DadCentric

Illness Arrives, Chaos Ensues

I knew we couldn't dodge the bullet forever.

Our twin girls have managed to go for nineteen months now without an illness worse than a mild case of the sniffles.  I've always attributed this to my particularly robust genes.  It may also have something to do with the fact that they have never been in daycare and are a bit standoffish during playdates, so don't come in close contact with many little purveyors of pestilence.

My smugness has now been replaced with abject despair though, as a series of insidious viruses have infiltrated our perimeter and made our (more or less) orderly homelife resemble nothing so much as medieval plague art.

Ad Astra

Personal Finance was a morning class, the first one of the day; I struggled with staying awake. I was glad to be sitting with my back to the windows, as this was Alaska - the sun would not rise for another couple of hours, and the skies outside were as black as the void between stars. Balancing checkbooks and learning about savings bonds did not in any way, shape, or form compare to delving into Hemingway, or peeking inside the minds of Lincoln, Kennedy, or Eisenhower. It wasn't a class so much as it was an excuse: it was taught by Mr. Swatosch, our football coach. He needed to teach an actual class, and so there we all were. If the class was forgettable, he was not: Bartlett High's coach for 18 years, he was a gruff bear of a man who favored velour track suits. The track suits quickly became a running joke, but a good-natured one; he was a character in the best sense of the word. Twenty-five years ago this morning, Mr. Swatosch was wearing a maroon-colored velour track suit. I'm sure of this. I can't tell you what his lecture was about; it was interrupted when our principal stopped by and asked Mr. Swatosch to step outside the classroom for a moment. But I remember the color of that track suit, the color of a sodden brick wall, making his face all the more pale when he told us that the space shuttle had just exploded and that everyone on board was dead.

(I know there will be a bunch of tribute videos posted all over the Interwebs today; the Challenger explosion was one of those moments that will stick with our generation. I found this one a few weeks ago; it has very little and everything to do with the Challenger disaster. Enjoy.)

 

The Happiest Place On Earth: A Report From The Front Lines (Part 1)

In early January, DadCentric sent intrepid writer TwoBusy deep into the heart of the Floridian Disneybeast. He was set up as an embedded member of what military experts call a "family unit," and told to explore the environs and report back from the front lines. His live feed was disrupted almost immediately upon landing in exotic Orlando... and no physical traces of his team have been found.

However, the following notes - apparently taken by TwoBusy during the first five days of the journey - were later recovered by a crack U.N. team of investigators. Here, for the first time, DadCentric shares this harrowing portrayal of a man plunging into the depths of the fabled Kingdom of Princesses.

DAY ONE

• Our plane descends from the clouds, and beneath me I see the mottled patina of Central Florida. I know I shouldn't be surprised by how flat it is, and yet: it is, as always, strange to see a landscape more defined by what descends from its surface than all that rises from it. Ponds, canals, what I presume are boundless acres of engineered and reengineered wetlands. And somewhere, in the midst of this all, a promised land of magic.

• The children grow restless as we begin our slow arc towards Orlando Multidimensional Airport. There are expectations that the terminal will be filled with Princesses and magical animals. For the record: if Orlando TSA is comprised of talking bears, I will consider myself honestly impressed.

Nap Time

We lay down together on the couch. My arm is tucked just so, between his hips and his rib cage, at the small of his small back, buried slightly in the couch cushions. This is the best way to get him to nap. Lucky for me.

My rough, worn, time-scarred face presses lightly up against his soft, smooth, cool cheek. 

His eyelids, heavy, tinged with purple, half cover dark sleepy eyes. He sucks his thumb. I snuggle closer. Breath in his still sweet baby smell. This won't last fore-- oh, hey kitty. Hey pretty cat. You gonna take a nap t--ok now. Don't attack his feet. That's fresh. Get down.

 His breathing slows as does the motion of his mouth pulling on that ever present thumb. Ok you. Get that bum down and those legs back under the blankets. There we go.

I feel his body relax. He has no worries to make his shoulders rigid with tensi--Oh hi again kitty. Ok you need to get down. What? You want to pat her? Ok there you go. Now she needs to go. She's gotta nap too, honey.

My calloused hand lightly strokes his perfect forehead. Passes over his eyes. Encourages them to close. He turns toward me. He throws his free arm over my neck. The fingers on his thumb sucking hand flex, then release, brushing my face. Goddammit, get down cat. No more patting, it's nap time. You're hungry? You just ate. After nap.

His chest rises and fal-Get outta here cat! No, Pman, you can't go play. Because it's nap time. I pull him in tight and--I know you're hungry but--wait. Where are you going? No no, it's nap timeFUCK OFF CAT. I think maybe this time I'll join him in slumb-- Ok sweetie, what are you doing? Lets . . . you have poops? Let me check . . . you don't have poops, you liar. We warm each other under Wait where are you going? You're a scary monster? But, it's nap time.

Or not, I guess. Ok.

 

 AHHHH! A scary monster!

 

It was nice while it lasted.

 

Cut Cut Slash

I wonder what it’s like to live in a place where getting your child educated is not an anxiety-plagued prospect that dredges up nightmare idiocracy scenarios of our civilization’s future and calls into question our right to continue as a species. Such places must exist, right? I’ve heard faint whispers of such mythic lands.

The anxiety is running high among Austin parents here lately. My wife and I have a child entering kindergarten in the fall, as do a number of our friends. For the past few years, our discussions about education revolved around questions that were, in hindsight, pretty basic. Should we stick with our area school or put in for a transfer? What’s up with charter schools? How can we be involved? Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff.

Now the situation is looking downright grim. The State of Texas faces a budget shortfall of no less than $15 billion, a number so large that it doesn’t even seem real. People who study these things have calculated that you could close every prison in the state and still not close the gap. Every prison in Texas, y’all! And you know how we love us some prisons.

Up: The 1960's Live-Action Premake!

Like Pixar's Up? Like old movies? Well then.

 

(Via The AV Club.)

Let's Go Exploring

He turned and spoke to us.

"Let's go exploring," he said.

So the three of us bundled up to stave of the winter chill and went out into the great big world. He led the way and we followed. His path was like one of those Family Circus cartoons - it went everywhere and anywhere but straight. 

He galloped off and we strolled behind him. 

"A park!" he yelled, cupping his mouth with both hands in an attempt to throw his voice to us. His brother ran to him a smile on his face. He stopped and turned, "C'mon dad!" he hollered back to me. We had meandered past the mailbox moments before and I held a few pieces of parcel post in my hand. I sat on the bench, ripped open a package to find a book. I cracked it open and read a few pages of the intro but they quickly tired of this place. 

His eyes darted to the trees that lined the edge of the woods.

"Let's go in there," he said excitedly. 

Then he jumped off the jungle gym and headed toward the trees. He little brother did the same.

Five yards in and then were stuck in a thicket.

"Um, let's look for a path," I said as I tucked the book and mail under my coat and into the waistband of my black jeans.

And a path we found.

A Letter to the Girl Returning from Sleepaway Camp

Dear Daughter,

I’d like to congratulate you on your recent achievement.  You and your Junior Girl Scout troop completed a weekend away from home, staying two nights at a mountain camp three hours away.  All 14 of you packed up your pink sleeping bags, loaded your backpacks up with Skittles, SillyBandz and stuffed pandas, and you headed up to the high timber, away from your mother and me.

Since you’re nine, I think we can agree that this is impressive.

Sure, you were reticent the week prior to the getaway.  You approached your mother and me with what I’ll call “certainty,” explaining to us that you did not wish to make the trip.  It was far, you explained.  And away.  And two whole nights.  Not just one, like a regular sleepover at a friend’s house.

Your mother and I explained to you that the trip would be fun.  Fun? you said incredulously.  You did not agree.  I know this because of your dextrous, well-placed air quotes around the word.  (Kudos to you, future sarcastic pundit.  And kudos again.)

The trip would not be “fun,” you said.  You continued making your case for staying home with what I’ll call “tenacity.”  (Between you and me, your mother used the word “whiny.”  She’s so mean to you.  I don’t know how you put up with it.)

You said that perhaps such a journey might be fun, if your mother or myself were to accompany you on the trip.

“But Sweetheart,” I said, “we are not Girl Scouts, you see.” 

You explained to us that several other parents were going on the trip.  Therefore, we could too.  Chaperones, we explained.  They are chaperones, and we are not.

“So just be a Sharpertone,” you said plaintively.  I will concede this was where I too detected the slightest hint of whininess, which I attributed to a justifiable Fear of the Unknown.

Hey, MTV! Skin This!

Poor MTV. When I was a teen, I loved - nay, I wanted my MTV. 120 minutes! Headbanger's Ball! Unplugged! The ongoing Jheri Curl battle between Mark Goodman and J.J. Jackson!  You know - MTV? The network that used to be Music Television? The one that actually played music videos? Money for nothing? Chicks for free? Anyone? 

Sure, my parents disapproved of it ("Why is that man wearing lipstick?" "It's Motley Crue, mom! They're badass!") but deep down they knew it was harmless, a faux rebellion led by your cool college-aged babysitter Martha Quinn (who would later cut her hair off, put on a suit, and refer to herself as "Carson Daly"). I would totally let my kid watch that MTV. Sadly, that MTV is as dead as Gary Numan's career. To paraphrase the Buggles, the Internet and reality TV killed the video star, and MTV pretty much did away with the "M" part. Music videos gave way to game shows and reality series, America realized that the douchebags who inhabited The Real World were really just not douchebaggy enough, and so The Real World begat Jersey Shore, but that show wasn't vile enough and thus the afterbirth of Skins slithered out of MTV's filth.

Weakness is a daughter

Hello there. I'm mr. big dubya and I'm a horrible blogger. (This is the part where you say, "Hi, mr. big dubya!" and offer some sympathetic nods in agreement.) I don't even recall the last time I posted anything here of actual substance. October? September? Let's just say that it's been a really long time. I offer no excuses other than I've been less than inspired for an interminably long time. If any of you have seen my mojo serving up witty banter out there in there tubes, would you let him know that he is sorely missed? Much obliged.

So, what's been going on you ask? Well, let me tell you. I took my daughter to a dance the other night. My four-year-old daughter. To a dance. With a DJ and flowers and pictures. A dance. Granted it was a Daddy/Daughter dance, but a dance nonetheless. This was not something I wanted to check off the daddying bucket list so soon. I thought I would have time to prepare myself; to get in the right mindset. I'm not sure how I will survive when she goes to a dance where there are actual boys in attendance. If what I saw Saturday night is any indication, I may not. Survive, that is. There she was, off with her friends, holding court, exchanging hugs and "air kisses" and she was no longer four but fourteen. She took off her shoes as she and her friends whirled around to Ke$ha, Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber (shudder). And I wanted to stop time because, let's be honest, I'm not ready for this. She's four. And at a dance.

But I was not alone.