DadCentric

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.

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.

This End Up isn't high-end?

I'm not a New York Times reader.  I never have been and I'm fairly certain I never will be.  In all honesty, I've just always found it pretentious and I don't think I fall into their particular demo.  They're wine, cheese and foie gras.  I'm beer, pretzels and three-layer dip.  Oh sure, I like to come off now and then like I'm a bit more cultured and refined, but I'm a keg parties in the woods, sit in the bleachers type of guy.

I know, I know.  You're saying to yourself, "Warren, we don't give a shit why you don't like The Times."  And, you're right, you shouldn't.  I only tell you as a preface to this February 14th article and why I found myself shaking my head muttering, "I just don't get it" and "Maybe they don't get it."

Before I got married, my decor consisted of a used Scandinavian Designs bed and dresser, assorted crates, a TV stand, an entertainment center, a beat-up La-Z-Boy covered in cat hair (RIP Moe) and assorted bric-a-brac - typical for a guy just out of college living on his own.  After getting married, Mrs. Big Dubya and I set out to furnish our home with nice but comfortable stuff - neither wanted a room or rooms where you were afraid to enter or sit down (read: my parents' house).  I think we've succeeded and admirably so.  It's all very nice, but we also know we have two small children (a third on the way) who aren't using coasters, eat with their fingers and like to use bottles as if they were bingo daubers.  Three words: We. Have. Kids.  Have I quit?  No.  Am I a realist?  I think so.  That's why I found the article so dumbfounding.  Am I the only one who knows that kids are not neatniks?  They don't just walk they barrel headlong into things.  They smear, spill, smudge and slobber on everything.  God bless 'em.

What bothers (troubles?) me about this article at times is the "Extra!  Extra!" earth-shattering quotes and revelations on behalf of some of the interview subjects:   “Going from being a couple to becoming a parent, your whole world changes..."  “Once you become a parent, your home is not your own..."  Hold on a sec.  You mean it's not all about me anymore?  Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie.  But, from reading this, you'd think these parents never got that memo - the underlying tone is, "I have and want nice things, therefore my children will conform and show these items the proper respect and care."  Newsflash: um...no they won't and no they won't.  Let me just say, here and now, I'm not faulting these people for wanting nice things; for wanting nice living spaces; for wanting to be adults.  Hell, I would love to be able to do that.  I've had my eye on a piece or two at Pier One just like everyone else.  But I also know that a wall, even if it is covered in designer paint, is still a very appealing and enticing canvas.  And, no matter how cautious or how quick you are (or think you are) that child is going to vomit - whether he's sitting on a $399 EKTORP sofa in Belgian White or a $17,000 sectional in brown leather and emerald chenille.  It's better to resign yourself to this fact now.  Just ask my sectional after the Sharpie pen incident of 2006.

If you have children and manage to maintain a showroom-quality apartment or home, lucky you and may that luck continue.  And, if you don't mind me asking, how much did you pay for Vicki?

Sidenote: If you read the article, you may have a similar question(s): How exactly does one go about becoming a professional babyproofer?  And 300 holes?  Are you installing some sort of bank vault?

My Life in Television

"Ok, I had this great idea. I was totally thinking about it on the drive home and I am convinced it can work."

"What is this idea?"

"I pitch a DadCentric TV show to HBO. It would be brilliant. Like Curb Your Enthusiasm with kids. We could do it semi-improv. Get three year olds and turn the cameras on them and let them talk about the shit that they talk about, pink eagles and pee and all that, and have the actors just go with it."

"But not everyone finds little kids funny."

"So? You think everyone found Sex and The City funny? Who watched that shit? Women in their 30's. That leaves a whole lot of people who didn't think it was funny. And yet it was a cultural phenomenon. Network shows about dads are not funny."

"That reminds me - a woman on my message board was telling us that her baby pooped on the floor and their dog ate it."

"See? That would not happen on Growing Pains. But that's pretty funny. In fact, if that was us, and the baby shit on the floor, we'd be placing bets. 'Oh, no, Zoe pooped on the floor. I got five bucks says Mick eats it.''Oh, yeah? Double or nothing says he pisses on it and then eats it.' That's funny. You think Alan Thicke would bet on his dog eating baby shit?"

"Do we know anyone who works in TV?"

"See, you're with me on this. I gotta call HBO before the writers' strike ends."

Sunday Scary

For all you parents out there considering the idea of bringing a nanny into your employ, be sure you get the non-scary version. Guys like me will have to be content scaring our own kids.

It really is all about the editing.

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.

Friday Funny: Dignified

More of this here.

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.

My Andy Rooney Moment

I know I've been slacking when Metro posts more than I have recently.  Honestly, I get to be part of a book deal and I go all J.D. Salinger.

Anyway, I find myself on a cusp.  I'm teetering on the edge of being myself and becoming my parents - and I'm only going that way kicking and screaming.  On the one hand, I like to think I'm tech savvy, tuned into pop culture, up on the latest bands and musical stylings - I'm like D.B Sweeney and Moira Kelley.  On the other, however, I feel woefully out of it; I hear "back when I was a kid" in my head; and I find myself muttering, "I don't get it" all too often - I feel like I should have a blanket on my lap and be watching Matlock, while I wait for an early bird dinner.

Some examples of what I'm talking about:

Bionic Woman: Why?  Why the Bionic Woman?  If you're gonna do re-makes, why not do remakes in order?  Where's the new Steve Austin?  Where's my $97,674,423 Man (updated for inflation, of course - those eyes aren't cheap)?  Where's your originality?  Have your creative juices dried up?  Honestly, were people really clamoring for a return of Jaime Sommers?  I will forgive you on one condition: bring back Wonder Woman (sans big hair, though). 

Cell phone videos: I was watching IMF last night between innings (see, keeping up with what kids these days are listening to - even the Taiwanese girl band stuff), when they aired an ad about getting music videos on your cell phone.  Is this one of those "I am woefully out of it" moments?  Are there a lot of people out there watching music videos (or any videos for that matter) on the 1.5"x1.75" screen on their RAZRs?  If so, how long does that take to download on a 2G EDGE network?  Is it faster than me hitting the on button and seeing it like it was meant to be seen?

American Hero?  Mon Dieu!: "Back when I was a kid," GI Joe was a 12" doll (action figure for you marketing geniuses out there).  He came with a beard or without; kung fu grip or not.  He had all sorts of uniforms: olive drabs, deep sea diver, astronaut.  He had a foot locker with space on the top for every owner to scrawl their own name and rank.  Then came the 80s...and a cartoon...and a greatly-reduced-in-size Joe - but with cooler toys, and fellow soldiers: Snake-Eyes, Duke, Scarlett, Stalker and Gung-Ho.  And an enemy in COBRA.  Fast-forward to today (well, last month actually, but...).  A live-action movie is in development and, in order to maximize global profits, GI Joe is being stripped of his Special Forces affiliation, re-located to Brussels and is now a member of the Global Integrated Joint Operating Entity - ha, get it?  G.I.J.O.E.  Oh, and he might be called "Action Man."  Well, color me excited.  Brussels my ass - is he teaming up with Hercule Poirot for crissake?

Anything out there you don't get?  Or chaps your ass?  Or just makes you feel old and out of touch?  That's enough for me.  I'm tired.  Where's my Centrum Silver?

Maybe It's Just Semantics

We're members of the local Y.M.C.A. because 1) it's cheap and 2) it's close enough to where I can wad up my monthly payment and throw it at the front desk from my lawn.  I would categorize it as a "pretty good deal".  $50 a month gets my entire family a pool, a gym, and a child-watch facility to watch the young ones while my wife and I hit happy hour work out.  Granted, we've yet to take advantage of the - somehow elusive - ability to "get yourself clean" and "have a good meal" like the Village People were apparently able to do and, quite frankly, neither my wife nor I are jumping stumps to "hang with the boys".  In fact, I don't believe I've even seen many boys around there.  Graying, wrinkled men?  Absolutely.  Lots of [grand]moms?  Yes.  Which brings me to my point...

What the hell were they singing about?  They make the Y sound like a cross between Welfare and a Sandals Resort.  First of all, nothing's free.  According to the Village People, it's a place one should go when one is short on dough.  I call bullshit.  I was late on a payment once and I was seriously in fear for my life.  Short on dough will get your kneecaps smacked, my friend.

Second, I've yet to find "many ways to have a good time".  In fact, I haven't even found one.  And it's not from a lack of looking, I assure you.  I read the flyers and posters.  Group discussions on menopause and free goiter screenings aren't fun in anyone's book.  Again, I call bullshit.  Oh...the "good meal" thing they sing about?  Complete fabrication too.  I can't even find a vending machine in the place for a pack of Nekot Wafers.

They also state [ad nauseum] that it's fun to stay there.  I beg to differ.  Simply put - you can't stay there. There are no bunk beds, cots, or any other amenities of that nature.  Hell, I showed up one morning to find 3 homeless guys crashed out in the courtyard and spent the next 2 hours holed up in a back room while the S.W.A.T. team took them out one by one.  I guess they need to clarify the word "fun". 

I'm not bitching.  Really, I'm not.  Like I said, it's a good deal.  It's just not as good a deal as they said.