She Had “A Face Like a Prostitute”

Now THAT’s a headline!

It’s in quotes but I didn’t say it. It was one of the “The Moms” from the WPIX Ch. 11 Morning News who I sat in with earlier this year on a segment about how old girls should be before they are allowed to wear makeup.

This is one of those rare “live” appearances by me in which:

1) There were no technical screw-ups. Although it was taped a week in advance, it was shot “live” in one take. I credit my three co-hosts who all know what they are doing. Note the sympathetic pat on the back one of them gives me.

2) I don’t seem totally panicked. I’m sure sitting in the green room for 40 minutes watching moronic dudes lose paternity tests on “Maury” made talking about Li’l Diva wearing eyeliner seem like a breeze.

Here it is:

What d’ya think? I have a face for radio and a voice for print, right?

Dads’ Advice to Their Sons

I’m not a fan of Buzzfeed.

Not the “What kind of bellybutton lint are you?” quizzes that over populated my Facebook feed until I found a way to banish them.

Not the listicles loaded with animated GIFs ripped off from other people’s sites.

However, I’m not opposed to appearing on its pages because, damn, it’s hard to be an aging parent blogger, yo.

Then Katie Couric Called Me “Hot”

Here it is. Me and Katie Couric.

Oh, and three other guys who wisely prevent me from talking most of the time.

I sit nervously, apparently on the verge of a seizure, until around the 3:10 mark (though just prior to that you can hear me holler “Bro code!” amid the rabble).

The best part? Unlike My Love or The Mother of All Uncoolness, Katie let’s me have the last word.

That’s among the many reasons she’s a permanent member of my list, people.

Next week, I’ll give you the whole backstage story on how I almost didn’t get to the show.

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Radio Radio – Uncool Hits the Internet Airwaves

How sad is the state of talk radio today?

Sad enough that I was asked to be a guest on a show about modern fatherhood.

I had the pleasure of forcing fellow dads Adam Dolgin of Fodder4Fathers and Lance Somerfeld of the NYC Dads Group along with WebTalkRadio host Meryl Neiman to tolerate my opinions, “jokes” and nasally whine for an hour on the Parenting with Playdate Planet Internet Radio show recently.

What’s that?

Yes, that is the sound of Marconi spinning in his grave.

As someone funnier than I first said, “I’ve suffered for my art, now it’s your turn,” so click to download our ”Let’s Hear It From the Dads!” segment.

The Trouble with Normal

My kids came home Friday afternoon as always.

Excitable hopped into the minivan at parent pickup, greeting me with his typical “Hey, Pops” as he squeezed his backpack in between the captain’s chairs in the middle row.

“Did they say anything to you at school about what happened?” I asked.

“About what?”

I told him there had been a shooting earlier in the day at an elementary school in another part of the state.

I didn’t tell him that the school was only about 45 minutes north of us.I didn’t tell him about the 20 children only a few years younger than him that died.

Bra Shopping with Father

Some claim that I, a straight American male, am biologically hard-wired to notice the female breast. I won't argue with science.

Unless the breast in question belongs to my tweenage daughter.

Just the other day there she was: a sweet little thing in a princess gown, buckled snugly at 5-points in her car seat, singing about the yumminess of fruit salad. Then I blinked, and ... OMIGOD! WHERE DID THOSE COME FROM??!!

After I recovered from hysterical blindness, my little angel announced that I needed to take her shopping.

For a bra.

"I need it for my dance recital Sunday," she said. "My costume has really thin straps so the teacher said I should get a strapless bra."

I know bra shopping is one thing she has done before (and would rather do) with the adult women in her life. So why me, Lord? Why now?

Process of elimination. My wife was on a business trip; my sister, on vacation. Ladies and gentlemen, I am literally … the booby prize.

"Uhhh," I said wittily, "To Target."

+ + +

I'm surprised by just how big the lingerie department here is. By big, I mean, their key demographic must be body doubles for Sofia Vergara. It's also dazzlingly colorful like one of those candy stores where the walls are lined with tube after tube of exotically flavored jelly beans. 

After wandering around, we find the juniors section. 

Seamless bandeau, structured bandeau, Spandau Ballet. 

Scoop, demi, Ashton.

I have not been this overwhelmed by selection since I shopped Home Depot for sheet metal screws.

"Will this work?" I say. "The tag says it's a convertible bra."

"No. It has straps."

"Doesn't convertible mean the top comes off?"

"I don't know," she says.

And I think to myself, I hope you never will until you're married.

It's then that I spot her: A woman by the sports bras with a cart. It's overflowing with a mish-mash of clothing, sporting goods and toys. More importantly, she wears a bright red jacket and a bull's eye name tag.

"Let me go ask that clerk ..."

"Daddy, nooooooooooooooooooo!"

"All right," I say. "Just remember that answer when you're on stage and the girls make an unexpected curtain call."

Finally, we find some strapless bras. They are in hot pink. In “passion purple.” Day Glo green. Vegas showgirls wear less flashy outfits.

Finally we locate a couple that would not be noticeable from a nautical mile in London fog. They also happen to be in her size.

Not that my daughter knows her bra size. That would have been too easy. I've been down this road before. Not with bras, but nearly every other piece of clothing my children own because in own house – this dad does the shopping from groceries to garage doors. So before we left the house, I went to my daughter’s room, found one of her bras and checked the tag. Now, the next time some marketing genius tells you women make the vast majority of family purchasing decisions in the United States, you have the permission of this member of the minority to kick that person squarely in the statisticals.

She heads to the fitting rooms, and I am alone. Suddenly, I forget what to do with my arms. Fold them? No. Hands in pockets? No -- NO!

This keeps me perplexed while I wait. And I wait. And I wait ...

Suddenly, I am a child again. Waist high to a headless mannequin in a tube top and bell bottoms in some long-demolished women's department store. I'm confused. Lost. My mom has dragged me shopping with her again. The hopelessness. The suffering. The boredom. … The boredom. Things start pulling away and I'm falling down a hole walled with endless racks of frilly rack holders. I'm weightless, I'm floating! Below, I can almost see my boyish self ...

Wait a sec.

I really can see my boyish self.

It's my 9-year-old son. I forgot we took him along on this expedition.

"Son," I say, extending my right arm and index finger. "Pet supplies, office supplies, greeting cards. Choose your pleasure."

After a contemplative look, he picks greeting cards. I tell him we'll be there in a few minutes.

+ + +

The next morning, the sun still rose in the east.

And this Sunday, when my daughter bounds across the stage for her final curtsy, I will be there applauding and standing proud and tall.

Just. Like. Her bosom.

Fear and Dancing in Las Vegas

Our recent family vacation started and ended in Las Vegas. It may seem incongruous to bookend travels with children in a place known as Sin City or for me to use a 10-cent word like “incongruous.” However, I have plenty of photos of us enjoying “wholesome” touristy things to prove otherwise.

Like …

Tips for the Boy Appreciated

Excitable, formerly known as Thing 2 to you old-school “Uncool” types, hits double digits in a month.

The big 1-0.

Dear Lord, I’m frickin’ OLD!

But this is not about me. It’s about him.

On his 6th birthday, I offered him a mess of life lessons on this blog. Hence, four years later, I’m tapped out. Drained. Spent. Pffffffft.

Here and at DadCentric yesterday, I asked readers to give my boy some advice for his 10th year on Earth and (cue cavernous echo effect) BEEEEE-YOOOOOoooond.

So pass on your words of wisdom to the boy in the comments. He probably won’t heed them, but he doesn’t listen much to me either these days.

Go on. I dares ya!

+ + +

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The Fatherhood Trifecta

A recurring topic among us in the “dad blogger community” is our general lack of community.

Unlike the many, many moms of the blogosphere, we generally lack “tribes” and “support groups” and other generalized labels to put in “quotation marks.” We rarely rally together, quickly or intimately, for better or worse, in real life or the digital one, like our feminine counterparts in this parenting gig.

Some say it’s society. Some say it’s genetics. Being guys, most of us just say, “Whatever.”

David of It’s Not a Lecture wants to change that. He’s attempting to get at least one father in each of the 50 states (plus Washington, D.C., and Puerto Rico because he’s the inclusive type) to write “a simple blog post” that describes three things they love about being a father under the Twitter/blog banner of #DadsLove.

The first post, which he wrote, went up Wednesday, and I have this to say: simple, my paper-thonged butt. Check out David’s little slices o’ wisdom.

So, fellow parenting dudes (and dudettes without whom we wouldn’t be here), I’m here to represent the little utility infielder of the Northeast – Connecticut.

Here goes:

Surviving (and Recapping) the Dad 2.0 Summit

The air thickened with conspiracies to prevent me from attending the Dad 2.0 Summit last week.

There was My Love’s first business trip in a year, a 10-day behemoth to Berlin that overlapped with half of my Austin adventure.

But my sister agreed to look after the Things and Murphy and all their medications and appointments for me.

There was American Airlines continuing its long history of delaying nearly every flight I’ve ever taken between Dallas and New York. We were 90 minutes late this time, forcing me to miss the registration. And curse a lot.

However, a conference staffer agreed to run back to the storeroom and dig out my badge so I could get into the opening night party.

Oh, there was more.

Yet once inside, it was all good.

Real good.

Go over to DadCentric for the deets, a rare group post by me and two of my colleagues, titled: Dad 2.0 Summit in a Nutshell (by 3 Nuts with Nuts). I promise you’ll like it. And that I’ll never again say “deets.”

Here’s some stuff I left out:

Long Day’s Drip into Remission

The morning coffee barely starts to drip into the pot when I start drugging my daughter.

Two pinks. One white.

“Do I need to take my regular medicine, too,” she asks.

“I guess so, Sunshine,” I say. “Bottoms up.”

Among the usual ovals and circles in her daily pill box, there’s now a grainy tablet the color of wet sand.

And now there’s not.

Two liquids: one white that reminds me of chugging red  Hawaiian Punch at childhood birthday parties; one that’s a sickly yellow, oily and best not inhaled.

She washes them down with milk and the last two items in the “SUNDAY” compartment: two vitamins in the guise of Gummi Bears.

“When’s Grandpa gonna bring the donuts?”

“Soon. Grandpa’s an early riser, too.”

The sun finally shows itself and, shortly thereafter, so does the nurse. Soon she’ll start dripping in 50 grams of Intravenous Immune Globulin (IVIG).

Literally, dripping.

For six hours.

Any faster could cause headaches, rash, oh, kidney failure. Nothing big.

“What time did you pre-medicate her with Benadryl and Tylenol?”

“About 7 o’clock or so,” I say. ”An hour ago.”

“Good.”

Drip.

Drip.

BEEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEP

Drip.

BEEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEP

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Dr-

BEEEPBEEEPBEEEPBEEEP

IVIG is thick, the pancake syrup of intravenous medicines that treat Juvenile Myositis especially when still cold from the refrigerator. It causes tiny pockets of air in the line that frequently set off the pump alarm. When this happens, the nurse opens the pump door, pulls out the tubing and flicks the bubbles loose until they float harmlessly back up into the drip chamber. The tubing goes back into the pump, the door close and a button resets the pump.

This happens every 3 to 15 minutes.

For six hours.

The nurse remains patient. The patient remains calm.

I feel another hair on my head wither and die.

* * *

EPILOGUE: The infusion went perfectly well, including the 90-minute Solu-Medrol drip that followed and me (yes, me) flushing the line and pulling the needle from Thing 1’s arm.

Parenting – it’s not for spectators, people.

A laptop with WiFi, a video from the thoughtful Magpie Musing and several episodes of the second season of “Monk” on Netflix keep Thing 1 well entertained.

I didn’t miss those marathon sessions of Disney Princess Monopoly Jr. we used to play during IVIG infusions for one minute. Or one drip.

And yes, Grandpa arrived with the donuts in the nick of time.

* * *

As always, we welcome your good thoughts and your donations to Cure JM to help all kids with juvenile myositis. Our family is up to $2,750 after only two weeks of fundraising, most of it thanks to readers like you.

Get the whole "Always Home and Uncool" experience: visit the website, follow on Twitter and like on Facebook .

A Mother’s Day Prescription from Dr. Mom

Your mother may not be the first caretaker you met upon entering this world, but let’s face facts -- her bedside manner far exceeded that of the doctor who yanked you from between her womb, held you up by your ankles and then slapped your butt.

It’s no wonder then that many adults still seek the counsel of Dr. Mom. We do this even though, if she is like The Mother of All Uncoolness, her knowledge of surgical breakthroughs is limited to those procedures performed on Hollywood starlets as reported by the National Enquirer.
Why do we always come back to mama's advice?

Because we figure the lady must onto something. She spent the majority of her life without using seat belts, hand sanitizer or soy milk! She survived despite our childhood attempts at giving her heart failure! She’s Robo-Mom!

Therefore, in honor of Mother's Day this weekend, let's reflect on some medical wit and wisdom that my mom, and probably yours, has dispensed through the years with neither a prescription nor a malpractice suit.

"Don't go out in this freezing weather with wet hair! You'll get pneumonia!"
In recent years, science – in the form of people with white coats and clipboards paid for by the cough syrup industry – has discredited this theory linking human rhinovirus to damp manes and chilly temperatures. Turns out, moms were right to warn us for a different reason. The icicles that can form in your follicles during these conditions can snap off and hasten the development of the hairline malady called "isolated widow's peak" or, more commonly, "the David Letterman floating isle of hair." Watch for this theory to be debunked soon in a major clinical trial underwritten by the makers of Rogaine.

"Don't forget your rubbers!"
Oh, Mother! Who knew your reminder to use those stretchy overshoes to protect my Buster Browns from the mud and puddles was really a way to ingrain the need for me, in my randier moments later in life, to protect my boy parts from the clap! On the other hand, maybe you were protecting yourself from prematurely being called "Grandma." Either way – well played!

"Dab some Mercurochrome on it."
For you youngsters, Mercurochrome was the antiseptic of choice for families throughout much of the 20^th century. It didn't burn like hydrogen peroxide and it dyed your skin a brilliant orangey red for days. This made even the most minor of scrapes appear bloody and life threatening which totally impressed friends at school. The effect also made Mercurochrome an essential ingredient for any kid's Halloween makeup. Zillions of tiny brown bottles sold later, someone realized the "Mercur" in the name stood for "mercury" and that slathering a toxic metal on an open wound may not be "good." The U.S. Food and Drug Administration snuck in the ban on the domestic sale of Mercurochrome while the nation was obsessed with the intimate revelations about President Clinton's affair with intern Monica Lewinsky. In a further insult to American moms (and wives), around the same time the FDA approved the use of Viagra.

"Sometimes you have to be your own doctor."
My mom loves this one. Not for me, but for herself. She uses it to justify occasionally skipping a few handfuls of the 477 medications she's on for high blood pressure, a condition caused by raising my sister and me. "If I take all those pills, I'm running to pee every six-and-half minutes!" she says. Which raises the question: What's more disturbing – the image of one's mom going to the bathroom or the image of her breaking out a stopwatch, calculator and spreadsheet to determine the exact intervals between her goings to the bathroom?

"Let me kiss it and make it better."
No comment. I don't mess with what still works.

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Just Desserts

Every Wednesday night at 8 o’clock, the Uncool Family huddles together in front of our wondrous 46-inch flatscreen to watch our favorite family show, The Middle.

While My Love and I find most episodes of Modern Family to be gut-bustingly funny (especially the Valentine’s Day ones in which parents Phil and Claire attempt to rekindle the passion with some failed role playing … twice), it’s a little too adult for The Things. The chronicles of the chronically underachieving Hecks of Orson, Indiana; however, usually generates several good laughs without the need for me to explain the innuendos, double entendres and why Daddy drools every time Sofía Vergara bobbles by the camera.

(I also have a thing for Julie Bowen dating back to her character on NBC’s late, great bowling-alley-lawyer show, Ed, but she doesn’t cause the same involuntary reflexive in my salivary glands.)

(Or in my groin.)

The Middle, however, provides much simpler, cleaner teachable moments. For example:

We were laughing along at a repeat episode recently in which the mother, Frankie, throws out her back and is lying flat on the floor. There’s some battle of the sexes subplot going on so she can’t tell her husband she’s hurt herself and when he enters the room, she pretends she looking for a button.

The husband, Mike, announces that he just remembered that it’s their anniversary, so she should “throw on some heels” and he’ll take her to dinner.

“I’ll even let you order what you want and I will have something of equal or lesser value!” Then he adds slyly, “Maybe we’ll even head home for a little dessert.”

Frankie thinks (via voiceover) while squirming on the carpet in an attempt to hide her pain: Oh, God -- I hope he’s taking about ice cream.

Thing 2’s eyes widen.

The boy practically leaps off the couch and yells: “Maybe he’s taking about CAKE!!”

“No, son,” I reply, “I believe he’s talking about pie. Definitely,  pie.”

Thing 2 looks deflated and adds a simple, tongue extending: “Bleech!”

Someday his taste in sweets will change but, as I prove quite regularly, they never get any more sophisticated.

Let It Ride

I didn't ask my father that Saturday morning or ever before, as best as I can recollect. It just happened, sudden and unexpectedly, like the best things tend to do.

My father exited the parkway, as he and I had done thousands of time before, and he pulled over onto the dirt shoulder. Then he turned to me, sitting in the front passenger seat, and spoke five words to me that he had never before said in this particular order.

"Do you want to drive?"

I was 13.

For the next few miles, on a relatively straight and wide tree-lined backcountry road, I steered his maroon Oldsmobile Cutlass as best as I could, the strange combination of speed and power rumbling  through the thin rubber soles of my Keds.

No white-knuckle moments came to pass with oncoming traffic or errant deer or, more likely, immobile objects like trees and brick-fortified mailboxes.

There was no cold, nauseating caving of the chest and stomach from the sight of marked Crown Victoria being glimpse in the rear view.

Nothing.

Just me and my Dad, together, cruising through a world standing silently beyond the tinted windows.

When it ended, my father and I never spoke of it again. We couldn’t because our ride had concluded a phrase I was far more familiar with in our household, "Just don't say anything to your Mom about this."

A few years ago, sitting at the kitchen table or in a bar or at a ball game, unexpectedly he brought up our adventure.

"I still don't know why I let you do that. I must have been crazy," he said. "But you were ready."

I like to think that he was right.

Thanks for all the years of believing in me, Dad.

Happy 71st birthday.

* * *

This post is part of Fatherhood Friday on Dad Blogs. Check out this week’s other posts.

Farewell, Sweet Nectar of the Season

Thing 2 spit out the last of it, expelling the hazy liquid with a whooshing rush of haste back into the glass from which it came.

The boy then appeared to do his best to swallow his own face.

When this proved futile (but entertaining), he resorted to more tried and true methods. He yelled at one of us.

“YEEEEEEEEEECH! Mooooom! That’s DIS-GUSSSS-TING!” he said, franticly pawing his lips to alleviate the citrus sting. 

“What? Too sour? I can add more sugar into it.”

Thing 2 didn’t answer because he was too busy attempting to yank his embittered tongue from out of his mouth.

“What happened?” I asked My Love. “Did you mix up a bad batch of lemonade?”

“No. I poured him a glass from the one that was in the refrigerator,” she replied.

“Um, dear … that wasn’t lemonade,” I said. “It was a pitcher of mojitos I made for us to celebrate the last weekend of summer.”

* * *

For more sad finishes, read my stab at a short story that concludes the latest round of writings on Polite Fictions.

Our theme this time: “what happens after a major life event.” Some of the gang’s offerings this summer’s entries are a true hoot. Some are hauntingly poetic. Some are all too recognizable.

Mine, “What Happens After Summers End,” is at least as depressing as an 8-year-old’s backwash in your cocktail.

And you, my friend, what did you accomplish/not accomplish this summer?

Video: Summer, I Pissed You Away by Michael Shelly

Dogs Beat Kids Paws Down

As a father of two and master of none, the rugrat-less of society occasionally seek my advice on how to best prepare for parenthood. My answer is always the same:

Stay on birth control until you have raised a dog.

Dogs, regardless of age, are essentially furry children with tongues made for licking instead of sassing.

Like human babies, dogs require you to drastically alter your lifestyle to meet their every need. For both species, those needs generally revolve around eating and the inevitable body functions resulting thereafter.

Gerber versus Kibble `n' Bits, buying Pampers versus renting a Rug Doctor; poe-tay-toe, puh-tah-toe.

Regardless of species, you must also attend to either's education. I don't care how easy those "Hooked on Fetch-onics" or "Puppy Einstein" videos make it look, it takes considerable time and patience to teach a dog essential life skills such as, well, when and where to go potty. Then come the important moral lessons about right (chew on this squeaky toy!) and wrong (don't chew my CD collection -- NOOOOO, not my Michael Buble!!!).

Even if you have a doctorate in teaching, you will still want to puppy-proof your home. This includes moving chemicals to a place out of reach, gating staircases and -- most importantly -- storing your dirty laundry in a locked closet. The last is for your protection, not your pup's. You seriously don't want Fido prancing around in front of company wearing a bandana fashioned from a pair of your least attractive tighty-whities.

Trust me.

Puppy-rearing sound like an expressway to a stomach ulcer? At times, yes, but here's the catch. While some children may never stop giving you agita (hi, Mom!), many dogs do.

With good guidance, lots of love and daily exercise (because a tired puppy is a good puppy, as a professional trainer once told me), dogs go through their wild and crazy stage in a fraction of the time real children do. In addition, canines seem much better at realizing the advantage of being good to those who bring them treats and scratch them behind the ears. Having been a teenager once and having one child ensconced in tweenhood, I can vouch that we humans aren't quite that quick on the draw.

I'm not saying post-puppyhood is a cakewalk. For example, our family has raised two Labrador retrievers over the years. While these vacuum cleaners of the canine world are great for mopping up floors or pre-rinsing plates after mealtime, for their health you never want to give them access to an uncovered garbage can or a park carpeted with Canada goose poop. For your sake, you also never want them to lick you after either experience.

Finally, researchers have found that having a dog -- unlike having teenagers -- appears to offer owners health benefits. These include lower blood pressure, improved cholesterol and triglycerides levels, decreased risk of developing heart disease or other cardiovascular problems, and a better ability to cope with stress. Some of these come from the strong bond and unconditional love that develops between owner and dog; others are a result of you assisting Rover with his regular exercise through walking, running or playing "come back here with that, you mangy mutt!"

The bottom line: Science shows owning a dog contributes to your continued enjoyment of beer and cheese.

Let's see your kid do that for you.

* * *

I wanted to end this by embedding the video for “Bitch School” by Spinal Tap, but UMG prevents doing that. Instead click the song title for the short version or the band name for the long version.

The Last First Day

Dear Little Girl I Used to Know,

You just started your first day of fifth grade. I know that in six hours this peace enveloping me at home for the first time in two months will again be pervaded by the forced studio laughter of the Disney Channel or the bubblegum reverberating from your boombox, but it will be different even though they are the same sounds we shared together all summer.

Today is your last first day of elementary school. You’ll have many more first days, academically speaking. There’s middle school and high school, definitely. Maybe a first day of college if I can ever convince you that reading is, while boring from the prospective of a 10-year-old fueled by the swooning pleas of Justin Beiber, still pretty essential to getting somewhere beyond definitively average.

But this was the last first day that I will ever walk you through those doors and into that alternative reality of homeroom.

The last one at which I’d personally hand your teacher a note about why your need sunscreen and a hat when outdoors while trying to quickly explain what sets you apart from all the other kids medically but pretty much not in any other detectable way.

The last one where you’d really be a little girl in more than just my memories. You and I and Mom all know this.

Middle school, sweetie, it changes a kid. Girls, especially. The meanest classmates I ever had were in middle school and most of them were girls. They say girls mature faster; I say they grow up too soon for their own good. We boys, we like to stay boys well past our due date. That, you’ll learn, can be a good thing. Within reason.

I wish I had a photo from your first day of preschool after we moved here. You were so excited to be with kids your own age again after two years of hanging around with nannies and nurses and doctors. You were only supposed to be in preschool for half a day, to get you acclimated to your new surroundings, but when I came to pick you up, you asked if you really had to leave all your new best friends in your whole wide 5-year-old world. So you stayed. Your brother, he cried when he saw me a few minutes later and pleaded to come home for lunch and a comforting heap of Nick Jr.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you all pudgy faced and stuffed with the wonder you readily ate out of the everydayness of life. Remember that Disney Princess backpack from kindergarten? You transported a zillion paintings and drawings and scribblings home with you in that pink and purple nylon time capsule. You said you wanted to be an art teacher. I said even art teachers need to learn to read. You shrugged and Crayola-ed on.

This moment from the first day of first grade might have be the happiest you had all year. Through some quirk, not one of your 20-odd kindergarten classmates ended up in your new class. A bully refused daily to let you play “Family,” telling you you couldn’t even be the family’s dog. In class, several other kids always required too much of the teachers’ attention. You suffered for it. We laid on your bed one night way too late into the school year and you cried – one of the only half dozen times you ever cried from something other than physical pain. You hated school. Hated those kids. You didn’t fit in and you didn’t know why. I wish I had a better answer for you then. Or now.

Your brother joined you the next year. It was a battle of bad haircuts. His too short, yours all kinky because you wanted to sleep in tight braids so you could look all frilly for your debut in second grade. With a little extra help from teachers this year and some friendly faces in the desks next to yours, this was when things started to click for you.

And that bully? When you saw him on the playground, you put him in his place by chasing him around under the threat of being kissed. I laughed when you told me this then, but sweet thing, this was the first time you struck fear in my heart for the teen years ahead.

But note the crossed arms in the photo. The rebellion had begun.In third grade, you became the teachers’ pet. It made you confident. Maybe a bit too confident.

By the next year, while your brother still needed to physically push Mom and me out of his second-grade classroom to make him feel empowered about the whole going-to-school thing, you wanted us out of sight as soon as possible. You stopped kissing me goodbye when I’d drop you off at the side door in the morning this year. Some days, I couldn’t even get you to kiss our dog goodbye.

I knew it would happen. I knew it would hurt. I understand it, though, and I’m over it. That doesn’t mean I still can’t miss the way it used to be.

And here we are. We had to bargain with you for this last photo. Mom promised not to talk to anyone once inside the school and I promised not to cross the homeroom threshold.

We have officially become the enemy that loves you from a distance so your friends won’t see and that loves you quietly so the world won’t hear.

Loathe us publicly as you must, remember we are still your parents and we are always there for you, our sweet little Pumpkin Head: then, now and forever.

Daddy

Honestly, I Liked ‘Mr. Mom’

Every other Tuesday I franticly work on the newspaper column I’ve avoided writing for the past two weeks, a process made even more difficult by the lovely Polish women who fumigate our house with every known chemical cleansing agent not classified as a WMD for the first four hours of my waking day.

On the bright side, at least the blood spurting from my forehead gets mopped up.

This week I took a momentary breather from not producing anything by flipping on the Today show, a habit I developed well before Katie Couric left and felt obligated to counter her natural spunk and babeness by broadcasting the nightly news dressed like an undertaker’s wife.

Unexpectedly, as it usually is, inspiration hit in the form of … Al Roker? He  teased to a segment on stay-at-home dads.

Off to Twitter, I go.

Nineteen minutes later …

Oh, snap.

Presently, Matt Lauer introduces the piece. I’m aware he is the “go to” host of all at-home-dad segments, but he’s not on Twitter so Al was an easy target.

The spot featured a discussion about an article Marie Claire magazine did on stay-at-home husbands (especially dads) as the “ultimate status symbol” for a successful career woman -- you know, like My Love. The article covers the usual gender role reversal stuff and makes fellow estrogen-challenged bloggers Joe Schatz of Dad Blogs and PJ Mullen of Real Men Drive Minivans seem like the well-adjusted, good guys they are (especially PJ, who I want to start making my lunches). It adds a sensational headline and then wedges the status symbol junk in the middle to sex it up and get suckers, like me, to write about it and drive their traffic and ad sales. Not one real-life example of this so-called status symbolness making guys like me the Rolls Royce of marital partners.

I shall steal a quote from Aunt Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka: Marie Claire, shut your whore mouth.

(See my complete reaction to being a status symbol on DadCentric: “I am Househusband: Here Me Roar.”)

The Today piece isn’t that bad. Not one “Mr. Mom” clip (but one verbal and one written reference) and Matt, who I’d love hoist beers with some time to discuss how he regularly avoids acid reflux whenever Kathie Lee Gifford speaks, does a decent job of talking about at-home men not being arm candy, but being a symbol of an enlightened relationship:

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

I went into this at-home gig, jeez, six years ago – first as a full-time telecommuter and, since 2007, as a full-time homer – not kicking and screaming but embracing it. No commutes, office politics and the rest of the rat race that beats down so many good people. I love managing my home, being a genuine part of The Things’ life every day at school and play, and having a wife who supports my vague attempts at writing professionally. I’ve never been made to feel (too) uncomfortable in a gaggle of moms or been slighted to my face as a “babysitter” or what not, so obviously I hang with the right crowd.

Most of all, I’m a lucky guy to be married to My Love. She’s the enlightened one who draws me away from the Dark Side with her big heart and open mind.

She smells real puuurty, too.

* * *

Watch next week for a giveaway from one of the generous sponsors who, I honestly don’t know why but I’m not complaining, pays money to appear on this site.

And, please, continue to vote and spread the word about Cure JM’s attempt to get a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. My thanks to all of you who have blogged and tweeted and Facebooked for us in the past month.

Technorati Tags: marie claire,status symbols,husbands,SAHD,stay-at-home fathers,stay-at-home dads

Are We Raising Kids to be Winners or Participants?

I saw the green ribbon, all imitation silk and faux gold-leaf lettering, buried on a cluttered table. It had the telltale crinkles and creases of surviving amid the worksheets, Pokémon cards and snack wrappers in my son's backpack. It bore, in capital letters, a single word that would wound any serious athlete: "PARTICIPANT."

"How'd field day go yesterday," I asked my son. "Not so good?"

The potato sacks were too small for his extra-tall frame, he said. The tire he had to roll around an orange traffic cone went wobbly and out of control.

"So you didn't win any events, huh?" I said, bracing myself for tears but hoping for a flash of determination followed by a vow to chase chickens and chug raw eggs Rocky-style to get ready for next year's three-legged races and water-balloon tosses.

"No, our class beat three others in the tug of war," he said. "We were really gooooood."

However, there would be neither blue ribbons nor empty hands. Every second-grader would leave the playing field an equal -- a green-ribboned member of the indistinct middle. In a few days, my son’s ribbon had disappeared without a trace and without any saddness on his part.

I'm not a subscriber to the Vince Lombardi-isms about winning being the only thing. But I do sometimes wonder if we do right by handing prizes to our children for simply showing up rather than actually excelling. How can they learn the value hard work and practice bring to success when results are irrelevant to reward? Has modern society's focus on preventing our children from ever feeling inadequate bred out the competitive gene by instilling a sense of entitlement for just being?

"It's psychotic!" I kept hearing the superhero father say during The Incredibles movie. "They keep creating new ways to celebrate mediocrity ..."

I prepared many weeks in advance for my first field day when I was a fifth-grader (yes, son, back when dinosaurs and imitation wood-paneled station wagons still roamed the Earth). My event -- the softball throw. I spent hours heaving the one cement-hard gray softball we owned back and forth across our yard. Victory, I knew in my bones, could be mine with practice, attitude and stalling for a good gust of wind at my back.

When field day came, I was ready. Unfortunately, so was Millard. Millard was an impossibly tall classmate whose preference for unbuttoned cardigan sweaters optically enhanced his vertical superiority over not only the entire student population but also most of our teachers. Legend was he had stayed back a year. Or three. Reality was that on that spring day, he threw a softball clear across the entire asphalt back lot, the orb nearly clipping the metal backboard at the far end before hitting dirt on the edge of the woods.

My throw that day proved only good enough for third place. However, I came home with a yellow ribbon, proud I had showed given the missile launch I had witnessed. The ribbon hung on the corner of my bedroom mirror, holding a place of honor for more than a dozen years before I packed up my childhood for adult pastures.

A few days later, while searching some boxes in our basement, I came across that yellow ribbon, all imitation silk and faux gold-leaf lettering. "THIRD" screamed its front. On a cardboard tag on the back someone had written my name and my not-quite-winning event (and I quote), the "softball through."

This reminded me about the upcoming second-grade spelling bee my son had been prepping for lately. I found his vocabulary lists and the note the school had stapled atop them about the bee.

It concludes: "We will be handing out prizes for 1st, 2nd and 3rd place winners!"

Maybe the competitive gene hasn't been bred out. Maybe we're just making it more selective.

* * *

Postscript: To the best of my knowledge, Millard, the softball-throwing machine of my youth, is dead. He was stabbed or shot while he robbed someone or was being robbing himself. He was in his 20s. I cut the article out of my hometown newspaper many years ago and tucked it away because I knew one day I would need to write about him. It was while searching for this clipping (which I still haven’t found) that I happened upon the ribbon I won that day. Winning isn’t everything or the only thing. Sometimes it’s just a flash that leaves a ghostly imprint you see when you close your eyes.

And who finished second in the fifth grade softball toss of 1979? Hey, Ms. Picket: I could be wrong, but you might want to check with The Kid.

Today’s post is brought to by Fatherhood Fridays at Dad-Blogs.com.

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Technorati Tags: parenting,fathers,sports,kids

Revenge – The Musical!

As parents, we treasure our children’s firsts. Their first word, their first step, their first day of school so we finally have six blessed hours without Disney, tea parties and requests to be wiped.

It’s some of the repeats we can do without.

Like band concerts.

And dance recitals.

And school plays.

My Love and I have attended four of these in the last month. That’s the average I expect for this time of the year for the next, oh, decade or so. Ten. More. Years.

On the plus side, enduring a couple hours at these events immediately improves my seasonal allergies and sinus pain. Children’s performances are like Benadryl injected directly into one’s artistic senses. It leaves you dull and drowsy but ultimately feeling better about your own limited ability to perform. Warning: Do not operate heavy machinery or karaoke machines while under the influence of this drug.

Listen, I think the Things are the most gifted and talented children in all of Uncool Nation. And I’m sure you think your kids have skills of near equal awesomeness. I bet they make you swell up with pride when they saw out “Mary Had a Little Lamb” like a little Itzhak Perlmans or they bust a move sweeter than Cheryl Burke no matter how inappropriate the song choice is for their age or gender:

The Knack - My Sharona by 8 year old dancers

(SIDENOTE: I might need to start a regular feature dedicated to performances of or to “My Sharona” by The Knack made in questionable taste.)

But, between you and me, everyone else’s kids … on the whole … they stink.

Ah, you agree.

Yet we endure. We sit through 4th graders butchering Miles Davis, 6-year-olds forgetting the words to “I’m a Little Teapot," and even worse. We do it because we know our children need our support. We sit there giving wickedly sharp elbow jabs to our spouses so they will stop playing with their cool new iPhones and force their eyes upon the stage because we remember our own parents having to do the same.

Yes, we remember how well our parents taught us.

Taught us about guilt, suffering and enduring pain.

Well played, you sneaky old evil geniuses, you. Well frickin’ played.