Category Archives: fatherhood

The Penis Dialogues

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The best thing about taking your 3.5-year-old boy on a swanky studio stroll? When you’re in a crowded studio and you ask him if he needs to go potty, he says, “hang on. Let me ask my penis.” Then he looks down at his pants and says, “Penis. Do you have to go pee pee?”

Everyone knows that men make all of their decisions with their penis, but I think my son may be taking that concept a bit literally. Or maybe this is the start of a beautiful relationship between a boy and his imaginary friend. Either way, I see therapy bills in our future.

Democracy in Action

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Last Friday, we decided to take the kids to vote in this little thing called the Presidential Election. Typically, I like to vote on Election Day—hamming it up with the volunteers and seeing all the old people dressed to the nines to practice their constitutional right makes me fall in love with Democracy all over again. But standing in an hour-long line with two bored preschoolers is enough to make anyone hate democracy, so we decided to vote early. The line was short and the kids were really excited to witness democracy in action. I was actually surprised at how enthusiastic they were when I told them we were going to vote. They jumped up and down and clapped. It took me a good 15 minutes to realize they thought I was saying we were going to go “boat,” not “vote.” Their enthusiasm waned when we got to the polling center and there was no water or boats.

But we pressed on, determined to teach our kids why America is the greatest country in the world (because after a year of attack ads, scandals, predictions, and crazy punditry from Fox News, we get to release all of our pent up energy by filling out a tiny bubble on a scantron, casting our vote for the person we think should spend the next four years steering our great nation into what will likely be an End Of Days scenario, if the aforementioned crazy Fox pundits are correct. Oh, and by the way kids, your vote doesn’t really matter unless you live in Ohio). But I digress. Back to democracy.

I spent some time trying to explain to the kids how everyone in the country gets to cast their vote for elected officials. “Sort of like when I ask you what TV show you want to watch,” I explained. The metaphor fell flat because typically, I discount their votes for Barbie and just put on Phineas and Ferb because Phineas and Ferb is awesome and Barbie is not awesome.

The kids may not have a firm grasp of the democratic process, or understand what the President of the United States does, but they know how to doodle on pieces of paper. And that’s exactly what they did. They each took a ballot and drew shapes, scribbled their name, created elaborate treasure maps with volcanoes and crocodiles and mountains. My daughter spent a lot of time circling the face of Mitt Romney, which, I have to admit, made me a little nervous. It would be a hilarious cosmic joke if my wife and I turned out two little Alex P. Keatons.

In the end, wisdom prevailed. When I asked my son who he’s voting for, he said, “Cooper,” and wrote his big “C” on the ballot before turning it in. (Who among us hasn’t resisted the urge to write in your own name on that presidential ballot?). For a moment, I was in a daze, imagining a world where my 3.5-year old son Cooper was President. Imagine if you will, an America that follows the whims of an easily distracted preschooler (Insert George W. Bush joke here).

As for my daughter, when I asked her who she wants to be President of the United States, she told me straight up: Christmas Lights.

A house divided. But at least they voted.

Excuse Me Sir, Is That A Purse?

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I need to start carrying a purse. My kids are old enough now that we’re beyond the “daddy bag” phase in our lives (thankfully, I no longer need to carry six diapers, a packet of wipes, pacifiers, and a menagerie of plush toys with us everywhere) but I still find myself toting around random shit, like half-eaten Cliff bars and Tinkerbell figurines that my kids simply can’t leave the house without. Cargo pockets just don’t cut it.

Do they make manly purses? Something in a Desert Storm camo, perhaps? Maybe with those tacky silver silhouettes of naked ladies you see on mud flaps.

A fanny pack would actually be great, but I’m not European enough to pull off a fanny pack.

I suppose I could go with a messenger bag, but if I’m not on a bike zipping through traffic with legal documents strapped to my back, can I really call it a messenger bag? Wouldn’t it just be an oversized purse with reflective tape?

Kanye West carries a purse, why can’t I? (Please don’t answer that.)

Why do kids have to come with so many accessories in the first place? I don’t feel comfortable leaving the house without an emergency juice box, a six-pack of string cheese, and an extra pair of socks. Why is that?

Don’t answer that either. I already know the answer: Because every once in a while, preschool kids pee themselves. Or throw a tantrum because there’s no string cheese in the car. Or suddenly look down at their feet and realize they’re not wearing Princess Tiana socks and they just CAN’T FACE THE WORLD WITHOUT THEIR PRINCESS TIANA SOCKS!

Yesterday, I was determined to take the kids on a couple of errands without stuffing my pockets with an arsenal of snacks and emergency wardrobe options. I got halfway to the door before turning back for two water bottles, a pack of crackers, some beef jerky, a toy train and a small Avengers notebook/crayon set.

We were only leaving the house for an hour, but I felt the need to pack an Apocalypse Survivor Starter Kit.

It sounds ridiculous that I can’t venture out into public without an arsenal of snacks and diversionary tactics, but it’s not ridiculous. It’s better parenting through paranoia. This is what goes through my head when I’m prepping a trip into the Great Unknown (AKA Target) with the kids:

What if we’re sitting in traffic and the kids demand to doodle? Better pack some crayons and paper.

What if we’re standing in line and their blood sugar crashes? Better pack some gummy bears.

What if there’s a potty emergency but only one toilet in the store being occupied by a childless guy who doesn’t understand the urgency of the phrase, “daddy, I think I need to go potty now.” Better pack an extra change of clothes.

What if the pediatrician has missed an iron deficiency in one of my children and they become anemic and begin craving dirt (it’s a real symptom, look it up)? Better pack the beef jerky.

My paranoia knows no limits, so I need a purse. A big purse, with multiple pockets and zippers, just like my mom used to carry. She carried the biggest purse you could imagine, full of half-used tissues and tic-tacs.

Shit. Put a Diet Tab in one hand and a romance novel in the other, and I’d be the spitting image of my mother. Except for my beard. My mom never had a beard.

But I digress.

Let’s talk more about man-appropriate handbags. I think there’s a market out there waiting to be tapped. Here’s what I’m thinking for the perfect Man-Purse (Tagline: The bag so manly, it will make single dudes wish they had kids just so they could carry it.)

Color: Hunter-vest orange.

Size: Big-ass

Key Features: 1) An insulated cooler pocket, big enough to hold a 16-ounce canned beer of your choice (PBR or Budweiser, it’s up to you). 2) A 16-inch flat screen panel with built in satellite and miniature X-Box (why hasn’t someone built a backpack with a TV and game system in it already?) 3) An insulated warmer pocket, for warm BLT’s (because cold sandwiches are for animals). 4) Built in football (because at any moment, your son is going to look up at you and say, “dad, can you show me how to throw a spiral?” and you need to be prepared. Even if you’re in a library). 5) Stain resistant, particularly when it comes to feces, blood, and apple juice (the Holy Trinity of Pre-school stains). 6) Is there anyway you could get a little shopvac in there too? To suck up all the goldfish my kids leave in teh mini-van? Because that would be sweet.

That’s where I’m at right now with the Man Purse. Feel free to add your own key features to the ideal man bag. Perhaps together, we could build a prototype and get this thing into stores before Christmas.

Drink of the Week: Mother Earth Endless River

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Brewed in tiny Kinston, N.C. at Mother Earth Brewing, Endless River is a super light  German kolsch style ale. It’s tasty enough to get excited about, but light enough to drink all day long. Get a small cooler, ice, and a six pack of Endless River and spend your entire Saturday in your front yard, drinking the bottles slowly while you knock out last minute Fall home projects, like painting your brand new fence cliché white. Normally, painting a fence sucks, which is why you’ve put it off so long. But today, you’ve got beer, and more importantly, the kids aren’t your responsibility. Because you’re painting the fence. Getting shit done. You can hear them screaming inside the house (something about wanting the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into circles, not triangles), but that’s not your problem today. Your spouse is on tantrum duty. Because you’re painting the fence. Monotonous tasks never felt so relaxing. It’s like a little vacation. Put the headphones in. Have another Endless River.

Hop Scotch…Or Just a Scotch, Please

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You know what your local playground needs? A margarita machine. And if you’re installing a margarita machine, you may as well go ahead and put in a fully stocked bar. Obviously, there would be some added liability issues with a playground that had happy hour, but the pros completely outweigh the cons. Don’t believe me? Read my latest blog at Breathe, and be convinced.

 

 

I Learned It From Watching You, Dad!

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Can you pass irrational fear onto your children genetically? Like hair color? My kids aren’t scared of monsters or witches or dogs or getting hit by a car or catching West Nile. But volcanoes? Terrified. They stay up at night worrying about the hot lava, even after my wife and I explained to them that we live about 2,000 miles from the nearest volcano. We showed them that we’d have to get on a plane and fly far, far away. Then we’d have to get in a Jeep and drive a long way. Then we’d have to hike for miles before ever having to worry about being burned by hot lava. (Sidenote: Now, every time they see an airplane, they assume the passengers are going to see a volcano). 

Still, my son is obsesses over volcanoes and is concerned with his favorite things melting. “Daddy, does Buzz Light Year melt?” I have no idea what the melting temperature of Taiwanese plastic is, so I just tell him no. God help us if he ever sees that scene in Indiana Jones where the bad guy’s face melts off. He won’t sleep for weeks.

He’s also really concerned with turning 4. “I don’t want to be 4,” he says, crying a little. Even though his birthday is months away, he agonizes over getting older. This morning, while on the way to one of the brief periods of peace in my life commonly referred to as “child care,” he was staring out the window and said, with a hint of melancholy, “I just want to be 2 again.” Sigh.

What the fuck?

I tried to tell him that being 2 wasn’t all that great. He couldn’t ride a bike. Couldn’t poop in the potty. Couldn’t get Daddy a beer from the fridge…but he wouldn’t have any of it. He’s not even in kindergarten yet, and he thinks his best years are behind him.

My wife told me his irrational fears weren’t genetic, they were learned. Which is a round about way of saying I’m passing on my own neurosis to my children just by being in constant contact with them. It’s like a communicable disease.

And she’s right. I’m scared of just about everything. Some examples: Falling over the second story railing at the mall. Being pushed in front of traffic by a stranger while waiting at a crowded crosswalk. Deportation (I was born in the U.S., but you never know). Public bathrooms.

Public bathrooms are probably at the top of my fear list. One of the things I admire most about my very naïve children is their ability to poop anywhere. Gas station bathroom with an inch of mystery liquid on the floor? “Daddy, I have to poop.”

Personally, I can only poop in two places: My own bathroom, when everyone else in the house is asleep, and Barnes and Noble, but only within 20 minutes of the store opening. Any later and I start imagining all of the people that have beat me to the throne.

I’m also scared of getting hit by a foul ball at baseball games. Strokes (do you smell burnt toast?). Werewolves. Cartoon-induced seizures. Getting charged by a rhino in Africa. Hula hoops. Mascots for professional sports teams. Having to get a real job.

I could go on. It might be easier to list the things I’m not scared of. It’s a short list. Sex. Puppies. Although puppies have unusually sharp teeth. Why is that?

And here’s a short list of things I’m not scared of that I probably should be scared of: Strippers. The bowl of communal nuts at a bar. Drinking while boating. Liquor distilled in a bathtub. Backyard fireworks shows.

But I digress.

So, in the great Nature/Nurture debate, have I passed the tendency to fear irrationally onto my children genetically, or am I simply teaching them to fear the world by putting my own neurosis on display day after day?

I guess the end result is the same either way: two kids who use an inordinate amount of hand sanitizer and who don’t trust the mailman. On the upside, it’s kind of fun to see what the kids will be scared of next. There were a couple of weeks where both kids feared all kinds of different shellfish. For a few of days, my daughter was scared of iguanas. Who knows what fears will surface in the future! Cumulus clouds? Cured meats? Republicans? Cloggers? The sky’s the limit.

Let me know what you or your kids are scared of. The weirder the better. No judgment here.

 

 

Name Envy

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Every time I hit the park with the kids, I come away with name envy. Nobody under the age of 10 is named Jack or Suzie anymore. At our neighborhood playground, we’re swinging with kids named Stellar and Finger. Magic and Fellow. Seriously, I know a kid named Mars. We take gymnastics with Fate and Beta. Beta! How cool is that? My wife and I took a more traditional route in the name department, although, we did name our son after the dog. That’ll be fun to explain when he’s old enough. (Does anyone know what age is the right age to tell your child they were named after a golden retriever?) Cooper’s a great name, but is it as great as Fast-track Johnny? Is Addie Shore as memorable as Skittle?

Before I had kids, I thought parents were setting their kids up for failure by choosing outlandish names. Can you imagine a woman named Pickle leading a business seminar? Or a dude named Nintendo running for Congress? And let’s face it, if you name your girl Glitter or Champagne, she’s going to be a stripper. That’s a scientific fact.

But now, I say the wilder the name the better. It’s actually a little shocking that it’s taken so long for our names to evolve into the awesomeness that we have today. (Does anyone out there have a kid named Awesome?) Why stick to tradition? Instead of naming your kid after a beloved relative, name your kid after the thing you love most. You love canned meat? Name your kid Spam. Or Vienna. Of course, if I had followed that rule, I’d have twins named TV and Budweiser…which would be awesome. Everyone loves TV and I guarantee you that a boy named Budweiser would never get picked on in school.

Really, all you’re doing when you name your kid Pabst, is taking the opportunity to tell the world just how cool you are. I get it. Sometimes, the ironic t-shirt and mustache just aren’t enough. You need to take it a step further and name your son Singlespeed. Well how about just cutting to the chase and name your kid after the sexual position used during conception. Talk about honesty in advertising. The world would know immediately what you’re into, no bumper stickers necessary. Introduce the neighbors to your daughter named Missionary, and they’ll know you’ll be voting Republican this November and probably won’t be having any late night parties. But strut your son named Wheelbarrow around the company picnic, and colleagues will envy your sense of adventure.

Probably best to keep that kid named Orgy under wraps though.

Independence Day

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How do you work Maxim magazine, public urination, and 3am donut runs into the same essay? You write about toddler independence–that golden period in a kid’s life when she figures out she can do things for herself, but has no idea about the consequences of eating carbs after 7pm…or public nudity.

Check out my latest blog at Breathe Magazine. And before you ask–no, my kids didn’t suddenly become two cute Asian girls. Although I think the new iPhone 5 has an app for that.

 

 

Drink of the Week: PBR, 24 Ounces

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No, not a Tall Boy. A 24 ouncer, which is like, a third bigger than a Tall Boy and demands significantly more commitment. Preferably, the beer should be pre-warmed in the bottle cage of your road bike. Enter that road bike and Super Tall Boy PBR in a sprint race up the side of a mountain—the kind of race where Olympic medalists show up, and everyone talks about “tapering their training.” You should immediately get disqualified from the race because your wife beater and jean shorts don’t meet US Cycling Association “standards,” but then demand to race anyway, promising to donate all of your winnings to the charity of the USA Cycling Association official’s choice. Drink that warm PBR slowly, at the finish line at the top of the mountain, in front of that USA Cycling Association official. Preferably, you should drink it with at least two other friends, also over-worked, over-tired dads dressed in jean cutoffs and wife beaters. Because sometimes, dads need to get together and do something that embarrasses their wives.