DadCentric

Simple routines without all the fuss

So it may be a wee bit too early to tell, I may in fact be jinxing the whole thing by calling any sort of attention to it, but if the events of the last few weekends are any indicator, I may very well be on to some sort of father-son tradition kind of thing with my oldest boy. Not that it has to be just father-son, mom can join in too, and she has. And when the newborn son isn't so new anymore, he can get in on the fun as well. But for the moment, it's just me and the eldest.

It's not a particularly complicated tradition or anything. It doesn't involve trekking out to the badlands with three days worth of beef jerky stored away in our horse's saddlebags. There's no ceremonial garb involved and no animals have to be sacrificed. Nope, it's really nothing more complicated than a little ride on the city bus. See, a few weekends ago, we introduced Henry, our oldest to the joys of the bus, and it was a match made in heaven. Perhaps it's the fact that he can be transported at high speeds without having to wear a carseat. Maybe it's the community aspect. Maybe it's just the joy of getting to ride in a REALLY BIG THING. Whatever it was, he loved it, and ever since then, we constantly hear about how "Hemmy wanna ride the bussss."

So for the last few weekends, I've scooped the little guy up and taken the bus down the road to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, it's the one with *GASP* a playground right outside! Of course, ask any kid about this magical destination, and they'll refer to it as the playground with the *yawn* grocery store inside. Whatever it is, it's a place where the kiddos can burn off some energy so that they'll be nice and docile for the grocery-purchasing experience yet to come. Once the kiddo's had his fill of the playground, we buy whatever we need for dinner that night and then catch the bus back home. We disembark, wave goodbye to the bus, and walk home so Dad can get dinner started.

As we waved goodbye to the bus last weekend, the little guy said "that was fun Daddy." Of course, I swelled up with that "holy crap, I'm getting at least one piece of this Dad gig right" feeling.

"You liked that, little boy?"

"Hemmy wanna ride the bus some more."

"Maybe next weekend?"

"Yeah."

Sappy perhaps, but I'll take it.

So what about you? Got any routines that you enjoy with your kiddos?

I'd like a Sid and Marty Krofft theme

"When I was a kid...."  Isn't that the way any anecdote starts when some old fogey wants to talk about how things were different (read: better, harder, simpler, boring-er) when he/she was a kid?  I'm not going to talk about walking to school in snowstorms, or gathering around the wireless to listen to The Shadow, or awaiting the arrival of the iceman (no, not Val Kilmer) in his horse-drawn wagon.  No, mine is much more mundane - to us as adults, that is - but right up there with Christmas in the eyes of a child.  Birthday parties.

Now, when I was a kid (you just knew it was coming, right?  No?  Are you even paying attention?)...anyway, when I was a kid, birthdays were right up there with Christmas - maybe even a little bit higher because it was all about you.  Hell, even if it wasn't yours, they were always big events.  You could end up at several birthday parties throughout the year and gorge yourself on ice cream, cake and other sweets while playing silly games like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, blindman's bluff or spin the bottle (oh, wait a second, maybe that was later).  Parties were always in someone's basement or kitchen or at a local bowling alley or pizza joint and the theme was simple - "Hey, it's your birthday.  Enjoy your cake and presents."  No Princesses.  No Sponge Bob.  No Handy Manny.  No frills.  Just white paper plates and Styrofoam® cups and maybe some conical hats emblazoned with "Happy Birthday."

Now it's all about theme parties.  Coordinated plates and cups, streamers and balloons, tablecloths and napkins.  There have to be special order cakes and a special guest is a must - usually an out-of-work actor wearing some atrocious costume - or else your party is just some pedestrian exercise in frivolity, rather than the tres chic, tutti di tutti extravaganza every five-year-old yearns for.  But, wait, there's an even more disturbing trend: requests for no presents.  NO PRESENTS!  WTF?  How else are you supposed to determine who is the better friend?  "Well, Aidan did find this very cool Buzz Lightyear with the laser that's really a lightbulb, but Stevie found this really cool Death Star with working superlaser.  Aidan, who?"

This is just my over-ranting way of getting to a question for all you fine folk out there.  If you get an invitation to a birthday party and it does say, "No gifts please," do you follow the invitation's request or do you ignore it entirely?  And, as a follow-up, do you feel guilty when you show up with nothing and everyone else has ignore the request?  Is a stack of TV dinners an appropriate gift?  (that's for you Sarah)

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?

Good Parenting Tips from DadCentric

I've learned a lot since becoming a parent.  I've learned that two-year olds suck at hide and seek.  I immediately recognize that look my wife gets when another 17 seconds of my daughter's irrational behavior could lead to her permanent injury.  I unconsciously grab extra napkins off the table and shove them in my pockets "just in case."  And I'm now 100% positive that all the breast-feeding in the world will not stop me from being a boob man.

But there's always more to learn, and here at DadCentric we like to educate as well as entertain.  Here's a helpful guide to aid new parents who may not understand the subtleties of good parenting or who may simply have the surname Spears.  Enjoy

(Editor's Note: Many of you have asked where we got this particular gem. It's the work of David and Kelly Sopp, and you can purchase it here.

Cribs, Redemption and the Mile

Thing 2 was a kept man.  His crib was his cell.  Prison life consists of routine, and then more routine.  He slept sound.  Sound enough, for someone still shy of his second birthday.  It was the crib.  He seldom slept away from it, and the few nights we tried to stay with friends or in hotels were quickly added to the pile of experiments we regret.  He was a kept man, and he was comfortable.

These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.

He depended on them.  He stood at the railing and waved the day goodbye each night and rose to meet it again each morning.  He was alone, but he was not lonely.  Thing 1 visited often with hugs and nail files baked into cakes. 

I dreamed of you. I dreamed you were wandering in the dark, and so was I. We found each other. We found each other in the dark.

Freedom found him today.  One moment he was fighting the battle of boy against nap and the next he was walking down the hall with his pants in one hand and his shoes in the other.  It was as if someone had returned his belongings to him and sent him on his way.

We asked him what happened.  We asked him how he got out.  He just nodded and handed me his shoes, filled with dirt and bits of clay.  I dressed him and let him wander into the yard, a nap beaten and freedom gained.

I went into his room, bracing myself for the inevitable Rita Hayworth poster across the headboard of his crib.  There was nothing but memories and questions that he wouldn't answer.   

What happens on the mile stays on the mile. Always has.

________________________

-with all apologies to Stephen King

 

Self-deprecating self-doubt

You know when you're out with the guys and some time during the night one of your buddies (maybe you) looks around and says something so serious, so lacking in humor, that it sucks all the funny right out of the room?  Others may have thought something similar at some time or may even be experiencing it at that very moment, but, like guys often do, there's an awkward silence, some sideways glances and then a "How 'bout them Bears" comment.  This just might be one of those times.

I have been, of late, questioning my abilities as a father.  Yes, yes we all mock one another and offer self-deprecating jibes, but I think the humor (at least in my case) hides the fact that I haven't got a clue what the hell I'm doing or if what I am doing is a good thing or will eventually drive my kids into (alert: parent blogger cliche ahead) years of therapy.

I think what is driving this sense of inadequacy (why do I feel like I'm in a Cialis commercial?  Do they make an Enzyte-like drug for parental enhancement?  Look: an attempt at humor) is that I can't seem to control my 2-year-old.  And by control, I mean just slow him down to Tasmanian Devil speed.  I know this sounds ludicrous.  It is.  Many of you will say, "Dude, he's two" and, of course, you couldn't be more right.  I know I should embrace his reckless abandon, his wanton stubbornness and personality swings that would make Sybil look normal, but if I have to say, "Stop hitting your sister," "Get off the table," "Stop clotheslining Little Dubyette," or "It's not nice to use the Camel Clutch on baby" I might lose my f'in mind.  I know my problem stems from the fact that I am attempting to use logic and reasoning with a child; a child whose grasp on these concepts extends only as far as "if I scream loud enough, not only will I get mommy or daddy to come see me, I will also get my sippy-cup filled."  But, I take the fact he ignores me as evidence that I am failing him in some way; that I am not reaching him on some level.  That or he just likes the sound of my voice.

I know this is a phase; something he will grow out of when he's 25.  Thankfully, I also know I'm not alone.  But, when we all try so hard to have a positive impact on our kids and things don't seem to be going according to plan, I think a little freakin' out from time to time is totally warranted.  Dude, this parenting thing is tough.

Sunday Scary

For all you parents out there considering the idea of bringing a nanny into your employ, be sure you get the non-scary version. Guys like me will have to be content scaring our own kids.

It really is all about the editing.

Tour of Duty Complete

We're out of the shit.  Seriously.  We're finished with the baby phase(s) of both our kids.  Our eldest is steeped in elementary school, doing her own thing, reading, doing math, ogling over Zac Sapphron (or whatever his name is) etc..  She's good to go.  I think it's safe to say our youngest is now a certifiable little girl as well.  She hasn't had a timeout in almost a month and she's finally dropping her "little guys" through the seat of a toilet instead of the ass end of a diaper - wrapping up what we considered the final item on our to-do list.  So, I guess for all intents and purposes we're done and we're ready to enjoy the brief respite we'll have until our eldest hits the teen years.  By then we'll have a plan of attack for that stage, I hope.  I'm not too worried about it.  I hear teens can practically raise themselves.  Anyhoo...

It's kind of cool to sit back and watch the fruits of our labor.  For the longest time, I could not see an end in sight.  It was a long, dark road with few bright spots there for a while.  Lula was a frickin' tough baby.  Brutal.  Still, we stuck with our plan, kept drinking our heads up and now we're getting the pay off.  I had my doubts, but, the evidence is showing that we did a good job.  Man, what a ride!  Yay us!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go put her back in her cage, hose her down and fill her bowl.

The Childbirth Preparation Refresher Course: A Misanthrope's Guide

Since we have about seven weeks to go before Baby Girl (whose womb-name, it's been decided, is "Princess Buttercup") arrives, Beth and I figured it would be a good idea to take our hospital's crash course in birthin' for repeat parents. The hospital's official name for the program is the Childbirth Preparation Refresher Express Class, which, oddly, or maybe not, acronyms down to ChiBPREC. I had mixed feelings about attending - not because I didn't think I needed the info, but because other people would actually be in the class, and there was a very good chance that some of them would speak to me, with the expectation that I would reply in some manner. Frankly, that's not how I roll. I go into these courses like a 101st Airborne paratrooper goes into his D-Day H-Hour Minus 12 pre-jump briefing: I need the intel that will keep me and mine alive during this crucial mission. I want data, diagrams, numbers, plaster models of pelvic bones with movable parts. The "sharing of feelings and experiences"...fie! Fie I say!  Well, it being 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday, I figured there was a good chance that none of the other 16 people who had signed up for the class would show.

Of course, everyone did show. I won't go into details - labor, "transition", push, baby, "Dad, it's your turn! Cut that cord!", go home, raise child. But I will point out a few of the highlights.

• Overenthusiastic Birth Dad! - As you know, I am a flag bearer for the Dads Are Parents Too movement. The father carries an equally important load in the entire process of bringing a kid into the world, and ensuring that the kid grows up happy, healthy, and Not Evil. "We" is a word that Beth and often use when discussing our parenting with others. That said, in the class, there was Skippy (not his real name). Skippy, when asked about his wife's previous birthing experience, said (and I quote) "Well, we were in labor for 12 hours, and we pushed for about an hour." Dude, when it comes to the actual process of squeezing a child out from 'twixt one's labia, there is no we. Unless your wife takes a sock full of batteries and clubs you in the nuts with it every time a contraction hits, you're pretty much Goose to her Maverick.  Actually, not even - you're the guy in the tower who gets the coffee all over his uni when Mav does a fly-by. Backrubs, ice chips, and moral support - that's our job when it's go-time, no shame in it.  (I'd love to be a fly on the wall at this couple's breastfeeding class - "We were having trouble with the baby latching, so we decided to just let my wife do the nursing.")
• Self-Proclaimed "Crunchy Mom"! - It's admirable that you want to have a natural unmedicated birth. And it's ok that you "hate IV's and would never want to have drugs while having a baby". But "those stupid things with all of the wires that they put on me", those are called fetal monitors, and "the nurses coming in and poking me and looking at me and bothering me with questions", well, they do that not to annoy you, but to make sure you and your baby are ok, and had we been without one or the other when Beth's delivery took a turn for the worse...yes, birth is the most natural thing the female body can do, and women were squatting down in the hay and popping out the kid even as the Visigoths were lobbing balls of flaming pitch over the walls of Rome, but when shit goes wrong, it's the doctors, nurses, and all the stupid things with wires that will save you and your baby's life, not your Lucky Astrology Mood Watch.

Actually, that's all I can think of. Plus Curb Your Enthusiasm's on.