Laid-Off Dad

The man behind the curtain

Until now, I've been very camera-shy. Part of that stems from the need for anonymity (which continues to frustrate me), but I admit I also like letting the words speak for themselves. I like imagining what people look like when I read about them, and when I meet them face to face my perception changes. Not for the better or worse, mind you. It's just different. You read Little Children, for example, and you form a pretty clear idea of what Sarah looks like. Then Kate Winslet plays her in the movie, and everything's altered. Mainly because if you were offered the chance to have an affair with Kate Winslet, you'd find a way to make it happen. Even if it meant swimming the Atlantic. In football pads.

But then I got all uppity about this Hot Daddy thing, and a few of you clicked through and voted for me. As a result, my total is up 171% (whopping!), and I've moved to the top of page 3 of the leaderboard (respectable!). Thanks to all who did that, because voting in this contest isn't something you can do in two seconds. You have to sign up, set a password, create an identity, give out your e-mail, send in a blood sample, etc.

I've trumpeted how visually stunning I am, how the empirical appeal of my features is the closest evidence we have of a higher power, but now it's time for you to decide for yourself. If you're curious, somewhere in this post is a picture of Eden and me strolling through SoHo. I tried to embrace as many New-York-centric clichés as possible (pallid skin, black T-shirt), and since it was so bright I was happy to offer her shade under my nose.

Now that you know what I look like, I guess our relationship is about to change. Will you look at my writing any differently? Will pre-conceived notions fall to pieces? Would Kate Winslet consider swimming the Atlantic for a horizontal hoe-down? Only time will tell.

Anagrams: Is there anything they can't tell us?

First, many thanks to the astute person who nominated me for "Hottest Daddy Blogger." (You might have noticed that "brag badge" I sneaked into the bottom of the left-hand column.) I have suffered for these riveting good looks, ever since the mayor's office decreed that, in order to reduce car accidents, I wear a bag over my head while crossing major intersections. It's been hard, placing the greater good over my comfort and dignity. This nomination helps relieve the sting.

And don't worry; I'm not dismayed that I have only 7 votes. After all, how can you take seriously a hottness contest in which Danny is in second place? Have you seen this man? He's a troll. Lives under a bridge and everything.

Second, I was re-reading my last post about running around ragged with the Dynamo Twins, and I hope I didn't give the impression that I'm not having fun. Because I am. It offers me the kind of mindless fun that is just too rare in most adult lives, and I couldn't be more grateful. The Daddybones do tend to take a physical pounding, though, and sometimes it's hard to sound upbeat when you can't move your arms to the keyboard without wincing.

It's the most pleasant type of exhaustion there is. And I suppose I should get used to it, because full-time boy-wrangling is going to factor prominently in the next few months of my life. I suppose at this point I can tell you that my job is in the type of profession that lets you take 10 weeks off--between, say, the middle of June and Labor Day--yet continues to send you paychecks twice a month. And since my wife is now a WOHM, I'll be taking another go at being a SAHD.

All of which will soon make me a Born-Again, Salaried, Stay-At-Home Dad Of Two, or BASSAHDOT. Not much of an acronym, I'll grant you, until you consider its anagram: HOT BADASS.

Spring is here. Let the daddy-beating commence.

Now that the temperature is back where it should be, the boys and I spend a lot more time where we should be: out. Biking to the park, walking around the neighborhood finding garbage piles taller than Daddy, checking out the bug-eyed tropical fish at the pet store, sucking down chicken mei fun at our local Chinese place. Anywhere but cooped up in the Laid-Off Habitrail and potentially pissing off the downstairs neighbors. (We haven't heard anything from them for a while, btw. Perhaps they've been raptured.)

When we go to the park, Robert steams ahead on his bike (going 944 thousand 900 million miles per hour, natch), and I run behind him with TwoBert, ensconced and cackling in the Phil & Ted's. Honestly, there are few places I'd rather be than scampering around the boys. (Yesterday, the three of us lay in the grass for about 45 minutes pointing out stuff in the sky and deciding what the clouds looked like. Amazingly, Robert felt many of them looked like race cars.) But I can already see how this warm-weather cycle will pose a particular challenge, since it will be TwoBert's first since he discovered OPINION.

Before, it was easy. Robert and I played soccer, or threw a baseball, or ran around playing tag, and TwoBert was happy crawling around and learning about this strange, soft, green substance that couldn't be cleaned with Murphy's Oil Soap. Now, however, TwoBert has formed his own obsessions that rarely jibe with his brothers'. So much of the afternoon makes me feel like I'm wrangling two very irritable geese. With opposable thumbs.

A typical sequence goes like this: Robert pulls out the soccer ball and kicks it to me, and TwoBert throws the tennis ball to me. I multitask for a while before Robert decides he doesn't like sharing my attention and kicks the ball way the hell in the other direction. I make Robert go get it while I play catch with TwoBert, so Robert jumps in and swipes the tennis ball from TwoBert's hand. TwoBert starts crying, while Robert decides it's time to play tag. But TwoBert doesn't want to play tag, goddammit, because "Daddycatch! Daddycatch! Daddycatch!" He likes a good chase, though, and eventually he buys into running around with us. Which means Daddy has to run around on all fours, because for some reason watching me run around like a doggie makes TwoBert completely lose his shit and fall over in debilitating laughter. Robert sees an opportunity and blind-sides me, and before long tag has devolved into a scrum in which Robert shows off the moves he learned from Stone Cold Steve Austin and TwoBert head-butts my ribs. At which point Daddy suggests that maybe it's a good time to lie down and look at clouds some more.

When we're on the way home, I sometimes see other parents out with one child and a second one clearly on the way. And I'll say, "Gaze into your future!" In as mock-ominous a way as you can when you're racing with a giddy five-year-old and your lungs are about to burst into flames.

That strange yellowish orb in the sky

The nor'easter is gone, and with it the weeklong dyspeptic torpor that sucked away any interest in doing much of anything. It's been enough to divide my time between work (which lately has clobbered me with paper-pushing) and my kids (who like to clobber me with their high-speed bodies). Nonstop rain is an absolute mood-killer for me, and I'm sure it's fueled my absolute disgust at NBC for airing so much of the Virginia Tech killer's media kit. I know it's newsworthy, and I suppose I could live with a few screen-grabs and some edited excerpts. But to air so much footage--stamped with the peacock logo, so all the world can know that NBC is the preferred network for murderous psychopaths--is a grab at brand promotion at the expense of social responsibility. In the end, that kid got exactly what he wanted. So NBC, you are cordially invited to lick the taint-sweat off a dead dog's balls.

I keep thinking what it must be like to be Cho's parent, knowing that your child committed the worst act of gun violence in American history. I hear they're under police protection and never staying in the same place two nights in a row. So they're wracked with guilt and living like bin Laden and watching their kid spew his mindless vitriol on every station on the dial. How can you envision getting out from under all of that?

[EDITED TO ADD: Now we know.]

As usual, it's the kids who save me. The best part of my day is being tackled with happy hugs when I walk in the door. Robert starts right in by detailing all the changes he's made in his Lego race cars, TwoBert brandishes his new appreciation for complete sentences (many of which begin with "I want..."), and it's just the most uplifting cacophony you ever heard.

The other night we took a long walk around the neighborhood and ended up at our favorite sushi place for dinner. The boys love avocado rolls, but each has his own method for eating them. Robert has become remarkably finicky in his old age, so he likes to unravel the rolls and scrape out the insides like he's eating an ear of corn. TwoBert prefers the one-gulp method, so he can smile at you and look like he belongs in a dugout somewhere. Then Robert cracks a joke like, "Daddy! Did you know that 'shoe-shi" is when they make sushi with your sneakers?"

Right on cue, the son finds a way to poke through the clouds.

A picture is worth about 5.26x this post

A few months ago I got a sweet new camera that 1) fits in my shirt pocket; 2) takes pictures with a few hundred gigapixels per square inch; and 3) has a 2-GB memory card that holds about 2000 images. This last bit is the most problematic, because I now tend to shadow the boys like a demented paparazzo until all the pictures are of Robert's palm.

I've posted about pictures before, but I've come to the conclusion that putting up a few of them on this web site now and then won't bring about the End of Days. The problem is choosing which platform to use.

Flickr seems to be the predominant one among the bloggerati, although I remember hearing bad things about it. I wish I could provide more clarity about this, but I remember reading about its interface, or copyright issues, or deleting photos, or how it was somehow way too easy for some cave-dwelling guttersnipe to right-click on your picture and do unpleasant things to it. I've also seen Picasa and PhotoBucket bandied about.

Have you heard bad stuff about Flickr? Or did I imagine it? And if you were to choose a new picture platform, which would it be?

The new sheriff in town

It's Friday night, and I've just begun digging out of the emotional rubble of this week. So much happened, so much to assimilate. A week like this needs to end in a quiet house with three fingers of Birthday Scotch. In a "Radiator Springs" plastic cup.

Not for me. For the new sitter, Ximena, who started on Tuesday. And left the house once all week.

On Tuesday school was closed for Passover, and Robert didn't want to leave the house because he needed rest after all the exercise he got the day before. (He and I played three games of one-on-one baseball in my sister's sprawling back yard, where grounders can travel a long way before someone manages to chase them down. I'm happy the boy is developing hand-eye coordination, but I have to change the rules pronto before I throw a lung.)

Yesterday the nonstop rain precluded any hope for parole. And today TwoBert awoke with chills and a fever, and he was so weak that twice he walked over to a chair, lay his face on the seat, and fell asleep. So for three of her first four days, she engaged the boys with drawing and Legos and "Cars" and homemade Play-Dough and god-knows-what-else. When she left each night she sort of lurched down the hallway, using the walls to keep standing.

Wednesday was her big chance to actually go forth in the world, and when she returned she couldn't remember how to let herself back into the house. I came home early to show her, and she was mortified. Here she was, thinking "Only my second day on the job, and this guy must think I'm an idiot." And there I was, thinking "It's great that the boys love her, and I hope she doesn't quit. Even though she's a bit of an idiot."

Yes, I really thought that, but that was the Weird Transition talking. It hasn't been easy for me to adjust to the idea of leaving my kids with a stranger all day. But she is very nice, and I have great hope for her future. For one thing she's not fazed by sickness, and she took great care of TwoBert today. When I got home he was happily snuggled up in his high chair, slurping soup and smelling of lavender. Ximena rubbed him down from head to toe with it, and 20 years from now he will smell that smell again and wonder why it always makes his loins wobble.

I also have complete confidence that she'll adapt to her new life of chasing around two boys all day. She came today with relaxation CD, replete with harp-y, string-y, oboe-y spa music. She left it for me, and I admit it really takes the edge off. Makes the scotch go down smooooooooth.

Yes, but not nearly as virile

On the train back from my sister's, TwoBert eagerly points at the back of a man's head two seats ahead of us.

TwoBert: Daddy!
Me: That man isn't Daddy. I'm Daddy.
TwoBert [still pointing]: Daddy!
Me: I don't think that's Daddy. Because this is me. I'm right here, next to you.
TwoBert [unswayed, still pointing, and looking right at me]: Daddy!
Robert: You have to admit, Dad. That guy's pretty much bald, just like you.

Staring Death in the teeth

OK, the title is misleading. Because contrary to what you might think, going to Disney World is actually fun. Sure, the crowds are oppressive, the food is crap, and the lines are ingeniously designed to keep you optimistic until you turn a corner and find there are still another thousand or so people ahead of you. But all is forgiven thanks to the Fast Pass, which lets you saunter past the great sweaty masses and onto the ride in about 10 minutes.

It's amazing. And as you walk past all these people, you can't help shaking your head. Why doesn't everyone do this? Who in their right mind would willingly wait an hour and a half, in a tightly packed labyrinth that turns corner after soul-crushing corner, for a ride that takes 6 minutes? Yet they do. Like they're all coming home to a 20th-floor apartment with 30 bags of groceries, and they prefer to take the stairs.

Using Fast Pass makes you feel like a big shot. And turnabout is fair play, because the last time I went to Disney my family and I staked out a perfect, waterside view of IllumiNations at EPCOT. At the last moment an official-looking person ushered Loni Anderson past us. She was very nice, and she smelled terrific, but I still had to watch the entire show with her big, blonde hair-helmet in my face.

It was a refreshing change to re-visit the Magic Kingdom as a parent and absorb it all through Robert's eyes. (It was even more refreshing not to pay for any of it, thanks to Nana and Granddad's spectacular generosity.) Not much has changed since I was there last (i.e., when Loni Anderson was an A-list celebrity). Mr. Toad and Captain Nemo have been euthanized, and Pirates of the Caribbean has a bunch of animatronic Johnny Depps in it, but Cinderella's castle is still there, grandiose as ever, and since Robert is reviled by anything princessy we gave it a wide berth.

The Jungle Cruise was a low point of the trip, because 1) it was the only line we waited on before we discovered Fast Pass, and 2) when I finally got on the boat I saw that our tour guide had shaved his sideburns up over his ear, almost even with his eyeline. I don't like to judge people by how they look, but I have to admit I am strangely creeped out by people who make themselves look like that; it makes them look unstable. So I spent most of those 1o minutes afloat with a slight but vivid fear that this guy would pilot us off on some tributary, tie us up, and make us reenact his high school prom. Before he slaughtered and ate us.

The trip took off from there. Almost literally, because everything Robert loved involved High Speed Action. We whizzed around the Thunder Mountain Railroad. We saw stunt cars screech around and jump through fire. And he got to drive a race car! Four times! He didn't master steering all that well, so we cultivated an intimate relationship with the guard rail (CLANG-swerve-CLANG-swerve-CLANG). His ecstatic glee was a treat to behold, so spitting out a few vertebrae was a small price to pay.

And then, of course, the pièce de la résistance: meeting Lightning McQueen and Mater (see above). We waited in one of the little piazzas, and when we heard that roar in the distance Robert just about jumped out of his sneakers. They paraded triumphantly through the crowd, and when they came to stop they were besieged by kids and cameras. Robert looked both of them up and down, scanning for inconsistencies, but he was satisfied that everything--right down to the sticker ads for "Re-Volting Rebuilt Alternators" and "Gas-prin Hood-Ache Relief"--was exact.

We had a terrific time, and I want to go again soon. Mainly because now is the sweet spot, when all the Disneywowing is truly magical. When I tucked him in that night, after the rides and the Legos and the late-night swim, he hugged me and said, "Daddy, this was the best day of my entire life." It doesn't get much better than that.

Threads of my past, all knotted up -- and updated!

For me, the '80s were a wonderful, formative time. A time of New Coke, Alex P. Keaton, Bernhard Goetz, and a special form of over-produced, over-synthed, over-horned, over-earnest pop music that I grew to love then and still enjoy today. And not in an ironic, kitschy, let's-get-baked and order-the-Ultimate-'80s!-collection-off-the-late-night-infomercial sort of way. But in a genuine, my-iPod-will-probably-melt-your-ears sort of way.

One of the quintessential bands of the time was Go West, whose biggest hit in the U.S. was "King of Wishful Thinking," off the "Pretty Woman" soundtrack. (You can see the original video here, and isn't it a comfort knowing that lead singer Peter Cox kept right on dancing like he's trying to put your eye out with his collarbone?)

The year was 1990, and that song carved its way into my psyche as I pined away for one of my co-workers. I was still gunshy after my college girlfriend dumped me, so I spent my days in the shadows, longing for the courage to tell her how I felt. We were friends, and we went out in groups a lot, but before I could tell her anything about the crush that left me breathless, she moved to Texas and out of my life.

With these painful confessions as a backdrop, I want to tell you that I'm a very big fan of The Office, and not just because Greg Daniels, et al found a way to take Ricky Gervais's amazing original and give the American version its own identity. I've also let myself get caught up in the whole Jim and Pam thing. The two actors perform around each other with such organic grace that I've totally bought into their plight, to the point that seeing them suffer week after week makes me think of me back in 1990, when my hair was intact and my heart was in pieces.

So I was goofing around this morning, writing up my Disney recap, when I stumbled on this video:

I've watched it a few times, with mixed emotions. It's cute and cheesy, but painful. Like Rudy Huxtable just punched me in the nads.

EDITED TO ADD: A helpful reader from the U.K. had advised me that Go West and several other icons of '80s Britpop will perform together, at a Scottish castle, in September! Is it worth the airfare, the right-side-steering rent-a-car, the lodging, and the ticket price? Well, no. Not at all, actually, especially with the exchange rate where it is. But still ... Wow!

The bumps along life's path are cylindrical and evenly spaced

Life, as we know, is not much more than a huge construction puzzle. Some pieces fit together nicely, others not at all. We see them scattered along life's cluttered playroom, choosing some and discarding others, hoping to build an existence. And it doesn't matter if that existence is a rocket-powered super-sled, or a pirate fortress, or a space-ninja helicopter, because it's never finished. You think you might be in a good place, but wait--what if you added another steering wheel here? Oh, and how about jazzing up the wing assembly with some grills and a computer module? You tinker and fuss until you think you've got it just about right, and then it gets pulverized and you have to start over.

Legos dominate my life now, so it's predictable that they would become the running theme of our trip to Orlando. Whenever we weren't off at a theme park or splashing around in the pool, Robert and I were sitting cross-legged and scanning the floor for the perfect piece to buttress a cockpit. In the airport, we made planes; after Robert got to drive a race car in Tomorrowland, we ripped the wings off and added wheels. After we saw the wicked-cool stunt-car show at Disney/MGM, we smashed our plane-cars into each other and sent pieces flying across the room. We spread the Lego kit all over the living-room floor, and since there were no little brothers around to gnaw on the tires, we didn't even have to clean them up every night. Oh, the decadence.

The apex of the Lego experience came when we stopped by the Lego store in Downtown Disney. I had never been to one of these before, but I left having memorized every store location in the continental US. They have Lego Everything in that place, and the only thing that kept me from coming home with 200 pounds of plastic was the simple problem of schlepping it onto the plane. (There was also the small matter of money; Disney famously touts that its parks are "where dreams come true"--and that's right on the mark if your dream is personal bankruptcy.)

Lego stores have a Wall of Bins, full of cool and obscure pieces that you'd hardly ever see in conventional kits, and you can fill a little tub and take it home for $12.99. It pays to pace yourself, though, and it's easy to make rookie mistakes. For example, I grabbed a bunch of tapered wings out of a bin and only later realized that they're all left wings. So now they just sit uselessly in the bin, daring me to find a use for them. And you can bet your shorts I will, because a man can stand only so much inanimate mockery.

I traipsed around the place for about an hour, but after I had settled up and left the store, I felt unfulfilled. That's when I, a 41-year-old who routinely masquerades as an adult, begged my parents for 10 minutes to go back and fill up another tub. So I ran in and ferreted through those bins and ran to the register and oh-my-god, like, the cashier like totally dropped my tub because it was sort-of-overflowing? So she had to scoop it all back up? And it took like forever to run my credit card? So it actually took more like 15 minutes and like I TOTALLY caught hell for that!

But it was worth it, because now Robert and I have rotary plates and wings and hinges and windshields, and we can totally make the most awesome space-ninja helicopters.