DadCentric

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.

A Tale of Two Mornings

The Oldest Son

The first bell rang just as we shut the gate behind us.  He was in his thick, orange jacket and thanks to the green cargo pants he sported he was looking much more Aquaman than Kenny.  He clutched a stick of bacon in his fist and his eyes were awake with wonder and mischief.   His school was a block away.

I had coffee on my breath and breakfast in my teeth.  My hair looked like Mel Kiper, Jr., and Dan Zanes had slept in it.  I was hurried and the ringing of the bell in the distance added a longer stride to my step.  He had to jog to keep up.  He kept time with the chewing of his bacon.

The Dreaded Backfire

Bedtime was drawing near, and my eldest and I were talking about the nightmares he had been having. Whatever horrors were visiting my little boy, they were frightening enough to make him cry out in the middle of the night, to shake him from his sleep, and send him running to our bedside pleading for sanctuary. This had been going on for about a week.

My wife had read somewhere that the urge to pee while sleeping can sometimes translate into bad dreams in little kids. We have no idea if it’s true and we did zero research to find out, but seeing as how the boy, like his father, fancies a little drinky drinky before hitting the hay, it seemed a likely enough culprit. She suggested that perhaps he lay off the liquid so close to bed so that maybe his nightmares would go away. To my surprise, he latched on to this idea like a life preserver, like he would do anything to make the bad dreams stop. It was only then that I realized just how much of an impact they were having. So while I helped him into his pajamas, we talked.

“Do you remember what happens in your dreams?”

He nodded to the affirmative.

“Is it a monster?”

Worst Dads of 2009

In the past 12 months, who has proven himself to be among the Suckiest of the Sucky Fathers in the Entire Universe? ("Entire Universe" is defined as "cursory searches I performed on Bing.")

We had plenty to chose from in 2009.

Jackson family patriarch Wacky Ol' Joe is always good for a nomination. Then he was kinda right about Michael being murdered. No room for that here, people.

Balloon Boy dad Richard Heene? A delusional publicity whore, yes, but he didn't actually put his son in the balloon before launching it into the stratosphere. Though he did name the boy "Falcon" so maybe ...

Tiger Woods? Many didn't realize he had kids before Elin took a divot out of his face, so he gets a bye this round.

Without further ado, DadCentric presents The Worst Dads of 2009:

To-mate-o, To-mat-o

"I want some cock," he said somewhere behind me. I was talking to the neighbor.  We were sharing beers and laughs and suddenly silence.

"What did he say?" the neighbor asked.

"I want some cock," he said again as if on cue.  "Daddy, I need cock." 

My neighbor shifted uncomfortably.  A three-year-old requesting roosters does that to a person.

The boy's grandfather, my wife's father, had told him that a penis was called a pecker.  It took me awhile to undo that one.  A three-year-old talking about bird beaks also tends to make people shift uncomfortably and become suddenly interested in leaves and passing clouds. 

It's all in the delivery.

A Mother's Arms are Made of Tenderness and Children Sleep Soundly in Them

Heat, as an extreme, exists only in a relative sense.  It is the hottest thing they have ever known and therefore it is the hottest thing ever known.  I tell them that it is not, that my coffee is actually hotter, but that doesn't soothe them, it only makes them question my sanity as they slowly dare a second sip of their lukewarm chocolate.

********

My back hurts.  I've been carrying too much for too long.  For six weeks I've been living as a single father - a single work-at-home-dad.  It has been incredibly hard and surprisingly easy.  I am better for it and I am tired and I am badly beaten. 

My work has suffered.  My 70 hour work week has been cut to less than forty - compiled from a series of minutes torn apart from hours and tucked between goodnight kisses and the taste of warm whiskey across my lips.  The clock moves always forward.

Chores once shared have become mine alone.  All nights are long and lonely.  All mornings are early and full of songs and frustration.

I do not believe that I have achieved anything worthy of praise or pity, only reflection.  Others face obstacles greater than mine on a daily basis.  They make the most.  They do their best.  They are stronger than I ever thought I was and when I sip from my glass the toast is to them.

But this is not their life, it is mine and while I was prepared and up to the challenge, it was unexpected in both timing and time.  From the frying pan to the fire is not a lateral move.  The heat is extreme and it is all relative.

Tomorrow my wife comes home after six weeks sitting at the bedside of her ailing father.  Six weeks of tears and whispers and shouts in the night.  Six weeks of walking in the shoes of a girl much younger.  Bedside seats are lessons in love and fear and the art of turning fond old memories that weren't. That is a chapter not yet closed.  Those wounds are still open.  He will still have a beside in need of sitting and she will carry her thoughts accordingly.  Her back will hurt.

********

They do not expect her.  They have grown accustomed to the missing of their mother.  Six weeks is a long time gone and a father doing the best he can is still just one kiss goodnight no matter how much laughter fills the day or how much work is left to the forgotten.

Tomorrow will seem but another day to them, the routine of living with some parts missing.  They will be safe and loved and slightly lost.  She will be on a plane six weeks delayed and her dreams will be of little boy kisses grown wet with salt and the slightest linger of lukewarm chocolate.

____________________________________

The title of this post is a quote from Victor Hugo.

The New Nissan Sedans - A DadCentric Review

I spent a recent weekend hanging out at Nissan's San Diego headquarters driving fast and taking chances.  I had to sign waivers.  I think.

The good people at Nissan flew me to San Diego, put me up at the W Hotel, fed me some fine grub and invited me to test drive their new line of sedans.  No money changed hands.  I didn't even tip the bellhop.

Let me preface this review with a bit of personal history: My dad was a Datsun man and that led to his becoming a Nissan man because something happened behind the scenes that we weren't privy to, possibly someone named Datsun dying at the hands of someone named Nissan followed by maniacal laughter and lots of files being sealed. Possibly.  Or maybe there was a buyout.  What the hell do I know?  The point is, I spent many a chore behind the wheel of a Nissan truck and I resented them accordingly.

Secondly, I used to have a Sentra back in "the day" and in said Sentra I had some of the best car "dates" ever.  It was epic.  Submarine races in a starlit desert.  My old cassette player should be bronzed.  My old back seat should be in a museum.  Old girlfriends should friend me on Facebook.  My Sentra experience canceled out a youth spent loading and unloading exercises in futility.  

I took Nissan's offer knowing damn well that we were even.

Choke Up on the Bat, Boys

Sometimes I hear her whimper and I turn my head just far enough to remember that she is not there.  She has been gone for weeks and she will be gone forever.

I turn back to my desk and my world and my piles upon piles of work not done and in doing so my eye catches the rain falling quietly upon the place that she has gone.  The place that she will be forever.

Memories echo on two small voices, one small and forgetful and looking, always looking, for the old dog that didn't run from his advance - not because she couldn't but because she wouldn't.  She welcomed him.

The other is older and softer and full of understanding.  Too much understanding.  His turns in anger and compassion. "No," he whispers below six years of furrowed brow. "She's dead."

And sometimes he cries.

The boys haven't seen their mother in three weeks.  She is sitting at the bedside of her father.  His bed grows emptier by the hour.

The World Series is starting.  They watch the games on a hospital television and people come and people go and they talk about the things that people talk about when they don't know the score but feel that they should say something.  There is an awkward silence between hits.  The ball drops.  The conversation rolls softly across the infield.

There is no crying in baseball but hospital hallways are perfect for it.

Four months ago I stood at the funeral of my grandmother and exchanged pleasantries by rote.  My wife and my children were states away and as close as the words that spilled from me.  I spilled other words upon my return. 

Two young boys lay quietly in their respective beds and watched as their father lobbed lessons of life and death in their general direction.  The windup was tainted by a lack of sleep.  The pitch was influenced slightly by the lingering shadow of a ten dollar airport beer. It was wide and just a bit outside, but they were safe at home and they let it slide.

A roomful of tears is a sorry excuse for a rainout.

MS Office Will Revolutionize The Way You Raise Your Kids!

Ok, not really. But now that I have your attention, I would like to direct you to The Parent Toolbox. A few weeks ago, the good folks at Microsoft recruited a bunch of excellent and prominent parentbloggers (and for some reason, yours truly) to write some stuff about how the various Office programs can be used to make household management easier (full disclosure: yes, I got paid - a massive wad of unmarked non-sequential bills delivered to me in an aluminum briefcase by a man who would only identify himself as "Mr. Gates"). 

My first contribution: a simple Behavior Chart, to help us help Lucas be the best he can be. We think it'll work. And if not, we're sending him to the Dollhouse. 

Party Properly

With my eldest son’s 4th birthday looming in just under two weeks, the wife and I have been diligently plotting out the best way to celebrate. Of course all birthdays are special, but four seems like an important milestone, though for slightly different reasons. With three, the kid realized that it was his special day, that all these family and friends were gathered here in the Name of Cake! and Punch! and Presents! just for him. However, there was very little in the way of lead-up. He didn’t seem to recall that a similar celebration had been held just one year prior, or if he did, he didn’t quite make the connection between the two.

But we’re talking about four now. Four remembers three, and may even have a vague recollection of two, enough that a pattern is established. He understands that every year right around this time, we all get together to celebrate the awesomeness that is him. Thus, it stands to reason that whatever decisions we make about how to celebrate this particular birthday could have a lasting impact on the tone of birthdays to come. Go too far overboard and he’ll come to expect more and more grandiose gestures year after year, which will only lead to greater stress, increased expense, and eventual disappointment when we are unable to arrange a battle between a squadron of unicorns and a dragon for his 12th birthday party. Go too far underboard and he’ll end up a big anti-party lamewad. No, my friends, we are not simply talking about one birthday party here. We are talking about ALL the birthday parties. We are talking about the proper setting of expectations.

So with that in mind, I would like to share with you a list of activities that the Mrs. and I are considering for the impending festivities. Perhaps you’ll find some ideas here for celebrating the anniversary of your own offspring’s arrival, or perhaps you’ve some ideas of your own to share.