DadCentric

True Blue

Anyone watch CSI last night?  Well I did.  Not the entire thing mind you.  TiVo and TiVo-like devices are a wonderful thing.  I was only able to catch the first 20 minutes or so, but something caught my attention.  The mother of this young girl, who, by the way, was a prodigy - all of 12 years old and a senior in high school - called her daughter an "indigo child."  And then went on to say how attuned to the world and people around her she was.  (This is about the time I ended up doing something else - I think I decided to catch 20 minutes or so of Wednesday night's Lost - yes, TiVo does contribute to my attention deficit (and please, no offense to those who are actually diagnosed ADD - I am easily distracted) - so I have no idea how this whole thing ended, but I was intrigued by the term "indigo child.")  So you know I had to look it up today.

Indigo children is a New Age term used to refer to a set of children having certain special psychological and spiritual attributes. The indigo child concept was first publicised by the book The Indigo Children, written by the husband and wife team of Lee Carroll and Jan Tober. Carroll insists that the concept was obtained via conversations with a spiritual entity known as "Kryon". The adjective "indigo" is used because it is claimed these children appear with an indigo-hued aura.

Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie.  These guys oughta get together with TomKat and Vinny Barbarino.  Now, I am not one to call anyone on their spiritual beliefs - you can believe in whatever you want to believe.  I'm Catholic, I carry my own oddities and guilt-ridden baggage.  So I looked past the whole "Kryon" and aura thing and wanted to find out what exactly sets "indigo children" apart from those with inferior hues.  Well, here are the attributes of an "indigo child":

• They come into the world with a feeling of royalty (and often act like it).
• They have a feeling of "deserving to be here," and are surprised when others don't share that.
• Self-worth is not a big issue; they often tell the parents "who they are."
• They have difficulty with absolute authority (authority without explanation or choice).
• They simply will not do certain things; for example, waiting in line is difficult for them.
• They get frustrated with systems that are ritually oriented and don't require creative thought.
• They often see better ways of doing things, both at home and in school, which makes them seem like "system busters" (nonconforming to any system).
• They seem antisocial unless they are with their own kind. If there are no others of like consciousness around them, they often turn inward, feeling like no other human understands them. School is often extremely difficult for them socially.
• They will not respond to "guilt" discipline ("Wait till your father gets home and finds out what you did").
• They are not shy in letting it be known what they need.

Hmmmm - is it just me or are these the exact same qualities one would attribute to a brat?  If I saw a child with this kind of personality, I think I would be quietly reassuring myself, "Thank God that's not my child."  But, that's just me.

Stop It, Please, You're Killing Me

This just in...

In an ongoing effort to create the perfect Daddy's Girl, my youngest [the Home Depot/Harley Davidson-recognizing-Hooter-loving-perfectodaughter] has mastered the art of professing to her father (that would be me) that she, indeed, loves him.  I'll admit that it all started out while she was in one of her "repeater" modes...you know, those moments when our babies are tuned into the vile vitriol that spews forth from out mouths wherein they regurgitate the highlights of casual speak - the same speak that ends up getting them expelled from daycare, preschool, etc.  Well, she happened to have caught a little nugget not too long ago while I was leaving for work.

As I'm walking out the door, I say "love you!" and, of course, she repeats it in her own little enunciationally challenged way:  "Wuhyoo".  That was really cute and we got a lot of mileage out of it for a week or two.  However, this past week, she's kicked it up a notch by directing her profession of love specifically to me.  Now, when I leave or when it's night-night, I get a "Wuhyoo, Daddy".  How fucking cool is that?  I'm kind of an emotional brick, but, this shit just tears me up. 

Gimme more two-year-olds, dammit!

Cheater

You and me and Barry Bonds have one thing in common. We’re all parents.

I’ll be blunt. I hate Bonds. Hate everything he represents, from his “fuck you” attitude towards the game, the media, the fans and most of his fellow players, to his pathetic attempts at blaming racism for his unpopularity, to his cheating. Yes, cheating: those of you who say that form, not power, is what sends a deep fly ball over the wall – you’ve never played the game. Form gets you 3 out of 5 homers. Form plus power gives you that fourth. And sometimes that fifth. Cheating: those of you who say that because steroids weren’t against “the rules”, Barry wasn’t a cheat – well, there are rules, and then there are Rules.  Barry’s apologists can say it makes no difference, or place the blame elsewhere (as Scoop Jackson does), but now that the truth is out there, Barry’s done. I predict he’ll leave the game in disgrace, and the records of those who didn’t need “help” to get their numbers will remain intact.

What really gets me, though, is this: Barry Bonds is a father. 

You’d never know it, though – he’s known for his introversion, and my Googling didn’t reveal the names of his children (free Bonds autographed syringe to the first commentor that provides these!). Now, his desire to keep his family out of the spotlight would be commendable, but I seem to recall him trotting out his son sometime last year and telling the press how much they are hurting him with their “stories”. So it’s not like his children are a well-kept secret.

No, what I think is this; that on some level, the idea that this man, this very public figure, would be so callous, selfish and amoral in pursuit of his place in sports history would conduct himself like this with his kids watching from the sidelines…somehow, we choose to ignore that. Maybe, to most of us, it’s just too hard to fathom. So we don’t bother trying. It’s too hard, to think of this man who was raised among some of the game’s greats, whose children idolize and trust him, turning his back on that.

History and science tell us what will most likely become of Barry. If he’s lucky, very lucky, he’ll live a long life, and one hopes that he’ll eventually regret the decisions he made. But given what’s been said about Barry’s usage, odds are he’ll be the next Lyle Alzado. His kids will get to watch him deteriorate, physically and mentally, and will no doubt ask, “Was it worth it, Dad?” And when that happens, there may still debate about whether or not Bonds cheated others out of their records, but surely no one will question the fact that he cheated his children out of so much more.

Dad O' The Week: A.J. Jacobs

Chances are good that A.J. Jacobs has forgotten more stuff than you or I will ever know. His thoroughly enjoyable book The Know-It-All details his quest to read the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica, all 44 million words of it. I won't spoil the ending - of his book, anyway. The Encyclopedia ends with zywiec. A.J.'s current project: he's spending his days obeying the Bible as literally as possible, and putting it all down on papyrus scrolls. A.J. is also the Editor at Large for Esquire magazine, and is a dad to boot.

The Know-It-All starts with a line that's familiar to many new dads: "I used to be smart." Reading – at least reading books that aren't seven pages long, printed on cardboard, with a talking train as protagonist – often takes a backseat to other, more pressing matters. With your son Jasper in the picture, are you still reading as much as before?

Not quite so much. My son was given about 42 baby encyclopedias, so  sometimes we read those all the way from Anteater to Zebra. Which is probably healthier than reading the Britannica, which goes from a-ak (a type of East Asian music) to zywiec (a Polish town known for its beer). In my spare time, I’m reading different versions of the Bible for my new book.

There's an interesting dynamic in the book between you and your father. Was it hard to be so candid when describing your relationship with him?

Definitely, it was a little tough. I wrote about him in the F chapter, for Freud, since there was a lot of Oedipal stuff going on there. He started to read the encyclopedia when I was a kid, but only made it up to the B’s, around ‘boomerang.’ I wanted to connect with him (and compete with him, I guess), so that was a big motiviation for me reading the encyclopedia. Also, we’re both absurdly repressed, so expressing emotions is hard enough, let alone expressing them in front of someone who's browsing books in Barnes & Noble.

Another aspect of the book that I enjoyed was your (for lack of a better word) affection for the EB. There's a sense today that print encyclopedias are a thing of the past, thanks to the Internet. Is the printed reference book obsolete? And are you worried that Jasper might one day opt to read Wikipedia in it's entirety?

There’s absolutely a sense that the printed encyclopedias are going the way of typewriters and iceboxes and Ricky Martin . The main markets right now are: Libraries, schools, and guys who get book contracts to read the entire EB. Which is kind of a shame. Because there’s something nice about those printed leatherette volumes. The explorer Ernest Shackleton took an entire set of the Britannica with him to Antarctica and ended up using it for kindling. Try doing that with the Internet. And Jasper might have a tough time with the Wikipedia – I hope they give him a big advance.

Your impending fatherhood played a role in the book. Did you find any good parenting advice or stories in the EB?

Well, it did make me feel better about my parenting skills, such as they are. There are a shocking number of fathers who killed their sons, from Ivan the Terrible to King Arthur to various Greek Gods. So compared to them, I’m doing pretty good.

Your current project has you living Biblically. How is this affecting your role as a father?

The Bible says we should talk to our kids about the 10 Commandments, so I’m doing that as much as I can. I tell Jasper not to covet his neighbor’s miniature ukelele or Dora the Explorer backpack. I’m not sure it’s sinking in.
The Bible is also quite pro-corporal punishment, which is something I haven’t been able to bring myself to do.

You're working on the script for the film version of The Know-It-All. (I have a couple of suggestions: get Michael Bay to direct. Montages, explosions, Aerosmith songs, maybe make it a buddy picture - team you up with a middle-aged EB editor on the verge of retirement, and he can keep saying "I'm gettin' too old for this shit!" as you do battle with ninjas. Or get Baz Luhrmann and do a musical/rock opera - call it Brittanica! ). Who would be your pick to portray you?

I love your ideas. Come on board as a producer! Or at least make a cameo as Scandinavian architect Hugo Aalto, the first person to appear in the encyclopedia. As for who I’d pick, I’ll be happy with anyone. I swear. Just as long as it makes it to the screen. I’ll take Armin Mueller-Stahl.

Talkin' 'Bout My Generation

I realize it's bad form to title an entry highlighting an article on hipster dads with a lyric from a 60's song, but whatever. I'll be back later with some real writing, including (fingers crossed) my e-interview with A.J. Jacobs, and a post about San Diego music. In the meantime:

Read.

Discuss.

(Oh, found the link on Neal Pollack's site. You remember Neal. See? It's all connected. Circle of Life, and whatnot.)

A puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king

I had an interesting, albeit brief, conversation the other day with the woman who runs the daycare to which we send Little Dub.  (Lookit that Metro - no ending sentences with a preposition for me!)  We were talking about parenting and letting kids make mistakes in their lives; that it's ok to lose; that you take the good with the bad; and that life is not always fair.  No, these are not lessons you teach your toddler, but, in my humble, liberal-arts-educated opinion, they are lessons they should gradually learn as they mature.  When I played baseball as an 8-year-old, you bet your ass I knew who was winning and whether or not we were on the receiving end of an ass-whooping.  I was 10 when I was part of a Little League championship team and I was quite happy to grab that trophy at the banquet.  And, I also know what it feels like to pick up that "first loser" trophy or (shudder) no trophy at all.  I know what red ink means on a paper and I've seen an 'F' once or twice in my 38 years (hey, I said liberal arts - I sucked at science and math).

In my family, as I'm sure it was in many of yours as well (am I projecting?), failure was never an option.  Doing well in school was the path to a successful career and a happy life.  And, though they would never admit it, my parents had a timeline which we were "expected" to follow: graduate high school, graduate college four years later, on to career, blah, blah, blah, keeping up with the Joneses and the Joneses kids.  If you've been reading my site, you would know that my timeline was a tad protracted with some interesting stops along the way.  But, even now, I never regretted any of it, not one iota.  From the time I graduated high school, each decision I made, every misstep (and mishap), put me on the road to where I am now - a happily married husband and doting father.  And, I think I've led a fairly interesting life thus far - not the James Frey kind of interesting, mind you, but interesting nonetheless.  I did a trans-Atlantic crossing (and got a tattoo) when I was 19.  I've washed dishes, worked in a collections department at a major bank, been a prep cook and gas station attendant (for a day - God, that sucked).  I've worked in an operating room as a nursing assistant (shit job - paid well, though) and then moved up a rung on that very short ladder and worked on the floors (still a shit job, but paid even better).  I enlisted and worked my way up to staff sergeant: I've blown things up, flown in helicopters, eaten more than my share of MREs and visited or lived in some great places (and not so great) along the way.

Of course I want Little Dub to be happy and successful in his life.  But I am going to try...try...and let him figure out his path and timeline all on his own.  Will I be there to pick him up when he falters?  Damn skippy.  But will I hold his hand througout his life?  Nope, only when he needs it - like now, as he learns to walk, but that's it.  Well, maybe when we cross the street or walk through the mall or at the playground - but that's it.  Honest.

Reporting for Dookie

Our 8-month old daughter has a pretty prodigious pooper.  As a way to entertain myself when I change her, I've taken to classifying her colon cannonballs, and trying to predict her puddin'.  By my analysis, she's developed four major species of grunties:

The Pellets

These are little fossilized nuggets which roll out of her diaper periodically.  They are my personal favorites, mostly because they are the easiest the clean.  But she's pretty young, and these things are bound to get bigger when she gets enough experience points to level up.  I'm prepared with a turd word for the next generation--falafel.

The Frenchie

I'm not making fun of our riotous, stinky-cheese lovin' brethren across the pond.  This refers to the last squirt of mustard that comes out of the squeeze bottles...a wet spray that makes a distinctively juicy noise.  God bless the absorbency powers of Pampers, which make clean up of these relatively simple as well.  What they lack in volume they make up for in comedic value as she toots around the apartment.

The Schmear

The most common of caca, and the one which has the best early warning signal.  When my daughters little bald head goes all red, and her grunts become more guttural, that's when you know the Schmear is coming.  Named for the thick layering it creates, which reminds me of spreading cream cheese on a bagel as I try to remove it, it has the unpleasant effect of rendering the diaper useless as a wiping device (like using one side of a PB&J to wipe clean the other).  My recommendation for handling these is to breathe through your mouth until your spouse walks into the room, then conveniently locking yourself into the bathroom for an extended stay of your own.

The Valdez

This is the T. Rex of toilet twinkies.  When the force of the jettisoned materials slips loose the bonds of the diaper and endangers the environment around it, you've got a Valdez.  It's the only keeser cake visible to the naked eye, often as a slowly spreading stain climbing up her pajamas or onesie, and it's best to send in a team of experts in biohazard suit to deal with it.  Diaper disposal is a delicate task, which for us usually involves using tongs and triple wrapping it in acid-proof materials, then running frantically down the hall, nose pinched, to the trash chute.  God help the unprepared who come upon us during this exercise...olfactory recovery time can take months with even the most advanced treatments.

Our daughter hasn't even cracked a year yet!  We know it's going to get worse...much, much worse.  If she takes after her father it could be the extinction level event. 

I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this, and many of you have older kids whose rectal feedback has evolved well beyond what I've seen.  How do you categorize your kakashka?

K-Fed and the Little People

Some say celebrity comes at too high a price these days.  Paparazzi around every corner, a complete and utter lack of privacy, long articles focusing exclusively on weight...the list goes on.  But there is, beyond the ability to buy fleets of Hummers and small towns, a silver lining - midgets.

Spears (in a black halter dress with a low-cut back) drank a Cosmo, while K-Fed (in a white tank and a New York Yankees cap) went for a Jack and Coke, shots and beer. The group dined on sushi, chicken satay, lobster tempura and grilled Kobe beef, followed by cake served by two little people in tight dresses.

That's right.  K-Fed really knows how to treat a lady on her birthday.  And I think we can all agree that nothing says love quite like two midgets with cake.

That’s the Way to Sledge Someone!

Well, there has been a bit of a firestorm going around the blogsphere the last week or so. Man, you take a week off and all the exciting stuff happens!

We have a name for trolls, haters and other negative people here in Australia ‘sledgers’.

Sledgers are people who sledge others to put them off their game, mostly found in sporting arenas sledging is a big part of sport and it seems this has juxtaposed itself over to the blogsphere.

Here in OZ cricket is synonymous with sledging and let me tell you, there have been some crackers over the years which I thought I would share with you.

Hey, if the blogsphere is gonna go to shit, lets have a laugh along the way yeah?

(note – most of you probably wont recognise the names or the terms for the game, but it’s the sledge that counts)

1. Rod Marsh & Ian Botham: When Botham took guard in an Ashes match, Marsh welcomed him to the wicket with the immortal words: "So how's your wife & my kids?"

2. Daryll Cullinan & Shane Warne: As Cullinan was on his way to the wicket, Warne told him he had been waiting 2 years for another chance to humiliate him. "Looks like you spent it eating," Cullinan retorted.

3. Glenn McGrath (bowling to portly Zimbabwean chicken farmer Eddo Brandes): "Hey Eddo, why are you so Fucking Fat?" Eddo Brandes: "Because every time I Fuck your wife, she throws me a biscuit"

4. Merv Hughes & Javed Miandad during 1991 Adelaide Test, Javed called Merv a fat bus conductor. A few balls later Merv dismissed Javed: "Tickets please", Merv called out as he ran past the departing batsman.

5. Merv Hughes & Viv Richards during a test match in the West Indies, Hughes didn't say a word to Viv, but continued to stare at him after deliveries. "This is my island, my culture. Don't you be staring at me? In my culture we just bowl." Merv didn't reply, but after he dismissed him he announced to the batsman: "In my culture we just say fuck off."

6. McGrath to Ramnaresh Sarwan: "So what does Brian Lara's dick taste like?" Sarwan: "I don't know. Ask your wife." McGrath (losing it): "If you ever effing mention my wife again, I'll Fucking rip your Fucking throat out."

7. Yet another Australian witticism with this time porky Sri Lankan batsman Arjuna Ranatunga the victim. Shane Warne, trying to tempt the batsman out of his crease mused what it took to get the plump character to get out of his crease and drive. Wicketkeeper Ian Healy piped up "Put a Mars Bar on a good length. That should do it."

Dave Grohl to Pen Lullabies

According to this story, it seems that Dave Grohl is getting right into this daddy thing and wants to start writing lullabies for kids using the piano his wife purchased for his birthday.

Good on him I say. I thought I might help Dave out with a few song titles.

1. Keep holding daddies hair back, I’m almost done vomiting
2. Close your eyes little one, the stage lights might blind you
3. Remember me when your daddies gone-a-fooing
4. You’ll be feeding and I’ll be singing at 3am this morning
5. I let out a scream when you let out your poo

What song titles do you think Dave should put on his next kids album?