DadCentric

A Family Man Leaves

While sifting through the Sunday papers, a blurb about a bill to grant federal employees four weeks of paid parental leave to care for a newborn or newly adopted child stopped me cold. This particular paragraph did the trick:

"While federal workers have been offered only unpaid leave since 1993, 75% of Fortune 500 companies grant at least a month of paid time off to new parents," wrote Joel Schectman in the New York Daily News.

See, back in the day, I worked for one of the do-nothing 25%.

Latest bout of SAHD-ness

Once upon a time, my family was structured according to that age old model wherein the guy goes out to work at some job to bring home the bread while the woman stays at home with the kiddos. Every morning, I kissed the family goodbye and headed out into the world dressed in my fedora and a Brooks Brothers suit. I arrived at the office where my secretary, Bunny, would faithfully greet me with a smile and a piping cup of joe, which she’d replenish no less than 16 times before lunch. The poor girl only types about ten words a minute, but she looks great in a pair of six inch heels. I spent my days in my office, dictating memos, smoking my pipe, playing darts, and doing shots with the occasional client that would swing by to bullshit about this or that account or whatever. I take my job seriously. I’d arrive home at night to find an elaborate dinner on the table, prepared and presented by my perfectly coifed, dressed, and accessorized wife. I took my place at the head of the table where I dispensed fatherly wisdom between bites, all of which my perfectly behaved children would listen to with the attentiveness of ninja trainees. After dinner, I always enjoyed a pipe in the den, where I was not to be disturbed except in grave emergencies.

Okay, so portions of the above paragraph may be lies.

The First Slight Swerving of the Heart

From the desk in my home office I have a clean line to the bathroom.  I know: location, location, location.  It's pretty awesome.

It was from my desk that I first noticed the orange glow emitting from the restroom.  It danced and it swayed with its bright amber shadow and it moved like a memory as it crept towards the door.

There is a candle in the bathroom.  It had been lit only moments before as a gesture of common courtesy to my fellow man.  It was lit and then left unattended, remembered but for the fragrance of autumn that lingered from it and the flicker of light that stayed the corner of my eye.

The boys are used to it.  They don't bother the flame and therefore the flame doesn't bother them.  I have instilled within them a fear to curb their wonder.  Or so I thought.

I sat at my desk sipping from a glass packed with too much ice and typing something that must have seemed important at the time.  I sat there as the comfort found in a constant waver of candlelight became staggered and chaotic and noticeably less comforting.  I listened as my call went unanswered.

Somewhere in a moment it clicks.  Possibilities are entertained.  Scenarios are played out.  Thoughts come to mind and they are for the worse.  It happens in but a moment, but a moment is all that it needs.

I rushed into the bathroom to my find my son standing above the fire, a flame of tissue in his hand and a look of terror so frozen upon his face that even the heat against his body could not make it melt.  I knocked the torch from his hand and moved him through the doorway.  The flames were high, but luckily they were contained within the metal of the wastebasket and I was able to control them fully with several pitchers of water poured from a bathtub toy- a pelican with a handle and, luckily, a wide, deep beak.

Then there were questions and explanations, tears and hugs and a demanding need for tissue, despite it being crisp and frail.  We stood together, our family, in a bathroom filled with smoke like steam and a scared, sick boy explaining how cold it had been a lifetime ago, that moment he had decided that his tissue paper could stand to be just a little bit warmer.

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.

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.

Make Yourself At Home, Dads

Kansas City.  Kansas City, here they come.  The 12th Annual At-Home Dads Convention is starting on Nov. 3rd, and registration is now open.

Of course this means that all of the dads will have to be out of the house for a change, and therefore resume such social standards as showering, talking in complete sentences, and touring breweries.  You know, just like the old days. 

Check it out!

Everyone, Stay Away From the Brown Diapers! A DadCentric PSA

Remember Woodstock?  That was a great time.  I think PBS really caught the essence of the thing in their special.  It's like I was there.  Or born.

Now there is a stock for us, and it doesn't involve insider trading.  Well, it did involve some inside her...ah man, even I can't go there.

This stock isn't for everyone, only the sexy people, in this case the At Home Dads (AHD), but I'm sure if you complain loudly enough they will accommodate your personal demographic accordingly in some future capacity.  In the meantime, AHD's don't ever get anything cool, so back the fuck off.

Gentlemen, specifically the sub-category of AHD, I give you (drumroll) DadStock.

How freaking cool is that?  Alas, it's near (time) and far (distance) all at once (just messing with Grover), so I won't be able to make it. I am open to future events though, how about a mailing list DadStock?

Thanks to Darren for the tip.

The Winds of Change

Today my life has changed.  I suppose, technically, that change is constant and yada, yada, yada, but this is a big one, so I noticed it.

I am officially a Stay-At-Home Dad, for a while anyway. Ch-ch-ch-changes.

I had big plans to wake-up early and get things done.  I was going to take the boys and go on adventures and learn, laugh and love our way through sunshine and fields of gold.  As an added bonus, I was going to have the house spotless for my wife when she returned from work, just to prove to her that my staying home is worthwhile for everyone.

We haven't done shit.

The baby has slept most of the day, which is nice, but keeps me homebound, which luckily includes the bar across the street.  Thanks goodness for baby monitors and generous ankle bracelets.

The oldest is going independent today.  He got himself out of bed, made a breakfast of assorted snack-foods and turned on expensive electronics that I didn't even know he could work, and he did it right and kept the volume down.  He also dressed himself.  The outfit consists of three pairs of underwear, a Spiderman pajama shirt, some green shorts and a belt.  His taste in fashion is only slightly better than this guy's, but what the hell, he did it himself and I've got no problem taking him out in public that way.  Assuming the baby wakes up before the stores all close.

I guess you could make some generalization about the best laid plans of mice and men and all that, but the bigger picture is still intact.  We're having fun.  We may even pet the rabbits.

It's a day of changes, and I'm rolling with them.  Just like REO.

Gonna Be Some Sweet Sounds Coming Down

I pulled the night shift last night.  To be honest, I pull it more often than my wife.  Mainly because she's a bad parent.  Just kidding.  She swears that's not the real reason.  She also swears that I better not write that.  No, I pull the night shift because she works late and, many times, thanks to Dante making her schedule, she works early the next morning.

I hardly work.  I'm basically a SAHD that moonlights at a paying job.  "Paying" being a relative term.  Needless to say, our home revolves on an axis of shiftwork. 

Quality time with my wife consists mainly of sleeping next to each other, although we often don't know if the other is even there.  Still, it's a nice thought.

We have two sick kids right now.  One is teething and one is coughing.  Both are requiring extra attention, which makes the shifts that much harder on the, well, everything. Less sleep, more snot.  That's my mantra.  In fact, in the few minutes that I've been writing this post I've had to stop to unclog some apple from the mouth of Thing 2, the teether, and consult on the consistency of a bowl movement for Thing 1, the cougher.  His exact words being, "DADDY! I THINK MY BOTTOM JUST THREW UP!"  It had.

The shifts are going into overtime.  My nights are spent on the couch with crying boys and Chet Baker.  My days are spent with a laundry basket full of shirts turned handkerchiefs and a headache that makes a brainfreeze sound nice.

So my wife and I pass in the night like two ships sailing out to different seas.  Thankfully, Dingy 1 and Dingy 2 know how to keep our hearts in the harbor and our eyes on the shore, covered in sand and snot as it is. 

What Could I Possibly Add To This?

My wife sent me the following message this morning at 8:45am...

This is a list of all the mischief your spawn has gotten in to today, SO FAR. Luckily, in most of these cases, I was able to intervene in time and avoid complete disaster:

Spit her milk out all over the floor.
Make her sister cry.
Pull the dog's tail.
Get herself completely undressed.
Knock the Poinsettia plant over.
Unfold the folded laundry.
Pull the baby wipes out of their container.
Unwind the toilet paper roll.
Dig through the recycle container.
Pull all the magnets off the refrigerator.
Empty the toy basket in one sitting without stopping to play with a single toy.
Pull all her books out of the bookshelf.
Dig through my purse.
Push buttons on the TV and lose our satellite signal.
Climb on top of the dining room table.
Climb on your desk and mess with the computer.
Yank at the Christmas Tree.
Distribute her clean diapers throughout the house.
Pull my hair.
Take a huge poop.