DadCentric

Friday Fun: Stuff That I Post Because I Can`

First, parents, as you walk the sometimes treacherous, sometimes tranquil, always enriching Golden Road of Parenthood, every so often you must stop and ask yourselves - am I raising a douchebag?

Second, I am interrupting the Friday Fun-stivities to hawk a new site that I am stoked to be a part of. I'm the Contributing Editor of a new parenting site called Parentricity - it's a great online community created by and for parents. I'm working with some excellent bloggers on the site's blog collective, The ParentRap (clever!), and will be helping to develop additional content for the site. Go check it out, create a profile, and send me a Friend request.

Finally, via With Leather,sports blog Home Run Derby features a tribute to the powder blue uniform, thus proving my theory that only one sports team has ever made the PB Uni look good.

I Judge Kids by Their Cover

Today was the first day of preschool for Thing 1.  Yes, he's 4-years-old, and no, he's never been in any sort of structured program.  The closest he's ever come to attending daycare is spending an hour in the "clubhouse" at the gym while I run for 10 minutes and stand around looking cool for fifty.  Some people flip that, but I like to play to my strengths.

As it was his first day I volunteered to be one of the plethora of parent helpers that are present during each class.  I figured it would ease him into the program.  We were there roughly 6 seconds before he forgot me forever.  That's cool.  He was just slowing me down anyway.

He was fantastic.  I sat in the corner cutting out stocking shapes for future projects and occasionally reaching things that the other parents, all women, couldn't.  That's my lot in life- height and uncomfortable good looks.  So I sat there, and I cut, I reached, I watched and I listened.

He was the only kid new to the program and it didn't faze him.  He's something of a lone wolf.  He's also something of a ladies man.  Whenever groups were broken apart the majority of the kids tended to side along lines of gender.  Not my boy.  He grabbed his juice box and sat down at a table full of girls.  He gave them a nod and went about his snack business.  He is cool and aloof.  It was business time.

There were other kids there that weren't so controlled.  I was a bit surprised by a) the fact that the worst kid was also accompanied/ignored by a parent, and b) the teacher has the patience of a saint.  I ran a childcare program for 10 years and I was more of a disciplinarian.  Granted I had a much larger group and for the most part they were a bit older, but I had a knack for bringing them to Jesus pretty damn quick.

As I sat there I realized that kids are easy to sort.  Being among them for less than an hour had already presented me the tools to label and pigeonhole them.  There were tough kids, sissy kids, kids who climb on rocks.  I found myself approving of possible playmates and thinking up excuses not to play with others, for surely the invitations are inevitable.

Is it wrong to judge a book by its cover?  You betcha.  Do we do it?  Hell yes.  Of course, the trick is to be open enough and big enough to realize that a first impression should not be the only one.  Some of those kids might be quiet in class but will cut you for milk money, and others might be loud and bossy when it isn't appropriate then be caring and polite when it matters.  This will all play out.

In the meantime, my boy has a day of school under his belt and it looks like it fits.

The Works of Theodor Geisel: An In-Depth Discussion

"...we both smile and we say 'Hi!' The end." I close the book. "So, what did we learn from the story of The Pale Green Pants?" Lucas furrows his brow and strokes his chin. "Hmm. I think that the pale green pants are scary but they are really scared of me and so I should not be scared of them because they are not scary and they will be my friends."

"Right. Sometimes new things are strange and scary to us, but once we get to know them, we find out that they're actually nice. And what was the lesson that the guy learns in Green Eggs and Ham?" "Hmmmm." Furrows brow, strokes chin. I really should get the kid fitted for a tweed jacket. With the suede patches on the elbows. "The guy doesn't like green eggs and ham, but then he tries them and he likes them!"

"Right. Unless you try something, you never know if you're going to like it or not." I can see I've hit on something with this revelation. Lucas looks up towards the ceiling, pondering this simple truth, so basic and yet so utterly profound. Then he looks back at me. "No, Daddy. Because I don't like to drink pee or eat poop and I haven't tried them."

A Small Saturday Incident

Our little one has a penchant for swishing her milk/water/juice around in her mouth for minutes on end before finally swallowing it.  That particular sound has always bugged the hell out of me and is up there with the old fingernails-on-a-chalkboard and the voice of our current President.  So, this morning, while sitting at my desk, she goes at it with a mouthful.  I tried to ignore it, but, the liquid swish was just grating on my nerves.

"Lu!  Swallow your milk!", I say.
"That's not milk, Daddy", she replies after swallowing the swishable contents.  "That's a Zone Bar."

"As God as my witness, I thought turkeys could fly."

Why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

The Cup Runneth Over, The Well Runneth Dry

Those of you who know me know that despite my often crass and callous exterior and my snide view of much of the world around me, there beats within my chest the heart of a truly opportunistic self-serving bastard. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that when I first found out that I was to be a Dad for the second time, my second response was "thank God, more source material for the blogs".

The first response, of course, was excitement with a tinge of anxiety thrown in. A different kind of anxiety, not the "oh wow, can I actually raise a human child without killing or physically/psychologically maiming it? I've killed forests worth of desktop-variety cactus plants, and that takes a certain type of talent!" kind. No, this was the "once more unto the breach, dear friends" variety, the fear of the known, which in its own way is just as insidious as its counterpart. (Nothing, for example, will raise the hair on the back of your neck like the sound of a baby crying at 3:00 a.m., which is why the good people at the Guantanamo Bay Inn play it at all hours for their, um, "guests".)

But still, that was overshadowed by the prospect of another little one in the house, and I will say that I was and still am thrilled that she was a she. Babies are fun, even when they are not, and writing about babies is fun, especially when they are not. Plus, having a second child gives things a sense of completeness - Beth and I are both older siblings, and it seems right that Lucas is now one as well. It is, as the kids say, all shades of good.

Except that I'm as tired as a blog post about poopy diapers. I forgot about that part; I didn't actually start blogging about Lucas until he was a few months old and we were all sleeping through the night. I'm not sure I could have done it. Pre-Zoe me would get up at 5:30 a.m., go surfing for an hour, work until 5:00 p.m., come home, fix a killer meal for the family, play with Lucas and the dog, maybe take everyone to Barnes and Noble and peruse the History and Literature sections, come home and watch TV and read and write, hit the sack at 11:00, repeat. The past two weeks, it's been: fall out of bed at 6:00, stare at the coffee pot while it works its magic, go to work, come home at 5, toss a frozen Trader Joe's Entree into the oven, and pass out on the couch by 8:30. I thought I'd be a bit more prolific, and that a new baby would inspire me to write all sorts of inspired prose, but my brain feels like it's been poked with a...a...sharp pointy object of some sort, like those things you use to eat, I dunno, meat. A fork, that's what it's called.

Honestly, there was a point to this, but it's 8:54, and I feel like I might just fall asleep right here at the keyb

Cribs, Redemption and the Mile

Thing 2 was a kept man.  His crib was his cell.  Prison life consists of routine, and then more routine.  He slept sound.  Sound enough, for someone still shy of his second birthday.  It was the crib.  He seldom slept away from it, and the few nights we tried to stay with friends or in hotels were quickly added to the pile of experiments we regret.  He was a kept man, and he was comfortable.

These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.

He depended on them.  He stood at the railing and waved the day goodbye each night and rose to meet it again each morning.  He was alone, but he was not lonely.  Thing 1 visited often with hugs and nail files baked into cakes. 

I dreamed of you. I dreamed you were wandering in the dark, and so was I. We found each other. We found each other in the dark.

Freedom found him today.  One moment he was fighting the battle of boy against nap and the next he was walking down the hall with his pants in one hand and his shoes in the other.  It was as if someone had returned his belongings to him and sent him on his way.

We asked him what happened.  We asked him how he got out.  He just nodded and handed me his shoes, filled with dirt and bits of clay.  I dressed him and let him wander into the yard, a nap beaten and freedom gained.

I went into his room, bracing myself for the inevitable Rita Hayworth poster across the headboard of his crib.  There was nothing but memories and questions that he wouldn't answer.   

What happens on the mile stays on the mile. Always has.

________________________

-with all apologies to Stephen King

 

Kanye West Serenades His Mom

I know that this is a "daddy blog" but I came across this touching clip from The Life and Rhymes of Kanye West, a filmed concert that originally aired in 2005 on MTV, on which Kanye performs "Hey Mama," the song he wrote about his relationship with his mom, from his album Late Registration.

Kanye's mom, Donda, passed away this week. She raised her son as a single mother and the bonds between parent and child were extremely tight. In this video, Donda West is in the audience and he calls her up on stage so he can sing to her. The two hold hands and dance and the whole thing is just really sweet... and maybe extra sad, in light of recent events.

• MTV
• As parents, we should all be so lucky to have such tight bonds with our grown children. Whether dad or mom, whether son or daughter, here's to parents and kids everywhere.

It's The Most Logical Time of The Year

"Daddy." From the back seat, not a question, but a statement/request, usually an indicator that some kind of demand is about to be foisted upon me.

"Yeah. What's up."

"Um, I think I need to go to Target to get a Bumblebee Transformer."

"Need?"

"Yes. Because I have Optimus but I need Bumblebee for him."

"Ah. Well, you know, Christmas is coming..."

"But I think I need Bumblee now, not at Christmas."

"Yes, well, we can't start buying toys now, because if we do, then Santa won't have anything to bring you."

Pause.

"Daddy, I don't like Santa. He's a bad guy."

"Really."

"I don't like Christmas and I don't like Santa. So I don't want toys from him."

"So that means what, exactly."

"So because I don't like Santa I don't want him to bring me anything and so I have to go to Target to get my Bumblebee Transformer now."

(Next week: Lucas uses DeMorgan's Theorems to explain why he shouldn't have to eat his broccoli.)

Self-deprecating self-doubt

You know when you're out with the guys and some time during the night one of your buddies (maybe you) looks around and says something so serious, so lacking in humor, that it sucks all the funny right out of the room?  Others may have thought something similar at some time or may even be experiencing it at that very moment, but, like guys often do, there's an awkward silence, some sideways glances and then a "How 'bout them Bears" comment.  This just might be one of those times.

I have been, of late, questioning my abilities as a father.  Yes, yes we all mock one another and offer self-deprecating jibes, but I think the humor (at least in my case) hides the fact that I haven't got a clue what the hell I'm doing or if what I am doing is a good thing or will eventually drive my kids into (alert: parent blogger cliche ahead) years of therapy.

I think what is driving this sense of inadequacy (why do I feel like I'm in a Cialis commercial?  Do they make an Enzyte-like drug for parental enhancement?  Look: an attempt at humor) is that I can't seem to control my 2-year-old.  And by control, I mean just slow him down to Tasmanian Devil speed.  I know this sounds ludicrous.  It is.  Many of you will say, "Dude, he's two" and, of course, you couldn't be more right.  I know I should embrace his reckless abandon, his wanton stubbornness and personality swings that would make Sybil look normal, but if I have to say, "Stop hitting your sister," "Get off the table," "Stop clotheslining Little Dubyette," or "It's not nice to use the Camel Clutch on baby" I might lose my f'in mind.  I know my problem stems from the fact that I am attempting to use logic and reasoning with a child; a child whose grasp on these concepts extends only as far as "if I scream loud enough, not only will I get mommy or daddy to come see me, I will also get my sippy-cup filled."  But, I take the fact he ignores me as evidence that I am failing him in some way; that I am not reaching him on some level.  That or he just likes the sound of my voice.

I know this is a phase; something he will grow out of when he's 25.  Thankfully, I also know I'm not alone.  But, when we all try so hard to have a positive impact on our kids and things don't seem to be going according to plan, I think a little freakin' out from time to time is totally warranted.  Dude, this parenting thing is tough.