DadCentric

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

One more thing to add to the ever expanding list of Shit You Really Don't Want To Talk To Your Four-Year-Old About: shark attacks. When your goal is to have your son grow up to be the next Joel Tudor, and your daughter to be the next Lisa Andersen, this is not a welcome development.

Not that I'm in the least bit concerned - even though David Martin was killed at the surf break that was my go-to spot when we lived in Solana Beach. Saw lots of dolphins in the three years that I frequented that break, nary a shark. Hell, I spent 7 years working for SeaWorld, spouting statistics and anecdotes about how galactically UNlikely you are to be killed by a shark here in sunny San Diego (as it happens, you have a greater chance of being killed by lightning, bees, falling airplane parts, and domesticated pigs than a great white). In fact, I surfed yesterday evening, two days after the attack. At sunset. Without a lifeguard around. Or any other surfers in the water. (I'll admit - it was a bit spooky. After I got out of the water, I saw a gray dorsal fin break the surface, right where I had been. A dolphin, of course, and, of course, had I seen that same fin in the water while I was out there bobbing around, I'm quite certain I would have fouled my wetsuit.)

Luckily, Lucas has no fear of the ocean, and luckier still, he remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy. And I intended to keep it that way. And so it was that we were driving down the coast highway on Saturday afternoon, me gazing wistfully out at the ocean, lovely waves rolling in made even lovelier by slight offshore breezes - waves that were completely empty, unridden, due to the circling helicopters and lifeguard trucks that were on the lookout for the great white. "Look at how nice that looks," I said to Beth. "Stupid shark."

"What? What shark, daddy?"

Fuck.

Beth was thinking quickly. "Oh, daddy...is telling a joke. A joke from a movie that we saw. About a shark."

"Oh," said Lucas. "What movie?"

"Well, it's a movie called Jaws, and it's about a shark."

"Can I watch it?"

"Well," I said, "it's a grownup movie. When you're old enough, believe me, we'll watch it."

"Yeah", added Beth. "It's very scary, and it has lots of bad words."

"Oh," said Lucas. "Do they say 'stupid'?"

"Yep," we said.

"Oh," said Lucas. "And 'dammit'?"

"Yeah," we said, "but remember, you're not supposed to say that word..."

"And 'fuckers'?"

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies....

Rockabye: The DadCentric Review

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn't brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn't your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won't lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca's blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: "Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don't we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I'm not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice."

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: "Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well."

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle.  Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you.

In Which We Get To The Important Parenting Stuff

Holy hell, people. BPA! It's everywhere and in everything and will kill you and your family until you are dead! I have to say that I knew very little about BPA until recently, when Beth came home one day and told me that we had to toss all of Zoe's (SO FUCKING CUTE, MY DAUGHTER IS) bottles into the recycle bin and buy a bunch of new, non-BPA tainted ones. Which are, of course, twice as expensive as the BPA bottles. (Why is it that when you buy a product that has LESS of something, it costs you more? Example: Fat Free Nacho Cheesier Doritos cost a buck more than Regular Nacho Cheesier Doritos. Shouldn't the Fat Free Nacho Cheesier Doritos cost less, since the company is presumably paying for fewer ingredients - i.e., partially hydrogenated vegetable shortening? Isn't that, like, economics, or something?)

There is a lot of information flying around the Internets about BPA, and consequently lots of opinions about just how harmful BPA is. Many parents and experts are concerned (I believe Greg at Daddy Types has done a post or two on the subject), a few are not (we here at DadCentric strive to be Fair And Balanced!). Me, I look at it this way - if the Lead Peddlers at Wal-Mart think that this shit's too toxic to sell, good Christ, we should round up every last bisphenol-A laden item, load 'em all into a giant rocket, and shoot that sucker towards the Sun.

I'm sure that many of you have lots of questions about BPA, so we've prepared an instructional video about bisphenol-A for you. You can find it here. Take notes - there will be a quiz.

Earth Day: Save the Planet, Save Yourself

Today is Earth Day.  Every day is Earth Day.  See how that works.  The bottom line is that we've pushed this poor planet about as far as it can go without serious repercussions.  More serious repercussions.

You don't have to be a hippie smelling of patchouli and  mushrooms to celebrate your planet.  Our planet.  Sure, showers are optional, but let's not be over dramatic. 

We've only got one planet and if we don't start living differently we're going to lose it.  I'm talking to you, big oil, but not just you.  We can all make a difference.  Don't let Earth become the next Pluto.

[thanks for the video idea Jason!]

All Quiet on the Western Front

Seriously.  Where the hell is everyone? 

I don't remember it being this quiet around here since we all got back from that awkward trip to Vegas, and by awkward I mean awesome. I swear, some of these guys have balls the size of my balls.  It was crazy.

We're not hungover now.  None of us are in hiding or the doghouse- as far as I know.  We're just busy, like you are, but that doesn't mean that our respective battles are going to keep us detached from here, "i.e., society."  We're living the life dad, and as you know that makes for great fodder.

Not as good as the Vegas stuff, but legal, and that's a good place to start.

I'm sure someone will post something worthwhile any minute now.  In the meantime enjoy some music:

You're welcome.

Dom? Mad? Fother? Mather? I'm Confused.

Well, it was bound to happen. Science has finally reached the point where what was once inconceivable will soon be reality. I refer, of course, to the Wachowskis' Speed Racer, coming to theaters this summer. How dope does that look!?

Also, apparently there's a pregnant guy.

This has caused quite a stir in the Dad-O-Sphere. Greg's take on Thomas Beattie is erudite, succinct, and delivered with sensitivity and tact. The Sun's take on him? Well. Also, they totally stole my thunder - I was all set to riff on the almost completely forgotten Schwartzenegger flick Junior, but no point in doing that now. Wait - is that Emma Thompson? Holy shit! It is! Always a surprise when a renowned actor slums it.

Anyway, back to the pregnant dad: I think I can speak for a great many fathers when I say that Thomas Beattie is a  brave guy, sharing his story with the world, and carrying out his desire to give birth. Yes, brave in the sense that he certainly knew, going into it, that he'd be dealing with bigotry and ostracism from narrow-minded folk. But, much more than that, HE'S PREGNANT. Can you name one dad who, after spending nine months with his achy, nauseous, itchy, hormonal, emotional, hairy-where-there-once-was-smoothness, thought "yeah, I'd like to try that! Where do I sign up?" Oh, and once you hit that nine month mark you have to have the baby surgically removed (well, I suppose that's better than passing the kid through either of the two available exit routes. You thought passing that kidneystone hurt? Try pissing out a 10 pound baby!)  Fuck. That. Shit. I am waaaay too much of a pussy to be a biological mom.  And, dads who are reading this, admit it - so are you. Look in the mirror, look deep into your eyes, into the window of your souls, and say this: "May God strike me down if I'm lying - I would like to get pregnant. Because along with the constant back pain, there's a good chance that I'll develop a hemorrhoid the size of a Titleist."  Yeah, I thought so.

Thucydides said that "the bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it." So, Thomas Beattie, we at DadCentric salute your courage. All that, plus you have to go to your own baby shower? You deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor, dude.

Insert Title For Post About DadCentric Banner Contest Here

"Maybe I should do a Design A New Banner for DadCentric Contest."

"Yeah. You should."

"Ok."

"What will the winner get?"

"I don't know. Something."

WE NEED A NEW BANNER. SEND YOUR ENTRIES TO PETCOBRA AT GMAIL DOT COM. YOU WILL WIN, I DON'T KNOW, SOMETHING. BONUS POINTS IF YOU USE THE DADCENTRIC GUY.

March 18th: The Morning After

I woke up, fell out of bed, and never considered dragging a comb across my head. It was 7 a.m., there were children in my bed and my wife was already at work.  I took a deep breath, went downstairs and drank a cup.

There were birds singing in the springtime sunshine.  I opened the door and greeted the morning.  Dogs wagged their tails, rabbits did that thing they do with their nose that is so cute, and I felt a song coming on.

It didn't.  Something worse came over me.  I found myself standing there in the open air with a cup full of coffee, my robe blowing behind me in the breeze like the cape I pretend it to be, and I felt good.  I really felt good.

What the hell!  It's March 18th.  I should be lying with a bag of frozen peas across my eyes and a stomach full of regret.  I should be explaining to the kids that the coat of green liquid surrounding the toilet is actually residue from a friendly dragon that stopped by and that it smells like cheap beer because that's what dragons smell like, everyone knows that.

No.  There was no hangover.  I was embarrassed.  In fact I hadn't had a single drink on St. Paddy's other than the Guinness I had 'round midnight, but for all intents and purposes that was Sunday night, and even then, it wasn't anything crazy, just a couple of beers while I filled out my March Madness brackets.

I had gone all of St. Patrick's Day drinking nothing more than a glass of water and some Earl Grey.  I hadn't surrounded myself with loud and unruly drunks, but rather loud and unruly children.  I didn't get lucky, but I did kick my wife's ass on the XBOX.  There was that.

I realized that the closest I came to celebrating my Irish heritage was this:

You know, I'm okay with it.  Dragons cause more trouble than they're worth, and Danny Boy just makes me cry.  Usually.

Simple routines without all the fuss

So it may be a wee bit too early to tell, I may in fact be jinxing the whole thing by calling any sort of attention to it, but if the events of the last few weekends are any indicator, I may very well be on to some sort of father-son tradition kind of thing with my oldest boy. Not that it has to be just father-son, mom can join in too, and she has. And when the newborn son isn't so new anymore, he can get in on the fun as well. But for the moment, it's just me and the eldest.

It's not a particularly complicated tradition or anything. It doesn't involve trekking out to the badlands with three days worth of beef jerky stored away in our horse's saddlebags. There's no ceremonial garb involved and no animals have to be sacrificed. Nope, it's really nothing more complicated than a little ride on the city bus. See, a few weekends ago, we introduced Henry, our oldest to the joys of the bus, and it was a match made in heaven. Perhaps it's the fact that he can be transported at high speeds without having to wear a carseat. Maybe it's the community aspect. Maybe it's just the joy of getting to ride in a REALLY BIG THING. Whatever it was, he loved it, and ever since then, we constantly hear about how "Hemmy wanna ride the bussss."

So for the last few weekends, I've scooped the little guy up and taken the bus down the road to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, it's the one with *GASP* a playground right outside! Of course, ask any kid about this magical destination, and they'll refer to it as the playground with the *yawn* grocery store inside. Whatever it is, it's a place where the kiddos can burn off some energy so that they'll be nice and docile for the grocery-purchasing experience yet to come. Once the kiddo's had his fill of the playground, we buy whatever we need for dinner that night and then catch the bus back home. We disembark, wave goodbye to the bus, and walk home so Dad can get dinner started.

As we waved goodbye to the bus last weekend, the little guy said "that was fun Daddy." Of course, I swelled up with that "holy crap, I'm getting at least one piece of this Dad gig right" feeling.

"You liked that, little boy?"

"Hemmy wanna ride the bus some more."

"Maybe next weekend?"

"Yeah."

Sappy perhaps, but I'll take it.

So what about you? Got any routines that you enjoy with your kiddos?

Cross-post: Can I get an Amen?

I don't usually cross-post - what goes on over at my other place usually stays there.  Not because it's like Vegas mind you.  It's because it's the antithesis of excitement - people think Reverend Moore is an editor.  But, I thought this could/should be a post to be shared with a greater audience - and by greater, I don't mean better - I know some of you - by greater I just mean larger.So, here goes:

On Monday, I had every intention to post about some very good news I had to share.  I got a new job.  Not only did I get a new job, but I got a raise and this new position would cut my commute to just 25 minutes one-way - down from the hour and ten/fifteen I have been doing these last 3+ years.  I will continue to do relatively the same thing - fundraising and public relations - and for an organization that provides services to a similar population - mentally retarded/developmentally disabled adolescents and adults.  It is very exciting for me/us and I was really looking forward to writing about it and letting the six of you who read regularly know about it.

Well, that was the plan for Monday anyway.  Amazing how things do not always go according to plan, isn't it?  I seem to recall something about mice and men and the best laid, blah, blah, blah. Don't worry, I still have the job and will start after our upcoming trip to the House of Mouse (with my parents by the way - should be something to post about after that).  The thing is, I never made it into work on Monday.  Nope, not at all.  In fact, I'm actually very lucky to be even posting about Monday.  See, I totaled my car.  And before you ask, no I wasn't wearing a seatbelt.  Stupid?  Oh, Lord yes.  Dumbest damn thing I have ever done.  Actually, I had become a convert after Little Dub was born.  This was a very stupid instance that could have cost me my life.  I have seen the error of my ways.  I have had my "come to Jesus" moment.  You will soon see me at your door trying to dispense tracts from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration.  "May I come in and tell you about the saving power of the seatbelt law?  How about the redemptive power of the 3-point shoulder harness?"  Yes, I am born again.

I was ten minutes from work when I hit an extensive (150-200 yards) patch of black ice.  Never even saw it.  Didn't realize I was on it until my ass-end suddenly started to swing around and I was now facing in the opposite direction.  And still spinning.  The next thing I know, I'm covered in glass, the windshield is smashed and the car is laying on the driver's side in a ditch.  I remember saying, "Fuck" once or twice, grabbing my wallet off the floor and turning off the radio because the static was going to drive me insane and I needed to think.

I tried to push open the passenger side door, but to no avail.  This was about the time panic decided to rear its ugly head.  Thankfully, a nearby resident had heard everything and was now outside my car on his house phone calling 911.  I ignored him when he told me to stay put - panic still had hold.  I was able to roll down the passenger side window and boost my self out of the car.  I heard him say, "Are you okay?  Anything hurt?  You're damn lucky!  You're the third accident in a week."  Huh?  Great, I'm the topper in a hat trick.  Lucky me.  Where's Rod Roddy with my gifts?

Another passerby encourages me to get to the other side of the road and off into someone's yard as I am busy inspecting myself.  My right hand is bloodied, I have glass and glass fragments in my hair, my left ear is tender and I have a dull pain between my shoulder blades, but am otherwise unscathed.  Remarkably so.  I hear the sirens from the local fire department, the paramedics and the sheriff.  I'm hustled into a pick-up truck, then to a fire truck and ultimately into the paramedic's truck.  They look at me.  They look at my CR-V.  They look back at me incredulously.  "Are you sure you're okay?" I am asked repeatedly.  Yep, I answer.  "Just a little pain here and apparently I have a cut somewhere."  In between all this poking and prodding, I have left messages for Mrs. Big Dubya - somewhat frantic ones where I actually forgot to tell her I was okay and the kids were not with me.  Ah, panic and shock - wonderful combination when relaying information.

I was in and out of the hospital after getting looked at and receiving 600 mg of Motrin - nothing broken, no internal bleeding, no concussion, just some scratches, some tenderness and some disapproving comments when I give my answer about the seatbelt.  My CR-V?  Not so lucky.  She has been declared a total loss.  I have since removed the plates and registration, cleaned it out and bid her a fond farewell as she will be taken away on Monday to points unknown.  I am sad to see her go. But I am more than grateful to be able to write this post and that is all that really matters - I am still here for Mrs. Big Dubya and my children - I could not ask for more.  Fortunately, only a few family members read this blog so I won't be answering a ton of questions - we've just bought a new car, no big deal, it was expected with a third bambino on the way, etc. , etc., etc.  To Aunt P: Everything's fine - I am fine - let's keep it at that.

In the immortal words of Sir Bob: "I don't like Mondays."