DadCentric

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.

This post brought to you by Dell Children's Hospital and BlogPress for iPhone

Written at the ER...I'm typing this post on my phone in a dimly lit hospital room, my 19 month old asleep in my arms. SpongeBob is on mute on the wall-mounted TV, not nearly as entertaining as those Madagascar penguin fellows on before him. My right shoulder is soaked with baby drool. We're in the ER because this is where the pediatrician said we needed to go, the pediatrician I took my son to because of the 103 temperature that hit him today at daycare. It might be pneumonia, she said. Or swine flu, yep, that's still around, even if it's not front page news anymore. But don't be scared, she said. Very treatable, she said. Several times.

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'.

Michael Lewis and Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer...

I've received a few emails asking if DadCentric is planning on reviewing Michael Lewis' "controversial" new fathering memoir, Home Game. You'd be amazed at the number and scope of review requests I get from various PR, marketing, and publishing types - I'm not sure that I'm qualified to review Replens Long-Lasting Vaginal Moisturizer - and I do get a of requests to review Dad Lit books, but there was nothing from Mr. Lewis' people.

Just as well. Full disclaimer - I have not read the book, but after watching Mr. Lewis' recent appearance on The Daily Show, I'm not entirely sure I want or need to. I'd read his series of "Dad Again" columns on Slate, from which the book derives much of its material, and they'd left me a bit cold. "Seventy-six nights and I'd spent zero in the same room with him, unless you counted the night of his birth," he writes in one piece, "and the few times I stayed up until midnight to feed him a bottle of pumped breast milk before handing him over to his mother...His diaper needed changing about as often as he ate, yet I'd done that seven times, and remembered each event." The new book's most oft-quoted line is a revelation that Lewis has after several months with his newborn: "It's because you want to hurl it off the balcony and don't that you come to love it." 

How You Play The Game

This whole "not keeping score / everyone gets a trophy" concept of entry-level kids' sports has always torn me both ways. Sure, it's nice to protect our children for as long as possible from the reality that losing is a real kick in the ol' castanets but it always makes think back to that line in The Incredibles where Mr. Incredible complains about how society keeps "creating new ways to celebrate mediocrity."

I think about this often now that I am a youth sports coach. Partially because all the kids seem to know the score anyway, so I'm always wondering why am I pretending it doesn't exist, but mostly because this concept allegedly encourages some children's continued participation in physical activity. Unfortunately, these are usually the clueless spazzes who should get a leg up on being IT analysts and fashion designers.

Richard Dreyfus Would Have Stood His Ground

"It smells like piss in here," I said as I eyed the cat, waiting to see if he'd flinch with guilt.

No flinch.  He was close to getting two.

I glared at him anyway.  Damn cat.  Regardless of what he thinks, spending your nights licking your stuff while sitting in the bathroom sink is not acceptable behavior.  Or so I've been told.

Besides, he nearly scared the bejesus out of me and if anyone needs their bejesus intact it's me.  I ain't livin' right.

So it stunk in the bathroom and I questioned my wife about it. 

"I live with three boys.  Of course it smells like pee."

"A) I'm a man, baby.  And 2) I didn't say pee.  Pee is a light tinkle. Pee is an April shower.  Pee is cute.  Statues pee in birdbaths."

She had already left the room.

Memo to My Son, Age 7

To: Thing 2
From: Your Dad
Re: Upon Entering Your 7th Year

Six was a good year for you.

You grew beyond Velcro straps and Pixar characters on your sneakers. This, of course, required you to finally learn how to tie laces. It was one struggle after another, but after dozens of frustrating attempts, you came bounding up the basement stairs, screaming and shouting that you finally made a granny knot that held. You had to show me right there and then on the top step, while I watched and silently fretted that you, in your excitement, would stand up too fast and flip backward, end-over-end, down onto the tiled floor below. As usual, we both survived.

You ventured out several times onto the sea kayak with Mom, not too far into the tide, but far enough that I hope you'll never have the panic attacks and queasiness that mostly keeps me ashore.

You finally rode rollercoasters; you even liked a few of them. And yes, I know, it wasn't you screaming and crying on that one in Florida. That was the stuffed dragon you won at the water-pistol race booth. Good thing you were there to protect and comfort poor Mr. Fuzzy Cheeks.

Your ability to read and write soared. You might soon pass your sister, even though she's two years older, because you are one of those kids who just "gets it" without making a quizzical look. Count your blessings.

You climbed 30-something-feet up a ladder and jumped, holding on to that trapeze for dear life. Even though you couldn't swing your legs up so you could hang upside down like the monkey I know you really are, I couldn't have been prouder to seeing you up there trying. Next year, you're going to nail it -- back-flip dismount and all.

Of course, not everything you did was an adventure or a success.

You still "look" for missing items by blankly staring at one spot for a few seconds and declaring, in tears, that you can't find it anywhere.

All attempts to introduce new vegetables failed with you. How can you not like corn in any of its sweet incarnations?

You started to learn that being bigger than everyone on the playing fields is not necessarily going to mean you are the best player. I know that makes you upset and losing makes it even worse. As I told you in our many post-game talks in the minivan, you're going to need to do more than just show up once a week at game time to be any good at sports. So any time you want to kick a ball or play catch or shoot some baskets, just ask. I'll always have time for that.

Speaking of being big, you may read and look like you are 9, but you still act and talk like you are 4 at times. I hear the kids poking fun at you at school because you tear up too easily or you sound like a baby. You'll grow out of it, eventually, but there's no doubt you are a more sensitive kid than most. Try to be strong when you can, but know that you just may have a heart that's bigger than most people's. That is a gift. Treasure it and share it wisely, little guy. Someday, your friends will understand that. You will, too.

I'm just lucky that I already do.

*

Go to my "Always Home and Uncool" blog to see the special birthday video for Thing 2.

Would You Like Some Cheese With That?

I'm thinking seriously about converting the basement into a whine cellar.  Yes, whine.

Our house is filled with two distinct, yet complimentary, vintages, a 2003 and a 2006, both of which are currently on top of their game.  However,  I'm afraid that the warmth and light might be spoiling them.  You see, I signed on for good grapes, not raisins.

Nothing a solid cork can't fix.

Babies and Drugs

Most of my teenage summers were spent in the wilds of the Texas Hill Country, employed by the Boy Scouts of America to train young lads in the ways of the outdoors, everything from building fires and swinging axes to tying knots and constructing rope bridges. It would have been the perfect job if it hadn’t been for all of those damn kids. One drawback was the schedule, with one batch of kids leaving Saturday afternoon and the next batch arriving on their heels the next Sunday afternoon. But that 24 hour span in-between was ours to do with as we pleased.

One weekend, some of my friends came out to visit and see for themselves this magical patch of acreage that I emerged from every September laden with stories with which to regale them. With no troops around, we were free to camp wherever we wanted, so we snagged a sweet spot right next to the river. Now being teenagers, there was, of course, alcohol. That was just part of the deal, and I would have been righteously disappointed in my friends had they arrived dry. And I even halfway expected them to come packing another party favor, which they most certainly did. What I did not expect them to show up with was hallucinogens.