DadCentric

Rockabye: The DadCentric Review

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn't brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn't your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won't lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca's blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: "Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don't we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I'm not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice."

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: "Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well."

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle.  Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you.

Dom? Mad? Fother? Mather? I'm Confused.

Well, it was bound to happen. Science has finally reached the point where what was once inconceivable will soon be reality. I refer, of course, to the Wachowskis' Speed Racer, coming to theaters this summer. How dope does that look!?

Also, apparently there's a pregnant guy.

This has caused quite a stir in the Dad-O-Sphere. Greg's take on Thomas Beattie is erudite, succinct, and delivered with sensitivity and tact. The Sun's take on him? Well. Also, they totally stole my thunder - I was all set to riff on the almost completely forgotten Schwartzenegger flick Junior, but no point in doing that now. Wait - is that Emma Thompson? Holy shit! It is! Always a surprise when a renowned actor slums it.

Anyway, back to the pregnant dad: I think I can speak for a great many fathers when I say that Thomas Beattie is a  brave guy, sharing his story with the world, and carrying out his desire to give birth. Yes, brave in the sense that he certainly knew, going into it, that he'd be dealing with bigotry and ostracism from narrow-minded folk. But, much more than that, HE'S PREGNANT. Can you name one dad who, after spending nine months with his achy, nauseous, itchy, hormonal, emotional, hairy-where-there-once-was-smoothness, thought "yeah, I'd like to try that! Where do I sign up?" Oh, and once you hit that nine month mark you have to have the baby surgically removed (well, I suppose that's better than passing the kid through either of the two available exit routes. You thought passing that kidneystone hurt? Try pissing out a 10 pound baby!)  Fuck. That. Shit. I am waaaay too much of a pussy to be a biological mom.  And, dads who are reading this, admit it - so are you. Look in the mirror, look deep into your eyes, into the window of your souls, and say this: "May God strike me down if I'm lying - I would like to get pregnant. Because along with the constant back pain, there's a good chance that I'll develop a hemorrhoid the size of a Titleist."  Yeah, I thought so.

Thucydides said that "the bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it." So, Thomas Beattie, we at DadCentric salute your courage. All that, plus you have to go to your own baby shower? You deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor, dude.

This End Up isn't high-end?

I'm not a New York Times reader.  I never have been and I'm fairly certain I never will be.  In all honesty, I've just always found it pretentious and I don't think I fall into their particular demo.  They're wine, cheese and foie gras.  I'm beer, pretzels and three-layer dip.  Oh sure, I like to come off now and then like I'm a bit more cultured and refined, but I'm a keg parties in the woods, sit in the bleachers type of guy.

I know, I know.  You're saying to yourself, "Warren, we don't give a shit why you don't like The Times."  And, you're right, you shouldn't.  I only tell you as a preface to this February 14th article and why I found myself shaking my head muttering, "I just don't get it" and "Maybe they don't get it."

Before I got married, my decor consisted of a used Scandinavian Designs bed and dresser, assorted crates, a TV stand, an entertainment center, a beat-up La-Z-Boy covered in cat hair (RIP Moe) and assorted bric-a-brac - typical for a guy just out of college living on his own.  After getting married, Mrs. Big Dubya and I set out to furnish our home with nice but comfortable stuff - neither wanted a room or rooms where you were afraid to enter or sit down (read: my parents' house).  I think we've succeeded and admirably so.  It's all very nice, but we also know we have two small children (a third on the way) who aren't using coasters, eat with their fingers and like to use bottles as if they were bingo daubers.  Three words: We. Have. Kids.  Have I quit?  No.  Am I a realist?  I think so.  That's why I found the article so dumbfounding.  Am I the only one who knows that kids are not neatniks?  They don't just walk they barrel headlong into things.  They smear, spill, smudge and slobber on everything.  God bless 'em.

What bothers (troubles?) me about this article at times is the "Extra!  Extra!" earth-shattering quotes and revelations on behalf of some of the interview subjects:   “Going from being a couple to becoming a parent, your whole world changes..."  “Once you become a parent, your home is not your own..."  Hold on a sec.  You mean it's not all about me anymore?  Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie.  But, from reading this, you'd think these parents never got that memo - the underlying tone is, "I have and want nice things, therefore my children will conform and show these items the proper respect and care."  Newsflash: um...no they won't and no they won't.  Let me just say, here and now, I'm not faulting these people for wanting nice things; for wanting nice living spaces; for wanting to be adults.  Hell, I would love to be able to do that.  I've had my eye on a piece or two at Pier One just like everyone else.  But I also know that a wall, even if it is covered in designer paint, is still a very appealing and enticing canvas.  And, no matter how cautious or how quick you are (or think you are) that child is going to vomit - whether he's sitting on a $399 EKTORP sofa in Belgian White or a $17,000 sectional in brown leather and emerald chenille.  It's better to resign yourself to this fact now.  Just ask my sectional after the Sharpie pen incident of 2006.

If you have children and manage to maintain a showroom-quality apartment or home, lucky you and may that luck continue.  And, if you don't mind me asking, how much did you pay for Vicki?

Sidenote: If you read the article, you may have a similar question(s): How exactly does one go about becoming a professional babyproofer?  And 300 holes?  Are you installing some sort of bank vault?

It's cast-iron lined

No one has ever asked me so I'm not sure my opinion...my seasoned take...is of any value.  Fathers-to-be have never actively solicited my advice.  I do not dwell in a cave like some 21st century hermit awaiting seekers of wisdom, ready to provide them with the secrets of what to expect when their child finally arrives.  Then again, I never sought the advice of other veterans either.  I had it in my head that at 38 I had seen a great deal - more than some, less than others - but a great deal nonetheless.  I was wizened, savvy.  People do offer advice, of course.  We hear it all the time solicited or not.  But, fathers, I think there is something we can share with our brethren that, as some cruel part of the initiation, we keep to ourselves.  Some bon mot that tips them off while not going into a load of detail; something that implies a "You'll see" tone.

Something like, "I hope you have a strong stomach."

But more subtle.

Maybe, "Vomit easy?"

I'm not even talking about the poop.  The poop is easy, although that meconium does come as bit of a surprise early on - enough so that you want to call Fox Mulder.  Spitting up is amateur stuff.  If you can't take that you're in for a looooong haul.  No, it's toddler vomit.  Specifically the vomit of a milk drinker.  I have done some hard partying in my life - spring breaks, Mardi Gras, Oktoberfest, frats, Little Dub's first birthday party (I kid - it was his second) - and have seen up close and personal the effects of such drinking.  But nothing...nothing...prepared me for what the littlest Dubyas do.

I found myself thinking about this last night as I was up to my elbows in sheets and blankets covered in curdled milk, bile and remnants of a macaroni and cheese dinner, diligently rinsing them out before dropping them in the wash while Mrs. Big Dubya was upstairs hosing down Little Dubyette in the tub.

"No one told me about this part.  It's a good thing I have a strong stomach."

I Want to Dip My Balls in It!

Maybe.

I know it's a touchy subject- a collective squirm throughout the internets, but we're talking about something important here and it must be said: vasectomy. 

Damn, see?  It's like the scene in Stand By Me when he gets leeches on his junk.  I remember the whole row in the movie theater crossing their legs, even the women.  Getting stuff snipped, especially stuff that has never done me wrong and was key to a great part of my happiness from the age of 14 to present, well, it doesn't seem right.  Necessary?  Probably.  Right? No.

My wife and I are done having children.  There, I said it.  We like what we've got.  We're happy.  Put the freaking lid on.  The time has come to trust someone other than Trojan Man and Navin R. Johnson with the technicalities of our bedchamber.  I don't want to think about Xavier McDaniel.

I want to think about sex.  I want to live in the moment, consequence be damned.  Is that too much to ask?  I figure I only get so many opportunities, each lasting up to (but not longer than) 4 hours, that it's time to stop the insanity and just get jiggy with it. 

That's how I'm justifying it anyway, but damn, it's scary. 

What about you?  Any of you have a eunuch unique take on this?

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

 

A Little Life

Today is the Day of The Dead. Seems like it would be a rather morbid affair, this holiday, but no; the cultures that celebrate El Dia de Los Muertos honor the lives of the deceased, and reaffirm the notion that death is not the end, but the beginning of a new stage of life.

The day of the living. That I can dig, especially after the past couple of weeks. The fires, of course; there's still a faint smell of smoke in the air, and the sunsets remain perversely beautiful. The week of the dead, in a sense; we've all been walking around in a daze, like the decaying stars of George Romero's zombie movies. But even before the fires, I felt like I was in some sort of Purgatory. My current job is a nightmare; everything that I abhor about Corporate America is manifested there - incompetant, callous managers, and miserable employees who stumble through their work day, eyes downcast, too dejected to even quit. It's Dunder-Mifflin, only not funny, and I realized that I'm spending about 8 hours a day too many there; being around such detached, miserable people tends to chip away at you.

But one can't be a parent and a cynic.

The timing was impeccable. A birthday, on this day that many spend celebrating lives lived and the life to come. Seems perfect. A name - Zoe - that we immediately chose upon learning that she was, in fact, a she, a name that we later learned means "life" in Greek. Our daughter, our little Life, born today.

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 Childbirth Preparation Refresher Course: A Misanthrope's Guide

Since we have about seven weeks to go before Baby Girl (whose womb-name, it's been decided, is "Princess Buttercup") arrives, Beth and I figured it would be a good idea to take our hospital's crash course in birthin' for repeat parents. The hospital's official name for the program is the Childbirth Preparation Refresher Express Class, which, oddly, or maybe not, acronyms down to ChiBPREC. I had mixed feelings about attending - not because I didn't think I needed the info, but because other people would actually be in the class, and there was a very good chance that some of them would speak to me, with the expectation that I would reply in some manner. Frankly, that's not how I roll. I go into these courses like a 101st Airborne paratrooper goes into his D-Day H-Hour Minus 12 pre-jump briefing: I need the intel that will keep me and mine alive during this crucial mission. I want data, diagrams, numbers, plaster models of pelvic bones with movable parts. The "sharing of feelings and experiences"...fie! Fie I say!  Well, it being 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday, I figured there was a good chance that none of the other 16 people who had signed up for the class would show.

Of course, everyone did show. I won't go into details - labor, "transition", push, baby, "Dad, it's your turn! Cut that cord!", go home, raise child. But I will point out a few of the highlights.

• Overenthusiastic Birth Dad! - As you know, I am a flag bearer for the Dads Are Parents Too movement. The father carries an equally important load in the entire process of bringing a kid into the world, and ensuring that the kid grows up happy, healthy, and Not Evil. "We" is a word that Beth and often use when discussing our parenting with others. That said, in the class, there was Skippy (not his real name). Skippy, when asked about his wife's previous birthing experience, said (and I quote) "Well, we were in labor for 12 hours, and we pushed for about an hour." Dude, when it comes to the actual process of squeezing a child out from 'twixt one's labia, there is no we. Unless your wife takes a sock full of batteries and clubs you in the nuts with it every time a contraction hits, you're pretty much Goose to her Maverick.  Actually, not even - you're the guy in the tower who gets the coffee all over his uni when Mav does a fly-by. Backrubs, ice chips, and moral support - that's our job when it's go-time, no shame in it.  (I'd love to be a fly on the wall at this couple's breastfeeding class - "We were having trouble with the baby latching, so we decided to just let my wife do the nursing.")
• Self-Proclaimed "Crunchy Mom"! - It's admirable that you want to have a natural unmedicated birth. And it's ok that you "hate IV's and would never want to have drugs while having a baby". But "those stupid things with all of the wires that they put on me", those are called fetal monitors, and "the nurses coming in and poking me and looking at me and bothering me with questions", well, they do that not to annoy you, but to make sure you and your baby are ok, and had we been without one or the other when Beth's delivery took a turn for the worse...yes, birth is the most natural thing the female body can do, and women were squatting down in the hay and popping out the kid even as the Visigoths were lobbing balls of flaming pitch over the walls of Rome, but when shit goes wrong, it's the doctors, nurses, and all the stupid things with wires that will save you and your baby's life, not your Lucky Astrology Mood Watch.

Actually, that's all I can think of. Plus Curb Your Enthusiasm's on.