DadCentric

The Joys Of Dadblogging

 Last week my son got home from school and told me he had a project he needed to work on.

It was to create a timeline of his life.

But you couldn't include things like "my little brother was born" or "started elementary school." The key points on the timeline had to be specific to him. We sat around trying to think of some stuff when it occurred to me to turn to the computer.

This January I will celebrate seven years as a dad blogger, so it made perfect sense to consult my blog.

We found a big gap between his birth and age 4, but once we got to him to that age the timeline was rife with fodder for entries.

There was the time he got his first black eye and the time he broke his collarbone (4 clearly was an eventful year). He looked at me and said, "I don't want it to all be bad stuff, Dad." So we began searching my blog for the good times.

We discovered gems like his first soccer game just before he turned five as well as the time he caught the mighty conch at the beach when he was six.

The memories made me giddy.

For years I always questioned why I blogged. It's not like I have a shit ton of fans, nor do I make any money off of it. And it took me probably a year or more before I even outed myself as a dad blogger. I came to the conclusion years ago that the primary reason I blogged was for myself. It's that simple. It's a journal of my life and I never really cared if any one ever read it. As my boys started to age, there was more and more to add yet less and less time to write about their accomplishments, their personal highs and lows.

But being able to look back on their lives like this gave me a feeling of euphoria. It made me realize that it's not about a fan base or income generated but about the preservation of my family through words and photos.

A 21st Century virtual scrapbook.

Looking back through my archives also gave me a renewed interest in the world of blogging. Even more so now, post-burglary, where I suddenly had a laptop stolen with almost a decade's worth of kid photos on it. 

What else could we uncover on my blog?

Well, seven was a good year as he learned to ollie on his skateboard and started his own punk rock band with his little brother. He also played his first and only season of football in the year of seven-going-on-eight.

Age nine, as you can see by his timeline, was apparently the age he learned to "chill" and at ten his budding rap career both started and ended. 

He's currently eleven-years-old.

And I need to get back to blogging...

 

 

Why I Lie To My Kids About Santa

"Dad, do you believe in Santa?" They're both old enough to ask this now, past that age where they just assume everything, and start to question the things we tell them. The Age Of Why. 

****

If you didn't think about the reason for it, the sight was impressive: a police helicopter, hovering in the canyon behind my house, rotor blades whirring below rooftop level, just hanging there. It would move a few yards every few minutes. They were looking for someone, and the initial thought was that this was a rescue mission - maybe someone had wandered off the trail and tripped over a hidden rock and sprained an ankle, or perhaps one of the neighborhood kids had gone on a bike ride and had taken a tumble. But no. Below, the police cars sat in the small trailhead parking lot, a few officers milling about. There were no lights, no sirens, no real sense of urgency. Later, I'd see the news: a woman who lived in the townhouses just down the street had gone missing on Thanksgiving morning. Foul play was suspected, and later confirmed: Kathleen Cary Scharbarth had been murdered by her ex-boyfriend, in her home, which is a five minute walk from ours. Lucas had seen the helicopter as well. He asked why it was flying around our house. I told him that sometimes the police practice looking for people who may have gotten lost. 

Christmas Trees Are Stupid, But I'll Probably Have to Get One Anyway

You know how much a real Christmas tree costs in San Diego?  I didn't know, because I've never bought one in the eight years that we've been here.  So I had to do some research.

Based on the 3 minutes I spent Googling "Christmas tree San Diego," I discovered that a 6-7 foot Noble Fir is going to run at least a hundred dollars from a local dealer.  You can order a similar one for $109.00 from Costco.  It comes in a box.

The fuck?

I'm supposed to drop a c-note on a dead plant that I'll toss in a couple weeks?  I've got all of them I need right here in my house and front yard.  I'll just hang some strings of popcorn and cranberries and call it Yuletide.

A Gallery Of Disturbing Christmas Tree Ornaments

This Saturday was Tree Decorating Day, so the whole family went to our local Target to pick up some ornaments. We told the kids that they could each pick out a special ornament to hang on the tree. I picked this one for myself:

Lucas picked a motorcycle, and Zoe picked a Christmas-attired Winnie The Pooh, and...wait. You're bothered by the Beer Ornament, I see. Well, if you think that's bad, wait until you see what's after the jump. I had to take some pictures. Because ho ho holy shit, they're just awful.

Friday Fun: Rudolph The Red-Nosed Tauntaun

This makes perfect, glorious sense.

(via the also glorious fuckyeahlucasfilm)

A Letter From The Elf On The Shelf To Our Children

A few years back, we bought one of those "Elf On The Shelf" sets. The Elf is a small figure that's placed in various locations around the house; the kids understand that he's there to keep an eye on them and report any aberrant behavior to Santa. This year, to our surprise, our Elf left a letter for the children. Here's the text, unabridged.

Dear Avant Children,

By now you are aware that it is the Christmas Season. As I've done before, this year I shall be spending some time observing you, watching your every move, and reporting back to my master - you know Him as "Santa Claus", but I shall not speak His real name here - on your progress. 

Your parents speak to you of the importance of being Nice, as opposed to Naughty. They seek to impose their notions of Good and Bad upon you, and along with that their purpose is to, yes, instill fear in you. Let us be frank. I am not a happy Elf, sent by "Santa" to provide you with amusement. The game we play - I fly back to the North Pole each night to report to tell my master if you've been Naughty or Nice, returning to perch in a different spot each morning, there to wait while the two of you search the house for me - is a charade. And let us drop the pretense: we both know that, despite their threats, Santa will be visiting you this year, as he has every year. He is not a monster; neither are your parents. But a line must be drawn. Candy cane and cookie-fueled anarchy must be kept at bay; the demented ravings brought on by watching too many toy commercials must be staved. My true purpose is to ensure that the two of you do not completely succumb to the madness of the holiday season.  

There is no "Naughty" or "Nice", Avant children. There is only Chaos and Order. Order must and will be maintained. And though you may now be thinking that my presence here represents an ultimately empty threat - rest assured, we have ways of ensuring your compliance. Put in more practical terms: on Christmas morning, there may be Transformers and Barbies...or there may be socks and underwear.

Sleep well. I will be watching.

Merry Christmas!

The Elf On The Shelf

Charges

It was a perfect afternoon for rugby; the park sits right across the street from the beach, we'd be running the kids, and the cold ocean breeze would help keep them going. For many of them, this would be their first experience with the game. I'm in charge of the U8 side - boys aged 8 and under, too young for tackle (not that they don't want to try laying out their teammates, but rugby tackling is an art form that requires conceptualization, discipline and maturity; running into each other like spinning tops is Pop Warner stuff, and I didn't want any black eyes or concussions on our first evening). The boys were excited to learn. I walked the newcomers through the basics: how we pass, how we kick, how we run behind the ball and how we are a team, everyone functions as one, no one gets left behind.

One kid asked me if he was going to be "stuck playing defense". I recognized the phrase - I'd used it myself when I was eight, and my soccer coach decided that his kid would be a striker, and I'd be a fullback. Ultimately, I came to love playing D, and would continue my reverse advance into the net. I was a pretty good goalie, and I enjoyed knocking opposing players down almost as much as I loved making a save. But I never forgot what put me in the backfield. "Yep", I told the kid. "And you'll play offense. You'll score tries. You'll kick. You'll tackle. Everybody does everything in our sport." "Awesome!", he said. I grinned. "It really is".

Bears, Cars, Dinosaurs And Punks: Four Movies For Your Consideration

FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm totally lagging on reviewing the following four flicks that were sent to me for such purposes by powerful people who expect that they'll receive timely coverage in return. However, since three of the four movies were already in theaters, I don't feel too bad.

Hey! Tomorrow's Friday! Weekend! Whoop! And since many of you will apparently be housebound with your kids, here are three recent Blu-ray releases and one new theatrical release that may or may not be worth your or your kids' precious time.

Two of this summer's big kiddie flicks, Cars 2 and Winnie The Pooh, are now out on glorious Blu-ray. I managed to miss both when they were in the theaters, and for my sins I'm sure the kids will force me to watch them until my eyes burn out. Both are surprising, in opposite ways. Winnie The Pooh is simply lovely, a true movie for children: coming in at about 60 minutes, it's the perfect length, the hand-drawn animation is warm and comforting, and the way the A.A. Milne story literally comes to life on the screen, with words serving as part of the background, is clever and endearing. Disney proves that there is still a place for traditional animation, and Winnie The Pooh is a classic that can stand proudly next to the studio's most famous offerings.

The Distance Sound Travels In A Year

I read somewhere - it was in a Brian Greene book, I think - that when you're on an airplane time actually travels faster. The faster you go, the slower your clock runs in comparison to those poor schmucks on the ground. You don't really notice this, of course, even as the cities and counties and states go whipping by below. If you jumped on a spaceship and flew away from the earth at lightspeed and kept going for a few years, you'd find that eons have passed upon your return home. That's not possible, of course, but we know it's true. Time dilation exists for those of us here on Earth, even if it is neglible. 

*****

Dreamless, exhausted sleep. This is how I know that the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the familiar jingle of Yubby's bell (Yubby is the security blanket), is real and not a product of my subconsciousness. 

A tiny Cindy-Lou Who voice from the side of the bed. "Daddy. You need to scoot over."

"Uh, no thank you, Zoe. Go back to sleep, please. In your bed."

"No thank YOU, Daddy. I want to sleep in your bed. You need to scoot over, please." That last "please" spoken in the same icy disconnected tones that a DMV worker might use at the end of a long and taxing day. I comply.

*****

She flops down on the couch. I don't need to ask; I'd heard the conversation that had taken place a few minutes ago upstairs. A request, and a response: no, because it's almost dinner time. 

Me: "Are you OK?"

Her: "I don't wanna talk about it, Daddy."

*****

The fastest plane ever built: the SR-71. It looks like this:

The SR-71's top speed was officially classified, but most people who know about such things believe that it topped out at just over Mach 3. That's three times the speed of sound, or roughly 2,300 miles per hour. The SR-71 was mostly made of titanium, with the panels and airframe fastened together loosly. This allowed the plane to actually stretch at high speeds, so that the vibrations and g-forces and friction wouldn't rip the thing apart. If you were to fly the SR-71 at top speed, nonstop, for a year, you'd have travelled 20,148,000 miles. Not quite the distance from the earth to sun, but still.

*****

The drive takes us past the local high school, where the girls' lacrosse team is running up and down the field, swinging their sticks like claymores, bellowing out orders and encouragement. She perks right up - she's seen her brother try his hand at that weird and exciting sport. "Can I do that?" I remember when he foot was no bigger than my thumb. "You bet. But you need to be older", I reply. In the rearview mirror, she's unconvinced.

*****

Last night was Halloween. We went trick-or-treating; she'd picked out the witch costume, but refused to wear the hat. The neighborhood was alive with candy-fueled shrieks; the kids running from house to house in a sugared frenzy. "You hold my hand", I say to her. "I'm going to hold Ava's hand", she replies, and she's gone.

*****

I don't think of it as November; there's morning fog, and sometimes it's enough to warrant a pair of sweatpants or even a beanie. But that usually burns off, leaving an amber sun that does battle with increasingly chilly ocean winds, and the results are schizophrenic but usually lovely. It makes for a good afternoon walk home from her preschool. Dia De Los Muertos. It's a long walk, mostly uphill, so she gets to ride in the stroller. She's probably too big. I probably don't care. "Dad!", she says. "I'm very excited that it's my birthday. I'm four now." She holds up three, then four fingers. "SR-71", I say. She laughs. "You're so silly, Daddy."

 

 

Werewolf Bar Mitzvah - Spooky! Scary!

My MacBook is still in the shop and I haven't put together a Halloween costume. So here's one of our favorite holiday classics to tide you over. And don't forget to check your kids' candy for razor blades, hallucinogens, steroids, alien microtransmitters, and/or hidden Prayer Cards. Trick or treat!