DadCentric

Weighing in on a Heavy Topic

The growing roar from America's health community about the girth of kids today has become daily news lately.  I've seen dozens of articles about the growing incidence of diabetes, spiraling health care costs, and the resizing of clothes so the pleasantly plump among us won't feel so bad when we can't get our buffalo-sized asses into our leather pants.  Last weekend, the NY Times ran this article about personal trainers and scheduled work-outs for kids in their early teens who are struggling with their weight.  Part of me was glad that these kids (who have enough to worry about because Cindy like totally told Janet that she liked Tim but Janet totally knows Tim from homeroom and she saw her talking to Tim in the cafeteria and oh my god what if she tells him she likes him) were being given an option to battle the bulge.  Part of me, however, got really pissed off that parents would let it come to that.

Full disclosure:  I was a fat kid.  I had to buy "husky" jeans when I went to school, and despite my evident genius and winning personality I was still teased a lot.  I wasn't very good at sports, and actively avoided anything that would expose myself to ridicule, from wearing baggy clothes to avoiding P.E. at any cost.  Frankly, it was embarrassing.  But I eventually took responsibility for my condition and lost weight in high school, turning into the smokin' hot studmuffin I am today (as you can see in this undoctored photograph).

It's not easy to lose weight as a kid.  Everyone around you is eating mall food or burgers, and the siren songs of Xbox Live & instant messaging practically demand that you're sedentary for part of your day to stay wired into the your social group.  I applaud the efforts these parents are making in forcing their kids to do something about their weight and build some habits that can translate into a healthier life as an adult.

But here's where I also start getting angry.  Let me give you a couple of quotes from the article.  "I can't pretend we don't eat our share of fast food because of scheduling," says one parent.  I call bullshit on that right away.  "Scheduling" is a pathetically lame excuse for feeding your kids crap.  Everyone knows that shit is bad for you, and you can't tell me the 10 minutes you save driving Hardee's to get the Monster Thickburger Value Meal with a large Coke instead of cooking the organic chicken and broccoli that's been sitting in the freezer since 1998 really helped you get sooooo much more done around the house.

Another thing that ticked me off was the mother who "said she realized she needed to focus on her family's diet when she hit 255 pounds herself."  Really, that was what clued you in?  Your OWN weight?  It was OK when you hit 250, but 255 was too much.  Do you think perhaps you might have been encouraging some bad habits in the home? 

To me, many of these people are simply passing along their parental responsibilities to doctors and personal trainers (just like they probably already do to teachers and television) rather than actively participating in the healthy development of their children.  It's not one of those things kids can easily hide from their parents, and I'll bet that most kids don't actually want to be fat.  A little engagement, a little discussion, and better mix of healthy foods in the home can at least give kids some defense against being nicknamed Porko McChowsalot. 

I know it's very complicated, and I'm not advocating perpetual monitoring of every calorie ingested and burned by your kids.  But slapping the Twinkie out of Junior's hand and handing him a banana instead wouldn't be so hard, would it?  We expend so much energy trying educate our children so they'll be smart and well-behaved; isn't it worth it to teach them to be healthy and strong as well? 

Boys Don't Cry (Not!)

Unlike some of my colleagues here at DadCentric, when it comes to being a parent I am a neophyte, a newb if you will.  And that, I think, is what makes this site so unique.  You, our loyal readers, not only get the perspective of the wily veterans of parenthood, but you also get the sense of wonder (and the abject fear) of the relatively new members of this brotherhood we call fatherdom.

My little guy is nearing his 8-month birthday and all kinds of shit is happening.  There's sitting up and spitting up; wriggling and jiggling; teething and...well...teething...oh, the teething.  But another wonderful thing we are experiencing is that Lil Dubya is finding his voice.  Now, mind you, I think this is fantastic, but there are some times I wish it would just stay lost until he's able to form polysyllabic words.  Giggling and laughing: Good.  Shrieks and blood-curdling screams: Not so much.  The great thing about him trying out his vocal cords is that there are now discernible differences depending on the circumstances.  I think I've been able to identify them and I've started to give them labels.  I haven't shared this with Mrs. Big Dubya as I'm in the process of defining them and detecting the various nuances inherent in each, but I think I can share a couple with you.

The Cell Phone (aka Can You Hear Me Now): Sometimes an hour or so after being put down for the night, the little guy will begin whimpering or emitting tiny cries, just loud enough to get your attention.  More often than not, when I go into his room to soothe him, he will look me dead in the eye and the cry will get just a tad louder.  As I pick him up, you guessed it, the cry will increase in volume and will reach maximum volume just as he's closest to my left ear, as if to say "Can you hear me now?  Good."

The Drill Sergeant : One thing I've learned over the past few months is that there are certain activities in which each parent may participate or engage in.  Mrs. Big Dubya has, by far, the most leeway.  I, on the other hand, am limited.  If I am holding him, I am allowed to sit only when I'm feeding him.  Any attempt to the contrary will provoke an instant crying jag that is only remedied by standing up and moving around: "Did I tell you to sit mister?  Get up off your ass.  There's no time for sitting here, son.  Is that all you're gonna do?  Stand there?  Get moving!  I said move goddammit!  Swaying?  That's all you got?  You better start walking around the house!  And sing.  Sing something silly until I fall asleep.  Sing that Ma-na-ma-na song.  And don't skip any of the verses this time!"

The Jeffrey Steingarten : We've recently introduced some variety into the little guy's diet.  In addition to oatmeal and rice cereal, he now gets carrots, sweet potatoes, apples, (millions of) peaches, b-a-n-a-n-a-s and peas among others.  For the most part, he scarfs these down faster than you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.  There are times, though, when you would swear you have somehow insulted his culinary sensibilities and, like this cry's namesake, he's not afraid to let his feelings, or opinions, known.  "Ahem, I believe I had the peas last night for dinner.  I realize I have made it known that I enjoy these, but how about some variety?  Let's mix it up a little, shall  we?  I don't see you having Taco Bell every night."

(Food) Fight Club: There's no mistaking his "I'm hungry dammit" cry.  It's usually around the same times every day and evening and we are pretty well-prepared.  However, he does have a bit of a rebellious streak in him.  Occasionally, 2 or 3 oz. into the bottle, he'll spit the nipple out and throw his head back and shriek - rather reminiscent of a predator after the kill - kind of celebratory.  That is until you try and put the bottle back in his mouth.  Then it's a full-on howl with a nice arching of the back, as he desperately tries to avoid being fed anymore.  Much to his dismay, my persistence far outlasts his evasive maneuvers and he'll let out a exasperated cry/whimper and resume eating.

Take it from me, recognizing these various and subtle differences early is key to maintaining your sanity.

Putting The 'Trash' in 'White Trash'

Looking at the previous entry reminds me of some folks I'd like to introduce you to - my white trash neighbors (WTN).

The WTN family lives a few doors down. They possess a vast and ever-changing lineup of vehicles with which they transport their white trash selves. This includes a BMW with smashed passenger side, a crappy 10 year old and excessively beaten up small Japanese car, a relatively new Camaro and an exceptionally large pickup complete with gigantic spoiler on top. 

The family consists of White Trash Husband, White Trash Wife and two or three White Trash Brats. Allow me to clarify – there are often three of them but just as often there’s no trace of the third, the youngest. We’re not sure what to make of that but if he’s taken off to join the circus, he’s a smart kid.

The WTNs don’t really get along all that well. Sadly, most of their arguing takes place outside their home, in full view of their neighbors. Neighbors like us. The other day, for instance, I overheard the familiar refrain of I’m going to call the fucking cops then you’re just fucking dead and you’ll be someone’s bitch in prison you asshole from White Trash Mom. Of course, the two kids were standing right beside her as she shouted this at the somewhat mystified White Trash Dad.  Not long ago, after a similar shouting match, the husband locked her out. Her solution? Throw herself at the front door. Now, she’s a large woman and, on the third or fourth try, it worked. The door came down as if made of balsa wood. I admit that I chuckled a little bit when I saw the husband leave then eventually return with a brand new front door. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was in the local grocery store picking up some stuff for dinner. I spotted this woman dressed in an incredibly short skirt, platform heels, and tube top, bare midriff, waiting in line to check out. I was surprised to see a hooker in the store. But I suppose they have to eat. I was even more surprised that she looked vaguely familiar. It was, of course, White Trash Daughter…who’s no more than 13 years old.

The point of all this? Well, first, the obvious – there are some hopelessly screwed up people in the world. But these hopelessly screwed up people make me feel better about myself. There’s a certain percentage of my being that is constantly consumed with doubt – am I devoting enough time to my daughter, Am I being a good father?  Will I totally screw her up beyond all hope of recovery?  Will she become a serial killer because I played an acoustic version of Iron Maiden’s Run To The Hills over and over for a couple of weeks? In short, I doubt my own, previously untested parenting skills. But I needn’t. No matter what, by comparison to the WTNs of the world, I’m father of the year.

Simon Cowell: A Role Model For Dads Everywhere

I always enjoy a good laugh, especially when it's at someone else's expense, so I relish the first couple of episodes of American Idol. Watching the cavalcade of meth addicts, head-injury victims, and kids who had a taste for paint chips at an early age that is the first round of auditions for American Idol, it occurs to me that we really need to approach Simon Cowell from a different angle.

Often singled out for his "cruel" assessments of contestants ("I don't mean to be rude, but I'd rather have a syphilitic orangutan stick his lesion-riddled member in my ear than listen to you sing"), Mr. Cowell has been the show's villain. His collegues, Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson, tend to be a bit more sympathetic; Ms. Abdul in particular offers even the most musically impaired contestant a glimmer of hope, which may have been the reason that William Hung decided to pursue a musical career rather than take the professional dogwalker route. (Personal note: I saw Randy Jackson live; he played bass for Journey on their final tour with Steve Perry. Yes, I held up my lighter when they did "Faithfully". Cut me some slack - this was when I lived in Anchorage, and in the three years I spent there the only other major band band that made it up there was The Scorpions. Yes, I saw them too.) Cowell's harsh critiques have won him the ire of contestants and occasionally their parents, brothers, and sisters (who are, in many cases, also the contestants' parents).

Yet we dads can learn a lot from Cowell. The real tragedy of American Idol is the false hope given to these talentless kids by their parents. It's one thing to encourage your kids to pursue a hobby; it's quite another to convince them that they're going to be the next Kelly Clarkson or - God forbid that such dreck is again disgorged upon the world - Clay Aiken. Especially if they have the vocal stylings of a goat being buggered. Why any of these parents would subject their kids to humiliation on national TV is a mystery. (Well, in most cases, it's not. There aren't words to describe the depths of near-psychotic delusion going on here - the Marianas Trench would be a good geological comparison.) Sometimes, as the old Nick Lowe tune says, you gotta be cruel to be kind. (Wow - Journey, The Scorpions, and now Nick Lowe. Really, folks, I listen to what the cool kids listen to. I have the new Death Cab For Cutie! Really, I do!) The lesson Simon teaches us - help your kids to set realistic and achievable goals for themselves, lest they end up like our boy Scott Soval.

You Can Almost Smell The Skank

So I was picking up a few supplies last night at the supermarket, waiting patiently in line to purchase my loaf of bread, milk and chocolate mud-cake. (There are benefits to living with a 39 week pregnant wife)

In front of me there is a haggard looking mother with her daughter. The mother has a black stained boob tube on, really bad bleach blonde hair and a face that could make leaves fall off trees. I would say on a skank rating of one to ten, she was an eight and a half.

Her daughter is aged about five or six and is yelling at her mum. Not actual words (yet) but indecipherable nonsense that sounds very much like a full blown tantrum.

“ARRRRGGGGGHHHH……..EEEEEEEAAAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHH”

“Get over here now!” Commands Skank 8.5

ARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH……EEEEEAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH” screamed Miniskank, doubling her efforts as she went limp on the floor using this classic tactic with optimum effectiveness.

Skank 8.5 screams “I said get over here now!” dragging her by one arm, pulling her along the floor thereby countering her ‘limp body’ tactic.

“I HATE YOU” howls Miniskank as her mother picks her up to aggressively place her on her waif-like waist. At this point Miniskank turns into a Tassie Devil clawing at her mothers face, pulling her hair and trying to pull her boob tube down to expose her breasts.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU AAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHH” screams Miniskank in a pitch so high, that dog’s in the neighbouring suburbs lift their ears to the sky and think “Shit, I’m glad I’m not that kid’s mother! I mean, I eat possum shit and lick my own balls but I don’t do THAT!”   

After slapping her around a few times, Skank 8.5 makes her purchases with a kicking, screaming, spitting Badger hanging from her waist as the other shoppers look at each other like “What the fuck is going on, is this Badger being kidnapped or something?”

“Next please” said the checkout chick over the top of Badger-Girl. It was at this point that Skank 8.5 had finished her purchase and turned to walk out of the shop, catching my eye.

“You say one thing, fucker, and I will bitch slap you so hard you won’t know shit from stink“ her look said.

“I hate this bitch and I’m a selfish little turd that does this sort of thing all the time and gets away with it” her daughters look said.

“What a pair of lungs” said the checkout girl as the sounds of Skank 8.5 and Badger-Girl evaporate away into the car-park.

Ixnay on the Oopoopay, Ammitday!

Can I just go ahead and tell you how unhappy we are that our baby daughter has learned to verbally announce to the rest of the house when one of us goes to the bathroom?  "Daaadddy...poo-poo," she'll explain to everyone in the room - one by one - if she discovers I'm in the crapper with the door shut.  And, as if any further explanation is needed at that point, she's been known to reinforce this little factoid with visuals.  She'll grab a Barbie, point to its butt, say "poo-poo"...(l o n g   p a u s e)..."Daaaaaddddy" just to reiterate what has already been established.  She may even add a grunt or two if she's feeling especially descriptive.  It's quite embarrassing and it sucks because we have a small house, she has a big voice and we can hear her spilling the beans to whomever is present. 

My wife and I like to keep certain things sacred.  This type of information is on the short list.  Thank you, dear daughter.

That Wife Swap Casting Call Email

Yeah, I'll admit I felt pretty special when I got an email from the casting director of "Wife Swap" (for fun, go ahead and Google that term; better yet, do a search for it on Craigslist) asking me if I knew anyone ("metrosexual dads"? I have exactly three pairs of shoes. You're asking the wrong guy) who might be interested in giving up his wife for a few days.

Turns out that everyone in the Blogodrome has gotten this. (Danny, if you're reading this, your "unique way of life" is, apparently, per the definition of "unique", not.)

Now, before all y'all start chiming in on how ghastly that show is, and how you'd never subject your family to such upheaval, the good folks at ABC are willing to pay you $20,000 - TWENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS - to switch wives. If volunteering one's wife for that makes one a pimp, give me my red crushed velvet suit and platform shoes and call me Dolemite.

Don't Help Your Daughter

As dads, we tend to always help our kids, maybe even more so if you have a daughter. I remember reading an article once that talked about a study of the difference in parenting techniques employed for boys and girls. It was quite interesting to note that fathers tend to help their daughters more than they helped their sons when it came to certain situations. For instance, when a little girl is trying to use building blocks and can’t place them on top of each other without them falling down, Dads tend to say, “Here darling, let daddy help you” whilst putting the blocks together for them.

If a son did this, most of the time a father would let his son try (even though he showed frustration, just like his daughter) until he managed to use the block effectively. “Well done son, that’s the way”

This article seemed to make sense to me and having a daughter myself, made me think: “Do I want my daughter to grow up independent and confident?” Of course the answer to that was a resounding “yes!” Since reading this article I have put in a concerted effort to let my daughter attempt to work things out for herself as much as possible. (I'm always there to help if she needs it)
I strongly believe that the way you parent your kids now, has a truly profound effect on the person they become in later life and also creates the blueprint for the type of parent you are going to be.

I think my daughter is stronger for this. Yes, she gets frustrated like all kids do, but she knows that I won’t pander to her if she can’t do something. Usually if she “cracks a darkie” I hold her by both shoulders, look here in the eye and explain to her that she is feeling frustrated because she can’t fit her head through Barbie’s tiny tee-shirt. I try to always show her where things go or how they're done, then give her the opportunity to try it for herself.

It’s amazing how much of a difference explaining things to her makes. She settles down, looks at me and listens while nodding her head in agreement to most of the things I say. 
I’m proud of my daughter and what she can do for herself and I believe it’s because I don’t help her too much in certain situations and let her figure things out for herself.

Da Fools-ball Is Da Devil!

So Lucas knows football - when the game is on, and I ask him what he sees on the TV, he says "Fuh-ball", and he also says "Touchdown!" and raises his arms like the ref, and his assessment of Peyton Manning ("good arm, excels at keeping a defense on it's toes through liberal use of the audible, worthless in the post season") was right on. He's not just an armchair quarterback - the kid can throw for distance and accuracy, and if by chance you are sitting on the floor holding a football (or in our house, a rugby ball), he will run at you at full speed and put his hat on your numbers, as it were.

Which brings up the question - are we going to encourage him to play football? I wasn't much of a jock in high school - played a little soccer and hockey. There are lots of sports I'd like to see him play - hoops and baseball chief among them - and of course he's at home in the water so there's no doubt he's going to be a surfer. And as previously mentioned, I'd be stoked to get him into a youth rugby program. What worries me about football is not the nature of the game, but the business of it - if he plays, and has talent, then all of a sudden we're getting calls from sleazy alumni boosters and unscrupulous coaches and then he goes to college and majors in "General Studies" or "Food Service Management", drops out in three years to enter the draft, is picked up by the Saints, becomes a steroid-addled freak and ultimately ends up playing with these guys. Is that worth having Ali Larter show up at his house wearing naught but a whipped cream bikini? Wait - stupid question, of course it is - but you get my point.

Ambition, Meet Reality

We've been bracing ourselves for full infant mobility for a couple of months now, ever since our daughter progressed from simply rolling over to the insane corkscrew.  She's sitting up (mostly), scooting in circles, and can hold onto small objects for longer than 8 seconds before they skitter across the floor, and every progression has delighted her as much as it has us.  In the last week, though, she's hit a wall, and she ain't likin' it.

Now that she's started exploring all the things her body can do, she wants to do more MORE MORE!  She'll twist like rotini to reach toys, piping hot coffee mugs, and discarded magazines, but half the time they'll be just out of reach, or she'll accidentally trap herself behind a pillow or the impenetrable padded bars of her activity mat. (Is it wrong that this makes me laugh?)  She has learned something new through this process:  how to express frustration.

Our sweet, well-mannered daughter has now taken to making "Eeeeh...eeeeeh!" noises constantly.  I walk away and it's "eeeeeeh....eeeeeeh!"  We pick her up and it's "eeeeh....eeeeeh!"  Declaring "whining will not be tolerated" doesn't seem to be working, and my wife's pleas of "kill me now" are still illegal in this state.  I feel for the poor girl--being teased by so many exciting, out-of-reach objects without the power of the Force at her disposal--but we need to work on a more pleasant way to express it.  Is it too early to teach her swear words?