Just the other day, I was unwittingly forced into another common dad position: Chief Executive Officer in Charge of Family Financial Affairs. In my role as CEOCFFA, I was rushed into a purchase without really having any time to give it much thought, or to get a consult -- much less an approval -- from Mrs. P.

When the Pre-Purchase Ambush occurred it took me by surprise. The road between our house and the soccer practice field is 1.5 miles long. It takes about 5 minutes to drive from Point A (the warmth and security of our home) to Point B (the searing heat of our second home, the soccer practice field).

Nine times out of 10, it is an uneventful, boring journey, but one that must be made several times a week.

On this particular afternoon drive, the first practice session of the brand new, just-like-last-year soccer season, one of the kids suddenly piped up from the backseat.

"Dad, I need new soccer shoes."

"Right now?" I asked. "Why didn't I find out about this sooner?"

"I've been telling you about it for six months."

"What's wrong with the ones you have?" I asked her.

"They're too small."

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Because I have to bend my big toes under to get them in all the way, and I'm getting really bad cramps in the middle of the night."

I suppose that being 11, her feet would be prone to grow. I just wish they wouldn't do it on the way to soccer practice.

As if a discussion about one pair of growing feet weren't enough, we were suddenly talking about two pair, as our younger daughter chimed in. <continued below>

"Dad, I need new soccer shoes, too."

I sighed heavily in the general direction of my daughters so that they might know I wasn't real happy about these sneak-attack tactics.

"I suppose you're going to tell me your feet are growing, too?" I said to our 9-year-old. "How dare they!"

"No. But there is a hole in one of them."

"A hole in your foot? You don't need shoes, you need a doctor."

"No dad, there's a hole in one of my soccer shoes."

"Don't think of it as a hole, think of it as ventilation."

I pulled into the sporting goods store and reached for the checkbook. There was no way I was getting out of this. The girls were mounting a concerted shoe-buying battle against me and I didn't need night-vision glasses to see it coming.

"Are you sure you have to have them today?" I asked our younger daughter.

"Water comes in through the hole. My sock gets soggy."

"When I was your age," I told her, "I used to play football barefoot in the street, running routes around broken Pepsi bottles. We didn't need shoes back then."

"But Dad ..."

It was the old, "But, Dad" line. The one they use when they're on the verge of getting what they want and they know it.

"Fine, fine, fine," I said.

Another heavy sigh.

It suddenly dawned on me that I had lost another financial battle. They would get their new shoes. But before I forked over the money, the girls were going to have to feel major guilt about it. Between the two of them, we tried on every shoe in the store. We headed to the cash register and I whipped out the checkbook.

"Oh, Dad! We're going to use a bigger ball this year, so I need a new ball today, too."

Another heavy sigh. And a brief piercing glance -- "The Hairy Eyeball," we call it -- just so my youngest wouldn't dare think of asking for anything else. I glanced at her big sister, giving her the same look. She was holding a new set of shin guards, trying to put them back on the shelf before The Hairy Eyeball descended upon her.

"The dog ate my old shin guards and it's illegal to play or practice without shin guards. If I go to practice without these today I'll get sent to the juvenile correction center."

"Where'd you learn sarcasm like that?" I shot back.

She gave ME The Hairy Eyeball.

"Duh!?" she said.

Two pairs of shoes, a new ball, new shin guards.

"What's the damage?" I asked the sales clerk who would be relieving me of a substantial chunk of change.

"Dad, we need new water bottles!" the younger one yelled suddenly.

Another heavy sigh. Not from me, but from the salesman who was either apparently anxious to leave on his lunch break or was listening to the same story for probably the 33rd time since he had clocked in two hours earlier.

"In the interest of time," I told the salesman, "just give me one of everything."

"That'll be $85.63," he said.

"$85.63???" I asked.

The salesman shook his head to confirm the total.

"I've stayed in hotels for less and gotten a lot more out of it -- plus I always get a chocolate candy on my pillow in the morning. I'm giving you $85.63 and I get two pairs of shoes that won't even fit the feet they're being bought for in six months, a new ball that will probably be lost more often than it is kicked around, and a new after-dinner snack for the dog. And people wonder why parenting is so hard these days."

Jimmy Patterson is a writer in Midland, Texas, and author of the book, Sticky Doorknobs -- showing us that laughter and life with kids can -- and must -- go hand in hand. Email the author.