DadCentric

Motherlovers

This originally appeared on my personal blog a few years ago, but I thought I'd share it once more with the DadCentric crowd. Happy Father's Day, everybody.

Babies and Drugs

Most of my teenage summers were spent in the wilds of the Texas Hill Country, employed by the Boy Scouts of America to train young lads in the ways of the outdoors, everything from building fires and swinging axes to tying knots and constructing rope bridges. It would have been the perfect job if it hadn’t been for all of those damn kids. One drawback was the schedule, with one batch of kids leaving Saturday afternoon and the next batch arriving on their heels the next Sunday afternoon. But that 24 hour span in-between was ours to do with as we pleased.

One weekend, some of my friends came out to visit and see for themselves this magical patch of acreage that I emerged from every September laden with stories with which to regale them. With no troops around, we were free to camp wherever we wanted, so we snagged a sweet spot right next to the river. Now being teenagers, there was, of course, alcohol. That was just part of the deal, and I would have been righteously disappointed in my friends had they arrived dry. And I even halfway expected them to come packing another party favor, which they most certainly did. What I did not expect them to show up with was hallucinogens.

Rotting Dead Things

There was a deal at our local Green recycling center; Encinitas residents could get a brand new Smith and Hawken Compost Bin for only $30! Naturally, we had to have one. $30! For a big plastic bin! Which would hold our compost heap! To be sure, we did not currently have a compost heap, nor would we know what to do with one if we actually did have one, but $30 seemed a small price to pay to do our part to Help The Environment. Plus we could use it to teach the kids all about composting, and how important it is. (I was a little fuzzy on this as well; will composting save the whales? The spotted owls? Humanity? Who knew?) 

The guy at the Solana Center was a Composting Expert. He gave us the rundown; what to put in (leaves, coffee grounds, some fruits and veggies, untreated sawdust), what not to put in (dog shit, citrus, the neighbor's cat), how often it should be stirred, when to add water, what it should smell like. What will we be able to do with our compost? Why, use it as fertilizer. Or build a hut out of dried compost bricks. Or build a compost-powered rocket - out of sheets of pressed compost, of course - and fly off to some faraway planet, there to start the human race anew. He held the title of Master Composter; he was a scientist and alchemist, and a True Believer. Compost will save us all, his eyes said. Only the Composters will survive - and when the world becomes one vast desert, the non-Composters will be consumed by the giant sandworms that will rule the planet.

When Poke Comes to Puke

Thing 1 has just finished throwing up on me. Again. Not a vintage "shouldn't have ate all those Gummi worms and drank that funny smelling milk" upchuck, mind you. Just a simple panic puke.

For the past six years, I've had to give the girl a weekly injection of methotrexate, an old school chemo drug also used for treating autoimmune diseases like Thing 1's juvenile dermatomyositis. This sunshine-yellow liquid of healing comes with the typical eight pages of whip-out-the-microscope-to-read-'em warnings, such as "if comes in contact with skin, wash immediately and pray you keep the limb," and the usual suspects of side effects -- the most common one, of course, being nausea.

At first, there wasn't an issue. But as the dosage grew, it would take just a small push of the med into her system before I'd be witnessing a detailed regurgitation of everything she had consumed in the last eight hours. ("Honey, chew your Goldfish. Don't swallow them whole. Save that for the real McCoy in college.") After a while, I deduced the drug wasn't the cause. The moment of clarity came when she once heaved merely at my chipper pronouncement of "time for your shot!"

Someday, I told myself, bearing the sticky, foul brunt of her anxiety would be a small price to pay for remission. Meanwhile, I hold fast to the notion that some are born great, some achieve greatness and some, like me, have bits of semi-digested mac 'n' cheese thrust upon them.

Anyway, a short time ago, we were in Claire's, purveyor of craptastic accessories and the only place in our local mall that pierces ears. Thing 1's BFF has been talking about putting holes in her lobes for months, so naturally, my little girl was chomping at the bling to also mutilate herself.

While My Love finished the paperwork, Thing 1 sat on my lap waiting for the punch out … growing visibly nervous and weepy with each passing second.

"What's the problem," I said. "You're an old pro at this. You've had more needle sticks than a George Bush voodoo doll at a Venezuelan political rally."

Then, I spotted a look in her face that was a little too familiar.

"You're not gonna lose it are you?" I said. "I mean, all the blood draws, IVs and shots you've gotten from doctors and nurses over the years, you've never thrown up when ANY of them poked you. I'm the lone exception."

"Dad-deeeee."

"Get it out of your mind right now. I reserve the right to maintain my unique status in your history of spewing. You're not going to start to spread the vomit love."

"Dad-deeeee!"

"Oh, would you stop it," My Love said, returning from the cash register. "Don't encourage her."

"I'm not encouraging. I'm against her throwing up -- 100 percent! Puking is solely within my domain as official shot giver of our household. She shan't spread the wealth upon underpaid hourly mall personnel."

Our ear specialist for the day, Sh'kira-taqueria (not her real name but an incredible simulation) did her best to calm Thing 1 as she disinfected my 8-year-old's ears. She had at least a dozen visible piercings and claimed the oowie was over instantaneously.

Then sure enough, she brought what looked like a staple gun up to Thing 1's right ear and SNAP -- it was done.

"See, nuh-thiiiiiiing," Sh'kira-taqueria said before moving over to the next ear and SNAP -- mission accomplished.

My little girl had sparkly pink-and-white flower studs in her ears.

And breakfast still in her stomach.

My streak lives on.

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.

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!]

Excuse me honey, but I need that toilet

I don't remember exactly when this pain in my lower back started. It might have been last week, it might have been three weeks ago, I'm just not sure. But it's been there a while. For the most part, the pain has been minor, more annoying than agonizing. Up to now, it's been content to just sit back there, constantly reminding me of its presence like a nagging little yip-yap dog that just dares you to dropkick it over the fence.

Only recently, that little dog has started to sound more like something you might find guarding a junkyard, or perhaps a secret chamber. I'm not immobile, but last night the pain that hit me was the closest thing I've ever felt to physical impairment. I never before quite understood what people meant when they talked about immobilizing back pain, but I have a slightly better idea now. I guess I'll stop pointing and laughing at those poor bastards.

The frustrating thing is that I can't quite pin the pain's origin on anything. I don't recall lifting anything unusually heavy or exerting myself anymore than normal. My son is Captain Independence these days, So I don't have to carry him long distances. I don't have a history of back pain. I was pondering all this the other night, trying to nail down when the pain started and what I could have done to cause it, when it occurred to me that what I've been feeling sounds like a remarkably similar albeit less severe version of what my pregnant wife has been complaining about. She's even going to the chiropractor next week at the behest of her midwife. To this thought, my inner detective proposed, "I say, Holmes, could it be sympathy pains?"

To which some other inner voice responded "Oh. Hell. No!" Something somewhere deep inside was really bothered by that idea. I'm not sure why exactly. I like to think my wife and I are in tune with one another, but not quite to that level. Maybe I saw it as threatening. Maybe it tripped the Unmanly Alarm. I keep meaning to adjust that stupid thing. Or maybe I didn't like the idea of all that weight gain.

But it kind of left me wondering, could it be? I seemed to recall reading about sympathy pains in one of those new dad books that I pored over during our first pregnancy. A quick pass through the google-matatron brought up some info to refresh my memory. The proper name is Couvade Syndrome, from the French word " couvee" meaning "to hatch." My extensive clicking reveals nothing conclusive, a few studies here, some research there, but nobody's quite sure what to attribute it to or if it even really  exists. Of course, I don't have any nausea or food cravings, so that's two of the more common symptoms right off the list. But if Couvade is what I've got, then it could be that I'm either trying to build empathy with the wife, subconsciously trying to balance out the gender roles, or I might just be an attention whore. Thus sayeth the internets.

So who knows. Hostile Insecure Inner-Voice Guy aside, my wife and I are both plodding around with very similar backaches. Maybe it's time to stop being such a guy about my health and go to the chiropractor.

DadMomCentric

As you may have heard by now, men having babies is all the rage.  It was only a matter of time before science quit worrying about such frivolous pursuits as cures for AIDS and cancer and concentrated on the real (relationship) killer of our time, pregnancy.

Women have unfairly had to do all of the hard work in regard to developing, and in my case, creating, new life.  Then they have been obligated to follow the process with 18-80 years of worrying and creative criticism, while men get off with, well, getting off.  Men have felt really guilty about this for a long time.

That is why we here at DadCentric have decided to bridge the gap.  We are opening ourselves up to you, the readers, to help us make amends.  One of our writers will undergo the proper procedure(s) to become fertile.  Which one?  That's where you come in.  Vote in the comments below.

There are links in the sidebar.  Check everyone out and decide which dad is man enough to get knocked up.  All it takes is your vote, a dash of science and 7 lemoncillos.  Anal sex is optional.

Data Dilemma

I have a deep-seated distrust of distaste for studies.  If you've been reading DadCentric long enough you probably know that already.  What?  You don't remember that post from August 2006?  Sheeesh.  I guess I shouldn't assume that, just because we slave away, investing our time and sweat on every post, you would remember every word to every one I submit.

I especially have a strong aversion to studies that leave a lot of wiggle room; that provide hope or dash it; or take advantage of a crisis or exploit the timing to publicize their findings.  I bring this up regarding a recent (September 2006) study done in Israel regarding paternal age and a correlation being drawn that older dads are more likely to father children with autism.  (Disclaimer: I am not a scientist, nor do I do research, this is purely from a layman's perspective and to be taken with a grain of salt or less.)  Now, to be fair, this study got a lot of play in September when it was released and was also tied in with a "men have biological clocks" meme.  The only reason I'm bringing it up now is because Jason received an e-mail from an individual providing his paper as a source of material from which to draw.  Again, to be fair, advanced paternal age has been a risk factor in other neurodevelopmental disorders, so it isn't a giant leap of faith to make these assumptions -- maternal age has been shown to increase the risk of Down's syndrome and has been associated with dyslexia, among other afflictions, so why shouldn't paternal age have some sort of impact?  Then again, does it?

My problem is with the weight placed on the findings in this study and the media hyping of those numbers and the media hyping of every bit of information that comes down the pike especially with regard to autism.  I interact with a significant autistic population and have relationships with several of the parents.  Again, I'm no scientist and my opinion is based solely on anecdotal information, but many of these parents were in their 20s and 30s when they had their children.  I have a relative who has two autistic children and he was in his late-20s/early-30s when they were born.  I'm not an expert in this realm by any stretch -- I only know what I see, what I read and what I learn from others far more knowledgeable than I.  Right now, autism is getting a lot of attention -- as it should (and should get more) -- and families are looking at every study, every piece of data...everything and anything to help them understand the root causes and provide them with some hope for a cure.  Had this study concluded that paternal age was a significant contributing factor in, say, migraine headaches, would those results have warranted such coverage?  I don't think so.  But, if your study is about autism in any way?  Boom, above the fold, 72pt., bold with drop shadow, regardless of the effect it might have on those families.

My point (if I ever even had one when I started this post) is that we need to be careful with the release of this sort of information.  Very little of it is ever conclusive and regardless of how pure the motivations are, no study is ever as "clean" as one would hope.  Hyping data is a disservice to those struggling to understand what is happening to their children.  Case in point: just this past weekend was a study released that indicated that autism may not be inherited after all.  Oops.  Kind of throws a wrench in the paternal age a bit, doesn't it?  What is conclusive is that we are looking at a very complex disease and researchers are only now beginning to understand just how complex it and how difficult to conquer it really will be.

Shot in the Arm

There appears to be a great controversy brewing.  No, it has nothing to do with which is more appropriate: chardonnay and pinot grigio or vodka martinis and cosmos at Friday's playdate?

Nope - lawmakers across the country are debating the merits of mandatory HPV vaccinations for girls, which, proponents claim, would k.o. the virus linked to cervical cancer.  The American Cancer Society estimates that approximately 11,500 women will develop invasive cervical cancer and about 3,600 will die from it.  The question whether or not to require the shots (three doses over 6 months at $120 a pop) heated up a week ago when Texas governor, Rick Perry, issued an executive order requiring the vaccine for 11- and 12-year-old girls (parents can opt out for reasons of conscience).  In that time, 18 other states have opened debate and are similarly considering legislation, though the measures have drawn the ire of anti-vaccine and religious conservative groups.

Clinical trials indicate the vaccine stymied infection with two strains of HPV that cause 70% of cervical cancers and two strains responsible for 90% or genital warts.  Research indicates that most cervical cancer occurs in adult women, however, the Centers for Disease Control recommend the injections be given before puberty (11- to 12-years old) or as young as 9-years-of-age.  Opponents argue that although the vaccine, Gardasil, is effective in preventing cancer and genital warts, the glaring difference between HPV and other diseases currently vaccinated against (HepA, HepB, DVT, etc) is that HPV is contracted in only one way: through sexual contact.  Conservatives and parents rights groups argue the requirement would encourage premarital sex and interfere with the way they raise their children.  This is all well and good, but since most people with genital HPV never know they have HPV, it is possible (and, in some respects, probable**) they will be infected at some point in their lives.

Where do you come down on this debate?  Should it be mandatory?  Should it be up to the parents in this case?

I'm not sure where I come down on this yet.  I don't like being told by the government or others how best to raise my children i.e. when to have certain conversations, whether or not I can spank, whether or not I can drink responsibly in front of my children.  As an adult and parent, I have the freedom and the responsibility to make these decisions on my own without interference.  Would I consider having my daughter vaccinated against it?  I would.  But it's also up to Mrs. Big Dubya as well.  And I don't think it should be up to some legislator to tell me I need to get my daughter vaccinated against a sexually transmitted disease.

So, maybe I do know where I come down on this.  Look at that.

**According to CDC Web site and info on HPV