DadCentric

The Frog and The Damage Done

It's Friday. Take us out, Kermit. (That tremor you feel? Jim Henson spinning in his grave.)

Two Peas in an iPod

Sometimes I sit here on the stump of some giving tree and look down upon all I've sewn and think that it is good.  At other times, I stand and walk the sandy beaches of my own Kitty Hawk, searching for lost keys and shakers of salt, and I think such things as sometimes two rights can make a wrong, and I fight the desire to fly.

You see, my two boys, wonderful as they are, tend to drive me crazy when thrown together.  They grab, poke, pull and whine.  It's enough to drive me to wine.  Is 8:30 in the morning on a Thursday too early to start drinking?

What compounds my frustration is how well-behaved they each are on their own.  They are sweet and good.  I'm happy to be with them and miss them when we're apart.

Yet, like some evil spin on the Wonder Twins, the slightest touch between them creates the form of a raging bull and a bucket of tears. I won't even get into Gleek.

As I write this they are playing together by my feet.  Well.  They are being cute and loving and making me regret the inevitable submission of this post.  Damn ratings week.

What it usually boils down to is that the youngest, Thing 2, wants to be around Thing 1.  Always.  Thing 1, like Francis in Stripes, doesn't want anyone touching his stuff.  He doesn't want any meathooks on it.  He also doesn't want anyone calling him Francis. 

Thing 1 has limits.  He does not like them pushed.  Thing 2 is a pusher.  He is Ice-T, he don't ask, he just bogards, which I understand is slang for bogarts.  Which of course is also slang.  New slang when you notice the stripes.  I don't know what that means, but I thought it was nice of The Shins to tie everything together for me.

To be honest, Thing 2 gets in my stuff too.  He has rearranged my CD collection many times a day, every day, for months now (he is really into David Gray right now).  The only difference is, that unlike Thing 1, I don't knock him the head for it.

I just pan him off on his brother.

Then I sit on my stump and watch the apples that have fallen from my tree.  It is good.

The Seven Stages of Competitive Parenting

Like all parents, I have the smartest, cutest, funniest, and coolest kid in the whole world.  How do we know?  Because we check out all the rest of the kids we see and silently judge them on a number of attributes (motor skills, social skills, how far apart their eyes are, scent, etc.) and find them wanting when compared to Cheeky. 

Does that make me competitive?

So when faced with someone who challenges my perfection perception of Cheeky, my reaction is taken directly from a Psych 101 book (chapter 8).  For example, I was on my way to work a few days ago and ran into one of the Cheeky's friends in the subway.  I was chatting up her mother while we waiting for the train when the kid--who is 19 months old, two months younger than Cheeky--looked up from her stroller and said, in perfectly articulated English, "I'm uncomfortable."

Cheeky's method of communicating this would be "Out?  Out?  Dis.  Meehh!"  Then she'd throw her sippy cup and fart.

I stared, dumbfounded, at the kid for a few minutes while her mother, noticing my facial expression, basically apologized for her kids ridiculous vocabulary.  After I left them on the subway, I went through the following emotions:

1. Shock and disbelief:  I noticed this when a bird flew into my wide open mouth, built a nest, and taught it's chicks to fly before I realized I hadn't picked my jaw off the payment yet.
2. Denial:  Was that Bruce Willis' voice?  It must have been.  I'm watching a shitty 80s movie and I don't even realize it.
3. Bargaining:  Dear God, if you magically give Cheeky the ability to use the second syllable of any word, I promise not to curse every time I see a commercial for that stupid Grease reality show.  I'll even go to church on Easter.  Please please please?
4. Guilt:  This is my fault.  I know I should read to her more.  Maybe if I sit down with her tonight and read The Dubliners instead of the Maisy pop-up book she'll get smarter.  Then she can tell that other kid how she gnawed the rectitude of her life.
5. Anger:  That stupid little bitch probably doesn't know her colors.  I hope her first boyfriend dumps her on prom night.
6. Depression:  My kid is retarded
7. Acceptance and hope:  I know for a fact Cheeky wakes up two hours later than the other kid, is always in a great mood, and is never ever sick.  And just because she doesn't say something doesn't mean she doesn't understand it.  Hell, she can practically operate the TV remote better than I can.  Yeah...she'll be just fine.

By that time I was at my office door, and having settled the issue in my head could move on to more important things, like PowerPoint and the coffee choices in the break-room.  But I'm still a little scarred by the whole experience.  I try to stay above parental competition, but I guess I'm as susceptible as the next guy.  Hopefully I won't let it bother me as much in the future.

That kid will probably be breast-feeding 'til she's five.  Ha! 

(D'oh!)

I'm Not A Doctor, But I Play One in The Blogosphere

I have for you a crossover post, like when Spider-Man meets Wolverine or when the cast of Crossing Jordan shows up on Law and Order: Body Cavity Search Specialists. Some of you may know that I do double parent-bloggin' duty over at Strollerderby; today I did a piece on a Babble piece about the anti-vaccine crowd.

I mostly kept my medical opinions to myself. I'm reluctant to put forth my views on most things medical. For starters, I tend to be wary, like many people, of "studies". There seem to be a lot of them these days, and many of them contradict each other, to the point where I'm more sanguine about Bill Simmons' weekly football picks than I am about the latest predictors from the AMA. Also, I don't recall going to Med School; I'll admit to being a bit hazy about a great many of my university experiences, but I'm pretty sure that I never dissected any cadavers. (Those of you who may have info showing otherwise, we'll talk off-line.)

But the anti-vaccination thing really bugs me, especially after reading the Liza Featherstone piece.  I can understand parents wanting to take precautions - one commentor's tale of the possible effects that vaccinations had on her immune-deficient child was gutting, especially in light of my own experience with Lucas' vaccination treatment. Due to his Kawasaki Disease, and the treatment involved, we were told in no uncertain terms that we needed to hold off for several months before getting his second round of vaccinations, because of potential complications. I'm again reminded of how lucky we were to have doctors that knew their stuff.

And that's what irks. No, I don't think parents should opt out of vaccinating their kids; as I mentioned in my Strollerderby piece, there have been recent outbreaks of measles and mumps in the U.S., which should give anyone pause to consider what might happen if their child goes unimmunized. But on the flip side, we rely on doctors to give us sound advice, and if Grey's Anatomy teaches us anything, it's that medical practices and procedures should never been considered routine, even doling out shots that have been given to countless thousands of kids for decades. (Also, Grey's Anatomy teaches us that chicks love mullety hairdos as long as they're found on sensitive, hunky doctors - I wonder if this applies to sensitive, hunky daddybloggers? Jesus, would you look at that thing on my head? Russian fur traders would give their left nut to have a crack at my pelt.)

So let's open the floor to debate. Vaccines: the Devil's Candy, or the only thing preventing humanity from turning into a pack of pseudo-vampires forever doomed to chase Robert Neville around the streets of a deserted L.A.?
 

What Not To Screw

After reading this article about a 20 year old man convicted of having sex with a dead deer, I started wondering exactly what type of material a parent needs to cover when it comes down to the old Facts o' Life talk with the kid(s).  Granted, I have daughters and I assume my wife will probably want to take the lead on things (although we've yet to discuss this), so, I may get off easy.  That's not to say I couldn't handle this type of discussion, mind you.  In fact, I'm already prepared.  I've saved my "God's Gift To You" book that I was given as a kid.  I'm sure that will do just fine should I be the starting QB for that game.  True, I did kind of grow up thinking women looked like fig leaves down there and that I was deformed because the book made the male genitalia look more like Kilroy than anything I had going on in the nether regions.  But, I eventually figured it out and had permanent psychological scarring a good time getting there.

Still - fucking a deer?  A dead deer?  Should something like this be listed in the sex talk syllabus?  I can imagine this bastard's father hearing the news and saying, "Dammit, son.  I meant all animals were off limits when I told you not to fuck the cat.  Geese, rhinos, gerbils, lemurs, dead, alive, barely breathing...all of them, you moron." 

Obviously, we're to give them the basics.  That's fundamental.  But, are we to delve in to the weird stuff too?  What are your plans? 

I'll Tumble 4 Ya

Hey y'all!  It's been a while since I've since I've hung out in the 'hood here at DadCentric.  Good to see they've kept the place up, although I'd hardly call it gentrified...

The reason I haven't been around much lately is that I've, frankly, been barely sentient in Turkish prison shredding government documents enjoying being a dad.  It's hard enough to write when you're barely literate (like me), but when your kid hits that absurdly cute stage--especially on days when they love their daddies--it's hard to prioritize computers screens and carpal tunnel.

By way of example, Cheeky has rediscovered her Radio Flyer tricycle, a vehicle which could only go in reverse for the first ten months we had it.  Cheeky finally applied the principles she uses running headfirst into large objects to propelling this vehicle forward, but ironically she doesn't apply them that often.

Instead, she's practicing crashing.  From the stationary position.

I'll be in the kitchen, eating over the sink, when I'll hear an "uh oh" from behind the counter.  This, I've learned, is a signal for me to come out and watch.  She'll be sitting on the tricycle, and as soon as she knows I'm looking she'll gradually slide sideways off the seat. It's like watching a slow-mo Gary Busey (or L.A. Daddy) motorcycle wreck.  The foot rises into the air, she leans into it, and a "thud" punctuates the move.  "Fawl!" she exclaims..."Fawl!"

"Uh oh, you sure did fall.  Do you want to show daddy how you ride the tricycle?"

She climbs back on, looks up at me, and says "uh oh!"  The slide commences again.  Rinse.  Repeat.

She may not be ready for drivers ed, but at least she's not practicing stunts on ladders.

Yet.

They Can't Take That Away From Me

You know parents are the same. No matter time nor place. . . So to you, all the kids all across the land, there's no need to argue, parents just don't understand.

The Fresh Prince gets it.  I'm guessing that even Jazzy Jeff gets it.  Parents, however, don't get it. 

Of course I'm not talking about us, come on, we're hip remember?  We get stuff.  I'm talking about our parents.  You know, old people.

The thing that we tend to ignore and/or forget is that we aren't just parents, but we are, much to our comfort and/or chagrin, somebody's baby.  We may, in fact, be somebody's only light.  Jackson Browne gets it.  Phantom Planet gets it.  Our parents? Yeah, they get it too.

Something funny happened on the way to adulthood.  We became less cute and cuddly and more flippant and scruffy.  We did, through no fault of our own, to our parents what our children will someday, much too soon, do to us.  We flew the nest.  Some of us broke a few eggs in doing so.  It happens.  We left our parents wanting more.  Guess where they look to get their fix. 

That's right, our birdhouse.  Grandparents crave grandkids like Marion Barry craves the rock.

The thing about being alternaparents rejuveniles grups us, is that thanks to a number of influences, we seem to have a better grip on what the effects of our innocence and sweetness were on our parents than previous generations, and you better believe that we want some of that honey for ourselves.  It's our time yo.

Jason hit on it yesterday.  That caused me to rant about it too.  Then we emailed each other with virtual hugs and wiped our collective tears with the contents of the tissue box that always sits next to the computer, you know, for allergies. 

We decided that the subject needed to be discussed in more detail, or in this case, danced around gingerly with metaphors and sarcasm. 

What are we discussing?  That people, you know who they are, keep messing with our magic.  Just because we may have gone the route of Christopher Robin and grown-up a little doesn't mean we aren't excited as hell about sharing aforementioned honey with our little Pooh Bear(s).  The point being that they are our Pooh Bears.  Silly and full of fluff as they may be.

Our parents don't understand. They think their milestone jones justifies their actions.  Some might think we owe them.  They don't seem to think it is a big deal to steal precious moments from our beehive.  They're nothing but big black rainclouds, and they're raining on our parade.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my parents, even more than I love mixing metaphors, and I don't have any intention of shutting them out to the wonder that is my children.  They can have their moments too.  They can be in the yard when I teach the boys to ride a bike.  They can watch the boys take their first steps on YouTube.  They can pay for their college. 

They can even have a few of the good moments for themselves, I'm not greedy.  I just want to make sure that we understand each other.  There needs to be some sort of communication prior to reaching milestones without a parent around. 

I suppose the definition of those milestones may be part of the problem. Apparently they are open to interpretation.  What is of major importance to one person may not mean squat to another.  They need to ask and we need to tell.  We can't expect everyone to read our minds, but by that same token, they should know us well enough to suspect certain things may be on "the list."  You know, the list of things we can't resist.  The list of the best things in life.  Hall and Oates get it.  I hope our parents do.

Data Dilemma

I have a deep-seated distrust of distaste for studies.  If you've been reading DadCentric long enough you probably know that already.  What?  You don't remember that post from August 2006?  Sheeesh.  I guess I shouldn't assume that, just because we slave away, investing our time and sweat on every post, you would remember every word to every one I submit.

I especially have a strong aversion to studies that leave a lot of wiggle room; that provide hope or dash it; or take advantage of a crisis or exploit the timing to publicize their findings.  I bring this up regarding a recent (September 2006) study done in Israel regarding paternal age and a correlation being drawn that older dads are more likely to father children with autism.  (Disclaimer: I am not a scientist, nor do I do research, this is purely from a layman's perspective and to be taken with a grain of salt or less.)  Now, to be fair, this study got a lot of play in September when it was released and was also tied in with a "men have biological clocks" meme.  The only reason I'm bringing it up now is because Jason received an e-mail from an individual providing his paper as a source of material from which to draw.  Again, to be fair, advanced paternal age has been a risk factor in other neurodevelopmental disorders, so it isn't a giant leap of faith to make these assumptions -- maternal age has been shown to increase the risk of Down's syndrome and has been associated with dyslexia, among other afflictions, so why shouldn't paternal age have some sort of impact?  Then again, does it?

My problem is with the weight placed on the findings in this study and the media hyping of those numbers and the media hyping of every bit of information that comes down the pike especially with regard to autism.  I interact with a significant autistic population and have relationships with several of the parents.  Again, I'm no scientist and my opinion is based solely on anecdotal information, but many of these parents were in their 20s and 30s when they had their children.  I have a relative who has two autistic children and he was in his late-20s/early-30s when they were born.  I'm not an expert in this realm by any stretch -- I only know what I see, what I read and what I learn from others far more knowledgeable than I.  Right now, autism is getting a lot of attention -- as it should (and should get more) -- and families are looking at every study, every piece of data...everything and anything to help them understand the root causes and provide them with some hope for a cure.  Had this study concluded that paternal age was a significant contributing factor in, say, migraine headaches, would those results have warranted such coverage?  I don't think so.  But, if your study is about autism in any way?  Boom, above the fold, 72pt., bold with drop shadow, regardless of the effect it might have on those families.

My point (if I ever even had one when I started this post) is that we need to be careful with the release of this sort of information.  Very little of it is ever conclusive and regardless of how pure the motivations are, no study is ever as "clean" as one would hope.  Hyping data is a disservice to those struggling to understand what is happening to their children.  Case in point: just this past weekend was a study released that indicated that autism may not be inherited after all.  Oops.  Kind of throws a wrench in the paternal age a bit, doesn't it?  What is conclusive is that we are looking at a very complex disease and researchers are only now beginning to understand just how complex it and how difficult to conquer it really will be.

Bantha Poodoo!

As Lucas enters his third year on this planet, it occurs to me that the epochal First Time Moments are upon me: first time swimming, first time going poop by himself (this is still on the horizon; although frustrating, it does provide moments, as evidenced earlier today when Beth and I got a hint of That Smell. "Lucas", I asked. "Did you poop in your diaper?" "Um, no", he said, deadly serious, "I took a dump."), first PeeWee Basketball game (next weekend), first time riding a bike, and, towering above all the rest, first time the kid watches Star Wars with his old man.

The venerable classic turns 30 this summer (yeah, we are all racing towards the grave, men, do not pass Go, do not collect $200), and until very recently I hadn't given much thought to when it would be appropriate to watch it with the kid. But lately his tastes have skewed towards robots, spaceships, and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (the ads for the forthcoming movie transfix him; I fear for the lad's sanity when he first lays eyes on the trailer for Michael Bay's Transformers flick - I'll admit to a bit of geeking over it myself). And others in my demographic have already shared the brilliance with their sons. I've got all six movies on DVD, and was starting to formulate plans for the boy's First Star Wars Viewing. Beth's going out of town next week, a perfect opportunity. Just me, Lucas, and the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. Adventure! Excitement!

Well, we all know what happens to those who crave those things. I was traveling this past week, spending time in the port of Mystic, Connecticut - you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villiany - and I spoke with Beth shortly after arriving. She was spending the day at her parents. We talked a bit about the flight, the town, etc. "So how's Lucas?", I asked. "You should see him", Beth replied. "My parents put on Star Wars and he's running around the house yelling 'Skywalker! Skywalker!' and pretending to blow things up."

I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. "What." Not a question, rather a statement. "The kid watched Star Wars...without me?"

Silence on the other end of the line. This was much worse than the time that she refused to let me go to Toshi Station to pick up those power converters. "Well", Beth said, "actually...it was on cable, and he only watched a bit of it. Plus it wasn't the first one." I interrupted: "Episode IV, you mean." "No", she said, "it was the one with the Ewoks. You don't like that one anyway. So you haven't lost anything - you can still watch the first ("Fourth", I thought to myself) one with him." There was a slight tone in her voice; we'd never discussed the importance of the whole Star Wars thing as it related to the kid, but she married me, she knows the geek factor that came with the rest, and she respects that, even if she doesn't fully understand it. Clearly she found my lack of faith disturbing.

A close call. I'll admit to a bit of over-reaction, but this is Star Wars, people. The movie that I've seen at least 174 times. I'll still get to watch the first/Fourth and favorite with the kid. HBO's been showing all of the movies lately, back-to-back on multiple days; it's a wonder he hasn't seen it yet, but it's destiny - in my experience, there's no such thing as luck.

Beware the Ides of March!

That's when the Madness begins. Et tu Bruins? A "2" Bruins? So the Pac-10 didn't get a one seed, they still landed a solid six teams in the NCAA Men's Tournament.  Only the ACC had more (7) and everyone knows that they sold their collective soul to the devil (Dick Vitale) years ago.  I'm surprised the whole conference didn't get in.

I went to Arizona.  I bleed that damn red and blue.  I would really love to say they are going to take it all.  In fact, I have been saying that for months.  That was until they self-destructed, and even though I will fill out at least one bracket with them on the final line I'm just not feeling it.  Hell, I don't think they are feeling it.

This doesn't dampen (well, slightly) my enthusiasm for the wonder of March Madness.  I will still watch more basketball in a few weekends than most people watch in a lifetime.  I will drink beer before noon on a weekday.  I will fall in love with Cinderella(s).  I will quite possibly sleep on the couch.

It's going to be freaking great.

I will now provide for you my prediction for the Final Four, please note that should you follow my lead- and win any monies for doing so, I expect a bit of that love.

My Final Four are:
*Oregon
*UCLA
*Ohio State
*Georgetown

I'll take Oregon over Ohio State, 83-74.  Why not?

So, who will you be dancing with?