Like most average (or, let's be completely honest, slightly-less-than-average) parents of three teenagers, I am constantly broke. It's a process all parents go through as their children grow toward adulthood. Babies want your love. Little kids want your attention. Teenagers want your spare cash.

Right now I have 27 cents in my pocket, and tomorrow, unless I have a hole that needs mending, I'll just have 27 cents again. I don't carry paper money because I know I won't have it very long. It's almost as if there's some guy on the other side of the little ATM screen, waiting patiently and then calling my kids on a hotline, whispering into the phone, "The Dad unit's got cash! Repeat: he's got cash!" Within moments of getting even a few bucks in my pocket, I've got teenagers circling like pack animals. Sometimes I feel like a piñata.

When I was a teenager myself, money wasn't an issue. I didn't have any, and neither did any of my friends. We went to the mall all the time but just to walk around aimlessly, never to buy anything. My own father carried around money all the time, but it was his expense account cash, not meant for personal use. Touching Pop's bankroll would have been a fast one-way ticket to a foster home. I cannot remember ever, even once, asking him for money, and I am pretty sure that the answer would have been "No" if I did, followed by a whack on the head. (Were I to have been kidnapped as a kid, I hoped the kidnappers got my mom and not my dad on the line when they called to demand a ransom.)

Kids today need money for everything. They go to the mall not to wander around looking for friends but to actually shop. Our children go bowling, they go to the movies, they go to amusement parks. Each and every single time when I drop them off somewhere, they turn to me at the last minute and say, "Uh, dad, a few bucks, please?" and I dig in, pull out my last remaining dough and kiss them and my cash goodbye. Often, all I'm left with is a little lump of lint in the bottom of my pocket. The only person I've ever met who could make my cash disappear faster is that guy who handles my 401K.

And if I only have a large bill, I'm really stuck. I hand it over, glare at them and whisper, like Clint Eastwood pointing a gun at a perp, "Remember, I want change back. I'm not kidding!" They always chirp back, "Sure, Popsicle!" but we know it's a lie. I never, ever get change back.

This past Wednesday on the way home from work, I stopped at a bank machine to get some cash. When my wife and I got home, our 14-year-old twin daughters reminded us that they'd been planning to go to a church carnival. Not only did they need a ride, but also they were a little short on cash right now. We drove them to the carnival, dropped them off with half my ATM take, and, with a little bit of cash still burning a hole in my pocket, I asked my wife if she wanted to stop on the way home for ice cream.

Twenty minutes later, as we stood in front of the ice cream stand waiting our turn, a minivan came by filled with teenagers. The back window rolled down and our 16-year-old son stuck his head out and waved. He and some friends were on their way home from soccer practice. I tensed up and clutched the lone bill still in my fist.

Sure enough, a few minutes later while we were still in line, the minivan came cruising back around the parking lot like a shark circling its prey. I tried not to make eye contact. My son stuck his head out the window again, smiling that hopeful smile that he uses when he wants something and basically keeps hidden when he doesn't.

"Hey, Dad!' he called out, as if he was somehow glad to see me. "Will you buy us all some ice cream?"

I peered into the minivan, counted the teenagers, sighed, nodded and dug deep. By rough calculation, I had just enough money to get them all ice cream and, with a little luck, I'd still have a piece of lint left over in my pocket in case I got bored on my way home.

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