DadCentric

Eyes To See

The comfy orange chair that sits in the corner of our bedroom serves primarily as a canine sleeping surface, secondarily as a decoration. But every now and then, a real live human being will plunk their ass down in it, and their ass will send a signal to their brain saying “Damn, this is one comfy-ass chair. We should sit here more often.”

So it was last Thursday night when I sat in the Chair of Comfy holding a tired little boy who had been yanked out of his sleep by a tummy ache. With my arms wrapped around him, he curled into a little ball of snooze against my chest. And sitting there in the dark in one of the most comfortable chairs ever to walk out of a chair factory, my little boy asleep in my arms, a sentence began to form in my head. It was one of those rare times when I was lucky enough to be in tune with whatever it is that allows us to recognize a fleeting moment for the beautiful and profound thing that it is, and I wanted to put it into words. The sentence would be simple and elegant, with maybe one or two big words tossed in, or maybe none at all, and it would effectively communicate all the depth and power contained in this quiet little experience.

Super Book Giveaway and Iron Man, Too!

Did you know that there is a new Iron Man movie coming out on May 7th? Apparently it's a sequel.  Who knew?

We did.  You see, here's a little secret about DadCentric, we're not just filthy rich pin-up boys, we're also Superheroes and we have the underoos to prove it. Also, capes.

In support of Iron Man we've teamed with Hachette Book Group to give three (3) lucky readers the collection of Iron Man 2 books shown above. The books encompass different reading levels, so there is a little something for the entire family (and stickers!).

How to enter: Leave a comment below and share with the class what kind of superpowers (or metal suit) you would have if you had a say in such things.  

Bonus entry: You can gain one additional entry by tweeting a link to this contest and including the hashtag #DCIM2. Make sure you include the entire hashtag as this is the only way that we will be tracking bonus entries.

The contest ends on May 5, 2010. Winners will be listed on DadCentric and will need to contact us within one (1) week to claim their prize. Failure to do so will result in forfeit of the prize.

Open to residents in the United States and Canada. No P.O. Boxes, please.

If you have been lucky enough to win something from DadCentric in the past three (3) months please let someone else have a chance.  You got yours. Also, do not send photos of yourself in underoos unless you want them on the internet.

Let's hear it for the band:

Please note that I made it through this entire post without adding "Electric Boogaloo" to the movie title, which is a personal best.

Also note, Hachette Book Group has provided me with one set of the books featured in this giveaway and my boys are very excited about it. I hope they enjoy them when they're staying with the babysitter on the opening night of the film.

Wordy Wednesday: "Parents", A Poem by Greg Delanty

We say this a lot, but if you like what we do here at DadCentric, then by gum you really oughta be reading DadWagon. I found this poem here; Theodore found it here. It's a family picture that we all share.

"Parents, by Greg Delanty

What do any of us know about our parents, 
               separate or together? My mother kept the house 
in order, prepared food, wore the epinetron smooth 
               rolling the threads, the skeins of daily love. 
She wove our clothes, played knucklebones, snakes & ladders, 
               lined up with other women at the well, 
walked home balancing the vase on her head 
               as she balanced our family, the oikos.
Like most parents she hid her care, sadness, the arguments 
               with my father heading off on another odyssey. 
Da played dead when I stabbed him, let me 
               wear his helmet, turned into a tickle monster. 
Ma scolded him for exciting me before bed. 
               I suppose they were like most parents. What do I know? 
I had no others. They were as mysterious as the night sky, 
               the Islands of the Blest, the sea, Hades, the god 
hidden within the darkness of the forbidden inner temple."

DadCentric Has Got Your Meat Right Here

Of all the dad blogs out there, we here at DadCentric have the meatiest posts. That's why we are proud to announce your chance to:

WIN A YEAR'S SUPPLY OF
HILLSHIRE FARM PRODUCT(S)!!

That's right.

Lots of Beef Polska Kielbasa (yummy when stewed with crushed tomatoes and black and red beans)!

A grill full of Beef Smoked Sausage (also awesome in jambalaya)!

All the Lit'l Smokies (my fave -- just add some spicy brown mustard) your arteries can stand!

A Pause in The Shelling

The days and nights have become one long engagement. Saturday: a garage sale. Piles of impossibly small clothes and faded toys are being scooped up by the neighbors. We'd gotten up before sunrise, laid everything out neatly, and now at 0745 the clothes are strewn about the driveway like bomb fragments. I watch a kid from the overstuffed apartments down the street pick up a small plastic motorcycle and clutch it to his chest. He says something to his mother in Spanish. "Cuanto cuesta?", she asks me. I smile at her. "Por usted? Nada." Our kids, meanwhile, played inside with more stuff that will eventually end up in similar piles. We had a garage full of surplus and at the end of the day, we haven't put a dent in it. The rest of the day is spent mopping up. There are no weekends anymore. There's just an endless mess. And a battle of a different sort rages on: "DAAAAAD! ZOE HIT ME!" "GIMME DAT, YOOKAS!" The shrieks of the wounded, the moans of those sent to our version of The Cooler - a timeout, facing a blank wall. We struggle against them and for them, doing what we can to help their better angels win the day. (It goes without saying that there's no such thing as a "Stay At Home Dad". Nobody with kids just "stays at home". You fight for every inch of ground.) The rest of the day blurs into short bursts of action and panic ("Where's Zoe?" The eyes find a flung-open front door, then a flash of red hair moving towards the driveway...six years of muscle memory and reflexes kick in and I'm up and moving) followed by long stretches of wiping up spilled apple juice and decoding the mysteries of the Bakugan Rule Book. The kids are asleep by 2030; I'm snoring on the couch at 2300, wake up to a Saturday Night Live opening monologue at 2330 (why do they still do the musical numbers?) and shamble off to my rack. Sleep is purely functional. 

12:01 (Part 2)

Part 1 is available here.

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

The operating theater is surprisingly cold. I feel the skin stretch tighter across my chest and rise beneath the paper-thin barrier of my scrubs, adding an odd sensation of physical pressure to each uncertain breath I draw through my mouth. I am working consciously to push air out and pull new air in, trying to keep a steady rhythm as a way of exercising some control over a situation well beyond my control.

Near the center of the room, my wife lies supine — her arms spread wide in something approaching mock crucifixion. I watch as they bind her swollen wrists in place, her swollen fingers clenching and unclenching in response to sensations I do not and will never know. Tubes and wires wrap her arms like ivy. She is earth, restless with new life. Her teeth clench with pain or exertion or anxiety, and suddenly there is nothing in the world I have ever wanted more than to help her waive away the terror of this moment.

How To Get A Six-Year Old Boy To Eat His Asparagus (With Apologies To Britain's Greatest Hero)

 Fatherhood inflicts changes, big and small. Along with the alterations in lifestyle (no more getting up to go surfing at 6:00 a.m. on weekdays, no more watching porn on the big-screen at 8:00 a.m. on Saturdays - thanks a lot, NickToons), there are the physical changes. One that I've noticed: a slight tic in the right corner of my right eye. Unlikely the permanent weathering (the streaks of gray hair), the tic occurs intermittently, and under very specific circumstances. It kicks in during dinner time, when I admonish my son for having the eating habits of a 19th century British sailor. The kid manages to survive on bread and water. He rarely eats meat. And the only vegetable he'll eat without the threat of punishment - peas. And yet he manages to do well in kindergarten and at karate. I'm telling you, he'd have kicked some French ass at Trafalgar.

Last night, the tic was back in force. This time it was asparagus. The rest of us - even my two-year old daughter - love it. Steamed, with a bit of crunch - it's become a staple. But Lucas still steadfastly resists eating it. I try the usual tactics, and receive his usual responses:

Flavor: "It tastes good! You know what it tastes like? Green beans mixed with broccoli!" (These are two veggies that he does begrudgingly eat.) His response: "I don't like those." Me: "Yes you do." Him: "Not mixed together. That's gross."

Health Benefits: "Asparagus has lots of vitamins! Vitamins will help you to be really good at martial arts, and skateboarding, and soccer." His response: "Uh, I already AM good at those. Without eating asparagus. Also, you give me Gummy Vitamins, so I don't need any more."  

No Dessert: "No asparagus, no dessert!" Him: "Dessert's not healthy. You want me to eat healthy things like asparagus. So I shouldn't have dessert anyway, right?" Me: "Damn your Vulcan logic!"

I could see failure looming on the horizon, another battle over asparagus lost. Then, a thought. A desperate gambit, one fraught with all sorts of peril. This would be my culinary Inchon. Seize the fire, said the great Admiral Nelson.

"Asparagus makes your pee smell funny." Out of the corner of my twitching eye, I saw Beth glare at me.

Lucas lit up. "It DOES?" He tore into the asparagus. 

EPILOGUE: THE NEXT MORNING

"Dad! My pee STINKS! Asparagus is cool!" Thank God I have done my duty, I thought.

Of Walking the Line

I walk a line called fatherhood and my balance is precarious at best. Toes fall over edges smoothed with kind words and late night hugs. Feet slip upon surfaces left wet by tiny tears and early morning accidents.  It is a path that my father walked before me, and his before him, but the scenery is vastly different.  It is a path that my peers, friends and men everywhere stand upon, some more firmly than others.  Yet the path is my own.  It started where I started and it will end where I end and there will be steps backward and jumps ahead, but it will never be alone.  There is no harness for fatherhood and there is no net. We are daredevils on a tightrope and to fall is to fail and to fail is not an option.

I am every man. I am the Great Santini. I am Atticus Finch. I am Cowboy Gil, as in guil-ty.

I have retraced steps to find things dropped hours after their loss and minutes into the crying.  I have walked blocks from strange places to find substance in the hours where no child should be hungry.  I have looked into my son's face and said things that embarrass us all.

I have slammed doors and stood behind them as you cried yourself to sleep.

I have slept in your bed, curled around you like a blanket and felt my legs grow slowly numb.

I heal your wounds and you fix me when I am broken. We meet in the middle and find much happiness there.

The line is not straight.  It loops and knots and forks, and maps are useless and hard to fold.  Road signs consist of frowns and smiles and we choose our adventures accordingly.  We run, we skip and we waltz upon it -- watching our steps in equal turn to refusing to do so.  Some jumps require both feet.

When we pass each other nod and wave.  We will tell tales of where we're going and stories of where we've been. And in the distance will be children laughing loudly and growing too fast, each breath a beacon and a breadcrumb, guiding our footsteps to the place we call home.

The M3 Summit: The First Major Daddyblogger Conference Is FINALLY Happening

 Look, ladies: we love you. Without you, we couldn't be biological fathers. But every year, we sit around and mope because you gals have your various blog conferences, with the breakout sessions and the keynote speakers and the networking and the big, big parties. And while a few brave male souls venture to BlogHer every year, there to suffer the indignities of being treated like loincloth-clad Chuck Heston in Planet Of The Apes ("GET YOUR STINKING PAWS OFF OF ME YOU DAMN DIRTY MOMMYBLOGGER!" "It speaks! And in all caps, just like so many of us!")...let's face it, BlogHer is and rightfully should be a forum by and for women. We're cool with that. In fact, it's awesome. The blogosphere has become a place where women have the power and influence that they're so often denied elsewhere, and everyone is better because of it. (Just kidding about the Chuck Heston stuff, ladies. Were I not planning a vacation in August, I'd go to BlogHer, clad in naught but a beard and loincloth.) But still we wonder: when will we have a real, bigtime blog conference for dads? When, Lawd, when? When's gonna be OUR time?

Well, as it turns out, this September.

Addenda...addendum...oh, hell...Epilogue

Back on the 8th, I wrote about the anxiety I was feeling about attending my 25th reunion. Well, I am here to tell you now that I have seen the other side and it is good. That is to say, I attended and left psychologically unscathed. Simply put, it was a great time. With nearly 70 classmates present, it was, to say the least, well-attended. Having done this type of thing for a living, that many from one class is a success.

Many things about my high school have changed. Areas that were once outside - walkways, driveways - are no longer, completely enclosed by a new commons area that rivals many colleges. My lockers and homerooms from junior and senior years are no more, replaced by an extensive library and research area. The gym where we played basketball during free periods is now a 351-seat state-of-the-art performing arts center - no more pick-up games on dead floors and the days of As You Like It in the A/V room have come to an end.