DadCentric

Hey, That's Today?

I was cruising through my feeds, reading blog after blog after blog, and I started to notice a theme.  That theme was Mother's Day.  Apparently, every single person who blogs has had, at one point or another, a mother.  Who knew?

We here at DadCentric have had a hand (among other things) in creating some May customers for Hallmark.  I figured one of us here must have made a little post mentioning the holiday.  Nope.  We're men, people.  We don't always think about doing the nice thing.  Sometimes we like to watch basketball and drink beer on a Sunday, regardless of the holiday.  Come on, it's the playoffs! (Go Suns!)

That said, we're in the business of making moms, it's what we do (or did).  We should be strong enough to suck it up and throw a shout out on a day that honors them.  That's good business.

It's also heartfelt and sincere.  On behalf of the lads, Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there.  Hope your day was wonderful.

Notes From The Dad-O-Sphere

Crazy busy this week, y'all, but not so much that I can't take the time to share with you some Dad-related internet goodness. For your perusal:

The Lovely Mrs. Davis (known to me as Amy, because I am kool) gave me the heads-up on a very worthy cause. Dadblogger Scott Malchus will be participating in the Great Strides Walk; Scott's son Jake has cystic fibrosis, and he's got some kickass people in his corner. He's looking to best his goal of $2,500.  Go over to Bloggers For A Cure, each one of you, and donate a couple of bucks. If you're on the fence, maybe this will convince you.

On a much lighter note, ubergrupenvater Neal Pollack brings us Offsprung, a collective parenting blog/community. Lots of sharp, funny writers skewering our increasingly neurotic parenting culture; really, what could be better? Ok, yes, the original Rollerball, but that goes without saying. "Jon-a-than! Jon-a-than!" Goosebumps.

Finally, because I can, the Parrot Sketch. Happy Friday.

Well, So Much For Throwing Him into The Briar Patch

Years from now, when the boy is all grown up and a Republican and testifying before some committee about some evil shit that he did using taxpayers' hard-earned money and subsequently tried to cover up, also using taxpayers' hard-earned money, I've no doubt that the following will have been The Moment, that brief nanosecond during which we SHOULD have recognized and acted upon his ability to manipulate and cloud mens' minds, but did not, because he's just so goddamn cute.

Dinner. We're eating, a delicious offering of roasted chicken in balsamic vinegar accompanied by asparagus and a fine pear, feta and romaine salad. Beth did well. Lucas has announced that he's "full", after eating one bite of asparagus and two bites of chicken (the official ruling was, in fact, two bites of chicken, as a piece of chicken that's been chewed three times and spit on to the plate does not, per the Laws, count). He is now playing under the table. I wade right in.

"Lucas. Come on. Out from under the table."

"I'm fu-ull." (He's started with the Two Syllable Pause, stretching out words like "done" and "full" to emphasize the extent of his doneness and fullness, respectively. Because, whoa, after consuming 25 whole calories at dinner, who do I think he is? Mr. Creosote?)

Well. You're in MY kitchen now, little man (figuratively, and literally - the dinner table is, in fact, in the kitchen). So I immediately go to the Closer. No bargaining, no brinksmanship - I pull a Kevin Pollack in Deterrence. DefCon 5.

"Lucas. If you don't come out from under that table right now, I am taking one of your toys away. Your toy will have a time out all day tomorrow." My kitchen.

"Pick one, daddy!"

Cue the Morricone music.

"Um...what?" No, no, no. Not how it should be going...

"You pick one! Pick a toy to take! How about my truck?"

"Uh...I'll do it! I will give one of your FAVORITE toys a time out!"

"Ok! How about my sword?" And he...is laughing. At me. At my weakness. I half expect him to start rambling about how everything has transpired according to his plan, the Death Star is fully armed and operational, etc.

I drop my voice a notch, and give him The Glare. "Right. Now."

He complies, but with a sly grin. "Ok!"

Now I got worries. I'll say it for you all. PWNED.

(Previous image courtesy of Colin P. Fahey, whose website is perhaps the greatest in all of human history.)

What's All This Venti Shit?

I went downstairs this morning, refillable mug in hand, to get my daily coffee.  I waited patiently in line while the usual jack-offs ordered their triple-soy caramel macchiatos ("just two pumps, please") in front of me, then calmly handed them my mug. 

"Refill, please."

"Sorry, sir, we're out of coffee."

¿qué?

"But," I said, gesturing to the hundreds of bags of Sumatra and Yukon Blend lining the walls, "you're surrounded by coffee."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have any right now.  Come back later."

Let me check something...

Yep, says coffee right there on the sign.

Here's the deal:  I put up with your pretentious sizes (since when does "small" = "tall"), the homeless people aspiring novelists who take all the good chairs, and the fact that you don't carry those awesome maple-nut scones anymore (at least not in my neighborhood...is it the trans-fats?)  And I don't lament the demise of the independent local cafe's that your predatory expansion has caused. 

Why?  Because I love your damn coffee. I don't do crack...I do Cafe Verona.  It's because of you that I can never again drink the swill that squirts out of the machine in our break-room.  If you served it in gallon-sized buckets then that's what I'd order.

So if there's one thing you should be doing at all times, it's brewing coffee.  It's the easiest thing you do!  And there's ten of you behind the counter!  Stop rearranging the bagels and start grinding some damn beans.

I'll be standing right here.

I Took My Job & I Shoved It

For years I've been a bread winner.  I have fought the good fight.  I needed some dough, so I kneaded some dough (don't worry, it gets better).

Too many times I have walked into an environment that has made me feel small, depressed and physically ill, so that I could provide for the family unit.  No more. 

Seriously, it hurt me.

It is no secret that I was not happy at my job.  It was something that I couldn't help but share, less it tear me up inside.  This did not mean I wasn't good at what I did.  In fact, I was great.

I was just unhappy.

The workplace didn't work.  There was no sense of pride, gratitude or respect.  Rather, I was a walking statistic on a meaningless assembly line.  Had this led to some sort of team mentality, then perhaps I would have survived, but it led nowhere.  Basically, it was communism.  The Stalin kind.  Me, I tend to lean towards the Grouchos of Marxism rather than the Karls.

Why was I there for 8 years?  Good question.  I suppose I was able to look past the fact that I often felt like breaking down and crying (it's okay for men to cry, Spiderman does it all the time), because I had a schedule of my own creation and the money was decent.  Those things have changed, and now eight is enough.

First, the money tree shriveled up.  In fact the only thing still falling from it is the slow trickle of urine from the constant bombardment of neighborhood dogs.  It has no money, no apples, no branches.  Soon it will be but a stump and some old guy will sit on it, and hopefully he and the tree will be happy.  That, however, does not put cash in my pocket.

Then the powers that be decided that my schedule, built around my children as it was, was no longer a viable option.  For them.  No longer would I be allowed to have the comfort of knowing that my children would be cared for in a manner that I was comfortable with.  This, of course, broke a back, and since I don't know any camels, it was mine that snapped.

I put in my notice. It was a moment that I've dreamed of, but without the shouting and fisticuffs that I had envisioned.  Instead it was a slip of paper and a nod.  It worked all the same.

The downside to this sudden feeling of freedom and relief is that my income has been drastically compromised.  In fact, it's all but gone.  My wife is not exactly ecstatic.

I should have planned an escape route, had my pod ready for launch.  I didn't. Sometimes you just have to say "what the fuck."

What the fuck.

Now I'm in a place I haven't been in a long time, happy, free and looking for some bread so I can kick it's ass.  You know, for the kids. 

Which way to the bakery?

Soundings

Early on, I decided that the next time would be different. I was a savvy veteran – the whole “life-changing” thing had been lived through, not only did we endure, we prevailed, and the near constant sense of panic lined with giddiness would surely be absent. Preparations would proceed at a measured pace. We’d stockpiled most of the things we’d need, essential items kept, notated, and boxed. What we didn’t have was either a miscalculation the first time, thus unnecessary, or could easily be purchased at a later date. The books we kept, the classes we’d remember. It would be a smooth experience, a happy sail on the calm waters of a well-traveled bay.

This morning, then: the wand gliding across Beth’s smooth belly. Lucas looking at an amorphous image, with a softly spoken greeting: “Hi baby.” The candlelight flicker of a heartbeat. Each a quiet exaltation. My God, so warmly familiar, so amazingly new, the wonder of it.

A Celebration of The Life of Mr. Big Dubya, On This, The Occasion Of His Passing

By now, most of you will have heard that we've lost one of our best and brightest. Mr. Big Dubya, known to his lovely wife and beautiful children as "Warren" and "Father" respectively, known to his friends as Mr. Big Dubya, known to the Pennsylvania legal system as "Paul Murchison", and known to his bookie as "that guy that lost $59,920 on Destination Alpo in the fifth race at Santa Anita", has, sadly, left the confines of this mortal coil. He was 40 years old. Our friendship is, of course, well documented. I remember it well, that fateful day when we first crossed paths. That game of mumblety-peg, the likes of which the people of Lisbon had never seen. The thinly veiled insult (for the record, I do enjoy a good Imitation Krab Salad, as do a great many learned men). Pistols at dawn on the field of honor. That fateful misfire, and the good laugh that followed. Thus was our friendship forged. We shared a bond that few will ever know - him saving my life during that fateful day on the Edmund Fitzgerald, me giving him the last of my Wint-O-Green Breath Savers that one time. Sadly, I'll never get that Breath Saver back. Because, really, $1.00 a pack? Who am I, Croesus?

Mr. Big Dubya was a man of action, not words. Here was a man who every year made the pilgrimage to Salt Lake City to visit the grave of his idol, Wilfred Brimley. (Being informed, years later, that Mr. Brimley was not in fact dead would have broken a lesser man; Mr. Big Dubya took it in stride, and continued to make the trek, a testament to the man's tenacity.) Here was a man who took his duties as an astronaut seriously, and yet never failed to make the men and women of Mission Control laugh, even on the most difficult of missions, with his unique variations on the time-honored "fart in a spacesuit" theme. Running with the bulls through the streets of Pamplona, tracking the yeti across the treacherous slopes of the Himalayas, hunting U-boats in his makeshift patrol boat off the Cuban shores (an act of courage that would later be immortalized in a classic song by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton) - this was a life well lived.

A wise man once said that it's better to burn than fade away; he also said "unda gleeben glauben globen", or some such, and though I have no idea what either of those two things mean, they seem fitting. Farewell, Mr. Big Dubya. 40 years on this earth was far too short a time. Unless you were a dog. Then, fuck, dude. You'd have been a really old dog. (ETA 5/4/07 6:50 a.m.: my intern has informed me that Mr. Big Dubya is actually not dead, but celebrating his 40th birthday. We apologize for the error.)

Makes pitching inside a bit tough

I have something to say, but I'm afraid I might offend some of you.

Wow, I almost wrote that entire sentence with a straight face.  Actually, I'm not sure offend is the right word.  Some of you might agree with me and some of you will rail on and on about how good it is for the kids.  Anyway....

I don't get t-ball.

Maybe it's because I didn't play as a child.  It wasn't an option when I was growing up.  Not in my town at least.  No, I learned how to play ball the old fashioned way -- in the side yard as my father taunted me.  I kid, I kid.  My father pitched to my brother and I for hours on end repeating "keep your eye on the ball" with every toss.  Most times he escaped blistering line shots because, well, we sucked.  Other times, when we actually listened to the "keep your eye on the ball" mantra, he would need to call on those lightning fast, catlike reflexes or risk never being able to have additional children.  Other times, we spent time learning how to catch and field using pitchbacks, playing rundown using curbstone corners as bases or finely honing that hand-eye coordination playing halfball or stickball - it's a Northeast thing.

My friends and I started playing organized ball at around 7.  We started in farm league, practicing and playing games wearing our Toughskins and t-shirts with the sponsor on the back.  Weekends were spent in vacant lots or on the field at the elementary school we attended.  There were usually enough kids around to field two entire teams, maybe three.  Hell, I know two families who alone could have fielded two teams with a bullpen and base coaches.  And we played for hours.  And hours.  Play a game and the losers sit.  Did I say losers?  Yes, yes I did.  Because we always...ALWAYS...knew the score.

Which brings me back to t-ball.  I just don't get it.  Maybe it's because I'm from a different era when you knew the score.  You tried to strike guys out.  You always knew who was covering second for the double play.  And you knew who the cut-off man was.  Allowing a team to bat around was bad.  Being the team to bat around was good.  There were only nine players on the field at once.  Being on the receiving end of a slaughter rule sucks huge moose...well, you know what I mean.

Many of you will say, "Well, it's good for younger children."  You might be right about that.  But, by the same token, do we want 4- or 5-year-olds playing organized sports?  When I was 5, we made up our own rules for the most part.  Then again, at 4 or 5 you barely have an understanding of the concept of sharing and your attention span is as long as that of a gnat.  Isn't the infield fly rule a bit much?  Have you ever tried to explain the Mendoza line to a six-year-old?

Maybe I'll be singing a different tune when Little Dub starts making noise about playing something.  If it is t-ball, I plan to go by Danny's rules.  Then again, given his tornado traits, maybe he'll prefer violence with grace.

Why?

"Hey Daddy?"

"Yes, my son?" (I talk to my kid like this guy talks to his.)

"I wanna watch Mickey Mouse."

"Sorry, but we can't watch Mickey Mouse now."

"Why?"

"Because it's bed time."

"Why?"

"Because - see, look outside - it's dark."

"Why?"

"Because it's 7:30 at night and that's when you go to bed."

"Why?"

"Uh, because you're tired."

"Why?"

"Because you had a big day..."

"Wh.."

"Wait for it - because you went to basketball and Gavin's party and we went to the store and we read a story and now you're tired."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"W.."

"BECAUSE I AM LORD AND MASTER OF YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE AND MY WORD SHALL BE OBEYED WITHOUT QUESTION WITH GREAT PRAISE FOR ME AND ALL THAT I PROVIDE, SUCH IS MY GREATNESS; YEA, THEE AND THY ILK SHALL GROVEL BEFORE ME, AND PREPARE FOR THE DAY WHEN ALL OF THE FALSE GODS - THE CHRISTIAN GOD, THE HEBREW GOD, THE HINDU GOD, THE MUSLIM GOD, AND ALL OF THEIR SO-CALLED PROPHETS AND ALL OF THEIR HEATHEN MINIONS SHALL CRY OUT IN PITY AS I PREPARE TO SMITE THEM, YET THEIR PITIFUL MEWLING SHALL FALL ON DEAF EARS, FOR MINE IS THE POWER AND THE GLORY THAT SHALL RULE OVER THIS AND ALL OTHER WORLDS UNTIL CREATION ITSELF FALLS INTO THE SHAPELESS ENTROPY FROM WHENCE IT SPRANG."

"Um...Daddy?"

"Yes."

"Can I watch Little Einsteins?"