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.

Earth Day: Save the Planet, Save Yourself

Today is Earth Day.  Every day is Earth Day.  See how that works.  The bottom line is that we've pushed this poor planet about as far as it can go without serious repercussions.  More serious repercussions.

You don't have to be a hippie smelling of patchouli and  mushrooms to celebrate your planet.  Our planet.  Sure, showers are optional, but let's not be over dramatic. 

We've only got one planet and if we don't start living differently we're going to lose it.  I'm talking to you, big oil, but not just you.  We can all make a difference.  Don't let Earth become the next Pluto.

[thanks for the video idea Jason!]

It Was Almost a Banner Day for Me

It began like any other trip to the bookstore.  There were words of encouragement and threats of consequences.  We shared a pastry and had something warm to drink.  They behaved like I asked them and used their inside voices.  There were pee-pee dances and occasional wanderings.  It was like any other trip.

Then Thing 1 picked out a book that wasn't his typical fare of dinosaurs or cartoon characters.  It was Star Wars, and the force was suddenly strong in my boy.  We discussed R2D2 and Yoda, and I explained the difference between myself and a Wookie through an awkward charade which included a public display of body hair.  We were bonding.

I started planning our evening.  We would only watch one movie a night, no reason to rush it.  Pace this moment, I thought.  Finish his training, I will.

It was set in stone, or carbonite as the case may be.  Things were moving along swimmingly. We stood in line, me taking in the moment and the boys happy to be getting stuff.  It was special.  I placed my books on the counter and turned to the boys for theirs.  Elmo for Thing 2, and my oldest boy, he had switched out Star Wars for yet another dinosaur book.

"What happened?" I asked as I looked around frantically for the Star Wars book.

"I like dinosaurs better," he answered, smiling.

Damn, I thought, that's bullshit.

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?

DadCentric Formal Apology #32,455

A few days ago, I was interviewed for a piece by Seattle Post-Intelligencer writer Paul Nyhan, who also authors the Working Dad blog. The piece was about the lack of support groups - and parenting resources in general - for dads. It can be found here. I wish to clarify the remarks attributed to me in the article.

While it is true that I said that a father's role has traditionally been to "guard the frontiers against the Visigoths", my intention was not to cast the Visigoths in a disparaging light. I would like to state, for the record, that am not nor have I ever been an anti-Visite. I have nothing but respect and admiration for the Visigoth people. I often listen to Visigoth music ("Music to Put Severed Heads On Long Pikes By" and "Elkskin Tanning Tunes" are two of my favorite albums, and they just happen to be by, yes, Visigoths). I am not ashamed to drink mead when I'm around my non-Visigoth friends. And yes, I am proud to say that I do have Visigoth friends. (Well, they're more like acquaintances.  One is a co-worker, actually. And I only see him at the annual company picnic. Never met met his wife, truth be told. But still.)

I see now the error of my ways, and those of you who have commented that I should have learned my lesson after that 'fending off the Mongol Hordes' comment I made in the September 2004 issue of Ladies' Home Journal, point taken. I can only say that I have come from a broken home, I have battled a debilitating addiction to Dexatrim, I lost an arm in the brave but futile attempt to recapture the city of Hue only to return home to the curses and spittle of flag-burning hippies...well, I have a lot of pent up anger, which I unfortunately vented at the Visigoth people. I see now that my long-held belief that there is a Secret Global Visigoth Agenda was born of paranoia and a deep-seeded inferiority complex, which most likely were an aftereffect of the years I spent frequenting the Opium Dens of Uptown Vancouver. I am sincerely, deeply, and truly sorry if I have offended any Visigoths who may have read my words. I have decided to embark upon a Tour Of Healing, during which I will visit with some noted Visigoth leaders and communities, and make a deeply heartfelt speech, portions of which are still being written by my staff of interns (some of whom are, I should add - with great pride, I should also add - Visigoths). I beg your forgiveness, Visigoths everywhere, and I hope that we can all begin the healing process.

My Life in Television

"Ok, I had this great idea. I was totally thinking about it on the drive home and I am convinced it can work."

"What is this idea?"

"I pitch a DadCentric TV show to HBO. It would be brilliant. Like Curb Your Enthusiasm with kids. We could do it semi-improv. Get three year olds and turn the cameras on them and let them talk about the shit that they talk about, pink eagles and pee and all that, and have the actors just go with it."

"But not everyone finds little kids funny."

"So? You think everyone found Sex and The City funny? Who watched that shit? Women in their 30's. That leaves a whole lot of people who didn't think it was funny. And yet it was a cultural phenomenon. Network shows about dads are not funny."

"That reminds me - a woman on my message board was telling us that her baby pooped on the floor and their dog ate it."

"See? That would not happen on Growing Pains. But that's pretty funny. In fact, if that was us, and the baby shit on the floor, we'd be placing bets. 'Oh, no, Zoe pooped on the floor. I got five bucks says Mick eats it.''Oh, yeah? Double or nothing says he pisses on it and then eats it.' That's funny. You think Alan Thicke would bet on his dog eating baby shit?"

"Do we know anyone who works in TV?"

"See, you're with me on this. I gotta call HBO before the writers' strike ends."

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?

Glad Tidings of the Season

Well, it looks like we're heading into crunch time if you are planning on celebrating anything festive next week.  That said, I thought I would provide some suggestions should you need to sit and relax- more than you do already.

By suggestions I mean beer.

Seasonal beers are a big hit with me, and if they aren't already a big part of your holiday season please note- they need to be.

Here are a few that will make everyone merrier (and possibly better looking):

Anchor Steam Christmas Ale is perhaps the greatest thing to ever come out of San Francisco, or California for that matter.  It is Christmas in a bottle (or glass).  If this is the only seasonal beer you ever drink you will be a better person for it.  I love it so much I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.  Fortunately, (for my wife) the mouth of the bottle is too small, otherwise that beer would be glowing like a Spears girl at her junior prom.

Pyramid Snow Cap packs a bit of a punch at 7% alcohol content.  It's a great way to accidentally get drunk at a Sonics game.  It too combines the wonders of the season and is worth stuffing in a stocking or two.

Samuel Smith's Winter Welcome used to disappoint me every year.  It wasn't because the beer was bad, far from it, but because the beer went bad.  It used to be shipped in clear glass bottles which, aside from Newcastle, seems to be a killer of good beer.  Light and beer are not friends.  If light tells you otherwise it is lying.  Last year Mr. Smith got smart and started bottling it in a darker bottle and I've had nothing but good taste since.  Really.  Besides, any beer that quotes Shakespeare (not his sister) on the label has got to be top notch.

Truth be told, there are more and more seasonal beers every year, and the three I mentioned are just 3 of the more popular options.  I would guess that I've had over 20 different types of winter brews over the years, and these are the few that I MUST have every December.

If you would like to check out a few more look no further than our own Mr. Big Dubya.  He also likes beer.

Now here's something that should have been done long ago:

What To Buy Dad For Christmas

Brass tacks, moms, partners, and kids (wait - you let your kids look at this site? What the hell's wrong with you?): there's 8 shopping days left until Christmas and you need some ideas. Here you go:

DVD's: Really, only two merit consideration this holiday season. The Ultimate Blade Runner (with 5, yes 5 versions of the film) and Superbad: Special Edition.

Books: Three dad books of note. Dadditude, by Philip Lerman, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of 50-year-old Lerman's experience as a new dad. Punk Rock Dad, by Pennywise frontman Jim Lindberg, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of Lindberg's experience as a new dad. Against The Day, by Thomas Pynchon, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of Pynchon's experience as a new dad.

Video game: Nintendo Wii. If you can find one.

Music: Led Zeppelin, Mothership. Actually, buy two copies, one for dad, one for dad to use to chuck, ninja throwing star-style, at the head of anyone who insists on playing the latest release from Iron and Wine.

Of course, if TV teaches us anything, it's that the best gift of all is found in the driveway, with a big red bow on the hood.  Something sensible, of course.

So those are some ideas. I'll open the floor for discussion - dads, what do you want for Christmas? Moms/partners, what are you planning on getting the dads in your lives?

The Time We Spend

The time we're given on this planet is finite, and in the time that each of us is given, it's up to each of us to do what we have to do to be the people we want to be.

How's that for a cryptic opening?

Last night found me sitting here at the table furiously pounding out the end of my last paper for this semester. The paper's not due until Saturday morning, but my wife is due to give birth to our second child in just under two weeks, so I figured, ya know, maybe I'll just go ahead and tie that puppy up. It's my second semester of graduate school, and at the pace I'm going, I'll probably have a degree in hand right around the time my kids are shopping around for my hospice care.

There have been moments this semester when I've wondered if I was doing the right thing by going after a master's degree and working full time with a two year old and a pregnant wife at home. I wondered at times if perhaps it was too much to ask both of myself and of my wife, my constant supporter, my biggest fan. I wondered if it was too much time away from my son, who lets me know in no uncertain terms that he's missed me when I've been gone all day. It was especially hard on those days when I came home from work to find my wife frazzled, my boy unnapped, both of them clearly beat down by the day. By comparison, I was refreshed and well-rested, even though I'd been at work all day. But then I only had a little while with them before I had to turn around and head out again to go to class. Times like that, that little nagging voice inside would start dropping the guilt-bombs.

Thing is though, I believe that part of our parenting is how we live and the example that we set. I feel very strongly about getting this degree, not just to add it to my impressive pile of academic achievements (huge, I tell you), but to move into the line of work for which I'm being educated. From the first day of class, it's required all manner of unglamorous sacrifices on the part of both my wife and I, and it's probably going to continue to be that way until I'm done. It's a risk, no doubt about it. But if I'm too afraid to take a risk to go after the life I want, then what do I teach my children about how to live their lives? What kind of example does that set? Parents have an obligation to keep their kids safe, but at the same time, I don't want to teach my kids that they must always live safely.

I take this whole husband and dad thing very seriously. It's both my duty and my desire to be present, engaged, involved, and right there in the middle of both the fun and the not-so-fun times that are part and parcel of family life. And I am. I'd have it no other way. I look at guys who aren't involved in their kid's lives and I just hurt for both them and for their families for all that they're missing out on. But honestly, I think that I would ultimately shortchange my family if I don't give it my all to achieve the things I've set out for. So there's a balance that has to be struck, and it's not always pretty. In fact, it's often quite messy, and we just have to be okay with that.