DadCentric

A Blindness That Touches Perfection

We sit together, there in the darkness.

In momentary, fleeting bursts of light our features are illuminated — lit harsh and brilliant in xenon; then soft and shadow-drenched in gentle pulses of sodium. I glance up to the rear-view and see them sitting there, side by side by side, in their thick winter coats and warm, fleecy hats. They are luminous; effortlessly beautiful, and completely at ease in each other's company. Here, together, in this zone of familiar comforts, in these slipstream minutes of transition from the work of children to the shelter of home, they are unveiled.

The Day was Mixed with Foul and Rye

In the morning there was a shadow of crap smeared across the carpet. Any number of culprits came to mind - from boot bottoms to the bottoms themselves. The boys were ruled out as an extension of courtesy.  They had better things to do than crap on the carpet.

Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them — if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry.

Their arrangement is in the running across it.  Theirs is in the wrestling upon it.  Carpet is the grass beneath their feet and outside their fence it grows all the greener.  Carpet means nothing to children except in its absence.

The State of The Dad Blog Union

As a veteran dadblogger, I get a lot of questions from neophytes looking to make a splash in the dad-blog-o-sphere. What should I write about? Which dadblogs should I read? Are poop/fart stories still funny? Should I emphasize a humorous word, line, or passage by writing it in all caps? 

We're into our 5th year here at DadCentric (pause for polite applause) and I'm pleased to see that more and more dads out there are writing about their experiences. (Which dadblog should you read? Well, if you had to pick one, it should of course be this one, but if you had to pick two, it should be this one and DadWagon. Damn, those guys are good.) People blog for different reasons: it's fun, it's a good way to gain exposure for would-be professional writers, it's cheaper than therapy. Some dadbloggers write for themselves, with no intention of building an audience/community. Others have every intention of building an audience/community.  With a few exceptions, I would encourage all noob dadbloggers to seek out the former. 

Writing about parenting, whether you're a mom or a dad, is an endless attempt to answer a simple question. Am I a good parent? I read a lot of dad blogs, and I'm starting to notice a couple of disturbing trends. The first: the growing number of websites for dads that claim to have the goal of making Better Men And Better Fathers. (Share your feelings with fellow men! Give yourself over to a Higher Power! Put a flower in your hair and join hands and sing Kumbayah!) The second: the growing number of dad bloggers that feel the need to feed the Dads Aren't Moms Therefore They Must Be Incapable Of Caring For Children Beast by joining the "debate". The Modern Father is a different animal than his knuckle-dragging ancestor! Or not! Discuss!

Who Is Merriam Webster?

 When my son asked me I said, “That’s a good question.”

Nine-year-olds are full of them. Or at least mine is these days.

The Webster question had come up because my oldest was doing definitions for homework and had asked about the always-confusing compliment versus complement. I may struggle with his science and math homework but this one I had covered. I live in a world of words.

“Merriam Webster is a gender bender,” said my six-year-old, reeling us back to the original question at hand.

“What?” I said.

“A gender bender,” he calmly explained.

“I think it is a woman,” said his older brother. “Merriam sounds like a girl’s name.”

“True,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a dude named Merriam but I’m not ruling out that it is a man.”

Wikipedia was consulted.

Turns out it is the last names of two different men combined.

“Just like Hanna-Barbera,” I said.

“Another gender bender!” exclaimed my six-year-old…

Did anybody have the foggiest idea what a gender bender was at age six? My how times have changed.

 

A Tale of Two Mornings

The Oldest Son

The first bell rang just as we shut the gate behind us.  He was in his thick, orange jacket and thanks to the green cargo pants he sported he was looking much more Aquaman than Kenny.  He clutched a stick of bacon in his fist and his eyes were awake with wonder and mischief.   His school was a block away.

I had coffee on my breath and breakfast in my teeth.  My hair looked like Mel Kiper, Jr., and Dan Zanes had slept in it.  I was hurried and the ringing of the bell in the distance added a longer stride to my step.  He had to jog to keep up.  He kept time with the chewing of his bacon.

Trouble

She stands in the middle of the kitchen, arms folded, staring straight ahead. Her lips are pursed and occasionally she gives me sideways glances as I speak to her.

I am in so much trouble, I say to myself. I am ill-equipped to win this battle. And yet, here I am, trying to win. Fool.

"I'm not talking to you," she spits and gives me a look that would have made Medusa beam with pride.

I continue to try to cajole a response from her, but at the same time, I feel my own obstinate nature begin to rise. This is turning into a battle of wills, and I am so going to lose. Actually, I have already lost. I know this deep down inside.

"I'm not talking to you," she says once again, this time adding a foot stomp and a "Hmph" for emphasis.

I ask her what can I do? Silence.

I ask her if there's anything I can get her? Silence.

I hate being ignored. I feel the first tendrils of anger rising inside. I purse my lips.

I turn my back to her. "Honey," I say, "can you tell A to get her pajamas on?"

"Sweetie, do as your daddy says and put your pajamas on."

"Ok, mommy," she says with a vaguely smug look on her face - if a 3-year-old can show smugness. She has won. She doesn't know she's won, but she has.

I help her with her Ariel pajamas. Ah, defiant little mermaid. How appropriate. Sigh.

"I love you, daddy," she says as she wraps her arms around my neck. I hug her back and plant a kiss on her cheek and forehead, brushing her hair back from her face. She has so won.

She's three and I am in so much trouble.

The G.I. Joe Movie That We REALLY Want To See

Don't rest on your laurels, James Cameron. Avatar is about to get PWNED by what looks to be the greatest special effects-driven action movie of all time. It's got it all: breath-taking visuals, amazing voiceover performances, painstaking attention to historical detail, and a socially-conscious message in tune with our troubled times. And it's got G.I. Joes. REAL G.I. Joes, not those 8 inch tall candy-ass Joseph Gordon-Levitt replicas, but the ones with the Eagle Eye and the Kung Fu Grip and the beards that shed in patches like the facial hair of nuclear meltdown victims. Readers, I give you...Viva The 'Nam.

The Dreaded Backfire

Bedtime was drawing near, and my eldest and I were talking about the nightmares he had been having. Whatever horrors were visiting my little boy, they were frightening enough to make him cry out in the middle of the night, to shake him from his sleep, and send him running to our bedside pleading for sanctuary. This had been going on for about a week.

My wife had read somewhere that the urge to pee while sleeping can sometimes translate into bad dreams in little kids. We have no idea if it’s true and we did zero research to find out, but seeing as how the boy, like his father, fancies a little drinky drinky before hitting the hay, it seemed a likely enough culprit. She suggested that perhaps he lay off the liquid so close to bed so that maybe his nightmares would go away. To my surprise, he latched on to this idea like a life preserver, like he would do anything to make the bad dreams stop. It was only then that I realized just how much of an impact they were having. So while I helped him into his pajamas, we talked.

“Do you remember what happens in your dreams?”

He nodded to the affirmative.

“Is it a monster?”

Tempest

For days we'd been hearing about it - a monster rainstorm approaching, threatening to wipe clean all that had come before, the local TV weatherpeople delivering updates with gravitas atop barely hidden glee. Finally, some action! Yesterday we scoured the stores looking for a raincoat for Lucas; we'd equipped Zoe with a Hello Kitty slicker to match her Hello Kitty rainboots, and I'd been lucky indeed to find the last size 6/7 waterproof jacket at our local REI. It's Southern California: we don't do weather.

The storm fell on us like a raptor, shrieking, claws outstretched. The drive to school was a trip through a Lucasfilm asteroid belt - I dodged garbage cans, palm fronds, pieces of roof. "Never tell me the odds!", I muttered to no one. The wind buffeted, the rain pelted, Beth called to tell me the power was out. Lucas emerged from the kindergarten classroom, beaming. Storms are cool. I had a thought. "Wanna go check out the ocean? Should be pretty big." "YYYYYYYEAH!"

A Superhero

It takes a village. Sometimes it takes a do-jon. Today the school was closed, it was appropriately gray and rainy, and we were on our way to a day-long Tang Soo Do camp. 

"Dad? Is today Marvin Luther King Day?"

"Martin. And yes, it is. That's why you guys don't have school."

"Oh. Who's Marvin Luther King?"

Do they teach kindergarteners about firehoses, rubber bullets, dogs and lynchings? Is there a book on talking to your kids about the unfathomable? "Martin. Well...years ago, some states had laws that kept African-Americans from going to restaurants, riding on buses, doing lots of things that white people do. Some states made it illegal for black people to marry people who weren't black."

"Well, that's dumb." Smart kid.

"Yeah, it is dumb. And Martin Luther King was a leader, a man who stood up to those dumb laws and convinced people that they were wrong, and that everyone deserves to be treated equally and with respect, no matter what color they are, or what religion, or who they love. That's why he's a hero. He dedicated his life to helping people, to making wrong things right."

I could hear his eyes widen. "Like a superhero! Where does he live now?"

"Well...he died. An evil man killed him. That man went to prison for life."

The silence of a five-year-old, processing darkness. "Well, if I was a superhero I would go back and stop that bad man. I'd use my karate on him. Superheroes save lives, you know."

"Yep."