DadCentric

Some Things I've Lost Forever

I'm not complaining.  I was never that attached.  I'm talking about kid songs, the standards.  I'm not much for the classics.

Aside from Old MacDonald and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I'm pretty much clueless to how kid songs go.  Sure, I was a kid, and the songs remain the same, but I've forgotten the words.  Yes, I worked in childcare for almost a decade, but I always went for coffee during sing-along time.  I've managed to get this far, with a four-year-old and one at 17 months, and the only kid's albums they've ever been fans of were made by the likes of They Might Be Giants and various jazz greats.  As you may have guessed, I'm okay with it.

My boys LOVE music, but they are fans of our music.  My oldest recognizes the Beatles and Foo Fighters, and is adamant that rock and roll should be played loud.  My youngest is a dancing machine and literally bogarts my wife's iPod shuffle with her workout mix of techno and angst-ridden Pink songs, dancing around the house in his diaper for all the world to see.  The boys like good music (and the crap my wife is apparently listening to).

We are always singing.  Thing 1 makes up songs with the best of them.  Last night he decided that the toilet was like a fountain, a pee fountain.  He created a melody describing  the wonders it holds, how nobody can sit beside it, but sometimes you sit upon it, and that you don't throw coins in it because wishes don't like living with poop.  Who needs Wheels on the Bus when you've got that?

There are instances when I do feel like I should have taken the time to learn a tune or two.  Often the boys will crawl up on my lap, and after Thing 1 sings his sillies and Thing 2 bobs his head in approval, I am put on the spot, and my mind races for any song that I know more than the chorus to, and whether or not they are age appropriate.

"No! We don't want to hear Old MacDonald again!" is usually how my first notes are greeted.

So I've been improvising.  All you need is a catchy beat of innocence and anything can be a kid song.  Last night I sang my son to bed with a little ditty by The Beastie Boys.

"Here's a little story," I sang. "That I've got to tell, about two bad brothers you know so well..." I applied it to our situation and ran with it.  Hey, it worked.

I'm working on a G.Love mix for this evening.

Let The Countdown to Rodriguez Begin!

Since it's now a matter of hours until the odious Barry Bonds breaks Aaron's record, I thought I'd repost my thoughts on the guy - this post ran last year, but my thoughts on him haven't changed. One thing that really bugs - there's an excellent chance that he'll do it today in San Francisco (how cool would it be if the Marlins opted to pitch around him every time he stepped up to the plate?). Flip side - if he doesn't, the Giants go to L.A. for a three-game stand, and then they come down here to San Diego (where we loves us some Barry). I envision a Dodger or Padre fan catching that record-breaking ball, whipping out a Sharpie and drawing a big asterix on it, and then tossing it back on to the field, to the delight of all. (Can you imagine that? People here would go nuts, I tell you. They'd throw a ticker-tape parade for that fan.)

So screw Bonds. Stay healthy, A-Rod!

Not a Vin Diesel movie review

My son is in desperate need of a 12-step program or the patch or some aversion therapy.  And his mother and I have not been much help, the enablers that we are.  He needs it when he wakes up.  He looks for it immediately after getting out of the tub.  He has it in hand before he finishes his last bite at dinner.  He uses it to make a point and he uses it while he's deep in thought.  He has secret stashes - inside a toybox, in the back of a drawer, stuffed in a pillow case.

The it?  His pacifier...his binky...his paci.

I know, I know.  He's two.  We should have broken him of this habit a long, long time ago.  But it soothed him and that was really important when Little Dubyette came a long.  Not only did it soothe him, it stopped the brain-melting, nails-on-a-chalkboard whining.  So, rather than pull a Van Gogh, it was easier to give in and give him the pacifier.  Aaaahhhh, blessed quiet.

However, it's gotta go.  It's a habit that needs to be broken; has to be broken.  But, dear Lord, the whining.  The whiiiiiiinniinnggg.    We're trying to be strong.  For now, he only gets it at bedtime, but we're trying to phase that out as well.  Hopefully, in a few days we'll have nipped this in the bud.  Hey, stop judging me.  Yeah, you.  The one whose daughter has her thumb in her mouth.  Need the name of a good orthodontist?

Oh, yeah - any suggestions on coping with the whining breaking this habit are greatly appreciated.

The Brothers Holmes

So for the last few months, the lingering question in my mind has been "life with a boy and a girl or life with two boys? Which one are the fates gonna hand down?" Well today, thanks to the wonders of repurposed naval combat technology, the will of the fates has been made known. Two boys it is!

My feelings about it have been the same as they were with our first pregnancy. I didn't care that much about the gender either way, I just wanted the child to be healthy and I wanted to be a good dad. I tried as hard as I could to look deep down inside myself to see if there was some underlying preference, but I couldn't seem to find any then, nor could I now. And with the second child, I'm stoked about my son getting to be big bro, and I've been trying to imagine what the adventure will be like with two. And now that I know it's two boys, well hell, there are plenty of examples to look at and say, "Maybe that'll be my boys!"

Like, maybe they'll make some low-budget flick that will catapult them to the height of movie stardom, all the while maintaining their handsome goofy indie charm.

Or maybe they'll transform the Holmes family into the political powerhouse it's always been destined to be.

Or maybe they'll turn vigilante and rid the city of Austin of the crime that plagues its streets and the governor that pollutes its capital.

Or maybe they'll just drive around the country-side in a souped up redneck-mobile, outwitting the local law enforcement.

Or perhaps they'll be stars of the daddyblog world. Hell, that one's a certainty. 

The Midsummer Report

Actually, there's not a whole lot to tell. Here are the highlights of the Avant family summer:

• Lucas' vocabulary has become downright Milchian, a mishmosh of the typical three-year-old's patois and middle management boardroom-speak. Example: during an in-car milkshake negotiation, we stated that yes, you may have a milkshake IF you finish all of your dinner (including the apple slices!) first. His response, and I quote - "But this will be a problem! Because I need to have room for the milkshake!" He does not yet use the term "cocksucker", preferring instead "poopyhead".
• We've spent a ton of time at the beach - I bitch and moan about having not taken a real vacation in 7 years, but we live within walking distance of the Pacific, so maybe I should shut the hell up. Point is, the boy loves the ocean, and has started to ride his boogieboard. And asks me at least once a week when my friend Ted is going to build him a "big boy surfboard". (I got all teary typing that.)
• For lunch this past Monday, we ate Hoffy's Extra Lean Beef Franks. They were surprisingly tasty. I tell you this because both Beth and I receive, literally, dozens of pitches from various PR/marketing types to highlight, test and review their products on our site. Most of these products are head-scratchingly bizarre (at this point, I went back and scoured my Gmail account so that I could provide some examples, but then realized that by doing so I would be giving out free publicity to the manufacturers of said bizarre products, so you're going to have to trust me on this)...anyway, I got some free hot dogs in the mail, they were good, I'd buy 'em. And I just realized that I ate hot dogs that were sent to me in the mail. Well, I'm not a smart man, but I know what love is.
• Back to the vacation thing. We are, Beth and I, sans Lucas, going away for our Anniversary Weekend in August. We'll be heading up to San Francisco, staying at a posh hotel, eating great food in the greatest city on the west coast, arguably the U.S. (I like to think of San Francisco as California's New York City, sans the multitudes of rude assholes.) At one point, Beth had sent me info on so-called "babymoons", which are weekend getaways for "parents", usually to hotel/spa type places, where the "parents" receive special treatment. Here, for example, is the package offered to "parents" (you see where I'm going with this?) by the W Hotel. Wow! What dad out there wouldn't want a copy of The Modern Girl's Guide to Motherhood, or a membership to Modern Mom Dot Com? Hey! W! Kiss my ass! 

All in all, it's been a good summer. They do seem to go by at a rapid clip - really, there's what, five more weeks left? Kind of sad, really. Labor Day will be upon us in no time, and all of the tourists who flock to San Diego will be gone, and the beaches will be empty, and the weather will still be sunny and warm...eh, who am I kidding? Hurry up, Fall!

Urinalysis

Our littlest one is smack dab in the middle of potty training and is, quite honestly, doing fairly well with the whole thing.  Although she's yet to launch a sea pickle in to the porcelain abyss, she is now whizzing like a pro on our toilet and has even managed to sit atop a couple of our friend's toilets in rare instances.  She not only wears undies now, but, she's napping in them and has only had one little accident - for which she apologized profusely.  She still asks for a diaper to poop in, with which we don't really have a problem.  The way things seem to be going, that won't last too long either.  We're stoked, we're saving money and we're relieved to end her mental anguish that, apparently, we were causing by never choosing the right diaper out of the pack - Dora and Boots; Dora in the yellow dress; Dora flying; Dora looking East; Dora looking North with one eye closed; Dora ignoring Diego...you get the picture.  Diapers are a mere feces repository now rather than an integral part of her life.

Anyway, as she was learning and becoming more comfortable with the idea of going on a real toilet, she had many, many concerns and questions.  I guess that was just her way to work through it all.  I thought it might be a public service to provide the answers to some of her more frequently asked questions so that, when you reach this stage with your own child[ren], you'll be fully prepared to put them at ease.  So, here we go:

• Yes, Sponge Bob, goes pee-pee on the toilet and does not fall in.
• No, you don't need to use your balance to sit on the toilet.
• Yes, you have a little butt in comparison to mine, but, you will not fall in.
• My poo-poo falls down in to the toilet and does not need balance to do so.
• It is OK to pee on top of Mommy or Daddy's pee.
• California Pizza Kitchen does not want us to, nor, will they allow us to bring your Sponge Bob toilet seat in to the restaurant.
• Although not very sanitary, yes, you can have snacks on the toilet.
• Yes, I guess the dog does, in fact, use his balance to crap in the yard.
• The lack of bubbles in your pee-pee is really nothing to cry over.  Blowing on it will not help.

I hope this can help some of you out.  I guess the key issues here are balance, the threat of falling in to the toilet, sanitary best practices and air-to-urine ratio.  YMMV.

Sunday Still: Revenge

Have you ever stepped in dogcrap with bare feet?

REVENGE

Only NOT in America

I don't see a whole prison yard in the states doing a choreographed dance number to a Michael Jackson song with one of the prisoners "acting" in drag.  I'm thinking it would be more of a race riot with potential acts of sodomy.

Why do Zombies always go straight to the weave?

Kicked to the Curb

There was a time, not so long ago, when a certain helium-voiced monster dominated every waking minute of our lives.  I'd close my eyes and remember that the Noodle family are actually accomplished actors, not just annoying buffoons who can't follow the instructions of 4 year-olds.  And don't get me started on that bitch Bubbles Martin.  WORST.  CARTOONS.  EVER.

But suddenly, and without warning, the little red beast was dumped.  Discarded.  Pancaked.  No "we're just taking a break," or "we can still be friends."   Elmo was canned with the swiftness and finality of Admiral Ozzel.

Cheeky's got a new hoochie.  She's got big brown eyes, a talking backpack, and some freakish Joan Embery animal-communication skills.  And she brooks no competition for our daughter's attention.

At first I was relieved.  I'd had quite enough of "ELMO HAS MAIL!  ELMO HAS MAIL!" and "Jingle Bells" may be permanently ruined for me.  And when Cheeky proudly proclaimed that she was "Dos!" on her second birthday we thought Dora was turning our child into a bilingual genius. 

But it happened so fast, and so fiercely, that my wife and I had a surprising reaction.

We felt bad for Elmo. 

I mean, the guy was her world for a year, and now he was some reject she'd change her e-mail to avoid.  We'd see him stuffed face-first in the corner of her crib or find a sheet of Elmo stickers in a drawer and reminisce.  "Remember when she loved Elmo?"  We'd even try to put him on every once in a while, just to make him feel better, but she'd have none of it. 

Elmo sucks.  Dora rules!

Now the floodgates have opened, and we've got Dora Legos, Dora Playdough, Dora dolls, and (of course) Dora stickers.  We all know the way to the Tall Mountain and the Yellow Valley, and sing the map songs together.  But I can't help but think, "How long will this last?" 

We all know it's just a matter of time when Dora & Boots join Blue and Elmo on the side of the road, under a sign that says "Welcome to Dumpsville:  Population YOU"

Nine Lives and the One That Ran Out

I found the body right where they said it would be.  It was in a plastic bag, untied and surprisingly heavy.  It was a bittersweet moment, and I carried the bag into my yard, set it on the ground, and sat myself beside it to think.

Today was almost a rough day.  There was family in town that had needed to see the sites.  There were two cranky, still sleepy boys, that weren't exited about showing them.  There was our cat, dead in the road, as we were leaving the driveway. 

I stopped the car and ran over to the cat.  The color and size were right.  The location was exact.  I ran images of the neighborhood cats through my mind to see if I might be mistaken.  Out of the many cats that frequent the streets around our house, I could not place another that matched what lay before me.

My boys were sitting in the car, oblivious to death as it pertained to a pet, as it pertained to all of us.  They wanted to know what I was doing, and I couldn't tell them because I wasn't sure.  The only thing I knew was that I wasn't ready to have that conversation. 

I went to the neighbor and explained what I had found and my reluctance to let my children watch me scoop a cherished member of the family off of the street.  They agreed to do the deed for me, and promised to leave the cat in a bag where I could find it later.

So I did.

I sat on the ground, next to a dead  cat in a plastic sack, and I stared at the place on our rooftop where she would sit and greet me each evening.  She wasn't there.

That was when I let myself feel some sadness, an emotion I had put aside to ensure the well-being of my boys.  Their life will have sad enough moments without this one.

I started to rise when I saw it- a flash of blackness run across the shadows of the coming night. 

I froze, still sad, and still with a full bag.  The spot on the roof remained empty.  I watched long enough, then shook off my visions as a simple case of wishful thinking.

And then she was there.  Our cat was on her mark, and she was safe despite her being tardy. 

All of a sudden my night was a little different.  Instead of stealing home early to prevent my wife and children from undue sadness, I was bringing unknown dead pets into our lives, and I was left holding the bag.

I realized that I didn't have a plan for disposing of the cat when I thought it was a beloved pet, let alone this new stranger. Still, my neighbor had picked the cat off the street as a favor to me and my boys, and I had almost shed a tear on it's behalf. Kind of.

I stood there in the dark, coming so close to having done the right thing, and I tied the bag tight in numerous knots and places.  Then I threw the bag in our trashcan. 

I honestly didn't know what else to do.  I couldn't bury it in the yard, the dogs would dig it up.  I couldn't go put it back on the street.  That would have been very awkward, especially if I had been caught.

No, I threw it in the trash and symbolically threw a couple shovels of dirt upon it. 

My boys will never know how close they came to sadness, but I'll know exactly what it is that I will do for their happiness. 

I'm okay with that .