, huh?" she wondered.

"Almost. Is that ok?"

"Well, it's better if you don't run now (in the evening). It's better if you run before we get up or after we go to bed otherwise we don't get to see you so much."

Sure, honey, you can have that pony.

But she had a valid point, not just for her but for my running in general. If I don't get out the door before the day starts, the chances of me running at all that day drops 50%. Life starts to happen and suddenly I'm pushing my run to the next day or the next day or the next day.

Take last week, where I'm pretty sure I battled a slight cold that was compounded by, well, life. I only got out there twice for a miserable total of seven miles. Part of it was my selfish wife who demanded she get to hit the road on Sunday, her only day off.

Imagine!

As a morning Muffel (German for grouch), I used to get nervous realizing that running blogs all had one thing in common – early mornings. But it also gave me an idea since I was also coming to terms with the early morning reality of Martha starting school – she has to catch the bus at seven. In my mind, I’m doing these early morning runs now to prepare for September when I’ll have to be up early anyway.

And Tuesday, frustrated by my performance last week, I jetted out of the house at seven and stopped by the track at Jahn Sportpark. Who was there? A friend who had just dropped his kid off for the bus to Martha’s Nelson Mandela school.

Maybe I’ll be able to combine chats with Martha and early morning runs. Synergies, you know.

Over at this super-secret Internet community I, uh, heard about, there's a meme called WHAT I DID THIS WEEKEND. So, here's what we did this weekend (click on this photo to get to the real picture and then right click to magnify):

Lately we've been having trouble with Martha being slow. Slow at getting dressed. Slow at eating. Slow at walking to the car. It isn't that she's daydreaming, that's a different kind of slow. She's just slow. S-L-O-W. M-O-L-A-S-S-E-S. At first we tried to nudge her into picking up the pace but it didn't seem to have any effect. Then we started doling out time outs here and there. No result.

[And pardon a quick aside on Time Outs. My kids either head into the penalty box kicking and screaming or just sit down casually and offer to set the timer themselves. The former is perfect because it means they know they did something wrong and are as upset at getting caught as they are embarrassed for doing something wrong. The latter is bad: it means they don't really feel they did anything wrong and have no intention of changing their ways, which can be a problem.]

So, anyway, Martha reacted with total indifference to the slowness-related time outs which, if you think about it, makes sense since it made her that much slower. So our next option was to try the screaming. Maybe a bit of yelling. Idle threats? Sure.

Did this work? No.

Then one day I walked into the kita (daycare). A mother coming out said, "Man, Martha is real slow getting dressed." Then a child walked by. "Martha was the last one finished eating lunch today." And, as if that weren't enough, another kid said: "Martha took forever to brush her teeth." It was like that scene in the Orient Express where everyone lines up to take their turn on the hapless victim, only rather than kill me everyone seemed to be pointing out what a crappy father I was.

I started sweating. We had made her slower by making an issue out of the problem. We've done this several times before. We're good at it. Heck, sometimes I even do it to our friends' kids. But I also started thinking.

It took me a whole night to come up with a solution but the next day in the shower it hit me. I quickly toweled off and sprinted into the kids room (OK I got dressed too).

I grabbed Martha's cherished Princess Lillifee alarm clock and introduced her to the big hand. "When the big hand is here, I'm going upstairs whether you're ready or not." I gave her five minutes. That seemed fair.

She made it upstairs on time. At breakfast I gave her fifteen minutes to eat before I said I was heading out. Afterward, I gave her another five to get ready or I'd leave without her. To my amazement, she made it.

"Wow, Martha, that was great (positive reinforcement, you know)!" I said. "What do you think, should I give you the clock every day? Does it help?

"No way, dad. That wears me out."

Indeed.

Monday morning.

Martha: Cy!

Cy: What's wrong Martha?

Martha: I can't get dressed!

Cy: Why not?

Martha: Someone keeps asking me all kinds of questions.

Cy: Really? Who?

Later that day:

Cy: Dad, I know where yawns come from. All the bacteria in your mouth get tired from working and they yawn and then push all the yawns out your mouth at once.

Most Germans say they like to camp but the campgrounds they mean are tidy rows of plots for tents and RVs -- discount hotels where they provide nice showers, grocery stores and a full-service snackbar, and you bring your own room.

The Waakhausen Campground is what run-of-the-mill Germans call "nature camping" in the same tone of voice they reserve for our current president. Waakhausen is like everyone else likes it -- a bit rustic, friendly, with a suitable bathroom and one slightly moldy shower stall. Since most Germans hate it, we were there with various hippy-esque German parents and a handful of Dutch lesbians. We made friends with one dude from the WWF and his kids.

Although it seems obvious why, I'm always surprised when the kids make big developmental strides during vacations. It's like they have time to concentrate on the things we've been trying to show them while distracted by the everyday banalities of life. Cy started walking in Illinois. Martha's English appeared in Colorado.

For about a year I've been disappointed that Martha hasn't been able to swing while all her friends go ever higher on the playground. But while I was puttering about in the bathroom or kitchen at the campground, I heard Martha and Sabine talking about how she was suddenly able to propel herself on the swingset. "That's great, Martha, that's great."

I came out to her cruising up and down. Up and down. Every chance she got, she went over to the swingset to practice.

Cy now speaks English with me without it seeming like an inconvenience. This, too, started somewhere on that campground.

I'll probably write a travel piece about the place and Worpswede, a former artist colony. And Cy and I are returning at the end of August for a Männer Wochenende.

Finally, vacation.