Anecdotal Evidence.

What do I do if my sons are gay (with each other)?

So I put Thing 1 and Thing 2 in the bathtub the other night, and I leave them in there to play around and wash up while I go to make dinner. 

After about five minutes, I hear this hysterical, maniacal, Jack Nicholson-like, out-of-control laughter and I immediately think to myself: I could sit here in the quietude of making Mac N Cheese for the 1,285 consecutive night, or I can do what a responsible parent should do and go check on my kids.

So I put down the spoon with which I'm stirring the Mac N Cheese in complete and utter peace and saunter back to the bathroom, where I know World War III is about to unfold, minus the nuclear weapons.

Little did I know what I was about to stumble into: Porn.

OK, not porn so much in the sense of the word, but what I witnessed could qualify: Thing 2 was standing up with his rump thrust out behind him, and Thing 1 had his nose stuffed into his crack and was sort of blowing air into his ass.

Now, my first reaction was to vomit.

But after swallowing my regurgitation and attempting to digest, as it were, what I just saw, my next reaction was to explode into a fit of rage. That is until you attempt to verbalize what you just saw: "What the hell are you doing sticking your face into your brother's ...." 

And before you say "ass" you realize that this is so outside the realm of what I'm used to that I really can't even process what I just saw.

I mean, Are my sons gay? (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) But seriously, what if one of your two sons were gay? I'd like to think I could handle it. Love him for what and who he is rather than judging a book by its silk cover. I'd like to think I was open-minded and accepting and the whole thing.

But doesn't that completely change if both your sons are gay? I mean, if 10 percent of the population is gay what are the odds that two of your sons are both gay? The permutations are astronomical. I'd have to get on Oprah or something. 

Beyond that, what if both sons were gay together? 

That's crossing every line of decorum known to man, isn't it? Isn't that both incest and bestiality at the same time? 

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. Maybe two kids playing together in the bath tub is completely normal. But isn't that probably what John Wilkes Booth's mom said the day before he shot Lincoln? "Oh, he's a good boy exploring his boundaries. He'll be OK."

Guess what: He was NOT OK. He killed the president. You should have seen the signs early on.

That's the hard part about being a Dad; what is real and what is a phase? What should you dissuade your children from and what should you ignore on the basis that this too shall pass? If you let too much pass, are you a negligent parent? I don't know.

What I do know is that I don't want Thing 1's nose up Thing 2's ass, which I made abundantly clear. It's not that I don't want them to be gay. It's that I don't want them to be gay with each other. 

I think that's normal. Right? 

My Top Ten Books for Dads

Book clubs are for chicks.  Actually I've always assumed that most book clubs dismiss with the book in the first 10 minutes and instead focus on the lives of people who aren't in the room, mass consumption of chardonnay and low-carb appetizers.  I also assume that most book clubs end up with 10 hot moms topless in a hot tub, but that may just be me.

I've read one book that wasn't related to business since we've had kids. Mostly because for every kid, you lose a few hours out of each day and little things like soccer practice, personal hygiene and sleep tend to get in the way (usually).  If any of you math wizards out there want to take a crack at developing a formula that illustrates the phenomenon, please do.However, I think reading is one of the most important interests we can instill in our children. And one of the most difficult.

Newspapers have been left bloody and twitching by the side of the road in a pool of their own vomit (although it is still important to know what's going on out there). Magazines, once thick with colorful calls to action to hit consumers at their most vulnerable touch points, are now anemic rags with in-depth exposes that could not be more vapid.  Television is pretty good right now... if you are fascinated by celebrities and need to juxtapose their day-to-day problems with your own (HBO being an exception).  Don't even get me started on Hollywood (you may endure this topic within the next couple of weeks).  As the media we consume shrinks (again) from to snack-sized to bite-sized, we are staring right down the throat of an evolutionary phenomenon that will allow us to exist on the intellectual equivalent of french fries.

But there are still novels.  And even if no more novels were ever written, we'd still have more than we can read in our lifetime.  Books force you to slow down, dust off your imagination, and think,  They allow you to absorb the rich complexity of a good story that could stay with you forever. They also take you to place without pull ups, those god damned tiny snaps and whining. Try getting that from Twitter. 

Wow... I'm bitter today!  It feels good. Anyway, here is my list of books for dads.  None of these books have anything to do with being a dad per se, but they all offer interesting philosophical things to think about as you struggle to instill some sense of decency and morality into your kids' lives.

My top 10 dad books (in no specific order):

1. Death in the Afternoon  by Ernest Hemmingway
2. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
3. Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
4. Bombardiers by Po Bronson
5. The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene
6. Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson
7. Bringing Down the House by Ben Merzich
8. Into Thin Air by John Krakauer
9. Liars Poker by Michael Lewis
10. The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

And I'm going to include a Bonus Book that you should already own:

11. The Odyssey by Homer

Let us know what your top ten books are, and  I'm curious to know why you think reading is important, generally.  Also, let me know if you want to start a book club... but I might bring Tres Gereraciones instead of chardonnay.

Weigh in with a comment.

Why hermaphrodites are so confused ...

As my father-in-law often likes to say, “Men and women are just, well, different.”

No shit, Sherlock. If he had given me this advice before, I probably would not have married his daughter for fear of Thing 1 and Thing 2 contracting the disease of Chronic Obviousness.

But if I wasn’t such a cynical bastard of a son-in-law, I would appreciate what I think he means: As he gets older, it astounds him in a seemingly new way that men and women can be THAT much different.

(The ironic part of all this, of course, is that my wife and I often comment that she thinks her father has become more of a chick in his old age, while her mom has become less nurturing. Which would mean, I guess, that if they still have sex, she is on top a lot. But I can’t go there.)

Where I was going with this is that my father-in-law is certainly right, as difficult as that is for me to admit: Men and women are indeed different, especially when it comes to child-rearing.

Now I understand that not every household is the same, and certainly not every relationship is the same. But in our household, my wife is a Type A control freak and I am much more laid back.

The result, therefore, often becomes this fight:

Wife: Why do I always have to be the bad guy? I don’t always want to be the bad guy.

Me: Then don’t be the bad guy.

Wife: Well somebody has to be the bad guy.

Me: Why does somebody have to be the bad guy?

Wife: Fuck you.

Then I feel like the bad guy. Which is bullshit.

The thing is, we take two different approaches to parenting. I don’t think we went into the raising of our children that way. It has just evolved based on our personalities.

We do have one understanding: We won’t undermine the other in front of the kids. Present a united front. Because if the kids sense a divide, they will exploit that for all it’s worth.

But I find that my wife yells a lot to get the kids to do what she wants them to do. Make your bed! Eat your breakfast! Get dressed! Put your pajamas away!

I think it’s because she is, as I mentioned, something of a control freak, and the fact that the kids are not doing their chores on her timeline drives her crazy. The resulting frustration comes out in ways that I think even she admits is not the most productive.

I, on the other hand, find that if I try to gently coerce the kids to do their stuff, it ultimately gets done.

Listen, I certainly am not a perfect parent, and my frustration level boils over just like anybody else’s. Gentle coercion goes only so far before you have to break bad on them.

But it’s funny, ever since I became a stay-at-home dad looking for work, I have this in my arsenal: "Believe it or not, when you are not around, we get along just fine. The kids get to school. They are fed. They are bathed. They are dressed."

Oh man, that one burns my wife up. 

Because it’s true.

The concern that I have, though – and maybe this is natural and unavoidable regardless of our personalities – is that we will be pigeonholed into expectations by our children.

I don’t want them to think of my wife as an ogre and me as the cool, laid-back guy who they can hang with. Because we as parents are ultimately a team who need to raise our kids together and in concert.

Though perhaps that is the beauty of parenting. There is the yin and the yang that makes our kids whole.

Perhaps my wise sage of a father-in-law is right more than he knows: Men and women are just, well, different. 

Pinkawhatthell?

Apparently, the first book I ever read by myself was Fox in Socks, which explains my lack of verbal communication skills. The second book I read by myself was Frog and Toad are Friends, which explains my homoerotic fascination with amphibians. Children’s books are an intriguing area.  Ever look at the back of Where the Sidewalk Ends?  That Shell Silverstein was one scary dude!  You have to wonder if The Giving Tree was based on some guy named “Tree” doling out cigarettes in the yard in between sets on the bench press. 

Anyway, incarceration jokes aside, The Giving Tree is brilliant—in both its presentation and in its elegance.  It is the simple, engaging conveyance of a strong moral message.  That is what a good children’s book is all about.

And then there is Pinkalicious. At first I thought I didn’t like it because of the association of “Bootylicious” and my two-year-old daughter (no offence, Beyonce… just put some pants on in front of my kids). And maybe our first nanny’s attempt to nickname our youngest daughter “Tessalicious” (which thankfully did not stick, much in part to my icy cold reception).   But upon further thought, it is the story itself that really pisses me off.

First, this kid blatantly disregards her parents’ demands and sneaks downstairs to steal more cupcakes.   She perches herself dangerously high on an assortment of kitchen items stacked on a chair, to reach the top of the refrigerator. I somehow doubt OSHA approved this book.  My first thought was that this encourages dishonesty, deception, and reckless behavior.  But kids will be kids.

Secondly, to remedy the effect of too many cupcakes (she turns pink… I’ll save you the $17.99), she eats a bunch of green vegetables and fruit. She  “gags down grapes”, eats “icky” relish and gross spinach.  In other words she is choking down the very things we as parents are trying to get our kids to eat.  Thanks for the headwind, Pinkalicious. Also, who hates grapes? Or relish for that matter?

But this was the kicker: In an effort to curb her desire to shove even more pink cupcakes down her gullet, her mother replied, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”  Fine. Whatever.  Maybe that works with denying kids all of the unhealthy things they crave and with halting their incessant requests.

BUT… the other day, Claire and I were playing the Wii.  After a few frames of trying to knock pins down in the adjacent lanes (has anyone ever been able to do this? Let me know if it’s possible), we decided to salvage our ranking and get serious.  On the next frame Claire knocked down 9 pins and then missed the spare.  “Oh well,” she said, “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset!”

I got upset.  “What!?”  I was confused and horrified at the same time.  “No!” I said sternly.  I wanted to shout, “God damn you, Pinkalicious!” but it somehow came out as, “That is absolutely not correct!”

Now I am not one of those psycho sports dads who blurs the line between his family’s financial future and the athletic success of his children (yet…), but I think a little healthy competition is completely appropriate.  And I recognize that there is a difference between challenging authority and challenging yourself, but I am not 4.  I understand (but don’t necessarily agree with) not keeping score in first-year soccer and baseball leagues.  And I certainly appreciate the fact that we want to encourage honesty, hard work, sportsmanship, fair play and a love-of-the-game.   But the world is a crazy place.  Life is competition.  So maybe we don’t have to hunt and gather our own food anymore, but if we expect to attain a certain standard of living, then we need to earn it.  And that means, competing, being evaluated and succeeding. It’s ok to fail, but you don’t have to accept it.  Don’t take what you get.  Do get upset.  Make mistakes, extract the lessons, and discard the rest.  Learn from every opportunity.

And, oh yeah… grapes taste great.

Let’s hear some comments about this.

What do you do with a dead dog?

I get an email the other day from one of my good friends with whom I don't talk that often. (Is that an oxymoron? He's a good friend and we don't talk very much?)

In the email, my buddy was announcing the sad news that his dog had died in the back yard on the Fourth of July, an event to which his daughter promptly asked, "Can we cut off his head and keep that?" 

That leads me down a side path about an acquaintance I had when I was a bit younger. He had a cat. Loved the cat. The cat died. So he had it stuffed and mounted on a wood block in his living room. Now, first of all, I'm not a cat guy at all. They are aloof. They are not friendly. They are hot chicks in high school, basically. Give me a dog any day of the week. Suffice it to say, this acquaintance never got laid. What girl is going to come over to his pad and give it up with a dead cat looking on? (Insert inevitable pussy joke here.) 

Anyway, cutting the dog's head off and keeping it aside, it got me wondering, since my Yellow Lab is now 11 years old and on the downside of, well, everything: What do you do with a dead dog?

We used to have dogs growing up. But I have no idea what happened to them when they died. They just sort of -- disappeared. I guess that is the job of a Dad, right? Make the dead dogs disappear. 

But seriously. What do you do with a dead dog? I've never had a dog die on me as a responsible adult and as a parent. Do you bury them in the backyard? How about if your backyard is not that big? Do you throw him in a dumpster? Seems a bit coldhearted for a creature that has brought so much joy -- not to mention some pain -- to the family. Do you have a funeral and get him cremated? Do you throw him off the bridge? (Actually, I like that idea for a dead cat.)  

If anyone knows the answer, I'd appreciate a little help.

Memo to RadDad: I don't even know how to spell Dos Equis. 

The Validation of Every Single Decision Ever Made

I don’t like to brag… but I’m perfect. I didn’t realize it until recently.  One day it dawned on me: I am absolutely perfect. Every decision I have ever made was the right decision. Every thing I do is the right thing. Everything I say is the most appropriate for that particular moment.  Does my confidence intimidate you?  Do you question my (objective) sincerity?  Do you want to bitch slap me?  Whatever.  I’m like The Most Interesting Guy in the World, only more interesting.  If you doubt me, take a look at my kids.  Even better, ask them. They are the validation of every single decision I have ever made—had I done anything differently, at any point in my life, they wouldn’t be here.  And now that they are here, my supremacy is constantly and emphatically reinforced. Daily.  By them. I am a Golden God.  I am the Master of my Domain.  I am totally rad.

But absolute power is a tenuous thing.  There are forces constantly trying to steal it: obnoxious friends, children's television, first grade, the teenage years, the Wii.  If we want to maintain our reign of dominance, then we must band together… learn from each other, share with each other, teach each other. Together, we can make sure those little monsters love us forever. And, hopefully, we can keep them from going Goth.

Welcome to Dad is Rad.  If you are a megalomaniac then you are my brother.

Disclaimer: I can’t stand Dos Equis, but Stallion loves it.

Stallion's dilemma

Through a confluence of events that include, not surprisingly, this shitty economy that was at least in part perpetrated by the umpteen thousand idiots on Wall Street who have stolen umpteen gazillion from our coffers, my friend and I have found ourselves depressingly unemployed and, thus, stay-at-home dads looking for work. In other words, our wives’ bitches – even more than we already were.

We were searching around the Internet for some blogs where fathers in this increasingly unstable environment can gather on the Web to commiserate about this and that, and discovered that there is a disproportionate number of Mommy blogs compared to Daddy blogs. In fact, if you were to take the population of China and compare it to that of Wyoming, you might get a sense of the disparity – minus, of course, the communist aspect.

 And so we decided to kick-start our own blog, share our experiences regarding fatherhood and marriage, vent our frustrations and generally kibitz like a gaggle of Yentas at a bar mitzvah.

 The thing about being a stay-at-home dad looking for work is that I find that I always have these conflicting emotions about my current situation. On the one hand, I find that I enjoy immensely the newfound ability to spend additional time with my kids, two boys who are ages 6 and 4.

 In my previous profession – it’s still difficult to state that at times because I did what I did for 20 years, and for all intents and purposes that portion of my life is over – I traveled a lot, and so there were many times that I didn’t get to see my kids completely grow into the people they have become – which means my wife got to see them grow up perhaps even more than she wanted.

 Now, I take them to school. I pick them up. I take them to the park – and hang with the nannies who are working for the fathers who are actually still employed. I take them for ice cream. I take them fishing (and catch nothing). I feed them dinner. And for the most part I love every minute.

 But, there is always in the back of my mind the persistent nagging feeling that I am unemployed and that I will not be whole again until I land a job.

 Isn’t that the bitch? It’s kind of like being with a really sexy, experimental girl with whom you know you eventually won’t end up. And so instead of fully enjoying the experience, you are kind of always wondering when the relationship is going to end.

I wish I could just enjoy my kids 100 percent right now. The ultimate dream would be for a potential employer to say, “You know, we’d like to hire you but we can’t until the economy turns around. Why don’t we do this: Sit tight for three months and I promise you we will add you to the staff after that.”

Beautiful, right? You can kick it with the kiddies for three months, collect unemployment and know that 90 days from now you will be earning a steady income. It would allow you to appreciate the time with your kids the way you did on weekends when you were actually working.

But now I have these two conflicting emotions pulling at me. Enjoy the time with the kids. Get a job. Enjoy the time with the kids. Get a job. It kills me, it really does.

The thing I can’t figure out is if that is my shortcoming, or if everybody feels that way. Because really, I will probably never get this time back in my life where I can devote a good deal of time to my kids. It won’t be too long – hopefully -- before I am working again, and then I will be bitching that my hours are too long and that I don’t get to see my kids enough.

And I will inevitably think back to this time and consider: Why didn’t you enjoy that time more?

 I know that I will do that. And yet I can’t stop myself from being that way. Isn’t that wrong on some level? Shouldn’t I be able to perform more self-control? I guess that’s why I’m a Dad and not a Mom.