DadCentric

Smell My Feet, Gimme Something Good To Eat

International Turn Your Kid Into A Diabetic Day is upon us. For us, the festivities kick off early. Lucas' daycare is hosting a Halloween party this morning, replete with arts and crafts, candy, sing-alongs, candy, an Astrojump, candy, and (just added to the lineup) candy. Tonight we'll be taking the kid trick or treating for the first time. We've spent the past few days practicing - he knows to knock, say "Trick or Treat!" when someone answers, and ask "What the fuck is this shit?" when someone drops an apple or a Prayer Card into his bag. Following that, I'm taking the kid downtown to celebrate Detroit-style; for a two-year old, he makes a pretty good Molotov cocktail. Then I'll plop Lucas down on the couch and we'll watch a Takashi Miike film. Good times!

Of concern is the aftermath. It's axiomatic - kid comes home with large bag of candy, kid wants to devour every last piece in one sitting. (When I was a kid, there was an addendum to this rule. My sister and I would eat all of the chocolate that night, and leave everything else - lollipops, Life Savers, Dots, all that nasty crap. The reject candy would sit in a glass jar for the next 364 days, and my parents would give it out to the neighborhood kids the following Halloween.) Beth posed the question the other night - are we going to try to ration out the candy, or just let him have at it? I thought of the old parenting urban legend, the tale of the kid who gets caught smoking and whose parents punish him by having him smoke an entire carton of Camels, thus ruining his taste for it (or, more likely, making him a slavering nicotine addict). Logic applied: if we let him gorge himself on Snickers and Charleston Chews, he'll get a stomachache and thus will never want to eat candy again. 

Or he'll end up like the gentleman pictured above. Scary.

Sesameth Street

What the hell is happening on Sesame Street?  Have things gotten so bad there that the residents are having problems coping?  It used to be all about a place where the air was sweet and there were friendly neighbors everywhere, but it's beginning to sound like urban blight has taken hold.  We all know Bert is evil; Big Bird was doing some pretty strong hallucinogens in the '70s and early '80s; many characters contributed to an NWA video; and other characters have inferiority complexes after Kermit ran off and became a huge international star.  But, have you seen today's news?  It appears that the Muppet that every child holds near and dear to their heart has gone astray.  Yep, Elmo has become a drug mule.  According to published reports, Elmo and some other toys were picked up on trafficking charges this past Tuesday.  The bust netted over 45 lbs. of meth with an estimated street value of over $860,000 -- Elmo alone was carrying 4 lbs.  The Smoking Gun is said to have the mug shots of the furry red Muppet, but early rumors say that his fur was matted, he had early "meth mouth" and he was jittery (even more than usual).  Tickle-Me-Elmo had given way to Tweak-With-Me-Elmo.

Let's hope all is not lost for the little red guy.  Big Bird has said he would be happy to sponsor Elmo if he enters a rehab program in Higglytown.

Dropping a Couple Friends Off at the Lake

It's pretty easy to tell when Cheeky is taking a dump.  She'll be playing nicely, chatting with a giant Lego or violently yanking the tabs on a pop-up book like she's starting a lawnmower, when she'll drop everything and move into the corner.  She'll pause and look at us while her face goes blank, and after a few moments she'll waddle back into the room, accompanied by an odor of reconstituted peas and decomposing walrus.  That's when the hazmat suits go on.

It's pretty funny when she goes off to do her business in the living room, but the tub?  That's a different matter. 

Unless you have a heart-shaped tub (you sly dog) there aren't really "corners" to back into.  The 15-month old mind isn't troubled by such issues, though, and we've caught her sliding backwards, pausing, going blank, then returning to joyous splashing...now with chunks!  That's when the advantage of having two parents becomes apparent:  one to whisk the kid out of the Ganges while the other gets out the wire brush and ammonia to decontaminate Rubber Ducky and friends.

It's all too common lately for Cheeky to export chocolate in the tub.  If she hasn't squeezed out a dookie before tub-time we do rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to run bath-time, knowing full well it could be a death sentence.  And the poor kid can't figure out what the big deal is!  After all, she feels a LOT better afterwords.

It could be worse, though.  When I was a kid I was sharing a bath with my little brother when my mom stepped out for a minute.  I distinctly remember the water turning light brown, and feeling something brush against my leg.  I don't remember much after that, but I'm told my mom found me suspended above the tub, arms and legs on either side, vomiting into the bathwater, while my brother grinned.

Enjoy your dinner, everybody!

To Ignominy And Beyond!

"I be Buzz. You be Zurg!"

I got worries.

Lucas is a Toy Story fan. So when it came time to figure out what he was going to be for Halloween (this was decided about a month ago, actually - clearly we're losing the battle to avoid becoming one of Those People; you know, the ones who get all of their Christmas shopping done in June) it was a no-brainer. Woody or Buzz. Lucas' friend Gavin was going as Woody. Decision made. The costume arrived, we made the mistake of letting him try it on (yes, folks, two year olds really don't grasp the idea that Halloween comes but once - one day - really, a mere couple of hours on said day at that - and, yeah, we didn't see the whole "moving forward, I will wear my Buzz costume every day of the week, else I shall throw a tantrum the likes of which God has never seen!" thing coming, perhaps because we're not smart), and I (not smart!) casually mentioned to Lucas that I would be Zurg.

Now, back in Tha Day, I was an exceptional costume guy. I was creative, resourceful, and above all else a strict devotee of the Guys' Golden Rule Of Halloween Costume (that is, above all else, a Halloween costume's purpose is get you laid. Hence, the World War II Fighter Ace, Han Solo, Professional Thief - all black is very slimming, you know - Pimped Out Devil; all worked like a charm.) The past few years have seen a decline in my costume designing prowess. But I figured this would be easy - hell, there's gotta be a Zurg costume for sale somewhere.

Wrong. Well, there is a $70 Zurg costume, but $70? Nein, danke.

So now I'm in a bind. The kid knows Halloween is coming up, and several times a day I hear "I be Buzz. You be Zurg!" For some reason, he wants Beth to be a ghost. Me, I get stuck with the hopeless task of coming up with a Zurg costume. And so I look forward (by that I mean "dread") to what will certainly be the first of Lucas' many holiday-related disappointments. I'm sure he'll want a BB gun for Christmas.

FiFi Le Pew

Oh how I wish my household could be as fart-friendly as Jason's.  I could imagine some entertaining evenings at home if that were the case.  However, we're not.  At least the wife and I aren't.  If we go on evidence alone, neither one of us has ever passed gas.  We just don't do/haven't done it in front of the other.  The kids?  That's a different story.  As far as I'm concerned, once Mom leaves the house, all bets are off.  It's a cage match.  You'd think you were witnessing the Battle of the Bulge.  Pops, bangs, whistlers, richochets, SBDs, you name it.  There's no holding back from any of us.  "Fifis" (as my youngest calls them) are firing off left and right.  We're in the trenches and loving every minute of it.  But my wife doesn't know that I'm an active participant in such madness.  At least she didn't know until my youngest gave me up.

Last night we're sitting at our respective desks - me, trying to hack my blog and she, experimenting with new theme-based sounds for her AIM (Instant Messenger).  Yes, she's one of those folks who likes a chime, beep or other cutesie sound when carrying on an IM conversation. Obviously, she has no concerns with being discreet like those of us who conduct our "business" while at work. Anyway, our 2.5-year-old is quietly watching the Doodlebops on the couch and giving us a little peace and quiet.  My wife has the volume up on her computer at a fairly high level while she's playing around with the different sounds...

"Mooooooooooooooooooo," says her computer.  A cow sound, obviously.
"Daddy fifi!," comes the reply from across the room, accompanied by a giggle.  WTF? 

First of all, I'm good but not THAT GOOD.  I simply don't have the firepower.  Second, must you, oh little one?????  She's forced my ass hand.  On the upside, I feel a little liberated.  I don't need to live the lie any longer.  I guess I can fart carte blanche around the house now.  On the downside, I can't use the dog as my personal scapegoat any longer.  Damn, did he come in handy.  Nope, I'm sure I'll be the first face my wife will look at when something smells amiss from now on.  Thanks, kid.

Dad O' The Week: Genuine

Must be the season: I'm sick (head cold), and the end of the year is nigh, a scant ten weeks until 2007. In daddy terms, this means that moving forward every single weekend is booked - parties, visits from relatives and friends, trips to visit parents, nonstop action. Hence the lack of material. New dads out there, be warned: things don't let up for a while. I'm told that life's frenetic pace downshifts to 4th somewhere around the kid's 18th birthday. That'll be nice.

Not that I'm complaining (well, as I just realized that I'll be 55 when the kid turns 18, I may have a small complaint, but I'll save that for a future post. Unless someone can offer me assurance that at that age I'll be driving a flying car and getting a foot massage from my robot maid while watching my son play quarterback for USC on my giant hologram projection device). Most of us generally lead sitcom-flavored lives; every once in a while, we get a Very Special Episode, but for the most part things go...well, if not swimmingly, at least dog-paddlingly. A few of you may know Jim, from The Blogfathers and The Best of Blogs Awards and his own site, Genuine. He's one of the more gracious and gregarious bloggers out there, and I was shocked and deeply saddened to read his account of the turn his life has taken.

One of the unexpected pleasures of being a dadblogger is the camaraderie I've found among my peers. While I may not agree with all of them, and have gotten into some heated debates with some, I get the sense that there's a bond between dads that transcends our differences. So when one of our own takes a tumble, I'd like to think that the rest of us are out there to offer a hand, even if it's a virtuablogospherical one. Please drop by Jim's site and wish him well.

For All Mankind

I like Seven [For All Mankind] Jeans.  Yeah, I know what you're thinking - "Well, la-di-fucking-da, Whiffleboy, Levis not good enough for ya?"  No, not even close.  They don't highlight my perfectly sculptured ass well enough, the waist is too high, the stitching is weak, and the denim is too thin.  Sevens, on the other hand?  Well, you'd just have to try them to really understand, but, I can tell you this much:  When my wife sees me in them, they're not around my waist for much longer.

Why am I telling you this?  Well, I just scored a pair off eBay* for a great price.  That's why.

*Yes, they're authentic.  I know how to check that stuff.

You get the iguana. I get a clean house.

It appears that the days of "'til death do us part" have officially come to an end.  Yes, we all know the prenuptial agreement seemingly sounded the death knell, but it appears that today's prenups belong more in Gordon Gecko's M&A department than your family attorney's office.

According to the tabloid di tutti tabloid, the New York Post, a recent survey of divorce attorneys indicates that baby boomers are, in record numbers, making a prenup as important to their second, third or sixth marriage as the wedding cake flavors.  What makes these iterations different is not only the ways marital assets are divvied up post-break up, but clauses that place restrictions on weight gain, requirements on fulfilling sexual needs or household cleanliness that can lead to the aforementioned break up and dissolution of the marriage.

The survey was conducted by the American Association of Matrimonial Lawyers (sad that there is something like this, isn't it?) and found that a staggering 80% of these bottom-feeders lawyers reported prenups on the rise and many reported the increase is driven by boomers looking to avoid the colonoscopy pitfalls of their earlier divorces.  (ed. Good way to avoid a third or fourth divorce is to not get married in the first place?  Just guessing.)

"[The pacts] are a vaccine against the disease of divorce," said Manhattan divorce lawyer Raoul Felder. "It's the vogue today. It's the product of divorce being expensive and intrusive."  I picture Raoul in one of two ways - in the first, he's Danny DeVito in War of the Roses.  In the second, he looks like a used car salesman.  Neither is particulay flattering.

So, there you have it.  Marriage is dead.  Long live the five-year contract with an option to renew and significant incentive dollars for each year after the initial five, plus incentive dollars if the signee makes the post-season or respective all-star team.

On a completely different note: I've said this once, I'll say it again - KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY FUCKIN' CHILDHOOD!

Sometimes it’s Hard to Find a Basil?

“Look Daddy, look at me” Said Nikayla as she rolled back and forth on her tummy along the pink spiky plastic ball we bought her for Christmas.

“Wow darling, that’s very good. You’re balancing” I said as I envied at the ability of a two and a half year old to do something that looked like it should have been from a high impact aerobics DVD.

“Yeah that’s right…….basiling”

“That’s a good try sweetheart, but it’s pronounced balancing”

“Basiling”

“Ok” I said getting onto my knees down to her level. (I always try to look her in the eyes when I teach her new words) “Try this”

“Bal……..en……cing” I said pronouncing the words slowly so she could take it all in.

“Bal…….en…..cing” she repeated after me.

“That’s right sweetheart, balancing”

“Basiling!!!” She said excitedly.

“OK I said” always willing to be a patient as I need to be. “Bal”

“Bal” She repeated

“en” I said

“en”

“cing” I said knowing she was going to get it right this time.

“Bananas, in pajamas are coming down the stairs” she belted out with great gusto.

“Sing” I think to myself. Kids can be so literal sometimes!

The Monkeys On Our Backs

As those who blog will attest, the act of making one's life a virtual open book can be liberating. The Internets (or at least several dozen of its denizens) know that I'm maybe better at writing about surfing than actually doing it, that I have a gyros fetish, that I fear most forms of Ape, and that I'm not above using this site to pimp my own. But there's one thing that I've yet to talk about, a dark stain on the otherwise cheerful canvas of my life.

I'm an addict.

I've tried kicking for years. I've tried to stay away from the hard stuff - indeed, there were a few times when I stopped hitting it altogether - but here in southern California, it's everywhere. Those who know can attest to that; you see friends and even strangers with it, and you have to answer the Siren's Call. I've gone through the hell of withdrawal - that feeling that there's a devil in you, gnawing a hole in your soul, manifesting itself in your skull, trying to tear a way out. And I failed and fell back into the abyss. It was bad enough when I was young and single. Now I have a family, and they are being dragged down into the black pit of my depredations. Children of addicts, we know, are much more likely to fall into addiction themselves. I'm terrified for Lucas. For there have been times when I've gone to buy the stuff, and have taken him with me. You can hate me for that; just know that I despise myself for it.

My fears, I must tell you, have been realized. We were at SeaWorld - SeaWorld, of all places! - yesterday and as we were walking towards the exit, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye - someone was actually buying the shit there. It's not supposed to be like this, I thought. What kind of a world are we living in, where even Shamu's happy home can be violated by such horror? And yet...I felt that desire, that burning want. The slavering beast inside me knows what it needs, and I was fighting to suppress it. (Making matters worse - my friend and writing partner Charlene was with us; she and her family were visiting San Diego and we met up with them.) I had to be strong, for my friends, my wife, my son, myself. I continued walking, hoping to get away from it, a quivering mass of self-loathing and, yes, shameful need. Then I saw Lucas pointing, and my worse nightmare was made flesh. He saw it - that white cup with its demonic green logo...my Albatross...there was no escaping it, it follows us all and there's no place it can't be found...

"LOOK, DADDY! STARBUCKS! I WANT STARBUCKS! I WAAAAAAANT STARBUCKS!"