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.

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.

Oh, The Glory/Hell Of It All

One of the hot-button topics among parent bloggers is this: when our kids eventually read our blogs, how much will the therapy cost?

Regular readers of this site, and those who read my other blog, have probably noticed that I rarely offer up a whole lot of dirt on the kid. It's not that he's not funny or interesting or "awwww"-inducing, and it's not like he doesn't, on a near-hourly basis, provide enough fodder to write a work of Proustian proportions. Truth be told - I keep the personal tales to a minimum because a)there are a lot of other bloggers out there who do a much better job of capturing the often mortifying episodes of three-year-old behavior and b)I really don't want to embarrass 16-year-old Lucas (and forthcoming daughter who will also eventually be able to read and use Google). Part of the parent's job is to, whenever possible, protect the child from pain and humiliation. And the stuff that we find hysterically funny might not seem that way to a kid trying to make his or her way through an often cruel and demeaning world.

So this morning, I find myself faced with a moral dilemma, a conundrum, if you will. Do I write about Lucas walking - strutting, actually - into the room, holding his plastic toy sword between his legs and yelling "I HAVE A GIANT PENIS!!! LOOK AT MY GIANT PENIS, DADDY!!!", or not?

Something Stinks in DayCare Land

We'd been talking it up to the kid for months. In September, Lucas would be joining his best friend, whom we'll refer to as "J", at J's preschool. Lucas was excited - J was the first friend he made when they were both at Lucas' current school, and they are inseparable. We were also excited, as we had heard nothing but good things about the new school (for reasons that will become apparent, I will not divulge the name of said school...ok, here's a hint: the Village People wrote a song about it. No, we're not sending our three-year-old to Annapolis). There were a couple of minor concerns: we'd have to pack lunches for the kid, and Lucas would have to be completely potty-trained. The first was more of a concern, as Lucas these days refuses to eat anything other than...well, pretty much anything that doesn't list rainbow sprinkles and/or chocolate chips as a primary ingredient. The second we've nailed, with one slight exception: the kid can't wipe his own butt. That duty still falls to us. This was a full-on worry, as apparently the new school has but one rule regarding the teachers' role in helping kids with their bodily functions. They don't. We weren't sure how strictly they interpreted this - no diapers, but was there some gray area in case of the occasional accident? Or lack of butt-wiping ability?

Well, apparently not. A couple of days ago, Beth had a conversation with J's mom, who was beside herself over an incident at the school. J had come down with a nasty case of diarrhea, and while at the school had an accident. The school called J's mom and let her know, and asked her to come and get him. When she arrived at the school some 45 minutes later, she found J sitting in a chair. On a towel. Literally in a puddle of his own shit. The teachers hadn't bothered to clean him up, because that would have been "against policy". So they put him in a chair and left him there.

Needless to say, we're not sending Lucas there; I was furious when I heard this. (J is very dear to us; I really wanted to go down to the school and loudly announce "I'm here to kick some ass and chew some bubble gum...and I'm all out of bubble gum.") Last time I checked, the whole point of day "care" was to actually "care" for the kids. Yes, I can understand the rationale behind requiring kids to be potty-trained before they can enter a particular school or even grade, but this goes beyond that - it's a matter of decency, of not subjecting a child to discomfort or even humiliation.

So what do you think? Anyone out there have a similar tale?

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.

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.

La Fiesta is Coming! La Fiesta is Coming!

Just wanted to drop a little reminder for those of you that are loco local, that we are officially one (1) week away from the L.A./SoCal Blogger Party. 

First 50 guests get a free handshake from me.  Anyone after that only gets a nod, for a buck.

Nobody likes a square.  Just ask these guys:

Putting the "Pub" in Puberty

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but what the hell is the deal with all of the underage drunk girls?  Seriously?  I don't know, maybe it's the dad talking, but I'm not sure it's as cool as E! wants us to believe.

They are everywhere, and for some reason there isn't much of an outcry from our otherwise prudent society.  Sure, their antics make for great headlines and some decent side-boob shots, but the Lohans of the world aren't even old enough to get into bars- shouldn't that raise some concern?

I'm not going to pretend that I didn't partake when I was younger.  I spent many a weekend night with my friends in the Alpha Beta parking lot, standing around, listening to Guns and Roses and The Beastie Boys, waiting for the few girls that would hang out with us to pimp their goods in the face of the right horny shopper and score us twenty bucks worth of crappy beer and 2-liter bottles of wine coolers.  What else were we going to do, bowl?

We, however, were not on the national news every night, and we most definitely were not in bars.  I didn't get my fake ID until I was 20.  By the time Lindsay and friends turned twenty we had been following their clubbing lifeystyle for years. Years.

How are these ladies, and of course the hordes of hormones and cameras that follow them, getting into places that are designed by law to keep them out?  If the paparazzi was replaced by 60 Minutes the doors would be shut tight, but Andy Rooney isn't taking the bait.  Why, besides the fact that I'm pretty sure he's dead, wouldn't a respectable news guy/humorist want to expose this?  Because it's not news, and it's only slightly funny.

America loves underage drunk girls.

I must be getting old. Think I'll head down to Alpha Beta.

How To Cope With A Hot Nanny

Many of us, at some point in our parenting lives, are faced with a choice: child care center, or nanny? We went down both roads; Lucas is currently going to a center, two days a week, but in his rookie season, the boy had a nanny. We all loved her; she was great with Lucas, and she was named after a titular Allman Brothers gal (no, not Elizabeth Reed; that would be somewhat disturbing, to name your girl after the dead subject of a lengthy instrumental jam. Like naming your daughter Eleanor Rigby.) Choosing the right nanny is a pressure-laden and grueling task, and it can be a tremendous challenge to find the right one, and hang on to her/him once you have.

DadCentric favorite AJ Jacobs has a nanny. And a problem. She's apparently hot, Angelina Jolie-hot, and we men do not bandy that term around lightly. (Poor AJ - must be rough, what with having Lara Croft as a nanny and hanging out with Scarlett Johansson and all.) So hot, in fact, that she's having trouble finding dates because of the hotness - men are simply intimidated by her. So AJ does what any wordsmith with an unbearably hot nanny would; he takes a cue from Edmond Rostand and offers to help. Read the rest of the story to find out what happens.