DadCentric

Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man

I used to be a badass. Distance running, rock climbing, rugby playing, crazy-ass expeditions into the wilderness, surfing before the crack of dawn - that was me before having two kids. At one point, back in my mid-30's, there was even talk - with Beth's support, no less - of dropping the cash on one of these. Now I'm a 40 year old laundry-doing house-cleaning grocery-shopping Stay At Home Mr. Mom, a poster child for the Stop The Pussification Of The American Male Movement. 

I'm mostly not complaining. I of course love my kids, and having the opportunity to spend more time with them is a blessing. And I've done enough Macho Bullshit for a lifetime, so I don't think I have anything to prove in that regard (I've been in a shark cage. Underwater. Nose to nose with real sharks. Big ones. The kind that kill people.) The idea that a Real Man shouldn't pitch in and help with the running of the house and the care of the children seems like something out of The Knuckle-Dragger's Handbook. Still, it occurred to me, one morning when I was sitting on the floor helping Zoe pick out a dress for her doll, a pretty one that would match Dolly's pick toy stroller, that perhaps I was losing touch with my masculine side. Even my blog posts, which used to be full of tales of Manly Fathering Adventure, had been getting weepy and sentimental. I needed to do something to recapture that old dick-swingin' he-man magic. 

I decided I needed to grow a mustache.

More Condescending Advice For Dads, Courtesy of CNN/Careerbuilder

Me like read Internet because me like movies of skatebored skateborde skatebord skateboard crashes. But sometime me as dad learn stuff from Internet, like when me read story from CNN about how me should be good daddy while me work job. 

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/worklife/06/22/cb.stay.at.home.dads/index.html

This good article! Me never think of use words to communicate, like article says to do. Me usually jump up and hit self on head or throw poop to make point. Me also think use calendar good idea; me use when need to remember trips on giant shiny metal bird, so me think good use calendar to make time to throw football with boy-child; me pencil him in for two weeks from now, unless WWE Smackdown on TV. Me can also bring family to work; boy-child and girl-child might like watch me lift heavy things. Thank you CNN for make me better dad. Now me go to refrigerator, try to see if me can catch ghost who turn on light when me open door. 

The Afterthought That Counts

The invitations for the Mother's Day ceremonies at my children's school starting flooding their backpacks about mid-November.

Can you come? Please come. Please Please PLEASE?!?

How many mothers will attend? How many grandmothers? Any great-grandmothers? Any females of child-bearing age who are in your domestic employment?

Then came the deluge of reminders. Don't forget, each said. Don't Forget! DON'T FORGET!

Oh, and there was this:

 

When the days (yes, plural) of celebration finally arrived, much tea and cake were consumed. Handwritten cards and letters were passed about. Sonnets and odes performed. Bette Midler popped in to perform "Wind Beneath My Wings" with a 42-piece orchestra. This, of course, followed the F-14 flyover but came before the trained killer whale that rocketed up through a cafeteria sink of greasy suds to create a spray that stretched 20 yards through the air and spelled out "Bless Your Wondrous Wombs" in kaleidoscope colors.

In all, the children celebrated motherhood for three solid hours, a Tony-worthy product of many, many months of heartfelt thought and detailed preparation. "It was amazing and beautiful. Much better than 'Cats'," said My Love, who came home misty from the second day's ceremony, clutching an 18-page souvenir program in her hand that deftly hide, upon her finger, a shiny new secret decoder ring.

A month later, here we are -- the Tuesday before Father's Day.

All is calm; all is trite.

See, I found this buried in my son's backpack:

There Are No Answers

This is not my usual posting day. No, I regale you all with my wit and wisdom (or lack thereof) on Thursdays, but I have had this post working in my head for a few days now.

There are events in everyone's life that fail to make sense. No matter how many ways we look at them, analyze them, break them down, we fail to understand. We are only left with "why?" And, more often than not, these events involve a death. A death that takes us by surprise, wholly unawares. It's a shock to the system. It rocks us to our core. We are left asking only one thing. One question that will never be answered. Can never be answered.

Why?

We are asking ourselves that question now. We've been asking it for a week now. We are asking because we need to make sense of something that, on its face, appears impossible...improbable. We ask because someone dear to us passed away suddenly. He was 39. Just turned 39. Three weeks ago he celebrated his 39th birthday with his wife and 2-year-old daughter. 39. And he's gone. Just like that.

He will never see his daughter off to her first day of school. Never see her go on her first date (and intimidate that unwitting suitor), go to the prom or graduate from high school. He will never beam proudly as she gets her first job. He won't be able to walk her down the aisle as he prepares to give her away to a man who loves her nearly as much as he does. She will never really know her father. How much he loved her. How much he adored her. How much he wanted to give her the world. No, she will have to rely on the stories and reminiscences of "a hundred uncles" in order to shape what she knows about him. And, although it will help, it falls dramatically short of the real thing. And that, to put it bluntly, sucks. Sucks huge.

I normally say that I can't imagine any of this, but, unfortunately, I've had to. We've had to. It's all I can imagine now. To be confronted with one's mortality with such a gut-punch is such a rude awakening. And it forces you to put things in perspective. So I hug my kids a little longer. I linger a few more minutes after putting them to bed. I make sure I tell them I love them a few more times each day. But, when I lay down in bed at the end of the day, I am still left with one question, as rhetorical as it might be.

Why?

The Last Supper: A One Act, One Scene Play Based on True Events

Setting: a DINNER TABLE at THE AVANT HOUSEHOLD. Around the table sit THE AVANT FAMILY: JASON (father), BETH (mother), ZOE (daughter, 19 months old), LUCAS (son, 5 years old), MICK (family dog).

ZOE: (banging metal serving spoon repeatedly and loudly against metal serving bowl). CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG

BETH (to ZOE): Are you done yet?

ZOE: (stops banging metal spoon) Nnnnnnnnnnnno! (resumes banging metal spoon repeatedly and loudly against metal serving bowl). CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG 

LUCAS: I have a wiener on my head! There's a wiener on my head!

JASON: (drains wine glass in one long gulp)

BETH: (drains wine glass in one long gulp)

ZOE: (grunts, defecates in diaper, takes large swig of milk from sippy cup, opens mouth and lets milk run down the front of her shirt soaking it, drops sippy cup on MICK's head)

MICK: Yipe!

LUCAS: Wiener!

FIN

Shake your harumph-a

Son-of-a-bitch. I've gone and gotten old. O-L-D. And not in an age-related way, mind you. Although some of those people I call friends might say differently. No, it's far more profound and disturbing than that.

I've gone and gotten old in my opinions. My perspective has changed and although I should attribute that to some level of maturity, as an old clothing ad once stated: Maturity is a high price to pay for growing up. Things I once found cool? Meh, not so much anymore. But what troubles me more is that I have opinions and thoughts about people and events that I once swore I'd never utter or, for that matter, think. I've become...shiver...judgmental. I may be a parent, but that doesn't mean I have to become my parents.

I know what you're saying: "What the hell, Warren? What in God's name are you talking about? Has senility started to take hold or something?" No, not quite, though I do sometimes forget to wear pants, but that's neither here nor there. I'm always better with examples so allow me to regale you with a vignette.

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.

Let The Good Folks at The Red House Furniture Store Teach Your Kids About Racism

Before you ask, yes, it's an actual commercial.

I hope you know this will go down on your permanent record

They were called blue slips because they were printed on blue paper. A name decided by committee, I’m  sure. Standard 8 1/2” x 11” paper, black typing, and several blank spaces where the teacher could fill in various specifics (student name, date, description of offense, teacher’s signature), typically with a red pen. Just the sight of them instilled me with a cold terror, like catching a glimpse of your father washing blood off of a machete through a door left slightly ajar. That color combination became, in my mind, representative of some awful unknown fate. Had you placed me in a room with walls of light blue adorned with black and red decor, I’m sure my anxiety level would have increased with each passing minute. 

Your Cheatin' Heart

Let's get something straight right up front. I am not a prude. Nor am I priggish, prissy or, for that matter, altogether prim or proper. Pshaw. And even though I might once have been an altar boy, that was a long time ago. But even I think that some things might just go too far in what might otherwise be considered civilized society. I think ashleymadison.com might just be one of those things. No, I'm not linking there. If you wanna go, you type it in.

Listen, I know people are going to cheat. Like the Gloved One says, "it's human nature." But, do we, as a so-called polite society, need to be so blatant and "in your face" about it? We've all seen ads in the back pages of local, alternative papers a la The Boston Phoenix or some such. MWM seeks SF for intimate encounters. MF looking for secret fun. They were clandestine; relegated to the 1-900 and escort ads.