DadCentric

#OccupyBabble!

So this is happening. 

Now, here's the funny part:

We're holding steady at #9, by the way. (FULL DISCLOSURE: we nominated ourselves, because hey, why not? DadaRocks did!) Now, to be fair, Babble does have 3 actual dadbloggers (along with that Single Dad Laughing guy, who we believe is some sort of celestial being/Matrix Agent, at least after reading his descriptions of himself) on the payroll. And a bunch of us did receive a blast email in June from Babble, saying that they're "doing a big feature on dad blogs* to coincide w/the launch of a Dad section...date TBD". In any case, if Babble is a true parenting site, and not just a site for moms (although...y'know, if ESPN devoted 90% of its coverage to football, wouldn't that make it a football channel, not a "sports" channel?) then they should be stoked to see the other 50% of the parenting equation represented on their contest.

*yeah, we're under no illusion that we'll get a mention in that big dad blog feature after these shenanigans.

UPDATE (10/21/11)!

 

Watching Them Watch Me

I caught a look at myself in the mirror the other day and noticed that the beard was in need of some attention. I busted out the pieces of equipment that make up my beard-management system, placed myself before the sink, and set about the task of taming the scraggle and restoring maximum handsomeness.

It wasn’t long before I was joined by my youngest son. Just a few months shy of four, he stood up on a stool next to me and watched me run the clippers across the fuzzier parts of my jaw. In the mirror, I could see him looking up at me with those big eyes of his, hazel like mine. A few hairs in the sink later, his big brother joined us, taking up a spot on my other side. They asked a few questions, all of which I was able to answer, being the authority in the area of beard-wearing that I am. But mostly they just watched.

Somewhere in there, it occurred to me, this was something that I never did as a boy. I never watched my dad shave.

In Defense of Boys

The opinions contained below are mine, and not necessarily those of DadCentric. But they might be.

Pardon me a rant...

We've been so obsessed with empowering our girls, rightfully so, that we've allowed society to de-power our boys. I'm not referring to the sexist stereotypes of men having power over women -- nobody wants to raise another generation of Mad Men (except, possibly, the tobacco and daytime drinking industries, respectively). Rather I'm talking about the power of boys to meet their full potential and the power of self that they hold within.

Some see this through the lens of misconception, however, empowering girls is not about taking power from boys or vice versa. It is not a race, or a case of gaining an edge over the other. It is about all children having the same opportunities, and the means to meeting them. It is about understanding that despite a shared goal, all kids are not all the same. It is okay to take different paths to the promised land. Even better, it should be encouraged.

Some will say that "boys will be boys." Others will say that it is cliché, a blank check to excuse wayward behavior. They are all right. And they are all wrong to varying degrees. Boy will be boys should not be an excuse. It is not pure justification. Boys are boys, and as such there are proven differences within their developmental and maturation process that should be taken into consideration while trying to mold them into the men they will someday be. 

The Best Halloween-Themed Family Photoshoot Ever

Is Ivan Owen the Greatest Dad Ever? Possibly. The owner of Chain Crafts, an Etsy store specializing in interesting jewelry and armor, got an interesting request from his wife: she wanted to do a Post-Zombie Apocalypse Family Photoshoot. The Owens contacted Bakan Photography, and the results? Awesome. Here's a peek; you can see more at Bakan Photography's blog. (And yes, I'm kicking myself for not thinking of this.)

(Source.)

The End of the World

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friday, September 9th, 2011, 12:20 a.m.

I’ll find out the details in the morning.  At this moment, what I know is that all of San Diego county has been in a blackout for over six hours.  It started when I arrived home from work this evening and realized that I had (gasp) no Internet.  Or TV.  And the ice cubes in my freezer were sorta drippy. 

I was irritated.  Damn Southern California, I growled to myself.  Every idiot with air conditioning has cranked it up to Arctic levels on this hot day, and look what they did.

Then I got a call telling me I needed to get back in the car and pick my daughter up from school -- it was her Mom’s day to pick her up, but she was stuck in gridlock traffic downtown.  (All the stoplights were dead, of course, and no one in So Cal will ever, ever be nice enough to let you make a left turn in front of them unless forced to by law. Which results in a citywide parking lot.)

The trip to my daughter’s school, which normally takes fifteen minutes, took me two hours.  This entire town was without power, choked with cars and angry commuters.  Riley was one of just a handful of kids left at school by then.  I’m lucky I filled up my gas tank yesterday.  Today, my ATM card would’ve been useless.

Right now, I know nothing beyond the rumors my neighbors have shared with me.  This blackout has covered the entire county, they said.  From Mexico up to San Clemente.    “And parts of Arizona!” squealed one young woman who lives in the duplex behind me.  The neighbors in the tiny apartment building behind my house are all in their twenties, and child-free.  This night has been nothing more than a party for them, an opportunity to light some candles, drink some wine and toast the end of the world.

Meanwhile, I’ve been here trying to keep my 9-year-old daughter calm while secretly wondering how she and I will fare in a post-apocalyptic, Mad Max world in case the power never comes back.

I knew my kid could easily freak out tonight in a dark house with no working night lights.  I mean, she could seriously wig.  After a Summer spent adjusting to a new life with parents who live apart, the girl's been in a pretty fragile state. 

So I put all my mental focus into selling the adventure before us.  This will be awesome! I said.  Look!  We have candles!  Let’s camp in the living room!  See how fun?

And she pretty much bought it.  As darkness shrouded the house, we unfolded the sofa bed in the living room, which is the coolest part of our A/C-less house.  We ate non-perishable snacks.  We made shadow puppets on the wall by flickering candlelight.  We told each other silly, non-scary ghost stories by putting our one tiny pen flashlight under a sheet.  

She laughed so hard she got the hiccups.  We had a fine time.

And all the while, I was trying hard not to play out scenes from The Road in my head, starring the two of us navigating the end of civilization.

Seriously.  That's where my brain went. That's what I did.  That's what I’m doing right now as I type this on my laptop, using the last bit of battery life I’ve got left.  I’m picturing the two of us in grimy rags, walking down the middle of an abandoned highway past empty cars, in a world gone crazy and primeval after losing the comfort of light and power forever.  I'm holding an empty gas can in one hand, and my daughter's little fist in the other.  My girl is emaciated from hunger, eyes sunken.  Her only possession: tattered stuffed bunny she drags behind her, the last vestige of the safe and comfortable world she can barely remember now. I will have to protect her, of course.  From gypsies, thieves, and lunatic cannibals.  It will just be her and I, surviving alone.  I’ll have to be just like Viggo Mortensen, only shorter and with a less impressive chin.

It’s so dark here in my home at this moment, oppressively so.  Not a single digital illumination to be seen anywhere.  I’m going to run out of candles soon. My daughter is sleeping soundly in the bed I made for her. I watch her, and worry, and wonder about her future.  Even one where there's still plenty of electricity to chase away shadows.

Hey, look at that -- lights just went on two blocks down the street. Just now.  I can see them from here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stranger in a Strange Land? Poppycock!

While I've never really felt out of place at any of the three BlogHers I've attended, at 2011's installment in San Diego, I felt even more at home than I have at previous ones, as I knew I'd have several fellow DadCentric writers present, along with Doug French and his uncanny ability to work, "We're launching Dad 2.0 next March!" into any conversation, panel, or rallying cry.

Plus, I knew I'd know at least 5% of the 3000 women there, including one in the Old Testament sense, as I finally talked Mrs. Muskrat into making the trek. 

Despite the above, I was stopped Saturday afternoon by a woman after the "humor blogging" session with the folowing:

Her:  Hi, I'm -- (I forgot her name).  Were you in the humor blogging session?
Me:  I was!  Wasn't I humorous?
Her:  So, I have a question.
Me:  Okay.
Her:  How did you get here?
Me:  I had over 100,000 sky miles.  Plus a bunch of Marriott points.  We--
Her:  No.  I mean, do they just LET YOU IN?
Me:  I may be from Georgia, but I know when to wear shirts and shoes.  I even remembered my lanyard!
Her:  I mean, I'd heard males were allowed to come to BlogHer; I just didn't...
Me:  When you say "males," I look for the breeding Labradors.  What the f--
Her:  No...I mean.  So...you just came to BlogHer?
Me:  Yes.  I bought a ticket.  Via THE INTERNET.  Like I did for Mom 2.0 and the last two BlogHers!
Her:  Oh.  Why?
Me:  I have their little ad tower on my personal blog, and I like these people.  Writers are fun!
Her:  Oh!  I get it.  Men are coming for the same reasons women come to this conference!
Me:  Yes!  Can I interest you in a Twitter follow?

And so began another beautiful friendship via the world wide web.

Two Rides Home: A BlogHer11 Recap, More or Less

Photo by Backpacking Dad

Back in April, a few of us DadCentricians went to New Orleans to represent the patriarchy at a little shindig called the Mom2.0 Summit.  I wrote a recap of that experience here, and if you read it, you may remember that I was very excited to have met a bunch of my imaginary friends in real life, spoken on a panel, and talked about blogging nonstop for 3 days.

While Mom2.0 Summit is no mere Tupperware party, the annual BlogHer conference is what I like to call the Mother Of All Mommyblogging Conferences, or MOAMC, and this year it drew somewhere around 3,000 attendees.

This year, BlogHer was held in San Diego, America's Finest City (fact!), where three of us DadCentricians (the boss, The Didactic Pirate, and me) happen to live.  So it was a no-brainer that I would attend.  And I did.  We three dudes from the Daygo (that's what gangsta dads call San Diego) met up with Two Busy, Whit, and TheMuskrat, and kind of did the same thing we did in New Orleans.  Except we weren't on any panels.  And some of the guys brought their wives.  (To a mommyblogging conference!  Imagine!) And instead of bunking with a bunch of grubby dadbloggers after the nightly debauchery that's standard for all mommyblogging conferences, I went home to my family.  So, as I was saying, the experience was almost nothing like Mom2.0 Summit.

I believe that The Muskrat will soon be contributing a recap that will focus on the poignant and inspirational experiences of the conference, so I would simply like to share a couple memorable interactions I had with some fellow dadbloggers while riding home after the evening's activities.

How About A Nice Game Of Chess?

Something occurred to me the other day that gave me a bit of a start. I was thinking about the last game of chess that I played with my five-year-old. I didn’t realize it at the time - maybe because I was distracted by the three-year-old trying to knock all the pieces off of the board like a giant that’s come across two warring armies and decides to stomp them both (“hold on Mr. Giant Dude, just let us finish up this battle first!”) - but what I didn’t realize then, what I only just realized was that I had to make very few corrections to my five-year-old opponent’s moves. 

I don’t mean that all of his moves were strokes of strategic brilliance. I still got him in checkmate. I simply mean that, for the most part, he moved all of his pieces in the way that they are allowed to as prescribed by the rules of the game. I only had to correct him a handful of times. And at the start of the game, he placed all of his pieces in their correct starting positions. In fact, now that I think about it, he’s been doing that for a while. This is progress. This is...

“What is it doing?”
“It’s learning.”

...unnerving.

Chess is the one game where I absolutely refuse to let up on the kid. I’m no master, my knowledge of strategy is limited, but I have a respect for it that won’t allow me to put it on the same level as, say, Candy Land. It’s the kind of game one should only win by winning it and where even a loss is to be welcomed for what it has to teach. So yes, I’ll correct him when he tries to move a bishop straight ahead or glides a rook around the board in an “S” pattern, and sometimes I’ll stop him and tell him to reconsider when he’s about to put a valuable piece in unnecessary danger. But other times I’ll just go on and take his damn queen. That’s how you learn.

The thing is, I'm having to make those corrections less and less often.

My son and I first played when he was four after many requests from him. It was a challenge then just to get him to stop calling it “chest.” Games were slow. I repeated the same instructions and explanations dozens of times, doing my level best to hold my exasperation at bay. “He’s only four,” I’d remind myself, “which means you’ve only explained how knights move once for every day he’s been alive.”

Now I look back and see that he’s come pretty far since those first games. And I have a feeling that it won’t be long. One day, my king will look up and see enemies encroaching on all sides. His army will lay bloody and beaten. The few remaining subjects, loyal as they are, will be powerless to save him. Across the battlefield, he’ll spot the unmistakable form of his queen lying motionless. He’ll close his eyes, hear distant laughter, and welcome the enemy’s blade.

“Checkmate, dad.”

Won’t be long now.

Louis C.K. For Father's Day

This is the time of year when the dadbloggers push out their obligatory posts about What Father's Day Means To Them. I will freely admit to not giving much of a shit about Father's Day. Perhaps I'm numbed by the avalanche of PR pitches in the DadCentric Inbox (really, Robert Verdi? Scented candles?) and the sheer number of Father's Day Giveaways taking place around the Internets. But this is a dadblog, and so I feel like I need to post something about Father's Day, even though I feel like the holiday itself has become an excuse for the kind of self-congratulatory wanking that most of us who live in the real world despise. Luckily, I came across a great interview with comedian Louis C.K.; in it, he pretty much sums up what I feel about fatherhood in general and Father's Day in particular:

Slate: In an episode from the first season of Louie, a single mom your character meets at a PTA meeting tells you, "Just by showing up, you're father of the year." Do you think you have more freedom to talk about being a dad because there are fewer expectations placed on fathers in general?

Louis C.K.: It's funny—in life, those roles have all changed. There's a lot of fathers who take care of their kids, there's a lot of mothers who have careers. But in culture, those roles are still the same. When I take my kids out for dinner or lunch, people smile at us. A waitress said to my kids the other day, "Isn't that nice that you're getting to have a little lunch with your daddy?" And I was insulted by it, because I'm like, I'm fucking taking them to lunch, and then I'm taking them home, and then I'm feeding them and doing their homework with them and putting them to bed. She's like, Oh, this is special time with daddy. Well, no, this is boring time with daddy, the same as everything.

If I do something for my kids, I get a medal, because most fathers don't. If a mother makes a tremendous effort for her kids and does incredible things, no one gives a shit, because she's a mom, and that's what she's supposed to do. It's like giving a bus driver a medal for driving straight ahead. Nobody's interested. And that's really not fair, but it is the way it is.

For me, that's it in a nutshell. At this point in my life, fatherhood's that old pair of running shoes; I love wearing 'em, they're a bit banged up but comfy as hell, and unlike a new pair of shoes I don't really feel the need to show everyone how great they are. Am I a good dad? Most of the time, I suppose; you should ask my kids, when they're in their mid-30's and have some sense of how the world really works. Do I need a holiday, or societal recognition? It's nice, I guess, but you know what would be great? If the kids would just pick up the damn wet Cheerios when they drop them on the tile floor, because when the milk dries it's like frigging Super Glue and I need to chisel that shit off with a hammer and a butterknife.

 

 

 

Just In Time For Father's Day, Download Samuel L. Jackson Reading "Go The F*ck To Sleep" For Free.

If you're of the same mind as us, you know all about Adam Mansbach's simple and brilliant "kid's" book, Go The Fuck To Sleep. Who better than Samuel L. Jackson to do the audiobook recording? Who better indeed? Over at Audible.com, you can download the Samuel L. Jackson audiobook version of Go The Fuck To Sleep for free.  The book was officially released today; bootleg copies have been floating around the Internets for a while. While Jackson's version is great (you can listen to a sample on that link), and the Werner Herzog version is apparently on its way (!), the print version is a must-have, a perfect and affectionate spoof of every sleepytime book ever written. Jackson's free version is available for a limited time, so go the fuck to that site and grab it while you can. It's the gift that keeps on giving. You're welcome.

UPDATED: Samuel L. Jackson reading Go The Fuck To Sleep is, for now, on YouTube. Enjoy. Oh, and it's NSFW. Duh: