DadCentric

What Are We Gonna Call the Naughty Bits?

We've come to a lexical crossroads with our 20-month-old twin girls. 

Or maybe it's a fork in the road.

Perhaps a traffic circle?  

Anyway, we're on a metaphorical road or path of some sort and we're at the point on that road where we have to figure out what euphemism we want to use when we talk about the girls' lady business. Businesses.  See?  Like I said--it's a problem.

We need to get on this posthaste too, because the days when they want to discuss their...you know...junk, are virtually upon us. 

Currently, they're fascinated by bodily functions, and although they don't always correctly distinguish "poo-poo" from "pee-pee," they are quite adept at pronouncing the words.  And somehow, those words don't bother my wife or me.  They're neither too cutesy nor too vulgar.  They seem to be pretty much the preferred juvenile terminology for "feces" and "urine" nowadays, and I don't think any of their future preschool classmates and teachers will think they have negligent parents because they use the non-clinical terms.

But in addition to the stuff they see in their dirty diapers, they are also fascinated with the body parts the diapers conceal.  At bathtime, they've started poking each other in the butt, saying "poo-poo," and falling into fits of laughter.  I know.  Comedy gold, right?

The fascination doesn't stop with the butt, either.  They both dedicate a little bit of bathtime every day to exploring their crotchal areas.  And again, their commentary in this context is restricted to the phrases "pee-pee" and "poo-poo," which they use interchangeably to refer to anything that happens or exists in the diapered region.  I may once again be projecting my own anxieties onto the kids, but I swear that when they verbally flail around with "poo-poo pee-pee," they look at us quizzically, almost plaintively, wondering why we don't tell them the right words.

Outside is Always Better

A while ago, I was whining on another group blog about what an ass-pain it is to take kids on out-of-town trips.  I still maintain that the benefits of exposing toddlers to a new environment that requires sleeping under a different roof barely outweigh the onus of hauling all of their equipment to that location.  Unless you're going to see Grandma, you might as well just go to the vacant lot down the street as take your kid across the county line.  I honestly believe that a two-year-old can't tell the difference between Chuck E. Cheese and Disneyland.  So they certainly wouldn't be any more impressed by Yosemite National Park than by the abandoned rock quarry just outside of town.

Despite the hassles of traveling with youngsters, I was reminded just yesterday of a very valuable and probably completely obvious lesson: it's almost always better to get the kids out of the house than to coop them up for long stretches of time.  I always assumed this was the case, and have hardly ever kept our twins at home all day since they were born 20 months ago.  But yesterday they seemed pretty tired, having been out late at a dinner party/playdate the night before.  In fact, they had done so much fun stuff the previous week that they were pretty run down.  Or maybe I was projecting my own condition onto them.

Things I'll have to explain to my kids someday: the animal edition

 

Every culture that has arisen since the dawn of man has anthropomorphized animals to teach children about the world.

I have no idea if that's true.  But I wouldn't be surprised at all if it were.

I've been thinking about this a lot ever since we first started reading books to our kids, which was pretty much as soon as their eyes could focus on the page.

90% of the characters in their books are non-humans.  I think it's about the same for movies and TV shows, although we haven't really gotten into that stuff yet.

The easy explanation for why the characters are bears and spiders and puppies is that these critters hold the kids' attention better than boring old homo sapiens. The Naked Ape, it would seem, just doesn't have the star power of the gorilla or caterpillar.

That's why fables can be so effective.  A cast of talking animals interacts in a way that's instructive in terms of human behavior, but may or may not have anything to do with the traits of their species.  Are foxes really more prone to cognitive dissonance than other animals?  Maybe?  But more importantly, Aesop knew that the image of a fox lunging at grapes that were just out of his reach and then pretending that he never wanted them in the first place is more striking and therefore more memorable than that of a generic human doing the same thing.

More Hating on Disney: Baby Einstein Edition

I'm afraid I'm about to get self-righteous and snobby and maybe a little preachy.

I didn't set out to do that.  I was going to write a snarky little post about how babies have terrible taste and the books they enjoy often have little literary or artistic merit.  Something like:

WTF is up with Goodnight Moon, anyway?  "Goodnight, nobody/Goodnight, mush"?  It's like somebody transcribed their peyote trip.  And the artwork, arbitrarily alternatint from vertiginously lurid color blocks to black and white line drawings, is as discomfiting as a David Lynch movie, but far less visually interesting.

And don't get me started on Baby Einstein...

But I did get started on Baby Einstein, and became a little horrified in the process.

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.

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.

 

Baby Unneccesities: Highchair Excess

As a public service to the DadCentric community, we occasionally look at items parents are brainwashed into thinking they and their little ones can't live without when -- trust us -- they really can. This series is called Baby Unnecessities. Our latest installment looks at overly expensive and complex highchairs.

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Since I lived in a galaxy far, far away from my parents back in my children's days of Gerbers and dry Cheerios, we'd hop on a plane a few times a year so the wee ones could have some grandparent time. To make these adventures easier on us, we bought or borrowed a few duplicate pieces of essential baby gear to leave at their place for these visits.

Among these items was a highchair.

Was it some trendy French designed/German engineered model featuring space-age alloy plating and titanium trimmings?

Did it have 64 height settings and 37 reclining options?

Was it turbocharged with solid-state, digitally fuel-injected DroppingsAlert!^TM Seating that automatically sets off warning lights and sounds to notify you when certain items find their way onto the cushions (food -- whole or partially chewed: green light, bike horn; beverage or urine: yellow light, waterfall effect; vomit or poop: brown light, 128-decibel air raid siren)?

Baby Unnecessities: The Diaper Genie

Several acquaintances and friends (defined as acquaintances who have seen me/I have seen naked) have been reproducing lately and that has me rethinking my past. Not "I should have used a condom!" thoughts, but more "How can I, based on my firsthand knowledge, make their experience of raising babies more enriching?"

Evil Inner Voice: "Yeeees, en-RICH-ing. If you make, sell or market baby products. Bwahaaahaaahaaa!"

Eureka!

Therefore, as a public service to the DadCentric community, over the next few weeks I will discuss some of the many alleged "necessities" for bringing up your brat tax-deduction precious bundle that Babies 'R' Bucks and Payrent magazine insist that YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT.

This week's Baby Unnecessity: The Diaper Genie.

The Hot Topic: Would You Raise A Kid In The Big City?

 I just flew in from New York, and boy, are my arms tired! But seriously, folks - we spent a few days in New York City (courtesy of the fine folks at VTech Toys and Ogilvy PR, for whom I do some consulting work; this time - full disclosure! - we spoke with a few good bloggers about trends in electronic toys and how kids and adults are adapting to new technology) and whoa. I'd never been to the Big Apple, and I'm still trying to sort out everything we did and saw. I'm pretty sure I ate at Da Marino on 49th (pro - a killer house-made macaroni in a lamb ragu; con - the cheesy piano player belting out "New York, New York" to a crowd of drunken Canadians), I think we walked through Central Park, I recall wandering through Times Square (where it was so cold that the balls weren't dropping, they were retreating back up into the pelvic region), and I believe I avoiding befouling myself while atop the Empire State Building (I'm not a fan of heights). There was pastrami and pizza and beer and martinis (yo! Nathan and Matt! How you doin'?) and taxi exhaust and cigarette smoke and eau du 6 Train and damned if I didn't fall a little in love with the city. It truly is all that and a potato knish.

We were exploring the Met (aka the Metropolitan Museum of Art) and while I was complaining to a docent about the lack of Thomas Kinkaide paintings I watched as a group of schoolkids gathered in front of one of the Greek statues ("HE'S NAKED!" we they all said in unison, as we they pointed at ancient marble Hercules' ancient marble junk and laughed). Two conflicting thoughts ran through my head. First, how fantastic that these kids are being immersed in the worlds of Van Gogh, Rodin, the pharoahs, the ancient Chinese emperors, the natives of Oceania. I thought of my local museums and shook my head; this was culture on a scale that my kids, if they're lucky, will only get a taste of.

But then I thought of those taxis, subways, all that noise, all those skyscrapers. When I was a kid I had meadows, forests, streams, lakes, mountains, and oceans. Nature's for kids. The city's for grownups. I wondered what it would be like to grow up and not take running through the grass barefoot for granted. (Stupid question, but do Manhattan high schools play football? Where?) I wondered for a brief moment if I could ever raise my kids in the big city. So the Hot Topic question for today: would you raise your kids in a big city? And for those of you who do, what are the challenges, rewards, and regrets?

A List Of Poop Comparatives

 Last week I wrote a heated post about the current state of dadblogging. My better angels have prompted me to reach out to new dadbloggers who may be looking for advice on how to make their blog posts stand out. It's safe to say that most dadbloggers start writing about the fathering life when their children are but a few months out of the womb. But what to write about? There's always Ol' Faithful - your kids' bowel movements. Take it from us: many, many parentbloggers have made a career out of writing about poop. Enfecaled* diapers are the fuel that powers the parenting blogosphere; here's some descriptions of befouled nappies to help you get started.

(INSERT CHILD'S NAME HERE)'s shit smelled so bad, it could

• polish titanium
  
• raise the Titanic
• break up the Rolling Stones
• defeat the Balrog
• be the plotline for Roland Emmerich's next movie
• smash the Phantom Zone, thus freeing Zod, Non, and Ursa
• deflate George Lucas' neck-pouch
• wilt a Triffid
• wake Cthulhu
• root out Bin Laden
• make a Vulcan cry
• make Glenn Beck stop crying
• make Keith Olbermann stop talking
• make Dick Cheney smile
• bring Robert Byrd back from the grave - wait, he's not dead? What? Really?
• prompt calls for the formation of a bi-partisan investigative committee
• cause Nicole Kidman's brow to wrinkle
• cause Canadians to mildly complain about the odour.
• use up all of a third world country's carbon offsets
• fool people into thinking that the Domino's Pizza guy is at the door
• officiate an NBA game
• de-ice an Aeroflot 747
• have its own reality TV show
• write for Saturday Night Live
• win the Grammy for Album of The Year
• unite the Koreas against their new common foe
• inspire a franchise reboot
• earn a nickname from Chris Berman
• inspire a blog post about how bad that particular shit smelled (very meta, no?)
  

* I don't know if "enfecaled" is an actual word, but it should be.