DadCentric

Everything is wonderful now

Today was Father's Day.

Today was the day I delivered on my promised Father's Day gift, by taking my parents out to lunch at one of the more high-end restaurants in the area. The offer was a last-minute decision I reached those few Sundays ago, having tried and failed to come up with a better idea, a more relevant offer, a more tangible, wrap-ready gift concept to serve as an adequate and appropriate "thanks, dad" gift.

It's becoming so difficult.

Taking From Trees

As I sat there beneath the shade of the old oak tree thinking the thoughts that a father thinks I found myself lost against the waves of rolling wind and the sinking spiral of so many leaves.

Or I would have, had I time to sit beneath an oak tree and a flare for the poetic.

There are leaves that need a good turning and those that should just wilt and die.  Then there are those things you put in your table to make it bigger, but that only lasts for four hours.

Still, you've got to take what you can get.

Bicycle Tricks

My daughter's helmeted head is all I see gliding along the grassy horizon. In a second or two, her shoulders rise out of the summer blades of yellowing green. Then the rest of her comes into view as she rounds the distant curve in the asphalt loop. From under a young dogwood across the park, I see her knees in a slow rhythm, barely fast enough to keep her steady and upright.

Then she stops, as does my heart.

Bully

In general, I believe kids default to Good. Not good, as in "you cleaned your room all by yourself" good, but true Goodness, that which keeps them from torturing small animals or lighting their younger siblings' hair on fire. 

I didn't always believe that; there was a time when I'd have told you the opposite was true. Specifically, that time was the first few weeks of sixth grade, when I was informed by a grinning little bastard (whom I'll call Jeff T) that he and five of his friends were going to kick my ass after school, punishment for the crime of being the new kid, and a dorky one at that ("A-Fag", they called me, in their minds a clever play on my last name). What I remember was running. I told my teacher, who talked to the boys; I told my mom, who picked me up from school for several days; I remembering running across the field that lay between my school and my house. It was a straight shot, a couple hundred yards at most, and for several months I ran across that field when class let out, not daring to look back as that would slow me down and they would catch me and beat me to a bloody pulp. I ran as fast as fear would push me. 

We spent yesterday at the pool; our friends belong to a local country club, our boys are close, and we're often invited to hang out with them. The pool was busy; there are two pools at the club, and this one was reserved for the kids, a couple of feet deep, a bored teenaged lifeguard endlessly twirling her whistle around on its string. We bought a cheap inflatable air mattress for Lucas, and he was loving it - it was his pirate ship, then it was his surfboard, then it was his spaceship. Lucas and his air mattress attracted the attention of another boy, a stranger. The kid was Lucas' age, perhaps a bit older. He was brandishing a Super Soaker. At first, he just started spraying Lucas with water. Then he'd spray Lucas with water and take the air mattress from him - Lucas asked him to please stop. The kid grabbed it and took it - of course Lucas protested and took it back, but the kid didn't stop. After watching this a few times, I asked the kid to please stop taking Lucas' air mattress.

Then it escalated.

The Obligatory "Michael Jackson Was A Dad" Post

"When history is personified, and the person behind that history dies, history itself is no longer real." - Greil Marcus, on the death of Elvis

Greil Marcus' quote can easily be applied to Michael Jackson. Live fast, die young, leave a freakish surgically altered corpse, a grieving pet chimp, and the remains of the Elephant Man. So long, Michael Jackson; we hardly knew ye. Or maybe we knew ye too much. Michael Jackson was perhaps the most polarizing performer of the last 30 years; love him or hate him (full disclosure: I skew towards the latter), it's hard to deny the impact he had on popular culture. 

Of course, when any controversial entertainer dies, there's a symbolic as well as actual voiding of the bowels - lots of shit comes out, and it usually ends up splattering the people that were closest to the deceased. Sadly, Jackson's kids may be caught up in the custody battle to end all custody battles - who gets to claim the King of Pop's heirs?

And worse - are they even his?

Bastion of journalistic integrity TMZ is reporting that MJ is not the biological father of any of his kids. Us Magazine claims that Prince and Paris Jackson's father is Michael Jackson's dermatologist. And the Weekly World News? They've got the scoop on Michael Jackson's funeral, President Obama's reaction to his death, and Kim Jong-Il's planned tribute. (I love that The Weekly World News has separate headers for posts about Aliens and posts about Mutants.)

But back to the kids. Personally, I'm convinced that Jackson was up to some pretty sick shit at the Neverland Ranch, and I think that we'll learn more than we ever wanted to know about his penchant for young boys over the next few months. That said, I sincerely hope that someone steps up and looks out for his three kids. They're about to be thrust into a media circus that they never asked for and do not deserve. The sins of the father shouldn't fall on their heads, and after years of what must have been a bizarre (at the very least) and potentially damaging life with a father who clearly suffered from various forms of mental illness, the Jackson children need protection, care, and love. Katherine Jackson, Michael's mother, has filed for guardianship and the kids are currently residing with her. 

And that, sadly, doesn't give me a whole lot of hope for them.

Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man

I used to be a badass. Distance running, rock climbing, rugby playing, crazy-ass expeditions into the wilderness, surfing before the crack of dawn - that was me before having two kids. At one point, back in my mid-30's, there was even talk - with Beth's support, no less - of dropping the cash on one of these. Now I'm a 40 year old laundry-doing house-cleaning grocery-shopping Stay At Home Mr. Mom, a poster child for the Stop The Pussification Of The American Male Movement. 

I'm mostly not complaining. I of course love my kids, and having the opportunity to spend more time with them is a blessing. And I've done enough Macho Bullshit for a lifetime, so I don't think I have anything to prove in that regard (I've been in a shark cage. Underwater. Nose to nose with real sharks. Big ones. The kind that kill people.) The idea that a Real Man shouldn't pitch in and help with the running of the house and the care of the children seems like something out of The Knuckle-Dragger's Handbook. Still, it occurred to me, one morning when I was sitting on the floor helping Zoe pick out a dress for her doll, a pretty one that would match Dolly's pick toy stroller, that perhaps I was losing touch with my masculine side. Even my blog posts, which used to be full of tales of Manly Fathering Adventure, had been getting weepy and sentimental. I needed to do something to recapture that old dick-swingin' he-man magic. 

I decided I needed to grow a mustache.

Charming the Pet Cobra

I promised my wife Beth that I'd let her have some uninterrupted Bejeweled Blitz time if she did a guest post and told you all how awesome I am. Also, since I've made the transition to Stay/Work At Home Dad and I don't really make any money and she's earning six figures, I told her that I'd shower at least twice a week. Give and take - the key to any good relationship! So here's her post, with a few added notes from me for clarity.

People are always asking me about my relationship with Jason, aka your beloved PetCobra, or @PetCobra as I've started to call him just for shits and giggles. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Talking to each other is sooo 2007. We now communicate solely via Twitter.) My first question is: do other women get asked about their relationships as much as I do, or am I just lucky because my husband is so...so...um...interesting?

Yes, life with Jason is just that. A roller coaster of irony and sarcastic comments - and I wouldn't have it any other way.

We've definitely had an eventful past few months, a life-shift, a death and a huge-ass birthday...all on top of the day-to-day insanity of raising a 5-year old and toddler who is mature for her age, hitting the terrible twos at 19 months. But these are the things that bond us. Being able to mutually agree that we can't share an office all day like we thought we could, getting through all other the shit together, all the challenges that we've faced since we both left the regular corporate world - and still being able to laugh tells me that we are what a "good marriage" is.

When I was told I was going to be guest-blogging here, or more like when I came up with the idea 3 months ago (EDITOR'S NOTE: Credit where credit is due - she did come up with this idea 3 months ago. I wrote down. Honest. Ok, I wrote it on the back of a Starbucks receipt, but I did write it down), then noticed the other wives blogging this week and screamed( across my office into the kitchen (aka Jason's office) "Hey, am I supposed to write also?!", I had really hoped to have a funny conversation or story to tell. But, alas, I don't. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Thanks a lot, Dead Michael Jackson. You sucked all of the fun out of today.) So I will just say how much I love and appreciate my husband for being the man he is - and tell the world how proud I am that he is the father of my children.

Now, excuse me while I get back to my Bejeweled Blitz addiction. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Thanks, baby.Here's a token of my esteem.)

Feel Good Hit of The Week

The soundtrack for the past three days has been the high-pitched shrieking of a nineteen month old. Constant save for when she's been asleep or eating, and a few times when she's had her attention diverted by her always-entertaining brother (who may just get a Lifetime Pass for sitting down and playing Hot Wheels with her during one of her crying jags). 

I think that there should be a Virus Of Some Sort for everything. "Why didn't you meet that deadline?" "I'm not sure. It was probably a Virus Of Some Sort." "Why don't you release the election results?" "We're not sure. It's probaby due to a Virus Of Some Sort.""Governor, what prompted you to disappear for three 

days?" "I believe I was infected with a Virus Of Some Sort." "What's wrong with our baby, Doc? Why has she been crying inconsolably for the past 48 hours?" "I'm not sure. She probably has a Virus Of Some Sort." It would cover so much. The perfect Non-Answer.

So she probably has a Virus Of Some Sort, and that's as helpful as a screen door in a submarine, which is to say that I'm feeling that particular strain of utter helplessness and utter rage. My instinct, when my kids are in distress, is to scream and break shit. Go all Papa Bear on the Universe for putting them through the wringer. I'm gritting my teeth as I write this with shaky hands: it's about an hour and a half past her lunchtime, about two and half hours past her bed time, she's done neither, she's feeling it, we're feeling it. There's a special kind of Hell you go through as a parent and that's the one where you are powerless to help your kids, and the only thing you can do is to say please, please, please, to no one in particular. There's brief lulls - maybe she's trying to nap, maybe she's distracted by her stuffed Cookie Monster, maybe she's just too exhausted to nap or cry - and it starts up again, the crying, the pain, and it just keeps on comin'.

Remembering Those Who Fathered the Dads of DadCentric

Sunday is of course the Best Holiday In The Galaxy when Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny converge to shower Dads everywhere with shiny electronic wonders and the weather calls for a storm of raining beer. We can't be bothered to mow the grass because it's raining beer and Dads everywhere just look into the sky with open mouths until our wives call us in the house to fuck us all kinds of limber ways like slutty porno girls.

In honor of this Wondrous Day, the DadCentric guys all pondered memories of their own Dads to make a single post that speaks about the Dads of the Dadliest Dads on the internet. 

Commissioned Art, In Time for Father's Day

The decision was made, I think, just after she was born. Or perhaps it was during that last trimester. Zoe would be our last. Two and out. And we've never regretted not having another: our family exhibits a perfect symmetry, mother, father, brother, sister. Father's Day seems like one of the stupider Hallmark holidays, because the gifts are there every day; still, it seemed like it might be time to do something special, for me and for the kids. Earlier this year I got to thinking that I'd like to find someone to create some art, something that would incorporate the three of us, me, Lucas, Zoe. A friend recommended a local artist, I talked to him and told him what I was looking for, and he came up with a rough version:

Ocean waves, and if you look closely...I dug it, circumstances led to its completion during this Father's Day week, and it the only thing left was to find a place to hang it. (Seriously, if you don't click on the hyperlink, you'll miss the best part.)