There are times that being a parent is fun. But then there are those other times when it is, let's just say trying, at the very least.

Lately, parenting has fallen into the latter column for my wife and me.

While it is hard to put a finger on the exact reasons why, one answer surely rests within the numbers.

My firstborn is just over 4 years old, and being an Ola male, family history dictates he will mature a little slower than the rest of the world. If you have any doubts, simply ask my wife how long it took me to mature, and her response will surely be "Let me get back to you when he's done playing video games or making strange sounds with his armpits." You get the point.

With that said, Alex is hitting the terrible 2s; at least according to my pediatric mathematics. (Try typing that without spell checker!)

A sure way to detect the terrible 2s is by instructing the child to do something before the count of three. At this point, the child will wait until 2.999 seconds to respond to your simple request, even though he doesn't know what will happen if you should get to the magic number of three. Alex knows exactly how far three seconds to me is from anywhere in the house at any given moment.

My 2 1/2-year-old daughter, on the other hand, has moved right through the terrible 2 stage and on to the 14-year old age, filled with drama, drama and, oh yeah, did I mention drama?

With a purse to match her every mood (which are many) and her own credit card to boot, Mia has formally decided that an age in the single digits is, well, for children.

"Daddy, I have a secret to tell you," she whispered to me the other evening while we were watching ESPN Sports Center together.

"Oh really?" There are only two women that come between me and an hour of sports; three if you count Cindy Crawford. My daughter is one of the other two.

"Yes really. Please come here, please." She's into redundant 'pleases' to make a point of being courteous.

Eventually after some prodding, her secret turned out to be that she wanted ice cream. Not a bad idea, even for a 2 1/2- year-old masquerading as the latest teenie-bopper queen.

We got our ice cream, complete with chocolate sprinkles, and began to watch ESPN again. That's when the "fun" part of parenting resumed.

Like a bolt of lightning, my son dashed through the living room wearing nothing more than the smile God has blessed him with when he was born.

"Daddy, why is Alex naked?" There was no need for her to use 'please' in this sentence.

"Because he's, well, because he's … I have no idea. Alex! Put some clothes on right now."

The next three seconds were the moment I have dreaded most since beginning my secret counting ritual.

"One … two…" only it wasn't me, counting, It was my daughter, Britney Spears, sitting next to me with the ice-cream mustache and pigtails.

"No counting Mia. Daddy, you count!" It was a directive from the naked Boy Wonder.

The question, of course, is how do you not laugh at the entire episode while trying to correct that comedy of errors in parenting? I am sure child psychologists would have a field day with my methods, but they work.

"Hey, naked boy. Do you want some ice cream? If so, get dressed and sit down."

To my surprise, it worked without counting to three. I'm sure someday it won't be so easy, so for now, I'll keep the "fun" in dysfunctional family and keep parenting my way.