DadCentric

Pierced

  "Do you want to do it?" My wife asked.

"No." said the Peanut

"Ok."

I strode a few steps ahead, relieved.

We made it about four more steps through the mall before the Peanut said, "Yes. I want to do it. I want to get my ears pierced right now!"

And I felt a trickle of freon roll down my spine.

I don't handle this stuff well.

My wife wanted to have it done when the Peanut was still a baby. Her mother did it to her, her grandmother did it to her mother, etc.

If you ask me, tradition doesn't cut it. Not when you're talking about the altering of a child's body. Add the issue of gender roles to that and why don't we just bind her feet while at it. I don't handle this stuff well. Seriously, it's a problem.

We'd still be fighting about whether or not to have the Pumpkin Man circumcised if the W.H.O. hadn't recommended it for the prevention of AIDS about a month before he was born. I figure he's going to travel, and he's already devestatingly handsome, so . . .

With the ear-piecing, I told my wife I wanted it to be the Peanut's decision (which probably would not have been a good tactic with the circumsicion). I just thought she'd make it a lot later in her childhood. Like her twenties. I really don't handle this stuff well.

It's my own fault. I spent most of her third year convincing her that piercing her ears would hurt like hell. Inadvertantly. Mostly. I just told her that they used needles like the ones the doctor used to give her her shots. Except musch bigger. And dull. And red hot. And filled with bees. Not the right thing to do, I know. So I spent her fourth year convincing her it didn't hurt at all.

I wish I had never said the thing about leaving it up to the Peanut to decide. Four year olds have horrible judgement.

But now it's done. We walked into whatever mall bauble store happened to be there (Maubles? Sparkle-tacular? The Icing on Your Face? Rings'n Things By Dr. Mengele? I truly do not handle this stuff well) and the Peanut hopped on the stool and just did it. 

The woman brought those little white, plastic, zipguns up to each ear and the Peanut didn't flinch. She didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't make a peep. Barely batted an eye. She was so brave. So grown up. I was shocked. Or more, I was in shock. She picked sparkly, pink, crystal daisies, of course.

When it was over and our daughter had taken yet another small step away from us and towards controlling her own destiny, I looked to her little brother. The Pumpkin man is still my baby. I reached for my youngest child and he looked up at me wide eyed and excited and exclaimed, "Daddy. Me too!"

Sun, Fun, and, "Hey, your kid's a hermaphrodite."

"Here you go. Who wants a spray. C'mon, let me spray you."

My kids are white. I mean, they have soul and stuff, but they've got the pigmentation of an Irish polar bear. Mole men are freaked out by how white they are. Mike Huckabee once called them honkeys. Ron Howard stands next to them so he can seem more ethnic. They're white, I'm tellin' ya. 

Because of this pigmentless condition, we slather on the sunblock. Like frosting a cake.

Two years ago we started to hear about chemicals in sunblock. Scary chemicals. 

It was confusing at first. "Free radicals? Hey man, far out. What's that? Cell destroying you say? Huh."

Then we read about hormone disruption and estrogen imitators. Increased risk of breast cancer, uterine cysts, endometriosis in young women. Testicles left undescended, shrunken penises, sexual identity confusion, and testicular cancer risks in boys. Human sacrifice, dogs and cats, living together . . . mass hysteria

Reads like the side-effects on a prescription for depression. Which is what we needed after reading all this.

So we got the safest sunblock we could afford. This year, being naturally overprotective/paranoid, we sent away for a gallon of organic sunblock. It's cheaper in bulk. We know the chemicals considered harmful by some have yet to progress beyond lab animal testing. Better safe than horribly irrevocably guilt when my son's testicles tell him to not be able to go fuck himself. 

I realize all of this sunblock mishigas has been covered before in great detail by other parent bloggers.

What happened is, we went to a birthday party today. An outside affair. That's where the above spraying took place. The mother of the birthday boy was casually spraying Banana Boat brand--one of  the worst brand, according to this website. I heard it causes Human Cortico-Deficiency Virus upon contact--over every inch of kid skin that was in close proximity. 

Not on our kids. We dutifully pulled out our putty knives, taped, and mudded our children like they were dry wall. The best part about the organic stuff is that it's basically zinc oxide and titanium dioxide, so it dries and flakes in the most attractive manner. It takes about five minutes post application before both kids look like tiny members of the Insane Clown Posse. I'm pretty sure the Pumpkin Man netted himself some brand new Juggahoes. Fake ass Juggalos, but you know, the Pumpkin Man's not choosy.

And I found myself thinking, "How bad could it be. All these parents here are using the same product. Took them twenty five seconds to sunblock up their kids. So easy. So free." And maybe they'll turn out to be right. And if that's the case we'll put down our mortaring trowels and pick up 40 extra minutes to enjoy a sunny day. Until then though, a-slathering we will go. 

 

 

Things I'm Keeping My Daughter The Hell Away From, Part I: Beauty Pageants

In many ways, sadly, it's still a Man's World, and a great many men still adhere to the hopelessly outdated notion that being a beauty pageant contestant is something that little girls should aspire to. I respectfully disagree; while I'm sure that the ability to walk around in heels and a bathing suit is a valuable Life Skill, I'm steering her in a different direction - an educated, intelligent citizen of the world. Apparently, that's not really a priority for the folks at the Miss USA pageant; they like their gals young, skinny, and God-fearin' (we're assuming that Barefoot and Pregnant comes later, else why bother to have a Mrs. USA pageant?) In this video, Don Draper's idealized future of American womanhood is asked whether or not evolution should be taught in school. (As you watch it, keep in mind that it's not intended as a joke; this is part of the Miss USA marketing campaign, and is supposed to be sending the message that these women are setting a fine example to our kids.) My daughter is three, and she's already got a leg up on 99% of the vacuous bimbos in this video: she knows that dinosaurs existed, and can even name several. 

Damn, that vid's about 15 minutes long. For those of you who haven't the time, patience, or stomach for it, here's the highlight reel:

 

Chris Rock famously joked that his main job as father to his daughter is simple: keep her off The Pole. Stuff like this reinforces our shared belief. I'm fiercely protective of my daughter, in ways that weren't immediately apparent to me but have crystalized as she's developed into a thinking person. Keep her off the pole, yes; keep her mind sharp and open, and keep instilling in her the belief that she's only a caricature if she chooses to be? HELL yes.

Enjoying Stays and the Musts of Moving On

By the time the last song ended there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Some were filled with tears due to an abundance of cuteness that had spent the better part of an hour humming along to melancholy. Others were moist with the cartoon spittle of hungry tongues licking anxious lips beneath a piñata heavy with sugar-coated promise. Graduation offered instant gratification.

I stood in the back with a camera in my face and hoped that the beer on my breath wasn't too obvious. My wife and I had shared a rare lunch together sans children, the last for at least the summer -- and the last in a town that we have come to call home. Needless to say we enjoyed a pint.

And so it was that I was out of preschoolers, and what was supposed to be summer loomed gray and cool, a mournful mocking of milestones. We celebrated in a coffee shop. The graduate enjoyed hot chocolate. His older brother, still giddy from an afternoon pulled early from school, ordered a steamed apple juice. Then they retired to the play area, skipping on legs long and growing. We sat tired with our espresso drinks and magazines. I read a recent Rolling Stone, pausing between pages to offer a "shush." My wife read something about Seattle instead of looking out the window.

I have worked 52 hours since Monday. That, with most of today off. I'll put in eight more before the night is through. The sound of my keyboard echoes from the canyon of boxes that have grown upon the walls of our house like a thick, cardboard fungus.

It is a waiting game. We all lose. We all win. The sides are drawn in hourglass sand. If I close my eyes tight enough the summer will be gone. The boxes will be against other walls in another town in another state. The beer on my breath will be from a different tap, and the coffee swimming against it will swirl from a different paper cup with a different logo across it. The youngest will no longer know the comforts of dress-rehearsal, but rather the bright lights of the big stage. His backpack will carry more than dreams and crackers. The clouds will be few and far between.

Time may be short, but the days are long. The children electric with excitement. There are pages for the turning -- be damned the tired "shush" and warm cups of cliché. This is the quiet before our storm. Eyes may be wet and dried on shirts soft with shoulder, but they are wide and they are open. Our adventure at the ready.

Stifler's List; Or, How Lacrosse Became My Latest Obsession

"Soft hands", I told my son. "Remember what the guy in the video said? Soft hands." 

I know how that sounds. But this is lacrosse we're talking about, a sport that manages to be both extremely silly and extremely badass at the same time. I've never played lacrosse, have only watched it a handful of times, and yet there I was, coaching Lucas on the proper way to catch a lacrosse ball with a lacrosse...hang on while I Google the proper name for it, ah, yes..."stick". The thing is like a butterfly net with a shrunken head, and when you catch the ball and run with it you have to twist the stick in your hands to keep the ball from falling out. This is called "cradling balls". (If you want to learn how to properly cradle balls, watch this. Yes, it's safe for work. Also, heh heh heh, cradling balls. Like I said, it's kind of a silly sport.)

Father-son obsessions, the Beast With Two Heads. This one was born about a year ago. We were driving back from something; our route took us past a local high school. "Dad! Look at that! What is that game? It looks awesome." I slowed down. A lacrosse practice, kids running to and fro, whipping balls into the net, smacking each other with those sticks (yes, I know how that sounds). Fast-paced and brutal - that's how my son likes his team sports. He gets that from his old man. The wheels started turning. Assuming that youth lacrosse doesn't interfere with youth rugby..."That's lacrosse. It's kind of like hockey meets basketball meets tennis. Looks pretty fun, no?" "And you can hit people with those stick-things?" "I think so, yes." "Cool! I want to play. Can I play?" "I think it's for older kids. But yes, when you're older, you can play." Thus the seed was planted; shortly after that, I bought a Mini-Lacrosse set (smaller, plastic sticks and a spongy ball, for the undersized player). 

Boxed In

Box Tops for Education is a program that goes like this: Buy certain products, cut Box tops out, give to kid. Kid presents these at school, kid gets showered with gifts and hailed as hero, school gets supplies/cash. The Box Tops program has been helping schools raise money since 1996.

Box Tops are the devil. 

I'm sorry, that's not right.

Box Tops are the White Devil. There we go.

I understand that schools are struggling. So does Box Tops. Box Tops understands that in a tough economic climate the best way to engender brand loyalty is by affecting your kid's self-worth. 

My little Peanut comes home the other day beseeching me first, then demanding that we immediately provide more Box Tops

Her: Daddy, we need more Box Tops.

Me:" I'll try honey, but we don't have any right now.

Her: "But daddy,Sophia brought some, and Mae, and Mrs. Nuzzo says I have to bring them or we won't win. We have to get more Box Tops. Goddammit!"

Then she pulled a box cutter on me. We tussled and I wrested it away from her when she was distracted by my use of the words "poop face." You've got to know your enemy.

Should Men Breastfeed?

I know what you're thinking. And you're right. If God or Xenu or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or the causal effects of hundreds of thousands of years of species evolution had intended guys to breastfeed, He/It would've given us working tits. But that didn't stop Slate writer Michael Thomson from trying. In this article, Thomson recounts his tale of transforming his moobs to boobs. His story is both fascinating and kinda horrifying. And it raises an interesting question: even if guys could successfully lactate and breastfeed (I won't spoil the story's ending), should they?

Now, before you say "Aw, HELL naw!" in your best Will Smith voice, the answer's not as cut and dried as one might think. Numerous studies have shown that breast milk is better for the kiddies than formula (I don't judge you if you fed your kiddie formula; there are plenty of moms out there - including my wife - who face numerous challenges breastfeeding and have no choice but to give their babies formula). And for the most part, that's the only option for moms who can't breastfeed. I say for the most part - turns out you can buy someone else's breast milk, but that's a dicey proposition as there's very little Quality Control in the breast milk retail industry. ("Honey, this breast milk you bought online? It smells like a White Russian.") And there's the psychological factor as well - breastfeeding moms share a unique emotional bond with their babies, and as the article points out, there are cultures that attempt to replicate this, with fathers suckling their babies when Mom's not around. So if it were possible to keep breastfeeding in the family, if Dad could step up to the plate, why not? Does a baby raised by a single dad miss out by not having a mom to nurse her?

There's a lot of talk about the "evolution of fatherhood" in the dad-blog-o-sphere. I don't pretend to know the answer, nor would I jump at the chance to nurse a baby if I could (because damn, getting your nipples chomped on friggin' hurts). But our definitions of parental roles are changing in ways that would have shocked most dads even 25 years ago. Who knows? In 25 years, Star Wars-themed Hooter Hiders might be the "must-buy" gift for Father's Day.

 

 

 

Her Gift of Flare

CHICAGO – I'm at Children’s Memorial Hospital, waiting on a diagnosis.

If that sends a sinking feeling through your chest, know that it has done the same to me a few hundred times the past two weeks. That's when our daughter, Thing 1, began showing all the signs of a full-blown relapse of juvenile dermatomyositis.

 "Flare" is the more proper term. That's what the doctors call it when the disease, a barely smoldering ember in her body for several years, bursts back into visible flames.

The butterfly-shaped rash, cheek to cheek across her face.

The blotchy redness on her elbows and knuckles.

I can't tell you what's going on in the blood and muscles and immune system of that gangly 11-year-old body of hers. That's why we're halfway across the United States meeting with her specialist today.

Blood draws. Close-up photos of the microscopic capillaries of her fingernail beds. Strength and flexibility tests to see if the re-emergent disease has sapped her muscles. Maybe a few X-rays for good measure.

Despite her beet face and speckled arms, Thing 1 says she has no pain and only sporadic weakness and tiredness. She did break into tears at soccer practice on Thursday when I made her, along with her teammates, run a third lap for their failure to completely finish running either of the first two.

"I was running, but I got tired, Daddy. You know why!" she sobbed as I pulled her aside before the drills started.

She couldn't tell me that 9 years ago.

My little girl, age 2, puffy and swollen, covered in these crimson splatters. She'd come home from daycare and fall over asleep on the couch, no thought of eating dinner or even a meek plea for a "Blue's Clues" video. Later, she'd struggle to stand then ask me to carry her because her legs couldn't support the weight of her body. She just didn't have the vocabulary to tell me then.

"What have you been telling the kids at school when they ask why your face is all red?" I asked her one night last week.

"I just tell them I'm hot," she said. "Red hot."

DadCentric Interviews Top Chef Richard Blais

Fans of great food and Top Chef know Richard Blais: his creative approach to cooking, incorporating the concepts of molecular gastronomy (using non-traditional equipment and materials like liquid nitrogen and blowtorches - think Wile E. Coyote in the kitchen, but without the explosions), has made him an iconoclast in the culinary world. Blais has appeared on three of the four Top Chef series: Top Chef, Top Chef Masters, and most recently, the inaugural season of Top Chef All-Stars, which he won. He's also a father of two, and if anyone can get his kids to eat their veggies, I'm sure it's him. I got the chance to do a phone/video interview with Richard; he's working with the National Pork Board, promoting the Other White Meat, and we spoke about cooking, being a celebrity chef, and raising kids while he whipped up a terrific looking pork chop. (Apologies for the sound quality: I assure you that the voice is in fact mine, and I do not suffer from emphysema.)

 

Forced Settlements

"He's looking at me!"

"She hit me!

"He's being mean!"

"She took my cookie!"

"I wanna watch my show!"

"I wanna watch my show!"

The pain begins behind my right eye, and grows to jackhammer strength. It doesn't help that I've been staring at a computer for four hours straight; my contact lenses have turned to pieces of Scotch tape. The pendulum swung wide; they used to get along well, would play together, would share snacks. Now they fight for attention like jackals over a rotting gnu carcass. What one has, tangible or intangible, the other wants. To his credit, Lucas rarely hits back. On the flip side, every blow she lands elicits a howl and conjured-up tears. This is an afternoon like so many others: I have a fuck-ton of work to plow through, and I'm refereeing a cage match.

Time outs don't work. Lucas' room is his Briar Patch. "Don't make me go in there!"  And of course I do, and so he lies on his bed, reading a comic book. Winning! For a few weeks, Zoë had her Naughty Chair, a bar stool just tall enough that she couldn't climb down. She hated being trapped, high above the kitchen floor. Courage and a growth spurt changed all that. Yelling doesn't work. I hate to do it, they know I hate to do it, and so there's no threat behind the volume. 

The Internet is good for many things - YouTube videos of guys wiping out on skateboards, for instance - but I rarely find good parenting advice. Yesterday, I was checking out my Facebook page; a friend had posted an intriguing remedy for her boys' fights, and so I decided to give it a go. What the hell, right? Couldn't hurt.

Another scuffle, this time over...God knows. Something about a toy. "Both of you. Sit down. On the couch." They complied. This was new. They were intrigued.

"Hold hands."

"Huh?" A simultaneous response. Good.

"You heard me. Hold hands."

They did. And looked at me, puzzled. Excellent.

"Now, you're gonna sit there nicely, holding hands, until I say you can get up."

A pin dropped. I heard it.

I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water. This was brilliant, I thought. I made a note to thank my friend for the tip.

"DAAAAD! ZOË'S NOT HOLDING MY HAAAAAAAND."

Sigh. The road to peace is long, and rocky.