DadCentric

Nightmare at 34,000 Feet

Portrait of a frightened man: Jason Avant, thirty-nine, husband, father, and writer on vacation. Mr. Avant is what they call a "nervous flyer", which is a polite way of saying "flyer who requires several glasses of something strong and several handfuls of something stronger to prevent himself from having a nervous breakdown every time the plane shakes or makes a course". Tonight, his flight home will be like something out of an old episode of a TV series known as...The Twilight Zone.

Let me just say this about flying with 17 month old toddlers...oh, that's right. Zoe is now a toddler. As in "one who toddles". As in "one who started walking on her own the day before our flight to Florida, and who discovered that she really enjoys walking on her own, and getting her to sit still on a 5+ hour plane flight after she's discovered that walking is fun HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA that's a good one, God or Whatever Name One Choses To Give To The Force That Runs The Way That The Universe Unfolds; you're an asshole, you know that?" Anyway, flying with 17 month old toddlers is something that should never be done ever. In fact, I'd recommend not flying with a kid under 5; it will be a cold day in Hell before we do it again. I discovered this as soon as we took our seats on that flight home from Florida; a flight that became a voyage of nightmarish discoveries.

Say Goodbye to Hollywood

My life is spread across Craigslist and packed tight in so many boxes.  Every breath is a dollar spent and every memory a melancholy moment.  We are moving to pastures greener, literally- the greener part, not the pasture. 

We are leaving Los Angeles in a matter of weeks and I'm already over it.  Our corner of the county is for cowards and meth labs, hate crimes and crimes of hate.  This isn't the life of movie stars and swimming pools.  It is a life unfiltered and the daily grind has left us stained and lethargic.  

Say goodbye to Hollywood.

Any Other Man Stops and Talks

He's the walking man
Born to walk
Walk on walking man
Well now, would he have wings to fly
Would he be free
Golden wings against the sky
Walking man, walk on by So long, walking man, so long

I doubt James Taylor was singing this song for Dan Hughes, which makes him the only one not talking about Dan and his band of merry men.  I like to think that JT would be cool with it.  Does Sweet Baby James read DadCentric?  He should, he's got kids.

The internet has been abuzz with tales of Dan, a blogger and a gentleman from the U.K. (All That Comes With It) and the quest that he and nine friends have undertaken to support a cause close to all of us.

The lads are walking 78 miles through the countryside of England in six days to raise money and awareness for the Joseph Salmon Trust.  As a matter of fact, at the time of this writing Day 1 is already in the books and I assume that their collective feet are soaking and beers are being savored.  So far, so good.

If you are unfamiliar with "The Walk" or the charity they are supporting, then here is what you should know.   The Joseph Salmon Trust has been set up to help parents bereaved of a child.

Joseph Salmon was a happy and seemingly healthy 3-year-old little boy, no different than the two small boys sleeping down the hall from where I now sit. No different than your son or your daughter. No different than we ourselves were so many years ago.

In the words of his parents, Neil and Rachael Salmon, "Joseph was a happy, healthy three year old who loved life. He enjoyed playing with his toy trains, his cars and his pretend kitchen. He had a busy social life, with lots of friends from nursery, friends who lived nearby and his little sister. He enjoyed cooking with his mummy, going on trains and buses with his daddy, and playing outside with anyone who would join in. Joseph had a passion for books and had just started to ‘read’ them to his younger sister.

"It felt like his life was just beginning."

Joseph died on April 1st, 2005.

He died from streptococcal pneumonia. "It’s very rare and it took him, although suddenly, very peacefully," said his mother. "When I went in to him in the morning it was obvious from his posture that he’d just gone into a deeper and deeper sleep and never knew anything about it. This too is what all the medical personnel associated with him told us. There are not many (if any) consolations when you lose a child, but at least he didn’t suffer. And as a parent, it’s one of the things you want most for your child isn’t it?"

Chances are that if you are reading DadCentric you are a parent, and if not there is an even better chance that you are someone's child.  This isn't a charity based on hope and cures.  This is a charity for those that have lost more than anyone ever should.  It is a charity for remembering.

On behalf of DadCentric, thank you, Dan.  Thank you to you and your friends, and best of luck.

For more on "The Walk" including information on donations and daily updates please visit All That Comes With It.

Also:

The Joseph Salmon Trust

The Dales Walk

Ordinary Dads Walking for an Extraordinary Cause

Video Diary

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 Highway's Jammed with Broken Heroes, On a Last Chance Power Drive...and Thanks to The Optional 3rd Row Seats, there's Room For Grandma and Grandpa!

There is, of course, a baby on the way, and we're now deep in the process of examining every aspect of our lives and trying to figure out what things we need to trade in for a bigger model. Naturally, tops on my list are a 50 inch plasma TV and a longboard; Beth is of the mind that we need a bigger family car.

I have to say that The Forthcoming Bundle of Joy # 2 Experience has been much less stressful than our first go-round. At least for me; I'm feeling a bit like Tom Sizemore in Saving Private Ryan; I've been there, in The Shit - literally and figuratively - and when November rolls around, I'll be ready. Once more unto the breach, etc. But the car thing has me vexed.

First, we have a fairly big SUV - the Nissan Xterra. It's been great; its undisputable value as a surfmobile notwithstanding, there's plenty of room for one kid, one dog, and all of the attendant crap that accompanies both. Those of you with babies will be happy to know that the attendant crap decreases expontentially with each month following the one year mark (really, one has to wonder how many parents go for #2 simply because they spent $800 on that goddamn Bugaboo and by Christ there's gonna be a baby in that thing until the axles rot and the wheels fall off). The problem is this - the Xterra, which still looks and runs great, is creeping up on 90,000 miles. The clock is ticking.

Second, we've both decided that there will be no minivan. No offense to minivan people - but we are not minivan people. We've tried to want one, we know they get better gas mileage and have the sliding doors and seat 30 people and can go underwater and can turn into giant robots, but we are not minivan people. We are SUV people. Surfboards and tents. (Ok - that's all me. You could probably talk Beth into a Nissan Quest, what with the cool multiple sunroofs.) That said, after much deliberation, we decided to give serious consideration to a pair of so-called CUV's - "crossover utility vehicles", namely the GMC Acadia and the Saturn Outlook. They seemed like a happy compromise - lots of interior space, folding third-row seats, better gas mileage than a full-sized SUV, car-like handling. What's not to love? Oh. The price. A quick glance at the MSRP, a go-round with the GMC Payment Calculator, and I came to the decision that I'd rather deal with a prolapsed rectum than those monthly payments. 

So the vexation continues. If there's a bigger pain in the ass than the process of buying a new car, I've yet to experience it. I may have to reassess my stance on minivans; the rocket launchers, though, are a dealbreaker. I'd be remiss in my fatherly duties if the family ride was vulnerable to attacks by giant radioactive scorpions. 

Disneyland: The Suckiest Place on Earth

I'd only been in the Magic Kingdom for an hour, and I was ready to kill someone.

We thought we were being smart - yeah, it was Saturday, but it was the "off season", the perfect time to go. Cool weather, and the legions of people who descend upon the park like Xerxes' hordes wouldn't be massing at these particular Hot Gates until summer.

Right.

The first indicator that we were in for a time - the temperature at 10:00 was 85 degrees. We hit the road at noon - Anaheim's about an hour from our house - and the mercury was hitting 92. Goddammit. The plan was to meet Beth's parents at the entrance plaza at 1:00. We arrived at the park at 12:30, and were greeted by big flashing signs that said PARK IS VERY BUSY TODAY, which was nice but not necessary, as we sat in a line of cars waiting to get into the parking lot. A half an hour or so later, after meeting up with the in-laws, we made our way into the park.

It was packed. I did a mental exercise - calculated the number of times I've been to Disneyland over the course of 37 years (at least 30) - and with great certainty proclaimed that this was, by far, the most crowded I'd ever seen it. It was like Vegas on New Year's Eve, without the fires and half-naked chicks hanging from streetlights. Six figures' worth of humanity, most of them with kids, all of them sweaty and seething.

The highlights: the tattooed guy who kicked his son in the ass - literally, gave the kid a kick in the ass  - for walking too slow; waiting an hour for lunch (a half hour to get our heat-lamped burgers and fries, another half hour to find a place to sit); watching as a family of five cut in front of us into the line at Mickey's House via an emergency exit door and listening to the mom proudly telling everyone in her family that she didn't care who she pissed off, she wasn't "gonna wait in no line to see no motha-fuckin' Mickey Mouse" (to his credit, her husband talked her into leaving, partially because her kids were all teenagers who really could have given two tin shits about getting their picture taken with Mickey, partially because he took a look around and saw murder in the eyes of every adult that had been in that line for 45 minutes before they jumped in); standing by/waiting for a table with my hungry squirming son in my arms - we had a late dinner, thanks to more waiting in lines - a table occupied by some twenty-something shithead and his girlfriend, who had finished their dinner when we got to the restaurant twenty minutes before and were ignoring me, instead choosing to pretend to read their park map (it was upside down; finally, the guy's girlfriend hustled him out of there, having heard enough of Lucas' crying, and presumably having realized that making a guy stand there holding his crying kid makes you a twat of the highest caliber). We were at the park until 9:00, when we looked down and saw Lucas passed out in his stroller. Leaving was imperative; the fireworks were starting (the kid slept right through 'em) and if we didn't get the hell out of there before the other 97,739 people, we might never escape.

Some forty eight hours later, I'm still exhausted. Lucas, however, is still feeling the Disney buzz, talking to whoever will listen about the "pirate ride" and the Teacups and his new favorite, the animatronic parrots of The Tiki Room. Which, come to think of it, still put on a fine show.

Round Trip: A Guide for Survival

I recently wrote about preparing for a family vacation that would consist of strapping our two small boys, ages 3 1/2 and 1 year, into the confines of plush plastic safety and hurling them at 85 miles an hour through the space that is Interstate 10 between Los Angeles and Tucson.  Mission complete.

Yes, I realize that I led you to believe that the actual trip was a few weeks off, but to be honest I didn't want any of you taking advantage of my being gone and stealing my shit.  I figure if you read DadCentric you're liable to do anything.  Sorry, I have trust issues.

So we loaded up the truckster and threw caution to the wind.  Actually, we threw common sense to the wind and left at the peak of afternoon traffic, non-rush hour (really, who named it that?), and were able to enjoy the immediate surroundings of our home base for an extended period of time.  We had to pull over for Thing 1 to pee twice before we hit San Bernadino.

We purchased a portable DVD player for the car with two screens and packed a bag full of movies, although it turns out that I apparently only needed to bring two films.  No, not because they were long enough to fill that span of time, but because my kid likes what he likes and he likes the two damn movies.  Again and again.  Whatever.  He seldom sits still long enough to watch a movie at home so I didn't feel too bad about letting him stare into his own private screen for hours on end.

I didn't feel bad at all.  If anything I was thankful.  We were able to listen to some music and have some conversation that was seldom interrupted for anything but the request for a pee break.  Even that trickled to nothing once we cut off the fluid intake (just kidding CPS!).

Then there was Thing 2.  Oh sure, he's cute as a freaking button, but that booger would just as soon cut you as look at you.  He knows when he's being set-up and he'll have no part of it.  Granted, he was fairly quiet for most of the ride to Tucson, aside from the last hour when we were tired as hell and he was more so.  That part of the trip SUCKED. 

The ride home played out about the same, but with a few more stops and the subsequent resettling  (i.e., crying) that comes with the constant loading and unloading of a baby that has had enough.

Overall the trip was much smoother than I had hoped it could ever be, and that is why I am posting this account.  Between comments on here and my personal blog, as well as a few emails, it appeared that I was not alone in my concern over our decision to travel via automobile.

I'll tell you, it wasn't any harder with two than it was with one, which is weird because usually when you hear someone say that the second child is easier in any given situation they are lying through their damn liar's teeth.

I hate to preach the DVD thing again, especially since we (which of course means my wife) doesn't want the boys watching a bunch of tv.  She also doesn't want them spending time in the backseat on something so drab, but would rather they stare out the window playing license plate tag or counting train cars. Basically, she wants them to be as miserable on long road trips as we were when our parents dragged us along the highway.

That said, get a DVD player if you are going to be in the car for a consecutive period of time exceeding 5 hours, maybe shorter, and when you speak of me speak well.

We also tried two other things, both of which worked to varying degrees.  First, on the way there we traveled by night, which makes for an easy transition into bed for the kids as well as a fresh start on the next morning.  This works best if you are able to stay with someone (grandparents) that doesn't mind getting up with the well-rested children at 7a.m. while you catch up on a bit of sleep.

On the way home we traveled by day, but we stopped often and for longer periods of time.  This lets the kids burn some energy while the parents grab a few beers (or coffee like we did).

Neither way was 100%, but both worked well enough, so take from that what you will.  Still, it was worth it, meaning it had a good beat and I could dance to it.  I'd give it an eighty.

Road to Tucson

Thing 2, the younger of our two boys, will be turning one in a few weeks.  Like any birthday worth celebrating in a guys life we are paying it homage with the classic of all classics, the road trip.

Granted, this will be more "family truckster" than Fandango, but that's cool.  I like Chevy Chase more than Judd Nelson anyway.

The trying part will be that we haven't taken a trip further than Wally World Disneyland with our current line-up and I'm afraid that 7 hours of driving through lonesome desert with Hope and Crosby is going to be as enjoyable as the director's cut of Ishtar.

Of course we have a plethora of toys and books and various snack foods.  We also have a DVD player that we bought a year ago for just this occasion and have yet to take out of the box.  Needless to say I will be opening it shortly. 

My mental playlist has started to take form, allowing for such road staples as Guster, Foo Fighters and  the random  rotation of kiddie music that doesn't make me want to drive into a ditch, basically some Ella Fitzgerald and a bunch of songs I burned from iTunes.

What awaits us, should we actually make it in one piece, is a collection of salivating family that have a jones for my boys like Marion Barry craves the rock.  Most of the greater southwest has yet to meet Thing 2, and when they last saw Thing 1 he was still hitting the bottle and crapping himself.  It's been awhile.

I think we are ready.  I hope Tucson is.

Seven Days Before The Mast

Here's an open invitation to all - the next time you hear me talking about taking an extended road trip with the kid, feel free to come to my house and punch me in the head. While there are benefits to taking a 1600+ mile trip from San Diego to Omaha for the holidays (some lovely scenery, Stuckey's), the stress and hazards outweigh them (by about 16 tons, metaphorically speaking).

The trip there was nice, for the first two days. Stops in stunningly beautiful Sedona, AZ, and less stunningly beautiful Santa FE, NM were nice. We ate great food, saw some spectacular rock formations and some lovely art, and got a taste of how the southern section of mountain country does the holidays.

Then trouble found us. A major snowstorm loomed in our path (through the Rockies, stopping in Denver for the third night), forcing us to reroute. We swung south and east, stopping in Wichita, KS for night #3. Wichita, as it turned out, was lovely - a quint little city with a revitalized downtown featuring some excellent restaurants (we ate at a German cafe, and there's nothing like sauerbraten and weinerschnitzel and dark beer when you've got road fatigue). But that detour added miles to our drive, sending us through the blight of the Oklahoma panhandle - a dreary, depressed area of the country, nuclear winter if imagined by Steinbeck, a flat gray landscape dottled with decaying cars and decaying towns. That was a 12 hour day, and by the time we hit Wichita we were gibbering and surly.

The return leg wasn't much of an improvement. Our first day brought us throguh Kansas and back into Oklahoma, this time through the central section of the state. Mainland Oklahoma was a refreshing change from the wasteland of the panhandle, green rolling hills that I remembered from the time I spent there as a kid. Oklahoma City was clean and modern; we spent the following morning at the OKC Memorial, a solemn, haunted place. Then we were on the road, back through Texas and Nex Mexico, spending the night in Albuquerque. That town had been buried under 15 inches of snow the week before; they were still digging out, and the people we met seemed shellshocked (the average annual snowfall there - 5 inches; they got three times that amount in a day). Worse, another storm was moving into the area. Thus we had cause to worry - we needed to get on Interstate 40 before more snow dumped onto the city, possibly trapping us there.

So it was up at 6:00 a.m. We headed into northern Arizona, our next planned stop the Lake Havasu area. The snow began in the high desert, and followed us as we made out way towards Flagstaff. There, a decision was made - we'd head south to Phoenix, then west to San Diego, avoiding the mountain snows, but adding 6 hours to our drive. We'd grown weary of it all, and just wanted to get home, so we'd deal with the added drive time. The road through Flagstaff and down the mountains was treacherous - heavy snow and low visibility, but I'd learned to drive in Alaska, and I confidently brought us down into the desert.

Past Phoenix, the winds picked up, and as we traveled towards Yuma began to howl, blowing sand and debris until we were in an honest-to-God sandstorm. I've never been in anything quite like it - at one point, we couldn't see more than five feet past the hood of the Xterra. Beth and I were nervous, thinking that someone was going to be in a hurry and ram into us blindly. Lucas, meanwhile, was fast asleep. (Watching Monsters, Inc. five times in a row is apparently very tiring.)

Night fell, and finally - 16 hours after we set out that morning - we pulled into the driveway, exhausted, hungry, and reeeeeeeeeally hoping that we had a bottle or two of red wine available. Lucas remembered that he had a bunch of new toys to play with. His enthusiasm lasted all of five minutes, then the trip caught up with him and he asked - demanded, actually - to go to bed. We happily obliged, and after a couple of glasses of wine, did the same ourselves. Seven days total spent on the road. I'd do it again - just need to check my calendar for the right time. When is the next cold day in Hell, anyway?

It's Been One Week

The week between holidays, a limbo of well-wishes and unbridled gluttony, is finally running into the other bookend- New Year's Day, and more importantly, the countdown to it.

Some people take this as a time to reflect or plan for the future, some go carpe diem and make the most of the now.  It varies.  Some dabble a bit in everything.

I'm a dabbler.  I'm also a picker, a grinner, a lover and a sinner.  If I played music, it would most likely be in the sun.  But I digress.  My point? I spread it around this week.

First of all, I gave. The boys reaped a haul of toys that would make Santa blush.  My wife and I, and by association, Santa, managed to keep Disney, Apple, Nike, Fossil and Amazon, from going under, not to mention the wages we protected for the kids that make their respective products.  Sweat shop? It was a sweet shop this year.  You're welcome.

We also donated to a number of animal-related charities, no not by eating steak twice a day, but with real old-school checks.  Lots of checks.  We actually do this every month, but it feels extra nice knowing that this time of year those homeless seals and burlap-scented kittens are sitting around drinking eggnog and opening gifts rather than laying tits up on the buffet line at Kathy Lee's employee party.  It feels real nice.

I reflected.  Last Christmas, when I gave you my heart, well, the very next day you gave it away.  That was crap.  This year, to save me from tears I decided to share my heart with my wife and two little boys.  Man, you should have seen them.

There is little that compares to the joy of a child on Christmas morning.  The excitement is palatable.  It is contagious.  To think, just a few years ago I didn't know this experience but from a memory of my own youth.  They say that being a parent allows you to relive your own childhood.  Your debt-laden, stress-driven childhood.  Christmas morning it actually happens. 

That made my segue into planning for the future a no-brainer, more of the same.  As I said, there are few things that compare with the childlike wonder shared by all on Christmas morning, but the one that comes close is Disneyland.  That's why we're packing up the family truckster first thing in the morning and making the hour and a half drive across the country to The Happiest Place on Earth. This is the now.

The year is nearing its inevitable end, and we shall close it where we started it, at Disneyland standing shoulder to shoulder with the masses enjoying a moment of bliss and hope.  A child's moment of naive innocence and hope for what the new year may bring.  Aside from the bills of course.