DadCentric

Rockabye: The DadCentric Review

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn't brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn't your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won't lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca's blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: "Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don't we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I'm not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice."

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: "Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well."

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle.  Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you.

DadCentric Formal Apology #32,455

A few days ago, I was interviewed for a piece by Seattle Post-Intelligencer writer Paul Nyhan, who also authors the Working Dad blog. The piece was about the lack of support groups - and parenting resources in general - for dads. It can be found here. I wish to clarify the remarks attributed to me in the article.

While it is true that I said that a father's role has traditionally been to "guard the frontiers against the Visigoths", my intention was not to cast the Visigoths in a disparaging light. I would like to state, for the record, that am not nor have I ever been an anti-Visite. I have nothing but respect and admiration for the Visigoth people. I often listen to Visigoth music ("Music to Put Severed Heads On Long Pikes By" and "Elkskin Tanning Tunes" are two of my favorite albums, and they just happen to be by, yes, Visigoths). I am not ashamed to drink mead when I'm around my non-Visigoth friends. And yes, I am proud to say that I do have Visigoth friends. (Well, they're more like acquaintances.  One is a co-worker, actually. And I only see him at the annual company picnic. Never met met his wife, truth be told. But still.)

I see now the error of my ways, and those of you who have commented that I should have learned my lesson after that 'fending off the Mongol Hordes' comment I made in the September 2004 issue of Ladies' Home Journal, point taken. I can only say that I have come from a broken home, I have battled a debilitating addiction to Dexatrim, I lost an arm in the brave but futile attempt to recapture the city of Hue only to return home to the curses and spittle of flag-burning hippies...well, I have a lot of pent up anger, which I unfortunately vented at the Visigoth people. I see now that my long-held belief that there is a Secret Global Visigoth Agenda was born of paranoia and a deep-seeded inferiority complex, which most likely were an aftereffect of the years I spent frequenting the Opium Dens of Uptown Vancouver. I am sincerely, deeply, and truly sorry if I have offended any Visigoths who may have read my words. I have decided to embark upon a Tour Of Healing, during which I will visit with some noted Visigoth leaders and communities, and make a deeply heartfelt speech, portions of which are still being written by my staff of interns (some of whom are, I should add - with great pride, I should also add - Visigoths). I beg your forgiveness, Visigoths everywhere, and I hope that we can all begin the healing process.

I Want to Dip My Balls in It!

Maybe.

I know it's a touchy subject- a collective squirm throughout the internets, but we're talking about something important here and it must be said: vasectomy. 

Damn, see?  It's like the scene in Stand By Me when he gets leeches on his junk.  I remember the whole row in the movie theater crossing their legs, even the women.  Getting stuff snipped, especially stuff that has never done me wrong and was key to a great part of my happiness from the age of 14 to present, well, it doesn't seem right.  Necessary?  Probably.  Right? No.

My wife and I are done having children.  There, I said it.  We like what we've got.  We're happy.  Put the freaking lid on.  The time has come to trust someone other than Trojan Man and Navin R. Johnson with the technicalities of our bedchamber.  I don't want to think about Xavier McDaniel.

I want to think about sex.  I want to live in the moment, consequence be damned.  Is that too much to ask?  I figure I only get so many opportunities, each lasting up to (but not longer than) 4 hours, that it's time to stop the insanity and just get jiggy with it. 

That's how I'm justifying it anyway, but damn, it's scary. 

What about you?  Any of you have a eunuch unique take on this?

Summertime In The Sanctuary

It's Summertime, gentlemen, and with the blazing heat (residents of the gray mass known as San Francisco excluded) comes the skimpy swimsuits, hot bods and other such eye candy - not that we're looking or anything, of course.  We're just aware, wives.

Anyway, while surfing the net yesterday - OK...it was PerezHilton - I came across something that really put Summer in perspective...if you're a Quaker.  It's swimwear for the modest and wholesome.  Finally, there's something practical and sexy frumpy for those who feel a little leg is a little much.  God knows [literally] that knee caps and shoulders are the gateway body parts to unabashed promiscuity, so, cover that stuff up, sisters in Christ, lest ye tempt thy males.

I'm not going to lie.  This isn't something I haven't seen before.  I vividly remember church youth retreats to the skating rink where the poor ladies had to rock the rink in culottes as hymns blasted through the stereophonic sound system.  Talk about a cock-block!  Even a 13 year old with a nuclear libido like I had has a difficult time making something sexy out of a cute chick with bloody knees limping off the rink after a rambunctious couple of orbits to "Bringing In The Sheaves".  Culottes = Not Sexy.  Always.  Mission accomplished, I guess.

I'm all for modesty, if you so choose, ladies.  And I understand if some of you have issues with your body (theocratic or otherwise), but, seriously...let's not resort to a Spandex undergarment with a potato sack top, OK?  There's a big difference between a day at the beach and a day of beach-adjacent fellowship with your Brothers and Sisters.  Please don't confuse the two.

How I Pay The Bills

(Actual conversation between my son and my wife, occuring this past Friday, en route to my office, shamelessly cut and pasted from my wife's blog:)

Lucas: Where are we going Mommy?

Beth: We are going to meet Daddy at work for lunch.

Lucas: Where?

Beth: We are going to get Daddy from his job.

Lucas: MY Daddy? Jason?

Beth: Yes, Lucas - your Daddy, Jason. (??? what other Daddy's do we meet for lunch?)

Lucas: At his job?

Beth: Yes, at his job. Do you know what Daddy does?

Lucas: He makes money.

Beth: Well, yes. But do you know what his job is? Do you know what Daddy does all day?

Lucas: Yea.. uh.. he dresses up like a pirate and fights clowns!

How To Cope With A Hot Nanny

Many of us, at some point in our parenting lives, are faced with a choice: child care center, or nanny? We went down both roads; Lucas is currently going to a center, two days a week, but in his rookie season, the boy had a nanny. We all loved her; she was great with Lucas, and she was named after a titular Allman Brothers gal (no, not Elizabeth Reed; that would be somewhat disturbing, to name your girl after the dead subject of a lengthy instrumental jam. Like naming your daughter Eleanor Rigby.) Choosing the right nanny is a pressure-laden and grueling task, and it can be a tremendous challenge to find the right one, and hang on to her/him once you have.

DadCentric favorite AJ Jacobs has a nanny. And a problem. She's apparently hot, Angelina Jolie-hot, and we men do not bandy that term around lightly. (Poor AJ - must be rough, what with having Lara Croft as a nanny and hanging out with Scarlett Johansson and all.) So hot, in fact, that she's having trouble finding dates because of the hotness - men are simply intimidated by her. So AJ does what any wordsmith with an unbearably hot nanny would; he takes a cue from Edmond Rostand and offers to help. Read the rest of the story to find out what happens.

Hey, That's Today?

I was cruising through my feeds, reading blog after blog after blog, and I started to notice a theme.  That theme was Mother's Day.  Apparently, every single person who blogs has had, at one point or another, a mother.  Who knew?

We here at DadCentric have had a hand (among other things) in creating some May customers for Hallmark.  I figured one of us here must have made a little post mentioning the holiday.  Nope.  We're men, people.  We don't always think about doing the nice thing.  Sometimes we like to watch basketball and drink beer on a Sunday, regardless of the holiday.  Come on, it's the playoffs! (Go Suns!)

That said, we're in the business of making moms, it's what we do (or did).  We should be strong enough to suck it up and throw a shout out on a day that honors them.  That's good business.

It's also heartfelt and sincere.  On behalf of the lads, Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there.  Hope your day was wonderful.

Work It, Mom!

Clever double meaning to this particular post's title; first, Work It Mom! is a new site by and for working moms, so if you have one under your roof, or if you are one, check it out. I'm admitted biased, as my kick-ass rock star wife is the subject of their latest interview.