DadCentric

Dad-A-Roni and San Francisco Treats

"I always pictured fatherhood with more long walks and insightful conversation," I said to Jason as we stood on a sidewalk along San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf.

Jason, of this blog fame, and I were in town for a special Star Wars event, and we had been allowed to bring one child each. We both decided to invite one of our own kids, and so it was that our two offspring were sprinting down a city sidewalk laughing at t-shirts with boobs drawn on them and hitting each other with imaginary lightsabers.

We watched them run towards the cable car and Jason said something which escapes me now, but I like to think that it had something to do with Scotch. 

And then we fell quickly into history.

The weekend was as blurry as the rest of them, but where once they spun from cheap drinks and the pursuit of them, they now spin forever forward like a time machine with the buttons stuck. Kids grow up at lightspeed, and somewhere back a dozen chapters ago I should have said something deep and meaningful. Instead I wrapped them in love-lined tangents, mixed in some melancholy metaphors, added a bit of aggravated cursing, and told them "because I said so" like it explained something. Tears, laughs, hugs, frustration, spinning on and spinning on. So many stars.

In reality, fatherhood thus far has consisted of few walks that are far between and too many conversations punctuated with all the patience of a drill sergeant. Whatever vision of fatherhood I pieced together from my own dad and a lifetime of pop culture influences isn't the same as the one my kids are receiving. I am not just a great and all-knowing dispenser of truth and solutions, but also something fallible and full of faults. My children have seen behind the curtain, and they are paying attention to the man there.

The cable car started and our sons held tight, the wind in their hair and our cameras at their side. The moment rolled up one hill and down the other, two boys lost in it and two men trying to capture it accordingly. The street flew beneath their feet, and with it the day and a fastly spinning world.

The stars were bright and nearly blinding.

Is There a Right Age to Show Your Children Poverty?

I just opened an email with a subject line of "hola."  It said:

We wish you happy new year love of Christ in the health of my family and we hope soon to Nicaragua...

A few weeks ago, I was invited to fly down to Nicaragua to visit a school some friends' charity has supported for the past five years.  I signed up to see some volcanoes and maybe do some surfing.  Instead, I tied hundreds of bead bracelets around little brown arms and tripped over myself while trying to play soccer.  Mostly, though, I tried to figure out how children living in structures smaller than my garage could be so damned happy.

I also tried to figure out why one of the founders of the charity, Brent, brought his two daughters, ages two and three. When I saw them at the airport in Atlanta, I thought Brent was crazy.  By the time we flew home, I thought he was wise. 

If you live in America at the median income level of just under $50,000/year, you're in the top 1% of the world in terms of income.  Even a four-person family that's "poor" in the United States making $20,000/year is in the top 10% of the world.  But bloggers are way above median levels, which means most of our kids will potentially be spoiled, or if we're not careful, entitled.

How do you curb that effect?

I think they need to see how people in other parts of the world live. 

I'm planning to return to the little school in the mountains of Nicaragua in May 2012 to assist with construction of an additional building, and I've invited my wife and our 16-year-old to come.  But what about the five, three, and one-year-old? 

The child with whom I spent the most time is five.  I'd love for my five-year-old to meet little Jeremy and his family.  However, I want relationships to develop, not for this to be a "let's go somewhere to look at people who are different from us--like at the zoo!" trip.

One reason we haven't gone to Disneyworld is that I'd prefer to do it one time, and for that one time to take place when all the children are old enough to appreciate and remember the experience.  Is charitable travel to economically depressed areas of the world analogous?

I used to think it was, but now I think Brent's right.  Exposing our children to a less affluent part of the world at early ages, so that they grow up knowing not everyone looks like they do and has all the opportunities they do, is better.  Especially if the location is one where a few people can make a difference and improve the lives of the locals while developing relationships with them.  And, I want them to embrace studying other languages.

The email at the beginning of this post is from Jeremy's father, Rafael.  I handed him a business card after I finished the cup of coffee his wife gave me in their den, in case he were to get access to a computer any time soon and wish to stay in touch.  I told him I hope my niños can one day come play with his niños.  But will they?  If so, at what ages? 

Discuss.

Enjoying Stays and the Musts of Moving On

By the time the last song ended there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Some were filled with tears due to an abundance of cuteness that had spent the better part of an hour humming along to melancholy. Others were moist with the cartoon spittle of hungry tongues licking anxious lips beneath a piñata heavy with sugar-coated promise. Graduation offered instant gratification.

I stood in the back with a camera in my face and hoped that the beer on my breath wasn't too obvious. My wife and I had shared a rare lunch together sans children, the last for at least the summer -- and the last in a town that we have come to call home. Needless to say we enjoyed a pint.

And so it was that I was out of preschoolers, and what was supposed to be summer loomed gray and cool, a mournful mocking of milestones. We celebrated in a coffee shop. The graduate enjoyed hot chocolate. His older brother, still giddy from an afternoon pulled early from school, ordered a steamed apple juice. Then they retired to the play area, skipping on legs long and growing. We sat tired with our espresso drinks and magazines. I read a recent Rolling Stone, pausing between pages to offer a "shush." My wife read something about Seattle instead of looking out the window.

I have worked 52 hours since Monday. That, with most of today off. I'll put in eight more before the night is through. The sound of my keyboard echoes from the canyon of boxes that have grown upon the walls of our house like a thick, cardboard fungus.

It is a waiting game. We all lose. We all win. The sides are drawn in hourglass sand. If I close my eyes tight enough the summer will be gone. The boxes will be against other walls in another town in another state. The beer on my breath will be from a different tap, and the coffee swimming against it will swirl from a different paper cup with a different logo across it. The youngest will no longer know the comforts of dress-rehearsal, but rather the bright lights of the big stage. His backpack will carry more than dreams and crackers. The clouds will be few and far between.

Time may be short, but the days are long. The children electric with excitement. There are pages for the turning -- be damned the tired "shush" and warm cups of cliché. This is the quiet before our storm. Eyes may be wet and dried on shirts soft with shoulder, but they are wide and they are open. Our adventure at the ready.

Mom 2.0 Summit, Now With Dads

 

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?
And miss it each night and day?

My liver does. I draw your attention to the photo above, tentatively entitled "Zombies at Happy Hour, Circa 5 a.m." -- identities protected for obvious reasons. I'm the one in the middle.

The thing about New Orleans is that it tends to lend itself to late nights (see above). That's a given. Turns out that NOLA is also the perfect setting to hold a wonderful conference. Who knew? The Mom 2.0 Summit people. They're smart.

Fellow DadCentrician Andy, aka Beta Dad, and I were invited to the popular conference to speak on a death panel concerning our (read, dads) role in the ever changing world of blogging. It was Jason's idea, but he couldn't make it. Chicken. Andy and I were joined on stage by the southern hospitality that is John Cave Osborne, and we made the whole thing legit and authentic by having Catherine Connors assume the role of moderator. It was Tanis Miller's idea, but she couldn't make it. Also, chicken.

With all due respect to one Muskrat, who was kind enough to blog the session for the official conference website, I'd like to recap the event for those of you that were unable to attend, namely all of the people that promised me that they would, in fact, attend, but then skipped out. Don't think I didn't notice.  For the record, we played to a full house. Eat that, John Stamos.

Here's what happened: Catherine said a lot of smart stuff and asked a lot of intelligent questions. John talked about weed. More from Catherine, still smart and intelligent. Andy said something deep and when he smiled HE LOOKED JUST LIKE STING. John added something charming and the audience loved us. You could see it on their faces. Then I started cursing. Then I cried. Then I threw a chair. I may have cursed again. And talking about this? Crickets. Fortunately, Catherine recovered nicely. Andy and John touched upon a number of nuggets, made some solid closing points and then we went drinking.

Feels like you were there, doesn't it?

Maybe you were. The crowd was full of writers, dignitaries and incredible conversation. It would be remiss to mention names as I would undoubtedly forget someone in the process and that would not be nice. That's how feelings get hurt, people. Just know that the room was packed with awesome. And us. But mostly awesome.

This is where I would go into great detail about the topics we discussed if I could actually remember them. To be honest, it is something of a blur. In fact, I spent most of the session starring at my focal point (Ron Mattocks' hair) and remembering to breathe. Every now and then I'd realize that I was still speaking and quickly hand the microphone back to Catherine. Regardless, I'm pretty sure that the people (you know who you are) enjoyed themselves, and I'd like to think we made a difference in, if not their lives, then at least their hour. Give or take thirty minutes.

The point is, no matter how you define the world of parent blogging, or what you hope to give to or take from it, it is evolving, and a lot of good people are investing their time and talent to make sure we don't disappoint Darwin. Any jackass can be a monkey. We're taking this movement upright.

In a nutshell, we nailed it. #winning

The same could be said for the brilliant people behind Mom 2.0. The conference was full of great advice and free food. The sponsors were friendly and informative. The nightlife was memorable (except for big chunks of it). We spent the entire weekend meeting fantastic people, pouring Four Loko into whatever they were drinking and having our pictures taken by Dooce (the photo above was not taken by Dooce, who was probably in bed, but rather our bartender, who may or may not have known thought we were idiots).

The dads, while an admittedly small group, represented well (don't see above), and our presence was acknowledged with some big, breaking news during the big, breaking news portion of the closing keynote. Here it is: In 2012, just before the world ends, there will be a Dad 2.0 Summit. And it will be fantastic. Save the date.

You read it here firstish.

And if anyone says that 2012 is the year of the dad blog, we'll cut you.

 

Special thanks to Andy and John for allowing me to sit between them, and to Catherine for agreeing to herd us at the last minute. Also, thanks to Jason for sparking the discussion and Tanis for helping shape it, sorry that you were both unable to join us. We really appreciate Muskrat's blogging of the event, the questions and attention from those that attended, and the trust placed in us by Mr. Doug French. Thanks for having us, Mom 2.0 Summit!

Neither chickens nor Ron Mattocks' hair were harmed in the making of this post.

The Happiest Place On Earth: A Report From The Front Lines (Part 1)

In early January, DadCentric sent intrepid writer TwoBusy deep into the heart of the Floridian Disneybeast. He was set up as an embedded member of what military experts call a "family unit," and told to explore the environs and report back from the front lines. His live feed was disrupted almost immediately upon landing in exotic Orlando... and no physical traces of his team have been found.

However, the following notes - apparently taken by TwoBusy during the first five days of the journey - were later recovered by a crack U.N. team of investigators. Here, for the first time, DadCentric shares this harrowing portrayal of a man plunging into the depths of the fabled Kingdom of Princesses.

DAY ONE

• Our plane descends from the clouds, and beneath me I see the mottled patina of Central Florida. I know I shouldn't be surprised by how flat it is, and yet: it is, as always, strange to see a landscape more defined by what descends from its surface than all that rises from it. Ponds, canals, what I presume are boundless acres of engineered and reengineered wetlands. And somewhere, in the midst of this all, a promised land of magic.

• The children grow restless as we begin our slow arc towards Orlando Multidimensional Airport. There are expectations that the terminal will be filled with Princesses and magical animals. For the record: if Orlando TSA is comprised of talking bears, I will consider myself honestly impressed.

Water and Stone

He stands at the water's edge. Small stones tumble from his hands in arrhythmic patterns, catching slender shards of late afternoon sunlight - absorbing and treasuring that single breath of prized warmth and glow - before surrendering to the inevitability of water, salt, and the slow brush of tide across stony shore. The water is cold. Stunningly cold, really, even for this last week of August. Summertime along the northern edge of the Maine coast is a blessing of blindingly clear blue skies and thick morning fogs, cricketsong and exposed granite. The air grows warm and full in time with the ripening of wild blueberries among the brambles, but the waters never relinquish the heritage of the many hard months that ring these bright moments like halos of dark light. This is where we were engaged, atop one of the island's mountains. This is where we came to be married, at the edge of a harbor, in the aftermath of a hurricane. And this is where we've returned, five years later, with our son.

The water is ankle-deep; a thin course of bracing swirls cascading over chubby toes and around chubby ankles. He appears none the worse for wear — his smile broad, his fine hair whipping free and wild with the breeze, tiny black sandals protecting the tender soles of his feet from the hidden edges of this new and unfamiliar world. Behind him, boats bob gently in the harbor, standing guard between his joy and the open sea.

A Walk and a Reason

Next week there is a pilgrimage of sorts. A group of like-minded travelers, some of them bloggers from our own online parenting community, will come together from various countries to walk a path paved with reason.  In all they will cover over 80 miles, walking an old Roman road the entire length of the border between England and Scotland.  It will be a time of bonding, laughter, sweat, pints and cursing. Their tears will be over blisters and bad backs. Theirs is a journey with focus.

The men and women making this trek are doing so to raise money and awareness for the Joseph Salmon Trust.

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?”

The Joseph Salmon Trust has been set up in his name to help parents bereaved of a child. There are many good causes in the world and I know that times are tight, but this, my friends, is something worthwhile. This is for the love of a little boy gone and the parents that remain.

It is to help those parents that have nightmares ahead.

And therein is the focus of the journey and the reason that bad backs will be ignored and blisters limped upon.  Theirs is a mission walked with heart and also for it.

They could use your help.

All expenses have been covered by the individual walkers and a few generous sponsors.  Any donation you make will go directly into the trust.

If you would like to support the charity then please contact Dan Hughes at All That Comes With It and/or the Hadrian's Walk website.

Filling Spaces With Plastic Rainbows: The Lego Art of Jan Vormann

Our good friend Jett posted a link to this ReadyMade piece about German artist Jan Vormann. Vormann travels the globe in search of cracks, chips, divots, and gaps - and fills them with Legos. We've posted some cool Lego-based stuff here in the past, but Vormann takes the ubiquitous plastic bricks in an unexpected direction. Simple in theory, and so, so cool in execution. 

 

 

Photos courtesy of Mr. Vormann's website, Dispatchwork.

A Mother's Arms are Made of Tenderness and Children Sleep Soundly in Them

Heat, as an extreme, exists only in a relative sense.  It is the hottest thing they have ever known and therefore it is the hottest thing ever known.  I tell them that it is not, that my coffee is actually hotter, but that doesn't soothe them, it only makes them question my sanity as they slowly dare a second sip of their lukewarm chocolate.

********

My back hurts.  I've been carrying too much for too long.  For six weeks I've been living as a single father - a single work-at-home-dad.  It has been incredibly hard and surprisingly easy.  I am better for it and I am tired and I am badly beaten. 

My work has suffered.  My 70 hour work week has been cut to less than forty - compiled from a series of minutes torn apart from hours and tucked between goodnight kisses and the taste of warm whiskey across my lips.  The clock moves always forward.

Chores once shared have become mine alone.  All nights are long and lonely.  All mornings are early and full of songs and frustration.

I do not believe that I have achieved anything worthy of praise or pity, only reflection.  Others face obstacles greater than mine on a daily basis.  They make the most.  They do their best.  They are stronger than I ever thought I was and when I sip from my glass the toast is to them.

But this is not their life, it is mine and while I was prepared and up to the challenge, it was unexpected in both timing and time.  From the frying pan to the fire is not a lateral move.  The heat is extreme and it is all relative.

Tomorrow my wife comes home after six weeks sitting at the bedside of her ailing father.  Six weeks of tears and whispers and shouts in the night.  Six weeks of walking in the shoes of a girl much younger.  Bedside seats are lessons in love and fear and the art of turning fond old memories that weren't. That is a chapter not yet closed.  Those wounds are still open.  He will still have a beside in need of sitting and she will carry her thoughts accordingly.  Her back will hurt.

********

They do not expect her.  They have grown accustomed to the missing of their mother.  Six weeks is a long time gone and a father doing the best he can is still just one kiss goodnight no matter how much laughter fills the day or how much work is left to the forgotten.

Tomorrow will seem but another day to them, the routine of living with some parts missing.  They will be safe and loved and slightly lost.  She will be on a plane six weeks delayed and her dreams will be of little boy kisses grown wet with salt and the slightest linger of lukewarm chocolate.

____________________________________

The title of this post is a quote from Victor Hugo.

Ford, the Inflatable Rear Seat Belt, and the Mechanics of Lifesaving

Ever been to a press conference? It's weird. There's a podium and stage lighting. TV cameras. Boom mics. And there are journalists. Real journalists. Next to you is a guy from the New York Times, on the other side of you is a guy from Fortune. They have digital voice recorders and degrees from Columbia and deadlines. You were the editor of your high school newspaper (for one year, and that was 20 years ago) and your pen - the one the Ford PR people gave you, thank God, because you forgot to bring yours - doesn't work. The only thing you have in common with any of them is that like many of these seasoned pros, you are hungover and cynical. 

I'd flown out to Detroit - Dearborn, to be be precise, home of the Ford Motor Company's World Headquarters -  the night before, the sole male member of a group of bloggers invited to cover this event. Ford would provide transportation, food, and lodging. We'd be privy to a big announcement: Ford would be unveiling a new safety innovation. We'd also get to have breakfast with Ford executives, and get a tour of the Safety Lab. The Safety Lab! Images of cars being smashed and crash test dummies flying through windshields danced in my head. Breaking stuff is cool. Of course I wanted to go.