DadCentric

The Top 5 Parental Sex Aids for 2007

I thought to kick this year off with a bang I would post about the thing we all love best. Sex.
Cmon!, you love it, I love it, as parents we don’t get nearly enough of it so here are some handy tips to help you get more.

The use of the Parental sex aids listed below is purely a recommendation, these may not work for everybody but I have found all of them incredibly useful from time to time. Hopefully you will to.

Parental Sex Aid Number 5 – Vaseline
I love this stuff. Rub some of this on your knob and there is no way those kids are getting through the door. Their little hands slip and slide all over that door knob and you can get at least 15mins before they start to cry out “mummy, are you ok? Why are you yelling like that?”

Parental Sex Aid Number 4 – Watermelon
I don’t know about your kids but give mine a piece of watermelon, you’re good for at least 12.5mins.

Parental Sex Aid Number 3 – Finding Nemo
As much as I hate the idea of the TV being a babysitter, sometimes you have to make that sacrifice for the greater good of getting a little Nookie. I am forever indebted to the makers of Finding Nemo however hearing Bruce the shark yell out “Just a bite” when you're diving for pearls can be kinky, weird and funny all at the same time.

Parental Sex Aid Number 2 – Play Dough
This stuff is even better than watermelon! Give the kiddly-winks some of this stuff and you can have un-interrupted monster mashing for a good half an hour.

The Number One Parental Sex Aid for 2007– Grandparents
Drop off the little ones at the moldy oldies and you’re in for a whole glorious night of “how’s your grandfather” wink wink nudge nudge know what I mean?

Well these are my top 5 parental sex aids for 2007. Now that you know about them, hopefully you can go forth and use them as much as I do to get it aaawwwwwnnnn.

Hipster? Me?

Friday I received an email from a reporter at USA Today. Seems she'd read my review of Alternadad, and wanted to get my take on the whole "hipster dad" concept. Sure, I replied. On one level, I fit the stereotype - the whole dress-like-a-college-student, surfing, skating, "alternative" (when a band is featured on The O.C., doesn't that by definition negate their alt-status?) music listening thing. I guess. But despite all that, am I really a hipster? And why does my skin crawl at the insinuation?

My brother-in-law, now, he's a hipster. He's opened for We Are Scientists and the Cold War Kids, fer Chrissake. Yet I'm pretty sure that if I asked him about his hipster status, he'd respond with a blank stare. My theory is that those who are Hip don't really think much about it; I don't believe that the truly hip make a conscious effort to maintain that elusive status. They just do what they do, and dig what they dig, and go on about their business. Much like the rest of us.

So it's funny that here in the parenting world, the latest hot-button topic is the Hipster Parent. Much is being made over Alternadad as some kind of Little Red Book for today's modern father, with Pollack as a Ramones-loving Mao. I should clarify - much is being made by people who apparently haven't read the book. (Sorry, no links for you on this, as I don't feel like rewarding piss-poor writing with traffic.) The Hipster Parent, we are told, is a New Phenomenon! Parents who aren't ready to give up their pre-child lives, and who proudly embrace their Peter Pan complexes while trying to raise their kids! It's a whole new style of parenting!

Bullshit.

Here's something I remember for my days as a kid. My dad's soundtrack, which played on car trips and in the house when TV time was over, were the tunes of his time - the Beatles, Creedence, The Band, Cash, and Hendrix. Music he still listens to today. The pleasures of his life were the things that he loved as a kid - camping, fishing, canoeing, and if there'd been an ocean nearby I suspect he'd never have let my grandmother sell his original Hobie longboard (one of the first boards shaped by The Man himself - I think my grandmother sold it at a garage sale for $20, which is about $8,980 less than what it would be worth on eBay today); he taught me to appreciate those things and still makes the attempt to keep at them today.

So is it really so "revolutionary", this concept of fathers holding on to their music and passions and wanting their sons and daughters to dig what they dug? The styles change, as do the sports and the sounds, but the desire is still there, to be able to connect with your kids on that level, to share that part of oneself that's close to the soul. And if you take a close look at your own parents, have they completely eschewed the trappings of their youth? (As for mine, my mother, who as a teen once fought her way through the pit and ended up in the front row at a Beatles concert, recently went to Paul McCartney's show in Omaha; rock on, Mom!)

Of course there's nothing new about trying to bridge the parent-child generation gap, and I suspect that on some level, "hipster parents" know this, and embrace it. We carry a lot of stuff with us as we grow up, some of which remains an important part of who we are; the music that brings us joy, the writing that inspires us, the games that keep us energized. It's who we are, and aren't we told that one of the greatest lessons you can teach a child is to be comfortable in his or her own skin? So when I'm trying to teach my kid the lyrics to "Welcome to The Black Parade", I am, in fact, being very old-fashioned.

Everybody's Got Something To Hide, Except Especially Me (& My Monkey)

We collect things.  There are stacks throughout the house.  Most of the stuff is grouped accordingly.  There are towers of paperwork, books, computer crap, dirty clothes, clean clothes, more books, toys and of course more toys in pretty much every room of the house.  Plus, the kitchen has the bonus category of dishes. I suppose this order of disorder is an attempt to hide the fact that our house has imploded.  I don't think it is working.

The annoying thing about the messy collection is that we are primarily neat people (especially my dear wife, she is a NEAT FREAK & of course this mess is mainly my fault). I suppose that is why it is all swept into various batches and not scattered in random chaos throughout the house. Still, it's a jungle in here.

Why have we let it become what it has?  We're fucking tired.  My wife and I work schedules in a constant state of flux.  We work early and more so we work late.  Often one of us won't get home from work until well past two in the morning.  That's a stupid time to be coming home (from work that is).

Our kids don't seem to harbor any sort of compassion for us on this account.  They wake early and use the time constructively to practice their Tarzan impressions, drum solos and bird calls. 

They are living up to the proverbial hype once provided by their grandparents.  That, of course, being the classic, "just wait until you have kids" or the slightly more bitter, "I hope you have kids just like you."  These are the curses that my witch-doctor parents laid across me, and they have come to fruition. 

The children make a better argument for our attention than the stoic tidings of the untidiness.

Hence the clusters that adorn our home.  They are slowly becoming a part of us.  Their presence is constant and, unfortunately, fairly accepted.  I have my beer sitting on one such stack at this very moment.  The dog is sleeping on another one.  They are the shadows of our day and they sit in mocking silence. They are our life piles, and every day we rake in more.

Mama, Mama, I keep having nightmares

Much like my partner in crime, Whit, the Dubyas, too, have lost control of their bed.  Even prior to the arrival of our daughter, Little Dubya never slept very well in his own bed.  He'd usually fall asleep while drinking his milk and then one of us would carry him up to his crib.  More often than not, he would wake up a few hours later and either be a) inconsolable or b) starvin' Marvin.  In the case of "a" we would sleep with him on the futon couch in his room or bring him in to our bed -- both of which can be quite uncomfortable (he's perfecting his moves for a tryout), but the latter is more inviting than the former.

Now, add to the mix a 7-week-old infant and you have the workings for a good counting song.  However, we now can't get Little Dub anywhere near his bed without him arching his back, clawing at the walls or planting his feet against the door jamb.  Understand that this is a recent development.  If we are able to get him in to his own bed, that is, if he hasn't woken up while I'm carrying him up the stairs first, he only lasts about an hour or so before he's imitating Jamie Lee Curtis.

Mrs. Big Dubya and I thought we had just spoiled the poor boy to the point where nothing but a king size bed and a plethora of pillows would suffice.  I'll admit, there was some parental guilt that we had irreparably harmed the child and stunted his budding independence -- so much so that he would turn out to be some thumb-sucking nancy-pants (ok, that was just me).  Mrs. Big Dubya, being the more logical one in this relationship, decided to ask the pediatrician about this development.

"Oh, sounds like night terrors or nightmares to me," he said.  (I wasn't there, so I'm just summarizing.)  "You have a new baby in the house, Little Dub's not feeling up to snuff, blah, blah, blah...."

Well smack my ass and call me Judy.   It never crossed my mind that this could be what he was experiencing.  But, once I read the symptoms/indications it made sense.  Also, some of the causes for these episodes make it even clearer: stressful life events, fever, sleep deprivation and medications that affect the central nervous system -- three of four of which he has recently experienced -- I'm surprised we're not experiencing them as well considering the sleep deprivation thing.  Thankfully, episodes are short-lived and, ordinarily, lessen and disappear over several weeks time.  Hopefully, they'll diminish soon -- there's no use in having a king size bed when you're only able to use eight inches of it.

No Can Doo

We're getting a little antsy these days my wife and I.  Our youngest is just a couple of clicks shy of 3 years old and there seems to be no light at the end of the tunnel with regards to that whole potty training thing.  The little chica just refuses to have anything to do with the toilet these days, save an occasional laugh at me while I pee or the infrequent, yet, suprisingly no less dreaded exeriments in buoyancy with various and assundry play toys and/or kitchen utensils and cherished valuables.

At this point, she changes herself.  No...really.  She changes her own diaper.  Half the time she doesn't even need coaxing either.  If things get a little too wet or messy in there then - BAM! - she'll kick that one off and help herself to another fine incontinence protection trouser of her choosing.  And I mean she actually kicks them off.  She gets one leg out and whoop! there it goes in to the wild blue yonder with the other leg.  I can't tell you how many wet/dirty diapers we've found in the oddest locations - in her toybox, on top of the lamp, under her pillow, etc. Wherever they land, basically. They're easy to find, mind you.  Just follow the stench or, if need be, sic the dog on the more craftfully-hidden poopy ones since he considers them a delicacy of sorts (I have video proof) and will sniff them out on our behalf.

She's also all about getting some privacy for the grunt work.  Once she finds that she can no longer hold it, she'll dart off to the bedroom to slam the door so she can work it out, so to speak.  We always gently remind her that she can go on the toilet if she wants, but, she's batting 1000 with the "NO!" responses.  She'll have none of that nonsense!  What's scary is that she's up to the size 6 diapers now.  So if she dilly-dallies too long, we'll have to resort to Depends or, better yet, these.

I know, I know...all in due time.  It's eventually going to happen.  I mean, how many grown-ups do you know [under the age of 60] that still crap themselves more than occasionally?  A quick tally brings me to a total of, uh...let's see...ZERO self-shitters that I know.  So we shouldn't worry and we're not, honestly.  We're just "raising an eyebrow or two" right now kind of anxiously awaiting some progress.  In the meantime, I guess we'll just have to hunker down and dodge the flying diapers.  Which reminds me...

Honey, if you're reading this, there is a wet diaper behind the couch near the green end table by the window.

Alternadad: The DadCentric Review

Writing a review of a book that one is predisposed to enjoy is a challenge, especially while your kid is asking for his third bowl of Kashi GoLean cereal and demanding an explanation as to why the Christmas tree and all of the decorations disappeared last night (Bonus Parenting Tip! Take down your holiday decorations while your child is sleeping! It'll spare you a whole lot of crying, and when he wakes up you can tell him that Santa came by last night and picked everything up so that it'll be safe until next Christmas!).

Anyway. Alternadad, Neal Pollack's account of his foray into fatherhood, is great. (Regular readers will know Neal from an interview I did with him last year.) His story, I suspect, mirrors many of ours - thirtysomething new dad faces lots of trials, tribulations, laughs, and heartaches as he tries to maintain his "hipster" status while taking on the incredible responsibility of fatherhood. (I say "hipster" because, frankly, I'm sick to death of having the "hipster parent" concept shoved down my throat, even though I'm apparently one myself.)

The book contains many surprises, not the least of which is the somewhat misleading title. There's been a lot of discussion of late about our generation of parents, whose kids wear Husker Du onesies  and who are (literally) rocked to sleep with alt-rock tunes. Given the title, one might expect to find a manifesto for the ubercool dad. Pollack goes deeper than expected - the notion of "alternadad" becomes that of identity, how much one can hope to retain when one of life's biggest changes occurs, and how one balances individuality with the needs of and the responsibilities towards one's family. The issues Neal faces - putting food on the table, keeping a roof overhead, raising a smart and healthy child, keeping the family safe, maintaining a marriage - are timeless.  The Pollacks face some modern challenges - health insurance and finding good daycare are two problems that plague them through the book - but what's striking is that this is a story that my dad could read and appreciate. And he is a big Lou Rawls fan.

Of course, the book has a lot of laughs - I won't spoil any, but bloggers who delight in regaling their readers with shit stories will get a schooling during the book's prologue. And there are plenty of poignant moments as well - Elijah's birth is harrowing, and the Pollacks' struggle to get Elijah to stop biting his classmates reveals the frustration and heartache many of us have experienced when others tell us that our kids are "difficult".

Ultimately, Alternadad works because it's got a lot of heart. Neal tells his story without the shrill judgment and holier-than-thou attitude that's prevalent in so many parenting books and blogs. It's an honest, funny, and ultimately moving story, one that dads (and moms) will love. (If that isn't a cheesy Joel Siegal-esque endorsement, I don't know what is.)

Seven Days Before The Mast

Here's an open invitation to all - the next time you hear me talking about taking an extended road trip with the kid, feel free to come to my house and punch me in the head. While there are benefits to taking a 1600+ mile trip from San Diego to Omaha for the holidays (some lovely scenery, Stuckey's), the stress and hazards outweigh them (by about 16 tons, metaphorically speaking).

The trip there was nice, for the first two days. Stops in stunningly beautiful Sedona, AZ, and less stunningly beautiful Santa FE, NM were nice. We ate great food, saw some spectacular rock formations and some lovely art, and got a taste of how the southern section of mountain country does the holidays.

Then trouble found us. A major snowstorm loomed in our path (through the Rockies, stopping in Denver for the third night), forcing us to reroute. We swung south and east, stopping in Wichita, KS for night #3. Wichita, as it turned out, was lovely - a quint little city with a revitalized downtown featuring some excellent restaurants (we ate at a German cafe, and there's nothing like sauerbraten and weinerschnitzel and dark beer when you've got road fatigue). But that detour added miles to our drive, sending us through the blight of the Oklahoma panhandle - a dreary, depressed area of the country, nuclear winter if imagined by Steinbeck, a flat gray landscape dottled with decaying cars and decaying towns. That was a 12 hour day, and by the time we hit Wichita we were gibbering and surly.

The return leg wasn't much of an improvement. Our first day brought us throguh Kansas and back into Oklahoma, this time through the central section of the state. Mainland Oklahoma was a refreshing change from the wasteland of the panhandle, green rolling hills that I remembered from the time I spent there as a kid. Oklahoma City was clean and modern; we spent the following morning at the OKC Memorial, a solemn, haunted place. Then we were on the road, back through Texas and Nex Mexico, spending the night in Albuquerque. That town had been buried under 15 inches of snow the week before; they were still digging out, and the people we met seemed shellshocked (the average annual snowfall there - 5 inches; they got three times that amount in a day). Worse, another storm was moving into the area. Thus we had cause to worry - we needed to get on Interstate 40 before more snow dumped onto the city, possibly trapping us there.

So it was up at 6:00 a.m. We headed into northern Arizona, our next planned stop the Lake Havasu area. The snow began in the high desert, and followed us as we made out way towards Flagstaff. There, a decision was made - we'd head south to Phoenix, then west to San Diego, avoiding the mountain snows, but adding 6 hours to our drive. We'd grown weary of it all, and just wanted to get home, so we'd deal with the added drive time. The road through Flagstaff and down the mountains was treacherous - heavy snow and low visibility, but I'd learned to drive in Alaska, and I confidently brought us down into the desert.

Past Phoenix, the winds picked up, and as we traveled towards Yuma began to howl, blowing sand and debris until we were in an honest-to-God sandstorm. I've never been in anything quite like it - at one point, we couldn't see more than five feet past the hood of the Xterra. Beth and I were nervous, thinking that someone was going to be in a hurry and ram into us blindly. Lucas, meanwhile, was fast asleep. (Watching Monsters, Inc. five times in a row is apparently very tiring.)

Night fell, and finally - 16 hours after we set out that morning - we pulled into the driveway, exhausted, hungry, and reeeeeeeeeally hoping that we had a bottle or two of red wine available. Lucas remembered that he had a bunch of new toys to play with. His enthusiasm lasted all of five minutes, then the trip caught up with him and he asked - demanded, actually - to go to bed. We happily obliged, and after a couple of glasses of wine, did the same ourselves. Seven days total spent on the road. I'd do it again - just need to check my calendar for the right time. When is the next cold day in Hell, anyway?

Bedtime for Bonzos

Our bed has shrunk.  It used to belong to me and my wife, with the occasional visit by a dog or two, possibly a cat. Yet despite the rotating menagerie, it was for the most part our bed, which of course led to the sort of thing that happens when an attractive woman gets drunk with and a man of unimaginable bedroom prowess share such chambers.  Hot and steamy seconds, possibly minutes, of passion.  I'm talking about the sex here people.

This of course led to babies.  Twice this has happened (unfortunately my wife isn't much of a drinker).  These boys that have entered our life, taking the attention of every waking moment, have somehow weaseled their way into the most sacred of arenas, the bed.  I now sleep like I live, on the edge.  Don't push me.

The thing is, I like having the boys snuggled up in bed with us.  My wife doesn't.  She sleeps with reckless abandonment and doesn't like to compete with the three year old for blanket stealing and arm flailing rights.  Me, I can't help but cherish the quiet moments of tenderness, knowing that someday soon they will have a very long list consisting of things a hell of a lot cooler than hugging their old man.  I'm trying to stock up now.  Is that so wrong?

Of course, it makes for tight quarters.

I've heard other parents throw out their two cents about how wrong this is.  I've also heard other parents throw out their two cents about how wrong just about everything is, and let's face it, you can't please everyone.

I'm more interested in getting a bigger bed than I in weaning the ritual that has developed in our home.  What can I say, I'm a sucker for the unconditional love of a child curled safely in my arms.

As I said, someday they will outgrow the desire for such affection, and when that day comes I want to know that I made the most of the time that they were giving it away.

I'm missing it now, sitting here listening to Sondre Lerche and Van Morrison, drinking beer and watching Sportscenter with the sound off.  I'm missing it and I don't want to any longer, so pardon me as I stumble down the hall to my sliver of slumber, and the sweet dreams that it provides.

Size Does Matter

I can't fucking take it anymore.

If I don't get a giant flat-screen TV soon I'm going to kill myself.

The debate has been raging in our household for a couple of years now.  When asked what I want for Christmas/my birthday/Flag Day/Any Given Sunday the first thing out of my mouth is invariably "afiftyinchplasmascreenhighdefinitionTV."  Best Buy circulars are conveniently left open on the dining room table every week, and whenever my wife opens our laptop the first thing she sees always seems to be a 10% off special at J&R.  I slow down when we pass the neighbor's apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of something--anything--beaming out of the panel on their wall  I don't even let myself walk into the stores...I don't need the clerks tapping me on the shoulder saying "we're closing, sir...you have to leave."

I've been very well-behaved so far.  I've waited for the prices to drop.  I've rationally weighed the cost of mounting one or buying some ginormous piece of furniture to support it.  I've been very patient.

But I think I'm about to snap.

If you can't see the quarterback's nose-hairs on third-and-long, then what's the point of watching the Rose Bowl?  I'd watch Smokey & the Bandit for the 23rd time--fuck it, I'd watch Two and a Half Men--if it were broadcast in HD.  My life has been leading up to the moment where my TV was so big and so bright and so colorful that I'd have to knock down a wall and move my couch back to truly enjoy it.

It's not even a debate, really.  We know where we'd put it.  We've discussed what we'd do with the giant cabinet that's in that space now.  We know how to protect the equipment from greasy smudged fingers, and the potential life altering impact of watching Snuffleupagus in actual size.  I've informed the wife that she can go away for a week while I watch the Star Wars and Lord of the Rings trilogies back-to-back.  It's all planned out.

I've just got to pull the trigger.  Is it time?  Who's with me?

Creativity Department. Nope, fresh out.

I'm conflicted.  All is not right with the Force.  One of my tenets with regard to pop culture is whatever you do, don't fuck with institutions.  There are certain things that should just be hands off, bitch.  You know, that whole you don't tug on Superman's cape, you don't spit into the wind, you don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and you don't mess around with Jim, da, do, da, do...I fear, however, that things are about to messed with, or are, at least, already being messed.  And wouldn't you just know it, George Lucas is involved.  I know, I know.  You could knock me over with a feather.

Ark of the Covenant?  Check.  Sankara Stones?  Check.  Holy Grail?  Check.  What's next?  Anyone want to hazard a guess?  Excalibur?  The Golden Fleece?  Aphrodite's Girdle?  Hey George, how about Indy retraces the steps of Ponce de Leon and goes after the Fountain of Youth?  As reported, the Indiana Jones franchise is gearing up for a new release in May 2008.  The 64-year-old Harrison Ford has signed on to play Indy once again, 18 years after locating the Grail with the help of 007.  As I stated at the beginning of this post, I'm conflicted.  As much as I love the franchise, I'm not sure there's a need.  Sure, it could be a ton of fun.  But, I thought the Star Wars prequel was going to be fun too and we all know how that turned out.  (Spoiler Alert: Jar Jar Binks is rumored to play Sallah in the new film.  "We's a-gonna die, Indy!")  Methinks we'll find that the franchise will follow a similar path to that of the Star Trek movies, but, in this case, the odd-numbered will be the best of the series.  I will, however, reserve judgment and see the new one with cautious optimism, of course.

Live Free or Die Hard.  Oh, so crossing my fingers on this one.  Die Hard, for me at least, is one of those that I will stop channel surfing for if I come across it.  Immediately.  Regardless of where I land in the film.  Redeeming factor is that George Lucas is not involved so there will be no Jar Jar Binks in the Sgt. Al Powell role (Me's a-shot a kid.).  The premise sounds pretty cool, but are Internet Terrorists now like Bad Guys v3.0?  Again, conflicted and I wish they (they=Hollywood) would understand when to quit.  Shitty prequels/sequels have a tendency to sully the originals' good name.  Let's hope that's not the case with these two.