DadCentric

Justice, thy name is Gas

Walter the Farting Dog is the story of Walter the, uh, farting dog. Beloved by children, but shunned by adults for his flatulent ways, poor Walter even catches the blame for everybody else's farts. He ultimately puts his noxious outbursts to heroic use and saves the day, but not before almost getting shipped off to the pound in order to rid the house of the stench clouds that he leaves in his wake.

But this isn't so much a book review as much as it is the story of how this little tale taught my son his first lesson in justice. This book has been one of my son's favorites pretty much from the time he would sit still long enough to let me read to him. There are many books he's grown tired of, but not the story of Walter.

See, blaming a fart on a dog seems like a pretty minor sin, but to the dog on the other end, it may be a pretty big deal. Hell, it almost got Walter sent back to the pound, and who knows what grisly fate may have awaited him there? Thus, my son has decided that all farts that occur in our household shall be rightly attributed to the individual whose ass they emanated from. Hence, any audible passage of gas in our home is now followed by a declaration from my son of who dealt it. Most often, of course, it's "Daddy farted", but every now and then you'll get a "Mommy farted." And lest ye think the kid can't take responsibility for his own actions, he'll gladly fess up with "I farted." He has blamed the dog a few times, but to my knowledge, it's only been when the dog was actually guilty. We've yet to hear anyone else catch any blame, but most people tend not to rear back and cut loose when they're not on their home turf. As long as we don't ever hear "Grandma farted" I think it'll be all right.

Maybe It's Just Semantics

We're members of the local Y.M.C.A. because 1) it's cheap and 2) it's close enough to where I can wad up my monthly payment and throw it at the front desk from my lawn.  I would categorize it as a "pretty good deal".  $50 a month gets my entire family a pool, a gym, and a child-watch facility to watch the young ones while my wife and I hit happy hour work out.  Granted, we've yet to take advantage of the - somehow elusive - ability to "get yourself clean" and "have a good meal" like the Village People were apparently able to do and, quite frankly, neither my wife nor I are jumping stumps to "hang with the boys".  In fact, I don't believe I've even seen many boys around there.  Graying, wrinkled men?  Absolutely.  Lots of [grand]moms?  Yes.  Which brings me to my point...

What the hell were they singing about?  They make the Y sound like a cross between Welfare and a Sandals Resort.  First of all, nothing's free.  According to the Village People, it's a place one should go when one is short on dough.  I call bullshit.  I was late on a payment once and I was seriously in fear for my life.  Short on dough will get your kneecaps smacked, my friend.

Second, I've yet to find "many ways to have a good time".  In fact, I haven't even found one.  And it's not from a lack of looking, I assure you.  I read the flyers and posters.  Group discussions on menopause and free goiter screenings aren't fun in anyone's book.  Again, I call bullshit.  Oh...the "good meal" thing they sing about?  Complete fabrication too.  I can't even find a vending machine in the place for a pack of Nekot Wafers.

They also state [ad nauseum] that it's fun to stay there.  I beg to differ.  Simply put - you can't stay there. There are no bunk beds, cots, or any other amenities of that nature.  Hell, I showed up one morning to find 3 homeless guys crashed out in the courtyard and spent the next 2 hours holed up in a back room while the S.W.A.T. team took them out one by one.  I guess they need to clarify the word "fun". 

I'm not bitching.  Really, I'm not.  Like I said, it's a good deal.  It's just not as good a deal as they said.

The House at Blog Corner

There is a question which ebbs and flows throughout the pages of this parenting and blogging community.  What, exactly, are the consequences of the actions we now take?  It has been addressed on this site before.  It may very well be addressed on this site again.  That, of course, is the nature of the tide.

Some of us talk openly of our children.  Some of us hide their identity.  We share photos or we don't.  We tell tales and we change the names of those involved, or we out them with open and festive embrace.  These are choices made on a personal level, but the results of those choices are anything but private.  In this age of the internets our children are exposed as never before, and more often than naught it is the loving hand of the parent pushing them onward.

I suppose that most of us that fall within the label of "Mommy/Daddy Blogger" have done so for similar reasons.  Namely, we love our children.  We are proud of them.  We are excited about them.  Thirty years ago we would be showing their photos over water-coolers and pints of ale.  This forum, the blog, this is our water-cooler.  We were pulled here from places far and thrown together for subjects dear.  This is not a community built on the exploitation of children.  This is a community built on love.  We are proud.  We are a pride.

Yet, we are prey.  There are those out there that mean us harm.  They wish harm upon our children.  For this, among many, is perhaps chief in the decisions to hold things secret.   

This is the result of technological advances, but it is not new.  83 years ago A.A. Milne wrote the stories of his son Christopher Robin and published them for the world to read.  They brought a father and son closer together.  They brought them joy.  But it was short-lived.

The father found himself unable to be taken for anything other than a writer of children's stories.  This frustrated him for the rest of his life.  Still, it was his bed and he lay in it.

The son soon outgrew the shadows of the youth forever captured in the books of his father.  He went from enjoying the fame of his character to being haunted by it.  He grew bitter and distant.  Father and son grew apart, which is not the most uncommon thing to happen among grown men, but it is among the most undesirable.

No parent wants to be resented by their offspring.  It is hard enough to lose their hugs and dependence, but to alienate them by actions of your own hand, that cannot taste anything but sour.

Christopher Robin grew up to marry his first cousin.  He rarely visited his father and after A.A. Milne's death the son never returned to visit his mother for her remaining 15 years.  What darkness must have filled him when his shadows were left behind. 

Are we too creating worlds of words that will one day cause more heartache than the joy we now feel?  By putting our children on a stage viewed by an endless audience are we providing the fodder of therapy sessions and acts of rebellion?

I hope not.  I hope we are raising a generation able to accept and understand, even appreciate what we do.  Isn't that the reason that many of us first started this journey to begin with, to leave pieces of us behind that forever showcase our love and our happiness?  We are able to offer a glimpse into memories otherwise forgotten.  Isn't that alone enough to chance what we share?

I am faced with my own mortality and I want the world to know me at what is surely my finest hour, now, when I am a father.

Raising a child in the age of the blog offers the opportunity to write our own storybooks.  How it ends remains to be seen.

I don't want my children to outgrow their playthings, just as I know they must.  I can only hope that when that day comes they understand that which I have done and promise not to forget about me, ever.  Not even when I'm a hundred.

So they went off together.  But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.*

 

 

 

*taken from the ending of The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne

You Can't Handle the Truth!

The announcement came from the back seat. We were en route to Noodles and Company for dinner, and the boy cleared his throat and addressed us, with all of the gravitas that a three-year-old can muster. "Um, I'm going to get a motorcycle." "Ah", I replied. "When?" "When the baby comes", he said.

He is learning how the world works - the car doesn't drive itself, Daddy does it; the red button turns off the TV, not some Invisible God Of Bed/Dinner Time; the left knob makes the water hot, the right makes it cold. (Such insight does not, it seem, extend itself to the toilet; the other night Lucas made it absolutely clear that he does not want to "live in the potty with the poopy, because it's lonely and stinky.")

But he's picked up something else.

Last night, we put him to bed at the normal time, and hunkered down on the couch to watch "Chuck" (quick plug; my brother-in-law's band Foreign Born appeared as the bar band in that ep, download their excellent album "On The Wing Now" over at iTunes). About a half an hour later, I got up to go and check on him. I opened the hallway door...and it was blocked. By something small and giggly. "Lucas? Can you scoot back from the door?" I entered the hall, and found the kid sitting there. Surrounded by small sheets of freshly peeled-off white latex paint. With a bottle of Febreze lying on the floor at his side. Then the smell hit me, a wall of Summer Fresh! reek. My mind shifted into Law and Order mode. Boy goes into bathroom, grabs bottle of Febreze, sprays pretty much all of it onto his carpet (elementary, my dear Watson - the bottle was pretty much full, now it's pretty much empty, and the carpet makes a wet squishy sound when one steps upon it). Then, in the grips of a Febreze High, he sits down and proceeds to peel the already-peeling paint off of the door (Exhibit A: large piece of latex in the accused's left hand).

"Lucas?"

"Hi Daddy."

"Did you do this?"

"Um...no."

Pause. This should be good.

"You didn't take the paint off the door?"

"No, I din-int."

"Ok, well, who did?"

"Mick."

"Mick. Mick, our doggie Mick?"

"Yes, daddy."

A lie! The kid looked me right in the eye and told a lie! Casting aspersion on the beloved family pet, no less! It was time for a Talk. I took him out of the Febreze-sodden hallway, at him down, and patiently went over the whole Lying Thing - why it's bad, why one always gets in more trouble when one lies, famous Non-Liars in History ( namely, Batman and Superman). And then I asked him again. "Did you do this?" He looked at me. "Um...yes. But I wanted to make the door look new." A box of Arm and Hammer and twenty minutes of vacuuming later, the attar of Febreze was mostly gone, and the kid was sound asleep.

Earlier today, I paused to reflect on the words of a wise man. "The truth", he said, "often depends on one's point of view." That peeling paint? Didn't actually start peeling on its own - a few months ago, the dog decided to scratch at that door, and in doing so started the process. So Lucas...well, technically, he wasn't really lying. I felt a twinge of guilt. Being three, we often tell him, is hard. Telling the truth can be hard. Finding a good lawyer when you're three? There's the real trick. 

Slow News Week?

When Disney Characters Go Bad!

Every year in junior high, there would be a school trip to Great Adventure/Six Flags.  And every year, my friends and I would always go to the Haunted House.  And every time we went to the Haunted House and one of the costumed ghouls jumped out from behind a cage to try and scare us?  We'd squirt him with a bottle of ketchup that we'd stolen from the concession stand. 

Although I feel guilty about it now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that it was pretty fucking funny.  The "ghouls" were usually college kids and they would get so fucking pissed off that a little 13-year-old squirted them with ketchup, they'd rattle the bars of the cages and start screaming, "I'm going to kick your fucking ass, you little shit."  A few times, they ran after us but they were never able to "ketchup" (get it? ketch-up? da-dum-dum!) 

I totally should have gotten my ass kicked by them. If any of those college kids had ever caught me, I would have taken my ass-whupping like a man and would have had no regrets about it. My parents taught me from a young age that actions have consequences. So if being a wise-ass punk cost me a beating, c'est la vie. 

Anyway, I was thinking about this today because I just found this awesome video of Pluto at Disneyland totally losing his cool because some little kid kicked him in the nuts.  Check it out:

Man, if I were Pluto, I would have done the same thing.  Wouldn't you? 

Bonus material: Tigger smacking a teenager and dealing with the consequences. 

When Football and Gossip Collide!

Like many households around the country, my wife and I engage in a battle of the remote control that can sometimes take legendary proportions.  Most of our battles occur in the early evening.  While she wants to watch "Entertainment Tonight" or "Access Hollywood," I'm constantly trying to switch over to "SportsCenter" or "The Jim Rome Show."  It can get damn ugly sometimes.

So imagine my pleasure when I found myself alone for a few hours on late Saturday afternoon. The wife and the kid were on an all-day Ikea run so I had the remote all to myself.

I settle into the couch and start watching the Georgia-Alabama football game.  Classic SEC battle. The two physical teams have battled into overtime and Georgia has the ball with a chance to win. In the midst of this tense moment, football analyst Mike Patrick apparently loses his mind and starts having the weirdest conversation in sports broadcasting history. I can't even begin to explain how weird it is so here's the transcript:

While the crowd of 95,000 spectators in the crowd is going crazy and screaming at the top of their lungs, Patrick turns to fellow broadcaster Todd Blackledge and says "I've got an important question."

Blackledge: "Go ahead."
Patrick: "What's Britney doing with her life?"
Blackledge: "Who?"
Patrick: "Britney."
Blackledge: "Britney who?"
Patrick: "Britney Spears. What's she doing with her career?"
Blackledge: "Why do we care at this point? Is she here?"
Patrick: "No, I don't think so."
Blackledge: "Is she even a football fan?"
Patrick: "Oh, I'm sure she is."

During this exchange, the ball is snapped and Georgia scores WINNING TD!

One of the best college football games of the season and Mike Patrick is talking about Britney Spears and her career?  What the fuck?  Does he not know about the separation of church and state?   If I want to fucking worry about Britney Spears' career (which I don't,) I'll tune into "The Insider," alright?  I certainly don't want to hear about it during overtime of the Georgia-Alabama game!

This is why I don't take my wife to football games.  While I'm watching the action on the field, she'll turn to me and say something like, "You know, I really don't like the Redskins cheerleaders outfits.  Fuschia is so out this year!"

Maybe Mike Patrick can come watch Giants games with us.  The two of them can talk about Lindsay Lohan while I slowly bury my head in a plate of cheese fries!

Wh-wh-wh-what Did Shhhhhhhe Say?

Toddler-Speak is right up there with Gallic, Esperanto, and Klingon on the list of languages I have no hope of ever understanding.  If my wife didn't shadow me, translating half of what my daughter says, I'd end up:

• singing to her instead of swinging her
• dressing her in layers instead of playing with her letters,
• and giving her carrots instead of helping her into her carriage (thanks, grandma, for that 18th century term)

Cheeky's vocabulary is growing faster than O.J.'s rap-sheet, and she's in such a hurry to use it that she forgets to do things like enunciate or breathe during sentences.  Our home is filled with mis-pronounced, high-pitched, and oft-repeated run-on sentences, which is pretty annoying cute...at least until the stuttering starts.

Certain words violently contort Cheeky's tongue in mid-sentence, rendering her completely unable to make any noises besides "nyuh nyuh nyuh" until her mind catches up and snaps things back into working order.  Her W's sound like European police sirens, and any word starting with an I or L could be spoken better by Elmer Fudd with an allergic reaction.   It's not K-K-K-Ken coming to k-k-k-kill me bad, but it's at least as bad as Brian's jailer. 

I write it off as too much information swirling around her sponge of a brain, and not nearly enough practice for her muscular hydrostat.  (That's your nerd word-of-the-day.  You're welcome!)  But teaching patience to a two-year old is about as effective as teaching evolution at Mike Huckabee's campaign headquarters. 

My wife suggested we beat it out of her, which, if you knew her sense of humor as well as I, you'd  find much funnier than it sounds.  Still, there are moments when we wonder if she'll never shake her lisp or stutter and will end up giving her valedictory address through an interpreter. 

They say tripping over your tongue may be a sign of genius; it was true for me.  I just hope it's not the opposite...

The Miracle League

This Saturday, I begin my head coaching career. I will be the skipper of Lucas' t-ball team; in order to prepare for the daunting task of instructing three-year-olds in the fine art of America's Pastime, I've been playing catch with the kid, reading Moneyball, and practicing my cat-herding skills. Lucas is quite the little jock: he loves kicking the soccer ball, tossing the football, playing hoops with his pint-sized basketball set ("From DOWNTOWN!!!", he yells, upon draining a shot from Three-Foot Land). His excitement is really contagious, and so I will be Coach Daddy once again, and will be providing you with weekly reports from the dugout.

I will be honest; I like sports, played a few, but have never really been a Sports Guy. Part of it has to do with the fact that today, more than ever, it seems that so many athletes and their coaches really are doing their best to suck the joy out of competition. Lest we become jaded, here's a story that illustrates why these simple, often silly games can be so important.

This Ain't the Summer of Love

A Statement from The Publisher:

Dear DadCentric Readers,

Now more than ever, it's vital that we teach our children to acknowledge and respect the diversity that exists within our society. As we've learned from Don Imus, Michael Richards, and the Star-Bellied Sneetches, singling out and mocking others because of differences in skin tone, religious preference, sexual orientation, or physical ability is anathaema to what this country is all about, damaging others and ultimately demeaning ourselves. And stereotypes, especially those based on lifestyle choices, are never funny (even if they're true). To those who may be offended by the admittedly repellent content of the following piece, we apologize in advance. Our hope is that by shining light on the darkness, we can further advance discussion of this vital issue, and by doing so, we can all begin the healing process.

Thank you, and God bless.

The Management

It was a bad idea - heading to Trader Joe's at 5:00. With the kid, no less. But we were out of milk, and coffee, and Beth was asleep on the couch, so there it had to be done. It would be a zoo - sometimes I think that everyone in Encinitas either works from home, or doesn't work at all, and at any given time at least 1/3 of the town's populace (56,000, according to the latest data) can be found at T.J.'s . The battle for one of the store's 30 parking spots can get ugly - one half expects to be on the receiving end of The Malachi Crunch. Good thing I always wear a helmet when driving.

I had several dozen things on my mind - the big meeting I had that morning, the upcoming telecon regarding another potential writing gig, the ever-present countdown to Baby #2, would there be any Trader Jose's Frozen Mini Puntas De Albanil in stock - and the lack of parking was starting to grate. After the fifth lap, I was seething. Goddammit, shouldn't you people be at the Self-Realization Fellowship or getting acupuncture or something? Heh. My internal monologue is cracking me up. I shall give ironic voice to it!

"Dirty hippies!", I growled.

And heard a giggle from the backseat. Oh, shit...

"DIRTY HIPPIES! DIRTY HIPPIES! DIRTY HIPPIES!!", Lucas squealed. "That's FUNNY, Daddy! DIRTY HIPPIES!!!"

"Now, I was just kidding, we don't say that, it's not nice", I advised as we pulled into a parking space, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from cracking up. (Because, you will admit, that's pretty damn funny, a three-year-old boy yelling out "DIRTY HIPPIES!" while surrounded by the Patchouli Crowd.) Neither worked. Walking though the parking lot, and then through the store itself, the refrain continued, "DIRTY HIPPIES! DIRTY HIPPIES!", with me desperately pleading, "No thank you, Lucas, good boys don't say that, I'll give you a treat if you stop, want a cookie? A Trader Joe's All Natural Fruit Leather? A pony?" I couldn't get to the sample booth fast enough - there would be sweets, and that should distract him. Yes! Trader Joe's White Chocolate Chip Pistachio Cookies! I snatched up three sample cups, drawing a baleful look from the sample booth attendant, and give Lucas the contents. He took a bite of one, then paused to examine it. "What's that green thing?", he asked, pointing at a pistachio. "IS THAT A BOOGER? BOOGER IN THE COOKIES! BOOGER COOKIES!!"

Well, it was better than "DIRTY HIPPIES!!" First rule of parenting - you pick your battles.

"Yep. Booger cookies."