DadCentric

Say What?

 It was a quick visit from my parents this weekend but they always seem to leave me with something.

My mom has been a bookkeeper at local parochial high school for over twenty years. She told me over brunch of quiche lorraine and eggs benedict that she was going to retire at the end of the school year.

I asked her what she was going to do with herself after she retired and my father answered, “Bug me.”

She laughed and then said she didn’t know. I told her she might need a hobby. My mom’s Scottish decent does not allow her to sit idle for very long. A busy body who is best satiated when either on the move or in the midst of something.

My dad’s vocation takes him around the world so I’m sure many travels await them. I say vocation because from my understanding my father does not draw a salary for his position, yet most of what he does is expensible. He, for all intents and purposes, is basically retired and has been so for years. He whittles away his free time on crossword puzzles and watching Phillies games during baseball season.

And then sometime goes to places like Korea, Lithuania or Australia.

My mother said maybe she’ll be like my father, who meets with a group once a week at Panera Bread for conversation.

“We’re Romeos,” he informed me.

“Say What?” I said.

“Retired Old Men Who Eat Out,” he said.

And once again the old adage rings true: you learn something new everyday.

Bad Holiday Gifts to Give Dads (or Any Adult for that Matter)

You know what sucks more than getting stiffed by your loved ones on Christmas?

Getting crappy gifts from them.

Screw that "it's the thought that counts." If they actual put some thought into it, then they wouldn't have gotten you something so crappy. Like these items:

What Does A Controversial Article in Working Mother Magazine Have In Common With Katy Perry?

Earlier this week, an article entitled "Custody Lost" appeared on the Working Mother website. The article, which you can read here in its entirety, bemoans the trend of stay-at-home-dads winning an increasing number of custody battles. Our friend Greg over at Daddy Types does a pretty good job dismantling the piece. (To be fair, Working Mother did give a few, no doubt heavily edited paragraphs to Philip Lerman. No, he didn't get six pages, as the links at the bottom of his piece would lead you to believe. Those kick you right back into Sally Abrahms' original man-hating bordering on yellow journalism diatribe story.)

 Bottom line: the piece is ridiculous. How ridiculous? As ridiculous as a Ukrainian folk band covering a Katy Perry song. (Well...no, actually it's more ridiculous than Los Colorados. Sorry, tovarishchi. Didn't mean to insult you.)

A Mother's Arms are Made of Tenderness and Children Sleep Soundly in Them

Heat, as an extreme, exists only in a relative sense.  It is the hottest thing they have ever known and therefore it is the hottest thing ever known.  I tell them that it is not, that my coffee is actually hotter, but that doesn't soothe them, it only makes them question my sanity as they slowly dare a second sip of their lukewarm chocolate.

********

My back hurts.  I've been carrying too much for too long.  For six weeks I've been living as a single father - a single work-at-home-dad.  It has been incredibly hard and surprisingly easy.  I am better for it and I am tired and I am badly beaten. 

My work has suffered.  My 70 hour work week has been cut to less than forty - compiled from a series of minutes torn apart from hours and tucked between goodnight kisses and the taste of warm whiskey across my lips.  The clock moves always forward.

Chores once shared have become mine alone.  All nights are long and lonely.  All mornings are early and full of songs and frustration.

I do not believe that I have achieved anything worthy of praise or pity, only reflection.  Others face obstacles greater than mine on a daily basis.  They make the most.  They do their best.  They are stronger than I ever thought I was and when I sip from my glass the toast is to them.

But this is not their life, it is mine and while I was prepared and up to the challenge, it was unexpected in both timing and time.  From the frying pan to the fire is not a lateral move.  The heat is extreme and it is all relative.

Tomorrow my wife comes home after six weeks sitting at the bedside of her ailing father.  Six weeks of tears and whispers and shouts in the night.  Six weeks of walking in the shoes of a girl much younger.  Bedside seats are lessons in love and fear and the art of turning fond old memories that weren't. That is a chapter not yet closed.  Those wounds are still open.  He will still have a beside in need of sitting and she will carry her thoughts accordingly.  Her back will hurt.

********

They do not expect her.  They have grown accustomed to the missing of their mother.  Six weeks is a long time gone and a father doing the best he can is still just one kiss goodnight no matter how much laughter fills the day or how much work is left to the forgotten.

Tomorrow will seem but another day to them, the routine of living with some parts missing.  They will be safe and loved and slightly lost.  She will be on a plane six weeks delayed and her dreams will be of little boy kisses grown wet with salt and the slightest linger of lukewarm chocolate.

____________________________________

The title of this post is a quote from Victor Hugo.

Love Thy Neighbor Peeping Tom

Since it's DadCentric's Fourth Anniversary Month, we are paying tribute to those without whom it would be somewhat difficult for men to become Dads. We're starting a regular feature - MomCentric! - in which Kool (with a kapital K) Moms will guest post. Our first MomCentrician: Kristine, who is at the helm of a very funny blog entitled Wait In The Van. The Tina Fey of Mommybloggers? We think so.

I try not to talk about my neighbors too much because it turns me into that judgey-mom type (which--let's face it--I totally am, but like to repress...it keeps me healthy). But there's also the fact that we live in a (military) development. And I'm not sure it's ever been cool to talk trash about the military (whatever VIETNAM, you hippies). 

And really, why would I shit where I, um, let my kids play? Heh.  

Well, because.  The answer is BECAUSE.  Because, in my development, women are CATTY and IDENTIFIED BY their HUSBANDS.   Which kind of sucks because it's totally perpetuating a really harsh and judgmental stereotype.  But they're so vain and gossipy that they don't even stop to consider these things.

BITCHES.

MS Office Will Revolutionize The Way You Raise Your Kids!

Ok, not really. But now that I have your attention, I would like to direct you to The Parent Toolbox. A few weeks ago, the good folks at Microsoft recruited a bunch of excellent and prominent parentbloggers (and for some reason, yours truly) to write some stuff about how the various Office programs can be used to make household management easier (full disclosure: yes, I got paid - a massive wad of unmarked non-sequential bills delivered to me in an aluminum briefcase by a man who would only identify himself as "Mr. Gates"). 

My first contribution: a simple Behavior Chart, to help us help Lucas be the best he can be. We think it'll work. And if not, we're sending him to the Dollhouse. 

"Amazing Tales for Making Men Out of Boys" a Book Review by My Wife With a Running Commentary by Me, a Man That Used to be a Boy

I write for a lot of blogs and I get a lot of products to review.  It's all hit or miss.  Just today I reviewed the new Beatles remastered catalog.  Also, a nude Kourtney Kardashian.   At this very moment I'm reviewing my fourth Harvest Moon Pumpkin Ale.  I'll save you the suspense, it's good.

A lot of what I am asked to review are books, which is cool because I'm a writer and a reader and a lover. Yes, I'm two-fisted on the literary front.  However, I'm only one man.  One handsome, handsome man.  I can't read them all. 

Enter the wife.  Her name is Tricia.  She likes to read, too.  Sometimes she says I am an open book, but that's bullshit because everyone can see that I am mysterious. Sometimes she reads books that I am sent, which is not bullshit. Then I beg her to write something that passes for a review so that I can fulfill my commitment to the PR gods.  I ain't too proud to beg.  The book Amazing Tales for Making Men Out of Boys by one Neil Oliver is such a book.  Also, International Bestseller!  Congrats on that, Neil. 

Here are her notes with me in parenthesis (Help! Help! I'm in parenthesis!):

The Art of Pointing Fingers

"Those kids are mean," he said.  He was talking to his wife for the room to hear.

The kids that are mean were mine.

"Which kids?" I asked.

"That one there," he answered while pointing at my son.

"What did they do?" I asked, assuming his brother was guilty, too.

"They were pushing my little girl and not letting her on the slide," he replied.

"Get over here," I told them with my voice that implies business.

Bebe Gloton - ¿Qué coño?

Apparently, there's been quite the firestorm with regard to Bebe Gloton - the breast-feeding baby doll manufactured in Spain. Bebe Gloton - "greedy baby" or "baby glutton" or "hungry mouth to feed" (your translations may vary) - allows girls to simulate feeding the baby. To round-out the realism, the baby comes complete with a halter with flaps, similar to those seen in nursing bras, but instead of areolae and nipples, there are strategically-placed pasties daisies. The baby also makes "sucking" sounds as it feeds and will cry when it is hungry. Bonus!

Now, before any of you get your knickers in a knot, my wife breast-fed our three children. To paraphrase The Doobie Brothers, breast-feeding is just alright with me. However, breast-feeding, at least for this writer, is not the issue. Those of us with daughters, specifically those of the older sister or middle child type, have seen them, at times, simulate breast-feeding their own dolls. Whether Elmo's getting a little mid-day snack or "mommy" thinks Barbie needs to put on some weight, the activity is, more or less, an an emulation of their own mothers. A very admirable display. That being said, since our youngest is no longer breast-fed, our daughter hasn't "fed" any of her dolls in this fashion lately - which might explain why Elmo was chasing Dora around with a knife and fork. Ahem.

Charming the Pet Cobra

I promised my wife Beth that I'd let her have some uninterrupted Bejeweled Blitz time if she did a guest post and told you all how awesome I am. Also, since I've made the transition to Stay/Work At Home Dad and I don't really make any money and she's earning six figures, I told her that I'd shower at least twice a week. Give and take - the key to any good relationship! So here's her post, with a few added notes from me for clarity.

People are always asking me about my relationship with Jason, aka your beloved PetCobra, or @PetCobra as I've started to call him just for shits and giggles. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Talking to each other is sooo 2007. We now communicate solely via Twitter.) My first question is: do other women get asked about their relationships as much as I do, or am I just lucky because my husband is so...so...um...interesting?

Yes, life with Jason is just that. A roller coaster of irony and sarcastic comments - and I wouldn't have it any other way.

We've definitely had an eventful past few months, a life-shift, a death and a huge-ass birthday...all on top of the day-to-day insanity of raising a 5-year old and toddler who is mature for her age, hitting the terrible twos at 19 months. But these are the things that bond us. Being able to mutually agree that we can't share an office all day like we thought we could, getting through all other the shit together, all the challenges that we've faced since we both left the regular corporate world - and still being able to laugh tells me that we are what a "good marriage" is.

When I was told I was going to be guest-blogging here, or more like when I came up with the idea 3 months ago (EDITOR'S NOTE: Credit where credit is due - she did come up with this idea 3 months ago. I wrote down. Honest. Ok, I wrote it on the back of a Starbucks receipt, but I did write it down), then noticed the other wives blogging this week and screamed( across my office into the kitchen (aka Jason's office) "Hey, am I supposed to write also?!", I had really hoped to have a funny conversation or story to tell. But, alas, I don't. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Thanks a lot, Dead Michael Jackson. You sucked all of the fun out of today.) So I will just say how much I love and appreciate my husband for being the man he is - and tell the world how proud I am that he is the father of my children.

Now, excuse me while I get back to my Bejeweled Blitz addiction. (EDITOR'S NOTE: Thanks, baby.Here's a token of my esteem.)