DadCentric

Earth Day: Save the Planet, Save Yourself

Today is Earth Day.  Every day is Earth Day.  See how that works.  The bottom line is that we've pushed this poor planet about as far as it can go without serious repercussions.  More serious repercussions.

You don't have to be a hippie smelling of patchouli and  mushrooms to celebrate your planet.  Our planet.  Sure, showers are optional, but let's not be over dramatic. 

We've only got one planet and if we don't start living differently we're going to lose it.  I'm talking to you, big oil, but not just you.  We can all make a difference.  Don't let Earth become the next Pluto.

[thanks for the video idea Jason!]

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.

Simple routines without all the fuss

So it may be a wee bit too early to tell, I may in fact be jinxing the whole thing by calling any sort of attention to it, but if the events of the last few weekends are any indicator, I may very well be on to some sort of father-son tradition kind of thing with my oldest boy. Not that it has to be just father-son, mom can join in too, and she has. And when the newborn son isn't so new anymore, he can get in on the fun as well. But for the moment, it's just me and the eldest.

It's not a particularly complicated tradition or anything. It doesn't involve trekking out to the badlands with three days worth of beef jerky stored away in our horse's saddlebags. There's no ceremonial garb involved and no animals have to be sacrificed. Nope, it's really nothing more complicated than a little ride on the city bus. See, a few weekends ago, we introduced Henry, our oldest to the joys of the bus, and it was a match made in heaven. Perhaps it's the fact that he can be transported at high speeds without having to wear a carseat. Maybe it's the community aspect. Maybe it's just the joy of getting to ride in a REALLY BIG THING. Whatever it was, he loved it, and ever since then, we constantly hear about how "Hemmy wanna ride the bussss."

So for the last few weekends, I've scooped the little guy up and taken the bus down the road to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, it's the one with *GASP* a playground right outside! Of course, ask any kid about this magical destination, and they'll refer to it as the playground with the *yawn* grocery store inside. Whatever it is, it's a place where the kiddos can burn off some energy so that they'll be nice and docile for the grocery-purchasing experience yet to come. Once the kiddo's had his fill of the playground, we buy whatever we need for dinner that night and then catch the bus back home. We disembark, wave goodbye to the bus, and walk home so Dad can get dinner started.

As we waved goodbye to the bus last weekend, the little guy said "that was fun Daddy." Of course, I swelled up with that "holy crap, I'm getting at least one piece of this Dad gig right" feeling.

"You liked that, little boy?"

"Hemmy wanna ride the bus some more."

"Maybe next weekend?"

"Yeah."

Sappy perhaps, but I'll take it.

So what about you? Got any routines that you enjoy with your kiddos?

Star Wars According to a Three-Year-Old

There are life lessons here:

Source: fistofblog

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.

Glad Tidings of the Season

Well, it looks like we're heading into crunch time if you are planning on celebrating anything festive next week.  That said, I thought I would provide some suggestions should you need to sit and relax- more than you do already.

By suggestions I mean beer.

Seasonal beers are a big hit with me, and if they aren't already a big part of your holiday season please note- they need to be.

Here are a few that will make everyone merrier (and possibly better looking):

Anchor Steam Christmas Ale is perhaps the greatest thing to ever come out of San Francisco, or California for that matter.  It is Christmas in a bottle (or glass).  If this is the only seasonal beer you ever drink you will be a better person for it.  I love it so much I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.  Fortunately, (for my wife) the mouth of the bottle is too small, otherwise that beer would be glowing like a Spears girl at her junior prom.

Pyramid Snow Cap packs a bit of a punch at 7% alcohol content.  It's a great way to accidentally get drunk at a Sonics game.  It too combines the wonders of the season and is worth stuffing in a stocking or two.

Samuel Smith's Winter Welcome used to disappoint me every year.  It wasn't because the beer was bad, far from it, but because the beer went bad.  It used to be shipped in clear glass bottles which, aside from Newcastle, seems to be a killer of good beer.  Light and beer are not friends.  If light tells you otherwise it is lying.  Last year Mr. Smith got smart and started bottling it in a darker bottle and I've had nothing but good taste since.  Really.  Besides, any beer that quotes Shakespeare (not his sister) on the label has got to be top notch.

Truth be told, there are more and more seasonal beers every year, and the three I mentioned are just 3 of the more popular options.  I would guess that I've had over 20 different types of winter brews over the years, and these are the few that I MUST have every December.

If you would like to check out a few more look no further than our own Mr. Big Dubya.  He also likes beer.

Now here's something that should have been done long ago:

The Time We Spend

The time we're given on this planet is finite, and in the time that each of us is given, it's up to each of us to do what we have to do to be the people we want to be.

How's that for a cryptic opening?

Last night found me sitting here at the table furiously pounding out the end of my last paper for this semester. The paper's not due until Saturday morning, but my wife is due to give birth to our second child in just under two weeks, so I figured, ya know, maybe I'll just go ahead and tie that puppy up. It's my second semester of graduate school, and at the pace I'm going, I'll probably have a degree in hand right around the time my kids are shopping around for my hospice care.

There have been moments this semester when I've wondered if I was doing the right thing by going after a master's degree and working full time with a two year old and a pregnant wife at home. I wondered at times if perhaps it was too much to ask both of myself and of my wife, my constant supporter, my biggest fan. I wondered if it was too much time away from my son, who lets me know in no uncertain terms that he's missed me when I've been gone all day. It was especially hard on those days when I came home from work to find my wife frazzled, my boy unnapped, both of them clearly beat down by the day. By comparison, I was refreshed and well-rested, even though I'd been at work all day. But then I only had a little while with them before I had to turn around and head out again to go to class. Times like that, that little nagging voice inside would start dropping the guilt-bombs.

Thing is though, I believe that part of our parenting is how we live and the example that we set. I feel very strongly about getting this degree, not just to add it to my impressive pile of academic achievements (huge, I tell you), but to move into the line of work for which I'm being educated. From the first day of class, it's required all manner of unglamorous sacrifices on the part of both my wife and I, and it's probably going to continue to be that way until I'm done. It's a risk, no doubt about it. But if I'm too afraid to take a risk to go after the life I want, then what do I teach my children about how to live their lives? What kind of example does that set? Parents have an obligation to keep their kids safe, but at the same time, I don't want to teach my kids that they must always live safely.

I take this whole husband and dad thing very seriously. It's both my duty and my desire to be present, engaged, involved, and right there in the middle of both the fun and the not-so-fun times that are part and parcel of family life. And I am. I'd have it no other way. I look at guys who aren't involved in their kid's lives and I just hurt for both them and for their families for all that they're missing out on. But honestly, I think that I would ultimately shortchange my family if I don't give it my all to achieve the things I've set out for. So there's a balance that has to be struck, and it's not always pretty. In fact, it's often quite messy, and we just have to be okay with that.

Sunday Still: My Life in a Snapshot

I Judge Kids by Their Cover

Today was the first day of preschool for Thing 1.  Yes, he's 4-years-old, and no, he's never been in any sort of structured program.  The closest he's ever come to attending daycare is spending an hour in the "clubhouse" at the gym while I run for 10 minutes and stand around looking cool for fifty.  Some people flip that, but I like to play to my strengths.

As it was his first day I volunteered to be one of the plethora of parent helpers that are present during each class.  I figured it would ease him into the program.  We were there roughly 6 seconds before he forgot me forever.  That's cool.  He was just slowing me down anyway.

He was fantastic.  I sat in the corner cutting out stocking shapes for future projects and occasionally reaching things that the other parents, all women, couldn't.  That's my lot in life- height and uncomfortable good looks.  So I sat there, and I cut, I reached, I watched and I listened.

He was the only kid new to the program and it didn't faze him.  He's something of a lone wolf.  He's also something of a ladies man.  Whenever groups were broken apart the majority of the kids tended to side along lines of gender.  Not my boy.  He grabbed his juice box and sat down at a table full of girls.  He gave them a nod and went about his snack business.  He is cool and aloof.  It was business time.

There were other kids there that weren't so controlled.  I was a bit surprised by a) the fact that the worst kid was also accompanied/ignored by a parent, and b) the teacher has the patience of a saint.  I ran a childcare program for 10 years and I was more of a disciplinarian.  Granted I had a much larger group and for the most part they were a bit older, but I had a knack for bringing them to Jesus pretty damn quick.

As I sat there I realized that kids are easy to sort.  Being among them for less than an hour had already presented me the tools to label and pigeonhole them.  There were tough kids, sissy kids, kids who climb on rocks.  I found myself approving of possible playmates and thinking up excuses not to play with others, for surely the invitations are inevitable.

Is it wrong to judge a book by its cover?  You betcha.  Do we do it?  Hell yes.  Of course, the trick is to be open enough and big enough to realize that a first impression should not be the only one.  Some of those kids might be quiet in class but will cut you for milk money, and others might be loud and bossy when it isn't appropriate then be caring and polite when it matters.  This will all play out.

In the meantime, my boy has a day of school under his belt and it looks like it fits.

Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead, or Thank God That's Over

Christ.  Is October the longest month on record, or what?  Last month, especially the last four days, was like watching paint dry on some snails that were racing through slow growing grass planted in quicksand.  I had to use toothpicks to prop my eyes open.

At first I thought that it was due to Halloween falling on a Wednesday.  That meant that most of the parties and craziness that are normally associated with the holiday were but a distant memory come Halloween morning.  The day wasn't filled with anticipation of tricks or treats, but rather digging through closets, cars and laundry piles, trying to find pieces of costumes that were peeled off of sleeping children just days before.

In hindsight, I think it was more than that.  To put it in rather coarse sexual terms for no apparent reason, I didn't pace myself.  I peaked too early.  When other parents were just tickling the fancy of Halloween I was knocking its pumpkin head against the, well, headboard.  When other parents were eying candy and costumes I was on my back, smoking a cigarette and hoping someone had a key to the handcuffs. 

It was October, I should have at least been thinking about baseball.  Damn Red Sox.  Basically, I treated Halloween like something slutty and cheap.  It wanted to be wooed and I showed it the wow.

What?  It could have been the wow.

So that meant that Wednesday morning, when everyone else was preparing for the night ahead, I was nursing a figurative hangover and hoping that pumpkins can't get pregnant.  They can't, right?

If I have to blame someone for the rush of emotion that was our Halloween-mania it has to be my oldest boy.  This year he has taken Halloween to previously unknown heights. He enjoyed Halloween last year, we went to Disneyland and apparently set the bar too high.  I thought we were just having fun.  I didn't realize that I was planting the seed of high expectations.  This year it was on.

Candy was an afterthought, icing on the proverbial cake.  He was all about ghosts and jack-o-lanterns.  He was about monsters and boogers (I don't know).  The entire month was a build-up of the spooky and the ooky.  Every conversation centered on skeletons and monsters.  In fact, it still does.  Here  we are one day removed and aside from the occasional M&M the day has been just like any other.  Our song remains the same.

This is where the vicious circle thing comes into play.  So done am I with the ghost of Halloween that I'm already pushing the next big thing- Thanksgiving.  For every mention today of specters or goblins I've introduced the topic of turkey.  Let's talk turkey, I'll say, and the blank response speaks volumes. 

We are not prepared to give thanks just yet, unless it's for skeletons and boogers. Besides, I'm damn sure not screwing a turkey.  We gotta eat that thing.