DadCentric

Jaws Was Never My Scene, and I Don't Like Star Wars

"Dude."

It was Simmons.

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I've got some Donald Duck, dude.  Wanna go see Star Wars for a buck at Leohman's ?"

"Go see...wait...Donald Duck?" I said.

"It's blotter, dude.  I got some..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know what it is," I said.  I had never done acid before, but I knew the lexicon.  Just needed some context.  "Umm...Star Wars?  I thought they were showing 2001: A Space Oddysey." 

"No, dude, Star fuckin' Wars! Huh huh huh. C'mon, let's go!  My mom'll drive."  Star Wars had come out three years prior.

"Nah, dude," I demurred, "I gotta wash the fuckin' van today.  I can't get out of it."

"All right, loser.  Have fun," he said.  Later."

"Later." 

I walked the yellow receiver back to the kitchen, untangling fifteen feet of boinging spiral cord from the basement stairs, and clacked it onto the wall, averting my eyes from Mom's scrutiny.

Joining The Xbox Nation, Part Two

 This is the second in a three-part series of Xbox 360 Kinect reviews. Part One is here.

The boy was skeptical, as was I: would the Kinect deliver on its controller-free promise?

The answer? Sorta.

First, I had to set the thing up. The Kinect requires that you have a certain amount of floor space; our couch protruded into the thing's optimal zone, so I had to do a bit of furniture re-arranging. Not a problem for me, so much as an inconvenience; I backed it up a foot, and moved the attached ottoman over to the right side to free up the space we'd need to jump, swing our arms, and run in place. (Those of you with a small TV room, or one with a ton of furniture, beware: you might need to do some serious remodeling.) Navigating via the Kinect requires you to use different gestures, kind of like Tom Cruise does with his various future computers in Minority Report. It takes a bit of getting used to, and for younger kids, this might be frustrating, especially as the menu navigation functions can differ from one game to the next. (One suggestion: use the voice control whenever possible.)

Special Guest Dad Ben Cohen-Leadholm Takes Us Ice Fishing

Our friend and today's special guest blogger Ben Cohen-Leadholm is one of those guys that sorta pisses you off because he's thought of a gazillion awesome things to do with kids that you haven't. Ben is the author of the family activities blog Kids Are Awesome But So Am I, helping parents reclaim their mojo through kids’ activities that don’t suck. He is the co-author of Have No Career Fear: A College Grad’s Guide to Snagging a Job, Trekking the Career Path, and Reaching Job Nirvana. Find him on Twitter (@parentingmojo), Facebook (www.facebook.com/kidsactivity), and Email (blswes@gmail.com). Here, Ben has a great idea for a fun activity that'll get you outside on a cold February day: ice fishing.

Ice fishing could probably benefit from some re-branding. Because ice fishing is one of the best (and sadly misunderstood) winter activities around, especially for kids.

Think about the simple yet compelling ice fishing equation: enjoying the outdoors, appreciating nature and wildlife, hanging with family and friends, imbibing some “warming” drinks, and snagging fresh delicious fish you’ll get to eat that night. Plus, there are all the stories you’ll be telling your friends over beers (or whole milk) from the day’s adventures. So push any ice fishing stereotypes out of your mind that you might see on a show like Ice Men on the VERSUS network – those caricatures are both entertaining and ridiculous. For example, you’re not going to get frostbite, you’re not going to fall into a fishing hole, and you will not be defending your catch from bears. Promise. 

Joining The Xbox Nation, Part One

 

Full disclosure: when the folks at Edelman PR contacted me and offered to send me, for review purposes, an Xbox 360 with Kinect and the games "Kinectimals (Now With Bears)", "Kinect Sports: Season Two", and "Kinect: Disneyland", I actually hesitated.

 

Here was a can of hi-res worms I wasn't sure I wanted to open. We'd bought a Wii a couple of years ago, and I was more than happy with it. Not because it's a decent console, with fun motion-based controllers and a whole slew of games for younger kids. No, I was happy with the Wii because for the most part, it sits by the TV collecting dust. Every once in a while Lucas plays with it, but he's a bit of a jock, likes his outdoor time, and quickly becomes bored or frustrated with video games. Not the worst problem to have as a parent. Zoe is four, and her definition of "playing" video games usually involves waving at the screen and talking to the computer-generated characters. As for me, I've never been much of a gamer: I had a first generation Xbox, which I bought a year or so after Lucas was born. I figured that as a new dad I'd be hanging around the house a lot more, and video games seemed to be a good way to pass the time. (When I wasn't being a caring and commited father, of course.) My days as an Xbox gamer were short-lived: a few months after I bought it, the kid busted it. He found out that the eject button opened the tray, and tried to close it manually. By pushing straight down on it. Snap. A couple hundred bucks down the drain. I was bummed for a couple of days, but as it became apparent that fixing the thing was going to cost as much as it would to buy a new one, I found myself...not caring. I gave the busted console to a friend who wanted to use it for parts, sold a few of the games to a used CD store, and didn't think twice about it.

And so we lived as non-gamers, and were content. Then I got the offer from Edelman. It did take me a few minutes to reply. But I said yes, and told them that I'm not a gamer, and that I was going to be honest about my experiences with the Xbox, the Kinect, and the games. That's fine, they replied. It's what we're looking for. 

"Gamer" is a weird way to self-identify. I occasionally describe myself as a surfer, but there's something to be said for that - I possess a set of physical skills and knowledge of the ocean that the average person does not, enabling me to participate in a very difficult, demanding, and even dangerous sport. But "gamer'? It's blissfully shameless - "I'm an adult who spends several hours a day sitting on my ass in front of the TV playing video games!" And make no mistake - the Xbox 360 is for the gamers. To get good at, say, Call Of Duty: Black Ops, you do in fact need to spend several hours sitting on your ass in front of the TV. As a guy with a fulltime day job, a few writing gigs, a blog to manage, oh, and a family, I do not have several hours a day to spare. The Wii was great, in that regard - the games are basic enough for both my 7-year-old son and decidedly non-gamer me. 

The Kinect, however, was what set the hook. Looking like a dashboard-mounted projector, the motion-based controller proports to go one step beyond the handheld Wii controllers - as the ads say, YOU are the controller. Simple concept, enormously complex execution: you stand in front of the thing, and what you do - swing an imaginary golf club, throw an imaginary football, wave an imaginary wand - is translated right up there on the TV, in the game. I was intrigued - not for my own sake, or even Lucas', but for Zoe. At four, the Wii controllers and most of the games are a bit too complicated for her. But running in place? Jumping up and down? That she can do. Lucas, meanwhile, was skeptical. "You don't hold anything? You just act it out?" "That's what they say", I replied. "Hmmm", he said. "That sounds impossible." 

This is the first of three posts I'll be doing about the Xbox 360. Next up: the kids put the Kinect through its paces. Finally, I try my hand at a couple of "grown-up" games, and ponder life as a new member of the Xbox Nation.

Single Dad Fail #36: The Game Face Slips

I wake up around 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.  A rare occurrence in itself, sleeping this late.  It feels luxurious.  It's chilly and gray outside, but I can hear birds, and pale sunlight is already starting to unravel the clouds.  It's all very nice.

I get my coffee going, bring the mug back into bed with me and read a few pages of my book before I hear the Mini-Pirate stirring in her room.  Stretch, yawn, sluggish footsteps into the bathroom.  Flush. When she comes out I can see through my open bedroom door as she looks at the kitchen clock and realizes that it's after 7, which for her means time for morning cartoons.  (Yes, even on Sundays.  Judge me later.)

 I call out to her:  "Hey.  Come here."

"I'm going to watch TV," she says, already heading into the living room.

"Come here first."

She pokes her head in.  "What?"

From my comfy spot in bed, I open my arms.  "Snuggle first."

She makes a face.  "I want to watch Phineas and Ferb."

"Phineas and Ferb are awesome," I agree.  "Morning snuggling first."

I wouldn't call Morning Snuggling a tradition with us on those weekends when my daughter is with me, here in my house.  It doesn't happen all the time.  But it happens fairly often, and I'm protective of it. She's ten, and it won't be long before snuggling with this kid will be a thing of the past.  She'll be in Middle School next year.  I will be lame, embarrassing, and annoying next year.

"Fine," she sighs.  "Three minutes of snuggling."

"Ten."

"What?!?  Four minutes."

"Eight."

"Back to three."

"Five Snuggle Minutes," I say, standing firm.

"Fine, she mutters, and gives me one of her best Eye Rolls.  She climbs into bed and lays on her side, impatient.  I throw an arm around her and we hang out like that for a few minutes.  I can hear her counting off 180 seconds in her head.

I ask her if she slept well, she says yes.  I ask if she had any dreams she can remember, and she says nope.

"Has it been three minutes yet?" she asks.

I remain placid, unfazed.  "You know, some kids don't get to watch TV at all on Sundays."

She shrugs.

"In fact," I point out,  "your Mom doesn't even have a TV.  You guys only watch streaming shows on the Internet over there, right?"

She nods.

"When you're with her on weekends, you don't watch nearly as much stuff, and it's not a big deal, is it?"

Where am I going with this?  I don't know.  Someone really ought to stop me.

I continue.  "So why is it so important to watch TV here?  Is it because you don't get as much at Mommy's, and you crave it more?  That would make sense.  Or is it--"

"It's different over there," she interrupts.

"Why?"

"Because Mommy has tons of great stuff at her house, and we do more cool things on the weekends.  It's just more fun being over there."

Thud.

The girl is ten.  She meant nothing malicious.  I'm the one who pushed the issue.  It's a nothing remark. And yet it's the kind of statement that makes a single parent die just a little bit on the inside.  For her, the statement is strictly off the cuff, brought on by sulkiness.  For me, the statement is an anvil dropped on my chest.  It's a sword-swipe that slices into me and exposes everything I'm doing wrong.

A good parent, of course, will acknowledge the innocuous nature of such a remark.  A good parent will remember that moments like these are textbook for kids whose parents are divorcing, even in the healthiest of scenarios.  A good parent will not feel wounded. What I'm saying is, a good parent will exercise patience and be understanding in such moments.

A good parent will not hear such a remark, weigh it for a second, and then remove his arm, sit up in bed, and say curtly, "Fine.  It's been three minutes.  Go watch TV." And then pick up his book, like a passive-aggressive asshole.

But unfortunately, this is exactly what I do.

After I abruptly give her clearance to leave and pretend to resume reading, she shifts around and I feel her looking at me.

"Sorry," she says, in the smallest voice she has.

My daughter now feels guilt that doesn't belong to her.  She thinks she's done something mean to me. This girl who has done absolutely nothing wrong, whose life was completely rearranged last year without her consent.  Who now has two homes, two rooms, two beds, instead of one.  Whose sense of comfort and security has been split into halves.  Who is coping with everything as best she can.

These are the moments when I feel the most, most awful.  When I let the situation get the best of me, when an opportunity to be a kind and aware parent presents itself, and I don't rise to meet it.  When my Good Dad game face slips and my daughter glimpses the petty, too-sensitive jerk beneath.  When I fail.

I put my book down, shift to pull her close, smooth out her hair, and I say, "You don't have to apologize. I'm not mad, and you didn't hurt my feelings.  Sorry I was grumpy just now."

It's a clumsy, pathetic attempt at a save.

She nods, and I tell her to scoot on out and watch Phineas and Ferb, and maybe I'll come out in a bit and join her.  Since Phineas and Ferb are, as we all know, awesome.

She hops off the bed and goes in.  The TV comes to life, and the big color-filled sounds of cartoons bounce through the house.  I sit in bed, listening, wondering what she's feeling.  Feeling horrible, myself.

Over the last year, countless people have been telling me that kids are resilient.  Kids do fine.  Kids are great in the face of hard times.  Kids bounce back!  Don't worry!  

Sorry, but I don't believe those people.  I think small moments like this one have hooks that dig into a kid's heart, and stay there.

I sit in bed and listen to Mini-P's cartoons, and count to 180.  Then I readjust my game face.  I get out of bed to go make us breakfast, wondering how many more moments like this I'll create, and regret.

Christopher Walken Reads "Where The Wild Things Are"

This is slightly old, and there are better Walken impersonators out there, but it's pretty flippin' funny nonetheless.

 

Mild with a Lack of Spoons

If you are enjoying this winter's lack of snow, give my children credit.

While you're at it, give me cash to hide all the plastic spoons in our house.

If that has you scratching your head, prepare your scalp for more. According to climatologists, these relatively mild conditions across much of the nation have been caused by the phenomenon known as La Nina. That is the same La Nina, you may recall, these same weather experts had previously said was responsible for last winter's endless procession of Snowtastrophes, Snowpocalypses and Snowmageddons. Talk about your election year flip-flops.

My meteorological theory is probably just as credible. Its origins date back some years ago to when my children attended preschool. With the forecast calling for a high probability of snow accumulations one night, a teacher told students that if they all went to bed wearing their pajamas inside out and with plastic spoons under their pillows that a few inches would surely fall while they slept. Since someone other than their parents said this to my boy and girl, they dutifully did as they were told.

Sure enough, they woke the next morning to a world whiter than a Michael Buble concert audience.

Rugby Tough

So we're clear: rugby is the toughest of team sports. At the adult level, it's ninety minutes of mostly nonstop running punctuated by pushing, shoving, tackling and getting tackled, all without pads. An adult American football player runs about 200 yards per game; an adult rugby player runs about five miles per game. You play defense, so you will tackle; you also play offense, so you will be tackled.

So we're clear: rugby for 8 year olds is a slightly different beast. It's two 15 minute halves, two-hand touch, and the coaches are on the field, directing the kids, telling them to stay in a line, don't pass the ball forward, and don't stop running. It's the game stripped down to the very basics: passing, catching, running, forming a straight line across the field when defending, staggering diagonally when on the attack. The rough stuff comes later. Still, when you get fourteen kids on a field chasing after one ball, there's gonna be some collisions. Most of the time they're accidental.

My boys had played two back-to-back games that morning, and they were feeling it. It was opening day, and while we'd been practicing for a few weeks, the intensity and pace of actual game play had worn them down. They'd had an hour to rest before their third and final game. Two of them - Lucas and another kid whose dad coached the club's U10 side - were second-year veterans. The rest were new to the game. They were loving it, but they were tired. And they had one game to go, against a team from Orange County that had twice our numbers - plenty of fresh legs to sub in. I had two substitutes. It was going to be a slog. But that's rugby.

"Take a knee, boys", I told them before kickoff. "You guys have played hard today. I'm really, really proud of all of you." Not a lie - we won our first game, lost our second, but the kids played as a team, listened to me and my assistant coach, and had a blast. They were slightly glassy-eyed, but grinning in anticipation. "Let's go out, focus on what we've learned, play our best, and good things will happen. Circle up." We stood, put our hands in, yelled our team name - "THUNDER!!!" - and took the field.

And then things went south.

DadCentric's List Of Least Popular Nicknames For Grandparents

 

Back in my day, everybody called their grandparents "Grandma" and "Grandpa". These days, it seems that kids have come up with all sorts of nicknames for their parents' parents: mine, for instance, refer to my wife's folks as "BeeBee" and "Buddy", and my parents are known as "Bubbe" and "Papa". Not bad, right? Those are tame in comparison to some of the ones I've heard: "MeeMaw", "Yaya", and "Pop Pop" are three that I could never say with a straight face. To be fair, most of the time it's the kids who come up with these names. Our crack staff of research interns scoured the nation to come up with this list of Least Popular Nicknames For Grandparents; when it comes time for you kids to bestow creative monikers on Grandma and Grandpa, keep this handy, to avoid any awkwardness or discomfort. (The complete list is after the jump.)

Trifling

I never thought it would happen to me; but my kids have arrived at that age. 

They used to call it the "Terrible Twos," but I've read a lot of literature (okay, blogs) arguing that three is worse, and four is even...um, more worse.  In any case, my formerly angelic 2.5-year-old twins have crossed the threshold.  They've always had the capacity to be fussy, of course; but now, with their enhanced cognitive and language skills, they can do so with much greater focus and intention.

Some days are better than others; and even on their worst days, I forgive them by the time they've been asleep for a couple of hours.  I even look forward to seeing them conscious the next day.

But some days are pretty bad, and I must say in all fairness, it's their fault, not mine.