The best thrift store for books in my experience is definitely St. Vincent de Paul. With rare exception, their book sections are large and well-organized and their prices are well below what a used bookstore can afford to charge.

Today provides a great example. I finally got around to using some of my Barnes and Noble gift card today. I purchased Expecting Adam by Martha Beck and Writing About Your Life by William Zissner for $15 each, less member discount. I also thought about purchasing The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan, which also lists for $15, but I decided to wait. Maybe I could find a better price online.

After dinner, I stopped by a St. Vincent's close to our apartment and browsed through the memoir section. Within minutes, I found a like-new copy of The Middle Place in paperback for $1.50. My reluctance at Barnes and Noble ended up saving me $13.50

From now on, I'll be checking St. Vincent's first.

I learned to ride a bike in the Pentagon parking lot.

Pretty memorable, huh? What I don't remember, though, was learning to pedal. I was much younger—three or four at the most—and I learned on the far less memorable  sidewalk in front of our house in Virginia Beach.

Anna is learning to pedal. We bought her a bike two years ago because her legs were already too long for a tricycle. The first summer, I pushed her, the second summer, I pushed her some more. I tried to encourage her to pedal. Other kids her age were pedaling, but she just wasn't getting it. OK, I thought, next summer she's going to learn to pedal.

That was my goal, and I took her to our neighboorhood park yesterday to teach her. Now, as I said before, I don't remember how I learned to pedal so I had no idea where to start. First, I set her on the bike. She rocked back and forth, but didn't go anywhere. Then I tried pushing her. I figured if I got her feet moving she might take over and pedal on her own.

I pushed her all the way around the park, letting go every few steps to see if she'd pick up the pedaling. Each time, she slowed to a stop.

I tried verbal encouragement. "Push this leg." I pointed to her left leg.

"I can't!"

I repeated what my mom always told me. "Don't say you can't, just try."

She rocked a bit more. "I can't."

This was getting nowhere, so I decided on a new approach: bribery.

I pointed to a line on the path. "If you can pedal this far, we'll get you a prize when we get home." We had a box of little prizes set aside for rewards.

She pushed, she rocked, and she pedaled, all the way to the line and she kept going. She finally had it.

"That's great, Anna." Now she had started, and I wanted her to keep going. "OK, if you can pedal all the way to the playground, Mommy and I will take you to Toys 'R' Us."

She kept going, ten feet, twenty feet, almost there.

Then she stopped. Her wheels got stuck.

By this point one of her friends from the neighborhood saw Anna on her bike.

"I have a bike," Marta said as she ran over to us.

"Anna's just learning to pedal," I said.

Marta put her hand on Anna's shoulder. "You can do it, Anna."

"I can't," Anna cried. "I'm stuck."

She was so close. I didn't want her to get discouraged now or she might give up.

"Let's move the bike over to the basketball court." I helped Anna off the bike and picked it up. We walked over to the edge of the court, I set the bike down, and she got back on

"Just pedal to that line." I pointed to a line on the court. "And we'll go to Toys 'R' Us."

She pedaled to the line and past it, all the way across the court.

"Yay Anna!" Marta shouted.

I smiled. I'd just taught my daughter to pedal her bike.

Not yet, but as of last week she has an imaginary pet. Her name is Betty, and she's a poogle (half poodle, half beagle). I guess it makes sense. Anna loves dogs, but a dog wouldn't mix well with either our two bunnies or my mother-in-laws two cats. So Anna made up a dog.

Don't tell her that, though. Yesterday,  I made the mistake of calling her dog invisible.

"She is not invisible!" Anna replied.

I quickly corrected my error. "I meant she's invisible to everyone else. Of course, you can see her."

That seemed OK, but I hate to think how she would have reacted if I'd said "imaginary" instead.

Anyway, like most imaginary pets, Betty has some distinct advantages over a real pet. She's easy to take care of—she's housebroken and since both her pee and poop are invisible, it's easy to clean up after her. Anna has an unlimited supply of imaginary dog food, dog treats, and dog toys, and though she hasn't mentioned it yet, I'm sure Betty  gets plenty of imaginary water as well.

The biggest advantage, though, is that Betty can go with Anna everywhere. This weekend, Anna played on several inflatables, including a bounce house, a "Rat Race" obstacle course, and a slide in the shape of a sinking ocean liner. Betty got to go on every one. Last night, Anna brought Betty to see the fireworks at PK Park and she didn't get scared at all. Today, Anna brought her to the mall, where only assistance dogs and imaginary dogs are allowed. Betty played with Anna until some other kids showed up, then she sat quietly, waiting until Anna was done. Imaginary dogs are very well-behaved.

Imaginary dogs seem to grow up faster. On Saturday, Betty was a little puppy, but by yesterday she was "all grown up" and "medium sized." I'm not sure if she'll get any bigger, or smaller for that matter. She may even turn back into a puppy, or change breeds. Since I only had real dogs growing up, I'm not sure what imaginary ones can do.

Maybe by next week she'll learn to fly.

As we walked up to the play area, Anna sat down to take off her sandals.

"The sand might get hot," I said. "You'd better leave those on."

"I don't want sand in my shoes."

"Ok, but your feet might get hot."

She pulled off her sandals and stepped into the sand.

"They're not hot."

"OK." I picked up her sandals. "I'll hold these in case you need them."

She played for about two minutes, then suddenly she started crying and ran over to me.

"You were right daddy. My feet are hot."

I picked her up and brushed off her feet. They were just a little bit red—not too bad. I helped her put her sandals back on.

"Do you want to go play some more?"

"No, I want to go home."

I felt awful. Her playtime was ruined. Later that day, though, it dawned on me: That was the first time I ever heard Anna say "You were right, Daddy."

Anna's at that age where she disagrees with everything I say. For example, many times when we come home from playing, Anna will dawdle a bit at the bottom of the stairs. "Anna," I'll say. "We need to go upstairs."

"No, we need to go downstairs."

"Anna our apartment is upstairs. We need to go up." You'd think by now I'd know not to try logic with a four year old.

"Our apartment is downstairs."

"No, Grandma's apartment is downstairs. We need to go upstairs." At this point, I think I've bested her, but no . . .

"I want to go to Grandma's." Game, set, and match to Anna.

It's only going to get worse. Soon enough she'll be a teenager, and she'll never agree with me. So I need to savor these words while I can:

"You were right, Daddy."

One line in particular stayed with me:

"I have seen that, in some ways, it is the child who makes the father, even as I know that the father shapes the child."

It is the child who makes the father, and I know that now from my own experience. Helping to raise Anna has shaped the person that I am in ways I didn't know were possible. My transformation began the first time I held her (as I describe in my book):

I looked down at Anna. She was gazing up at me with her big brown eyes. I had read in many books that I would love this baby more than I’d ever thought was possible. I also read that those feelings don’t come right away for every dad, and not to be concerned if they didn’t.

“I love you so very, very much,” I said, just getting the words out. The emotions were immediate and intense. I knew at that moment I would do anything; give anything, my own life included, for this little girl in my arms.

I pulled myself together, and continued: “Anna, I want you to know that there is nothing you can’t do; nothing you can’t be if you want to, and don’t listen to anyone who tells you different.”

My first fatherly advice: not that she understood what I was saying. She just kept gazing up at me.

The transformation began that day and it has been going on ever since. I've taught her, guided her, from time to time I've had to reprimand her, and all the while as I've watched her grow I have grown too.

We've both got a long way to go and it's going to be an incredible journey.

• Answering her play phone - in one breath: "Hello, hi, what's up? OK, bye."
• To me, suggesting we get her mom: "Let's go look for your wife."
• After breaking a wooden doll at my mother-in-law's house: "I think she's broken, Grandma. She dropped her head off."
• In clothes she didn't like - with hands on hips: "I can't go out like this!"
• When the priest enters the church at the beginning of Mass: "Here comes Church Man."
• Describing her favorite parts of the mall play area: "The lighthouse and the train are the most funnest of all."
• And in reference to my mom - who passed away last fall: "Grandma Dolly is looking down on me and watching me play."

That last one got to me.

Well despite our technological advances over the last thirty years, we still experience "technical difficulties" from time to time. At least the graphics have improved:

Aw, isn't he cute? The Fail Whale, as he's commonly known, shows up whenever Twitter is over capacity. Expect to see more of the big guy during the World Cup.

As adorable as the whale is, I don't quite get the accompanying message. "Too many tweets?" Yes, I know that means too many Twitter users at once, but the picture suggests the opposite problem—not enough "tweets."

"More birds! We need MORE BIRDS!"

As for the others I'm wanting to get, only the Douay Rheims is old enough to find it's way to a Goodwill, yet despite the numerous KJVs I find at every store I stop in, I have yet to stumble across the traditional language Catholic equivalent.

The English Standard Version is very recent. Oxford just published an edition with the Apocrypha last year, so the chances of one finding it's way to a used book store of any kind are small. The Orthodox Study Bible is only two years old, so it's also unlikely I'll find one used.

As ridiculous as Rep. Skelton's question is, I will give him a serious answer: I would welcome this conversation with my daughter.

I am not afraid, when the time is right, to discuss sex with my daughter—though I suspect my wife will get most of the questions—but this has nothing to do with sex. It's about equal rights for all Americans. That's what the men and women of our military fight to defend and that's what they all deserve no matter who they happen to fall in love with.

• Do you read in genres you don't write?
• Do you read in multiple genres?
• Do you you stretch yourself to find great writing and great storytelling?

As an example, here's a cross section of books I've read over the last year. This isn't a complete list. I've left out rereads - I love rereading a good book after setting it on the shelf for a couple of years - and only included those I've read for the first time:

• Revelations of Divine Love by Blessed Julian of Norwich
• Greywalker by Kat Richardson
• Your Life as Story by Tristine Ranier
• The Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch
• Push by Sapphire
• Crazy for God by Frank Schaffer

A memoir and a book about memoir writing - so yes I'm reading in my genre, but also two very different novels, a historical narrative, and a medieval theological work.

Here are a few I'm planning to read this summer:

• A New Kind of Christianity by Brian McLaren
• Gringa: A Contradictory Girlhood by Melissa Hart
• The Fence My Father Built by Linda Claire

Plus more books on craft, and lots of articles and essays to inspire my freelance work.