DadCentric

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

One more thing to add to the ever expanding list of Shit You Really Don't Want To Talk To Your Four-Year-Old About: shark attacks. When your goal is to have your son grow up to be the next Joel Tudor, and your daughter to be the next Lisa Andersen, this is not a welcome development.

Not that I'm in the least bit concerned - even though David Martin was killed at the surf break that was my go-to spot when we lived in Solana Beach. Saw lots of dolphins in the three years that I frequented that break, nary a shark. Hell, I spent 7 years working for SeaWorld, spouting statistics and anecdotes about how galactically UNlikely you are to be killed by a shark here in sunny San Diego (as it happens, you have a greater chance of being killed by lightning, bees, falling airplane parts, and domesticated pigs than a great white). In fact, I surfed yesterday evening, two days after the attack. At sunset. Without a lifeguard around. Or any other surfers in the water. (I'll admit - it was a bit spooky. After I got out of the water, I saw a gray dorsal fin break the surface, right where I had been. A dolphin, of course, and, of course, had I seen that same fin in the water while I was out there bobbing around, I'm quite certain I would have fouled my wetsuit.)

Luckily, Lucas has no fear of the ocean, and luckier still, he remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy. And I intended to keep it that way. And so it was that we were driving down the coast highway on Saturday afternoon, me gazing wistfully out at the ocean, lovely waves rolling in made even lovelier by slight offshore breezes - waves that were completely empty, unridden, due to the circling helicopters and lifeguard trucks that were on the lookout for the great white. "Look at how nice that looks," I said to Beth. "Stupid shark."

"What? What shark, daddy?"

Fuck.

Beth was thinking quickly. "Oh, daddy...is telling a joke. A joke from a movie that we saw. About a shark."

"Oh," said Lucas. "What movie?"

"Well, it's a movie called Jaws, and it's about a shark."

"Can I watch it?"

"Well," I said, "it's a grownup movie. When you're old enough, believe me, we'll watch it."

"Yeah", added Beth. "It's very scary, and it has lots of bad words."

"Oh," said Lucas. "Do they say 'stupid'?"

"Yep," we said.

"Oh," said Lucas. "And 'dammit'?"

"Yeah," we said, "but remember, you're not supposed to say that word..."

"And 'fuckers'?"

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies....

Dom? Mad? Fother? Mather? I'm Confused.

Well, it was bound to happen. Science has finally reached the point where what was once inconceivable will soon be reality. I refer, of course, to the Wachowskis' Speed Racer, coming to theaters this summer. How dope does that look!?

Also, apparently there's a pregnant guy.

This has caused quite a stir in the Dad-O-Sphere. Greg's take on Thomas Beattie is erudite, succinct, and delivered with sensitivity and tact. The Sun's take on him? Well. Also, they totally stole my thunder - I was all set to riff on the almost completely forgotten Schwartzenegger flick Junior, but no point in doing that now. Wait - is that Emma Thompson? Holy shit! It is! Always a surprise when a renowned actor slums it.

Anyway, back to the pregnant dad: I think I can speak for a great many fathers when I say that Thomas Beattie is a  brave guy, sharing his story with the world, and carrying out his desire to give birth. Yes, brave in the sense that he certainly knew, going into it, that he'd be dealing with bigotry and ostracism from narrow-minded folk. But, much more than that, HE'S PREGNANT. Can you name one dad who, after spending nine months with his achy, nauseous, itchy, hormonal, emotional, hairy-where-there-once-was-smoothness, thought "yeah, I'd like to try that! Where do I sign up?" Oh, and once you hit that nine month mark you have to have the baby surgically removed (well, I suppose that's better than passing the kid through either of the two available exit routes. You thought passing that kidneystone hurt? Try pissing out a 10 pound baby!)  Fuck. That. Shit. I am waaaay too much of a pussy to be a biological mom.  And, dads who are reading this, admit it - so are you. Look in the mirror, look deep into your eyes, into the window of your souls, and say this: "May God strike me down if I'm lying - I would like to get pregnant. Because along with the constant back pain, there's a good chance that I'll develop a hemorrhoid the size of a Titleist."  Yeah, I thought so.

Thucydides said that "the bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding, go out to meet it." So, Thomas Beattie, we at DadCentric salute your courage. All that, plus you have to go to your own baby shower? You deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor, dude.

It Was Almost a Banner Day for Me

It began like any other trip to the bookstore.  There were words of encouragement and threats of consequences.  We shared a pastry and had something warm to drink.  They behaved like I asked them and used their inside voices.  There were pee-pee dances and occasional wanderings.  It was like any other trip.

Then Thing 1 picked out a book that wasn't his typical fare of dinosaurs or cartoon characters.  It was Star Wars, and the force was suddenly strong in my boy.  We discussed R2D2 and Yoda, and I explained the difference between myself and a Wookie through an awkward charade which included a public display of body hair.  We were bonding.

I started planning our evening.  We would only watch one movie a night, no reason to rush it.  Pace this moment, I thought.  Finish his training, I will.

It was set in stone, or carbonite as the case may be.  Things were moving along swimmingly. We stood in line, me taking in the moment and the boys happy to be getting stuff.  It was special.  I placed my books on the counter and turned to the boys for theirs.  Elmo for Thing 2, and my oldest boy, he had switched out Star Wars for yet another dinosaur book.

"What happened?" I asked as I looked around frantically for the Star Wars book.

"I like dinosaurs better," he answered, smiling.

Damn, I thought, that's bullshit.

Star Wars According to a Three-Year-Old

There are life lessons here:

Source: fistofblog

What To Buy Dad For Christmas

Brass tacks, moms, partners, and kids (wait - you let your kids look at this site? What the hell's wrong with you?): there's 8 shopping days left until Christmas and you need some ideas. Here you go:

DVD's: Really, only two merit consideration this holiday season. The Ultimate Blade Runner (with 5, yes 5 versions of the film) and Superbad: Special Edition.

Books: Three dad books of note. Dadditude, by Philip Lerman, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of 50-year-old Lerman's experience as a new dad. Punk Rock Dad, by Pennywise frontman Jim Lindberg, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of Lindberg's experience as a new dad. Against The Day, by Thomas Pynchon, humorously chronicles the joys and heartaches of Pynchon's experience as a new dad.

Video game: Nintendo Wii. If you can find one.

Music: Led Zeppelin, Mothership. Actually, buy two copies, one for dad, one for dad to use to chuck, ninja throwing star-style, at the head of anyone who insists on playing the latest release from Iron and Wine.

Of course, if TV teaches us anything, it's that the best gift of all is found in the driveway, with a big red bow on the hood.  Something sensible, of course.

So those are some ideas. I'll open the floor for discussion - dads, what do you want for Christmas? Moms/partners, what are you planning on getting the dads in your lives?

Cribs, Redemption and the Mile

Thing 2 was a kept man.  His crib was his cell.  Prison life consists of routine, and then more routine.  He slept sound.  Sound enough, for someone still shy of his second birthday.  It was the crib.  He seldom slept away from it, and the few nights we tried to stay with friends or in hotels were quickly added to the pile of experiments we regret.  He was a kept man, and he was comfortable.

These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.

He depended on them.  He stood at the railing and waved the day goodbye each night and rose to meet it again each morning.  He was alone, but he was not lonely.  Thing 1 visited often with hugs and nail files baked into cakes. 

I dreamed of you. I dreamed you were wandering in the dark, and so was I. We found each other. We found each other in the dark.

Freedom found him today.  One moment he was fighting the battle of boy against nap and the next he was walking down the hall with his pants in one hand and his shoes in the other.  It was as if someone had returned his belongings to him and sent him on his way.

We asked him what happened.  We asked him how he got out.  He just nodded and handed me his shoes, filled with dirt and bits of clay.  I dressed him and let him wander into the yard, a nap beaten and freedom gained.

I went into his room, bracing myself for the inevitable Rita Hayworth poster across the headboard of his crib.  There was nothing but memories and questions that he wouldn't answer.   

What happens on the mile stays on the mile. Always has.

________________________

-with all apologies to Stephen King

 

Sunday Scary

For all you parents out there considering the idea of bringing a nanny into your employ, be sure you get the non-scary version. Guys like me will have to be content scaring our own kids.

It really is all about the editing.

A DadCentric Review: The Groomsmen

To be fair, I liked the movie, "The Groomsmen" before I even saw it.  It's an Ed Burns movie, what's not to like?  The fact that he got the actors to each work for a measly 11k and he edited the whole film and soundtrack on his Mac.  Hey, I love that.  It's easily his best work since "Brothers McMullen."

What I didn't know was that I would like it as much as I did.  It resonated with me in a way that a lot of movies can't.  Sure, there is funnier, sexier and more action-packed fare available, but that's just fluff. 

"The Groomsmen" picks up where "Beautiful Girls" left off.  It's a tale of friends and family, history and future. In fact, the only thing the movie was missing was a Neil Diamond sing-along.  They did manage to humor me with a Billy Squire cover, so I'll let it slide. Plus, they drank a lot of Harp, which I agree with.

My wife didn't watch it.  Her loss.  She had baked all day and was subsequently stuffed on meringue cookies and a generous glass of port.  She disappeared down the hall with a thick book before the opening credits even finished.  Me? I had a few beers, some popcorn, and watched a movie about guys that get it, and I pitied those that don't.

Rent it.

While we're on the subject of Transformers

When obsolete Transformers hit bottom...

Damn You Michael Bay!

It's my own goddamn fault. For weeks, the boy has been obsessed with  GIANT ROBOTS!, as he puts it. I don't recall when exactly it was that we saw a teaser for the new Transformers flick, but for Lucas, it was a watershed moment. Here at least was the summation of all he holds to be Cool - a race car TURNS INTO A ROBOT, runs around and breaks a bunch of shit and then - AND THEN (wait for it...waaaaait for it....) TURNSBACKINTOARACECAROHSWEETMYSTERYOFLIFEATLASTI'VE
FOUNDYOOOOOOOOOOOU!

I didn't help matters much. I was just as geeked out about it as he was (even though as a kid, I found the original Transformers cartoon to be sorta lame. Give me the Argo with her Wave Motion Gun cutting swathes of destruction through the Gamelon Battle Fleet over a 30 minute toy commercial any day) and figured that as benign as the original cartoon was (just like The A-Team - thousands upon thousands  of rounds of ammo spent, with nary a death, or even a wound), the theatrical version would be geared towards the kiddies. Toys, right? Hasbro? Target audience of 6 year-old boys? (And their geeky dads?) I let my kid watch The Incredibles, and it's PG. I felt OK about letting him watch a PG rated GIANT ROBOT! movie.

Well, I got the target audience part half right.

Anyway, over the past couple of weeks the commercials for the film became more frequent - with one distressing disclaimer. This Film Has Not Yet Been Rated. "Dad? Are we going to see Giant Robot Movie?" "Er, maybe?" I'd reply. "It's not out for a while." Then, finally, a full-on trailer appeared (totally rocked, too, with Starscream in jet form flying under a bridge and then turning into robot form and grabbing the bridge and blowing some shit up, fuck yeah!) and the dreaded announcement. "RATED PG-13".

Crap. Furthermore, over the past two days the advance reviews came out (I won't speak to the film's quality - if one goes into a film about giant robots who blow shit up and turn into cars and jets, one shouldn't expect Citizen Kane. Er, wait.) and apparently, it's pretty violent. Not Saving Private Ryan gory, but people die in Michael Bay-type ways. Also, it's long - 2.5 hours. About an hour past the kid's tolerance level.

So, a conundrum. Although Lucas knows the movie exists, I'm pretty sure he has no idea exactly when it hits the theaters. I could just tell him it's not out for another 10 years. Or I could wait until the DVD comes out, and fast forward through all the mayhem ("Transfomers: A Michael Bay Vignette"). Actually, it occurred to Beth to wonder - why don't directors release Kid's Cuts of their movies? We get the Unrated Versions of The Hills Have Eyes and Saw - why not a PG version of Transformers ( or, say, Scarface? Some CGI work and the "Say hello to my little friend!" scene could take on a whole new meaning - Tony Montana produces a magical singing gnome. Could work, I tellya.) It looks like, for the time being, the kid's out of luck. Maybe we'll pick up the original Transformers: The Movie on DVD to appease him. After all, the scariest thing in it is that ghastly song.