To Foolishly Go Where Few Men Have Gone Before

Dear Chag of 1992--

I really have no idea if we will ever develop the technology needed to send messages back in time. I haven't received letters from future versions of us, so I'm kind of doubting it. But maybe the reason I haven't received any notes from the future is because we die tonight. If that's the case, what I'm about to warn you about won't really matter.

Regardless, I'm writing you this letter.

I don't want to give you too many details about your current life. Yes, you got married (hard to believe, but it really happened). And you stayed married (even harder to believe). You have two beautiful children.

But enough small talk. Here is why I'm writing you this letter: when you see the calendar nearing January 2, 2008, DO EVERYTHING IN YOUR POWER TO KEEP YOUR WIFE HEALTHY. I cannot begin to stress this point enough.

For on this morning, your wife will wake with a sore throat. By lunchtime it will be accompanied by a high fever. By late afternoon, she will be diagnosed with strep.

And by 6:30 PM, you will be the Den Mother or Scout Leader (or whatever the hell they call it) of your daughter's Girl Scout troop.

You won't have much time to prepare. You'll have your wife's general lesson plan for the evening's activities, but you won't know when, where, or how to segue from one activity to another.

Your wife will call the other Den Mother and beg her to stay with you through the meeting. But her main duty will be to calm the fears of the moms dropping off their kids. As these women file into the elementary school to drop off their daughters, they'll see you standing there. A man! At the Girl Scout Meeting! The Other Den Mother will introduce you and flash a reassuring smile that says, "Don’t worry. I'll make sure Lester Molester doesn't get too close to your kid." But after that, dude, you'll be on your own.

And it won't be pretty.

It will be your duty to teach the Girl Scouts about diversity. You'll explain that while everyone's different on the outside, we're all the same on the inside.

And then you'll start rambling.

You'll explain that everyone looks different. You'll tell them that people are from different places, like different things, and are different races. You'll tell them that just because someone doesn't look them, it doesn't make them bad. You'll tell them people have different hair colors. You'll tell them that some people dress funny. You'll tell them that some people wear bellybutton rings.

Yes, you will.

Public speaking is still not your forte.

I'm sure you now understand why I'm sending you this letter. So if you can't do anything to keep your wife healthy, at least you'll have more time to plan your lesson on diversity.

Maybe you should start now.

Hugs & Kisses,
Chag of 2008

Song Of The Day

Continuing with the guilty pleasure theme…

This is the admission that will cause you to stop reading this site.

I don't know what it is about this song. Maybe I have a soft spot for torch songs. Or maybe it's because I played this damned tune in every wedding I ever performed. Or maybe it's because as a newly minted Den Mother, I'll be listening to the Easy Listening Station from here on out.

I really shouldn't be admitting this, but I like this song way too much.

Song of the day: The Rose by Bette Midler

Nepotism, Plastic Ducks, And How My Son Molested The Chick-Fil-A Cow

On Saturday, I worked at Zoey's school's fall festival. While it didn't offer free hummers, we all had a great time.

I was assigned to work the Bingo room. When I told Zoey about this, she asked me, "Will you call out all my numbers so I can win?" I don't know why she thinks that if I'm working at her school, she should win at Bingo or get free books, but I need to reverse this logic. Stat.

When I arrived at the school, I found out that I was no longer working the Bingo room. I guess keeping track of all those numbers was much too difficult a task for a stupid man. So they put me in the Duck Pond room instead.

For the Duck Pond game, kids just had to pick a plastic duck from a wading pool. There was a number written on the bottom of each duck. The numbers on the ducks corresponded to what prizes they won. It was a popular attraction as we were giving away High School Musical junk, Hannah Montana crap, and a few Webkinz. We were also giving away cheap plastic trinkets made in China and probably chockfull of yummy, yummy lead paint.

The game was easy. I just had to make sure I gave out the right prize, the kids didn't put their ducks back into the pond as this would screw up the whole system, and that no one drowned. So easy, even a caveman Dad could do it.

After I put in my time, I caught up with Ella and the kids and we played some games. My favorite moment of the day was when Zed refused to come out of the bounce house. Ella had to go in after him. He ran from her inside the house, giggling the entire time as he watched her fall down every few feet. I really wish I had video of that.

Before we left, we ran into the Chick-Fil-A cow. Zed ran right up to him and squeezed the cow for all he was worth. Zed started flapping and the cow flapped right back. This made Zed hug the cow a few more times.

Guess we won't be going to Disney World anytime soon. I really don't want to spend all my time keeping Zed from humping the princesses' legs.

Song of the day: Formed A Band by Art Brut

The Sanctimonious Father And The MTA

There is no way to say this without sounding self-righteous and arrogant.

So screw it.

I went to my first PTA meeting on Monday evening. There were about ninety people in attendance. Care to guess how many of them were men?

40? Lower.

25? Lower.

10? Try 3. Me and two other guys.

Three men. What the hell? It's the Parent Teacher Association, not the Mother Teacher Association.

Apparently, three is an above-average showing. The PTA President noted at the meeting that there were three men in attendance. She went on to say, "and I'm excited to announce that we've had TWO men volunteer for the book fair!"

I started looking around the room, trying to figure out which one of my fellow male attendees would be working aside me at the book fair.

I read all the time about how today's fathers are taking a more active role in their children's lives than previous generations did. But after what I saw on Monday evening, I'm calling bullshit.

There's really no excuse for this kind of turnout. I know Monday Night Football's a big draw, but come one. I went to the PTA meeting, got groceries, and was still at the bar by the end of the first quarter of that snoozefest.

I realize attending a PTA meeting or volunteering for a school function is not as sexy as coaching your child's soccer team. But parenting isn't sexy.

I hope next month when my wife attends (we're taking turns), the men will outnumber the women 87-3. But somehow I doubt it.

Rant over.

Song of the day: The Chain by Fleetwood Mac

Clearing The Cobwebs

Thanks

As you probably noticed, I disabled comments when I uploaded my last post. I'm not one who is adept at talking about my feelings. I tend to make jokes instead.

Well, many of you ignored my attempt to wrap myself up in a warm fuzzy blanket and shut out the world. I have received so many warm emails filled with encouragement, sympathy, recommendations, offers of assistance, and your own experiences with autism. I truly appreciate each and every one. Your emails have meant so much to Ella and I.

Now let's move on before this becomes a Sally Field moment.

It's Like Ray-Ee-Yain On Your Wedding Day

In light of recent events, here are two things I wish I would've done differently when I started this site:

1. Went with a different tagline. "Proof my children will be using their college funds for therapy" seemed funny at the time. Now that Zed is undergoing weekly education and speech therapy, it doesn't sound nearly as funny. Time for a new slogan, dontcha think?
2. Picked a different fake last name. I could've picked any name in the phonebook. I went with Holland. Dumbass. As one of my friends pointed out, there is a well-known analogy that compares raising a child with autism to planning a trip to Italy but ending up in Holland instead.
   

But I Haven't Lost My Self-Righteous Indignation

I received an email last week from someone at Banyan Productions. Apparently, they are planning a spin-off of Trading Spaces featuring stay-at-home dads. I got no problem with that. The problem I had was with the following line from the email (italics are mine):

"We would love to find SAHM DADS in DENVER who own their own home."

Sigh. Someone cue Rodney Dangerfield.

Song of the day: Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) by Sly & The Family Stone

See? I Told You My Kids Would Be Better Off If They Were Raised By Wolves!

I heard about it on the news this morning as I was getting dressed. According to a study released by the National Institutes of Health, children that spend time in daycare are likely to have more behavioral problems and worse vocabulary skills than those who do not spent time in daycare.

No worries, right? WRONG!

According to the parameters of the study, childcare was defined as scheduled care by anyone other than the child’s mother for at least 10 hours per week. Since I am a stay-at-home dad and my children spend an average of fifty hours per week in my sans-mom care, that makes me a childcare provider who is making his children more aggressive and less articulate by his mere presence.

So to all you stay-at-home dads, single fathers, and pops who spend more than ten hours a week with your children away from Mom's watchful eye: CONGRATULATIONS! WE ROCK SUCK!

According to the study, our children will be on par with their classmates by age eleven. They'll only be "normal" after they've been away from our evil clutches for five to six years. So there is hope for our poor children!

But I did manage to find a silver lining in this study. When I decide to reenter the workforce, I'll be able to put Childcare Provider on my resume to explain my 8+ year Lost Weekend gap.

Song of the day: Smooth Up In Ya by BulletBoys

The Art Of A Great First Impression

Today was Zed's first day of gymnastics.

He did great. He did flips, walked on the balance beam, climbed on the obstacles, and played on the mats.

The only problem? When it was time to do these things, he decided he'd rather do something else. While the class was working on their flips, he was busy climbing the obstacles. When the class was climbing the obstacles, he was playing on the mats. Structure is so overrated.

But he had a GREAT time. He was smiling the entire time and running around the place like a crazy person. He pitched a fit when it was time to leave (of course, he always pitches a fit when he has to put his shoes on).

I, however, did not have a great time because I was feeling quite paranoid. Ever feel like everyone's staring at you? It seemed like every time I looked up, one of the mothers was looking at me. It was probably due to one or more of the following:

1. I'm damn sexy.
2. They're not used to seeing a guy at the gymnastics center.
3. I may or may not have had my fly open the entire time. Unfortunately, I did not notice this faux pas until I was loading Zed into the car.
   

This is why I try to limit my contact with the outside world.

Song of the day: Son Of A Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield

To Those Of You Looking To Jump In The Sack With Me

Despite the fact that I have never published a solicited review on this site, I still receive emails from companies or people wishing to send me samples of their stuff. They think you guys value what I say. They think you would spend your hard-earned cash on the recommendations of a moron. Ha!

I also receive emails from ecommerce sites. Since I've worked for two separate ecommerce companies and have done programming projects for several others, this is something I actually believe I'm qualified to review. But I still don't.

A few months ago, I received an email from an ecommerce site. They had a great premise: for x dollars a year, you receive toys every few months that are geared specifically to your child's developmental stage. It was a very slick and professional site.

The only problem with the site? I have a penis.

The site was H-E-A-V-I-L-Y geared towards Moms. And that pisses me off. It's not 1953 anymore. I know I'm not the only father out there taking an active role in his children's lives. So why do many parenting magazines, web sites, and companies act like mothers are the only ones that take care of their children? That moms are the only ones that make purchasing decisions for their children?

That moms are the only ones that matter?

Blah, blah, blah. I know I've beaten this horse into a bloody pulp in the past, but it still pisses me off. Bottom line: If you ask a father's opinion on your site, make sure you have a site that actual makes DADs feel welcome.

So I replied to his email. I told him I liked the premise behind the site. I told him the site had a great design. But I told him I didn't care much for his mom-centric tagline (which has since been changed) or his large army of toy testers which was comprised entirely of mothers. He told me he saw where I was coming from but 90% of his company's orders were from women.

I never took any marketing classes in college, but even my tiny monkey brain could see that if you market exclusively to one group, you shouldn't be surprised when they make up most of your customer base. And if you market exclusively to mothers, don't be surprised when dads like me don't show up at your door.

These memories were dredged up by something I read on Strollerderby, an excellent site that seems to realize there are two parts to this whole parenting gig.

Song of the day: Friend Or Foe by Adam And The Ants

Chump

I like to think of myself as fairly intelligent (thought it might not always come off that way on this site) and somewhat street-smart. But despite this, sometimes people can take advantage of me.

Case in point:

This afternoon, I took Zoey and Zed over to the home of one of Zoey's preschool chums for a playdate. Zoey and Becky are inseparable through the week at school. Plus, Becky has a little sister a few months older than Zed.

When we arrived, Alice, Becky's mother, stayed with us in the playroom for a few minutes. She then asked if it was ok if she made a phone call for work (she runs some Avon-ish business out of her home). I told her, "No problem."

Thirty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about ten minutes before excusing herself to answer the telephone.

Twenty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about fifteen minutes before asking if it was ok if she put a pot roast in the oven. I told her, "No problem."

Forty minutes later, I decided that it was time to head home. I looked through the house and finally found her outside, sweeping her front porch. The hell? I thanked her for letting us come over (had to be polite (despite wanting to scream at her with every ounce of my being); I'll be seeing these people at the pickup/dropoff lines four days a week for the next six months). "We should do this again sometime," she exclaimed as I was putting the kids in the car. "Sure," I replied. But next time, you're paying me $25 an hour. I may be stupid and can be easily taken advantage of, but I don't come cheap.

So in conclusion:

• Alice got some time to herself to catch up on her work, do a little housekeeping, and prepare dinner. With free babysitting.
• Alice's husband came home to a nice meal.
• And I got ganked. Although I did find out I'm perfectly capable of single-handedly taking care of four children.
  

Playground Politics: How Do You Evict Someone From Your Playgroup?

Dear Ms. Mom O'Four--

It's been great getting to know you and your little ones during the past eighteen months. I've had lots of fun talking with you and watching our kids play. Our daughters seem to have a wonderful time when they get together.

However, I regret to inform you that effective immediately, Playgroup Local 501 will no longer need you or your children's services. It's a decision we feel is best for all concerned parties.

I imagine it must be tough taking care of four kids. I would think you would have to depend on the kindness of strangers quite often. But you have been abusing our kindness.

Remember when your son Johnny fell in the ditch and broke his arm while you were watching ducks with your daughter halfway across the playground? And the countless times your baby sat in her stroller crying while you were off with one of your kids? Do you remember who comforted her? That's right, we did.

We always do.

And don't even get me started on Billy, your poor ten-year-old who just sits there with a dead look in his eyes, painfully bored because he doesn't wish to play with ten three-year-olds. Buy the kid a Game Boy or something.

It's nice to spend some quality one-on-one time with your children, but you need to learn to keep your eyes on your other children as well, instead of assuming one of us will pick up your slack. I'm usually Mr. It Takes A Village and "Rah! Rah! Team!," but I am sick and tired of watching your kids. We all are. We are not your nanny. We are not your babysitter. We have our own children to play with and keep out of harm's way.

I am sorry to inform you of our decision in this letter. As a man, my first inclinations in dealing with a breakup were to give you the "It's not you, it's me" speech or sleep with your best friend. But since it is you and not me and my wife probably wouldn't care much for me sleeping with someone else, this was the only other option available.

And I realize that I should have hand delivered this message to you and not stuck it on your windshield in the middle of the night, but I'm a coward.

Hugs & Kisses,
Chag

P.S. Don't shoot the messenger!

***

Of course, I didn't really send the above letter. But we're getting closer and closer with each passing playdate.

Is there a person in your playgroup who doesn't adequately watch his or her child(ren) and leaves that responsibility to the other parents? If so, how did you deal with him or her?

We would like to do this as nicely as possible. We've talked about going to another playground (but our current playground is at a central location for all of us) or switching times (again, our current time is the one that is the most ideal for all of us). We've dropped some not-so-subtle hints to no avail.

Wit's end here, people. Any suggestions? Laura? Mary?

How To Piss Off Ella With One Little Question

Simply ask her, "What did you get Chag for Mother's Day?"

Then step back and watch the sparks fly!

Update: Our next-door neighbor asked her this question. After Ella snapped his neck and devoured his carcass, I foolishly told her that Zoey's preschool teacher asked me the same thing at the drop-off line.

Luckily, I can outrun my wife.

Yet Another Whinefest From Me

I realize I've got a great gig here. I get to stay with my kids all day long, teach them things, play with them, and care for them. I'm here for a lot of the firsts that Ella misses because she is at work.

I also get away with more than stay-at-home mothers do. If people see me in a store with both kids crying and screaming, they think to themselves, "Poor guy." My wife, on the other hand, can be in the same predicament and will only be greeted with angry glares from people who are thinking, "Can't that woman control her kids?"

But then something comes along that makes me realize things are not as great as I'd like to think. Some people still do not respect a man who cares for his children.

So please allow me to bitch.

Last month, I suggested Leave Your Kids At Home While You Go Out And Get Trashed Day as an alternative to Take Your Daughters And Sons To Work Day. Thanks to Blogging Baby, I found that such a day currently exists.

Only there's no drinking involved.

Or stay-at-home dads.

Jen Singer, of MommaSaid.Net, created Please Take My Children To Work Day. Celebrated on June 26th, governors from Hawaii, Kentucky, Michigan, New Jersey, and Wisconsin have made this an official holiday. Pass the party favors!

Unfortunately, I wasn't invited to the party.

According to the site, the holiday is "for at-home moms." Singer states "Stay-at-home moms are on duty an average of 100 hours a week with no sick days, no vacation days and until now, no holidays." Where's the love for us stay-at-home dads? We're doing the same things stay-at-home moms are doing, Ms. Singer.

To be fair, Singer does mention dads 1,457 words into the document: "Please Take My Children to Work Day is an honest-to-goodness day off for moms and dads like you who could use a little time to yourselves (the words mom and mother are represented a combined twenty-six times in the document prior to the first mention of dad)." The statement is part of a sample flyer designed to get the word out about the holiday. However, you're supposed to distribute this flyer to "moms at pre-school pickup" and "at your mother's group meeting." So apparently, stay-at-home dads are allowed to celebrate the holiday, they're just not supposed to be made aware of its existence.

I thought we were all in the same boat? If someone suggested Take Your Daughters And Sons To Work Day should be exclusively for working fathers to take their children to work one day out of the year, heads would roll. That holiday is not exclusionary; why is yours, Ms. Singer?

Ella says I'm making a mountain out of a molehill on this issue. She says I shouldn't let crap like this get to me.

Your thoughts?

More Bellyaching About Being A SAHD:
No Dads Allowed! This Means YOU!
Me v. Them
Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids And I Won't Tell You Your Eyebrows Make You Look Like A Clown

One Of The Many Reasons Why Other Parents Probably Hate Me

Zoey went to another birthday party this past weekend. Despite the fact that she only has a few neighborhood chums and eleven other students in her preschool class (two of which are twins), I believe this is the forty-second birthday party she's attended since the start of the year. Either some kids have been double dipping or she's on the Pump It Up Random Guest List Generator for birthday boys and girls that have no friends.

Zed and I went to Target to buy the birthday present. While I have plenty of experience with the desires of a three-year-old girl, I am not well versed in what tickles the fancy of a four-year-old boy. Luckily, a woman and her small son came strolling down our aisle.

Me: How old is your son?
Woman: Four.
Me: Perfect! Mind if I borrow him for a few moments?
Woman: What! What are you talking about?

I didn't understand why she was concerned. I had Zed with me! What did she think I was going to do?

That said, if the shoe was on the other foot, it would not have mattered if the person had enough kids to cast Eight Is Enough, Just The Ten Of Us, and The Brady Bunch. I would've probably run out of the store screaming.

I am a hypocrite.

Me: We're looking for a present for a four-year-old boy and I don't really know what they like.
Woman: Oh? Ok. Sure. Tell the man what you like, Sammy.

Sammy pointed to an Army tank. The parents probably have a problem with violent toys, I thought. Next!

Sammy pointed to a Spider-Man action figure. Too scary, I thought. Plus, it looked like Spidey's been taking 'roids. Next!

Sammy pointed to wrestling figures. This is the South, Sammy, but I doubt most kids your age are into wrestling. At least not yet, I thought.

I realized Sammy was pretty much useless, so I thanked him and his mother for their time and continued browsing alone. Then I saw this super-cool Hot Wheels eighteen-wheeler that could carry other cars. Sold! I put the truck in our shopping cart.

But then I thought, What if he doesn't have any cars? But then another voice said, What four-year-old boy doesn't have cars? And then a third voice said, Will the two of you please shut up?

After settling the argument inside my head, I found a gift pack of ten Hot Wheels cars. It wasn't priced, so I took it over to the scanner. $2.48! Score!

I put the car gift pack in my cart and went happily on my way. I then noticed Sammy and his mother.

I showed him the cars. "What do you think of these, Sammy?"

"Cool!" he said.

I showed him the truck. "What about this?"

He grabbed it out of my hands, studying it as his jaw dropped. "This is really cool!"

He handed me the truck and began screaming, "Mommy! I want one of those! I want one of those trucks!"

Oops.

I tried to deflect his mother's angry glares with an apology. As I was fleeing the toy section, I heard her say, "Maybe for your birthday, Sammy."

At least we'll know what to get Sammy when we receive the invitation to his birthday party.

Friday Playdate

Today, Zed and I were in line to pick Zoey up from preschool, halfway through our Music Appreciation Class (today's lesson: New York Dolls), when I heard a tapping, as of some one gently rapping, rapping at my SUV door.

I almost went through the roof. Seriously.

It was Mrs. Baker, the mother of one of Zoey's classmates. Embarrassed (hey, I was just rockin' with Zed, screaming singing at the top of my lungs (the kid loves to watch me make an fool of myself for me to sing to him)), I rolled down my window.

She handed me a white faux-fur wrap and a tiara. "I think these belong to you," she said.

What? I'm not allowed to be Queen For A Day?

***

On Friday, Ella took the day off work. There was a huge-can't-miss-it consignment sale that morning. That afternoon was Zed's one-year checkup (he had the rotavirus at the time of his actual one-year checkup so we had to reschedule). There are few things I cannot do with both kids. I cannot take both on a business luncheon with my clients. I also cannot take both to the doctor. Sitting in a tiny room, trying to entertain/control Zoey while Zed is poked, prodded, or receiving shots is just too much for me to handle alone. I admit it. I suck.

Once Ella got back from the sale, I started mowing the lawn. I was halfway through with the backyard when Ella came outside.

"Guess who has a playdate?" she asked.

"You?"

"Mrs. Baker just called and wanted to know if Zoey could come over and play with Charlotte today after school."

"Did you tell her no?"

"No."

"Am I allowed to tag along?"

"I don't think so. She offered to pick Zoey up. I think that answers your question right there."

"Zoey's too young to go over to someone's house without me. Call her back and tell her something came up."

"I will not."

"Fine. I'll do it."

"No. You. Won't."

"But she's too young to go to someone's house without one of us!"

"She'll be fine."

Grumble. Grumble. Grumble.

Look, I don't trust most people. Hell, I don't even like most people. But I like Mrs. Baker. She is part of my Monday morning coffee get-together.

But I still didn't trust her.

That afternoon, while Ella and Zed were at the doctor, I begrudgingly readied Zoey for her playdate. I packed her princess clothes and some toys. I drove to Charlotte's house very s-l-o-w-l-y, trying to think of imaginary emergencies that would keep Zoey home. Nothing came to mind.

I dropped Zoey off, gave Mrs. Baker a list of emergency numbers (my house phone, my cellular phone, Ella's cellular phone, my mother's cellular phone (ok, that last one was a lie)), looked around their house for sharp objects, and circled the block until it was time to pick her up went back home. I sat at my house and watched the minutes c-r-e-e-p by.

And when I went to pick her up, she was in one piece. And happy. In fact, she started crying when she saw me because she didn't want to come home.

***

"Thanks," I replied. "Zoey was looking for her tiara yesterday. I assumed it was lost in the clutter of her room."

"No problem," Mrs. Baker responded. "Charlotte really had a good time on Friday."

"So did Zoey. Maybe next time they can play at my house. We just finished the playground on Saturday."

"Sounds good. Maybe we can all have a picnic in your backyard."

Immediately, I knew. It was okay for Zoey to go to her house, but there was no way her daughter could come to my house and be alone with me.

***

Ok. Here's the reader participation portion of our story. I have a few questions and I'd like you to answer them truthfully. I won't judge.

• Would you allow your three-year-old son/daughter to attend a playdate without you? Is that too young or am I too neurotic?
• If you have a young child, would you allow him/her to attend a playdate where the only adult supervision is a male? Be honest.
  

GHS: Plenty (but none caused by my kids)

Related:
Sex And The Suburbs

Me v. Them

It seems like every site I read has been talking about the Mommy Wars. So much, in fact, that I repeatedly turn to MSNBC to see if Bush has drafted my wife. Rimshot!

Here's my take on the Mommy Wars: It doesn't matter if you're a mom who has to work, a mom who chooses to work, or a mom who stays at home with her kids. The only thing that matters is that you shower your children with love, care, and understanding. If you cherish your children during whatever amount of time you get to spend with them during the day, you've won the Mommy Wars. Rock on, soldier!

What I'd like to talk about is my own war against society. Or rather, how some in society perceive me. If I go out into the world alone, I get treated no better or worse than most members of society.

But with kids in tow?

People treat me like I've got a seeing-eye dog. Or like I'm Arnie Grape.

If I go to the grocery store by myself (a rarity), I am able to shop in peace (in more ways than one). If I have the kids with me, as soon as I enter the joint, I'm accosted and asked if I need any help. Um? No. Quite capable, thanks.

Once, I actually had a stock boy ask if I needed him to walk with me while I shopped. Thanks, dude! Am I drooling? Do I look incompetent?

Oh wait! I know! I look like a MAN!

Why is that when some people see a man alone with a child, they immediately feel sorry for him? Why do they feel he's incompetent? Why do they think he must be babysitting his kids? I know I'm not the only one who experiences this fun.

Yesterday, Zoey's preschool was having a Book Fair. I had Zed in the stroller with Zoey walking by my side when we entered the church. I did not know where the Fair was being held (it's a big church), and since there were no signs advertising the Book Fair, I asked someone as soon as we entered the church. The lady said, "Go down the hall, take a right, and you'll see signs." I thanked her and headed down the hall when an elderly lady came upon us.

She took one look at Zoey and said, "Oh! Aren't you a cute little thing? I bet you're here looking for your Mommy! She's probably down in the (MOBS or MOPS or some lame acronym dealing with mothers) meeting."

Having dealt with well-meaning old ladies like this many times in the past, I instantly shot back, "No. She's not looking for her Mommy. Her Mommy's at work. We're headed to the Book Fair."

A man came out of a door (which is probably a good thing because I had begun looking for closets to hide the old woman's body). She turned to the man and said, "Sam, will you escort this gentleman to the Book Fair?"

"No thanks, Sam. I know where it is," I huffed as I walked down the hallway.

Ok. Sorry for all the navel-gazing, woe-is-me bullshit. Ella says I make too big of a deal out of this. Is she right?

Spanish Fly For Soccer Moms

This landed in my inbox today. Thought I'd post it here and see what you guys think.

*****
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Montgomery, AL -- January 30, 2006 -- Are you in the market for a MILF? Are you a single dad looking for a single mom, hoping to start your own Brady Bunch? Nose Candy Industries has come to your rescue.

"Attraction basically boils down to three principles: physical attraction, personality, and scent. This explains why cologne and perfume sales bring in over four billion dollars a year," said Nose Candy Industries spokesperson Arthur Carter. "Manufacturers have mass-produced scents for years, ignoring niche markets. Different personalities are attracted to different scents. That's where we come in."

Set to debut in the Atlanta, Chicago, and Houston markets this spring, Momvelous aims to be the first scent on the market to attract single mothers. Dubbed "Spanish Fly for Soccer Moms" by industry insiders, Momvelous lists antibacterial soap, baby poop, baby shampoo, baby vomit, chocolate, Desitin, formula, glue sticks, Gummy Bears, jelly, lilac, peanut butter, rose petals, strained peas, and sweat among its many active ingredients.

Nose Candy Industries hopes to have a nationwide rollout by early fall. If this initial scent proves successful, future plans include scents to attract teachers, high-ranking business professionals, and gay cowboys.

"We have had a ninety-five percent success rate with Momvelous in preliminary laboratory tests," Carter added. "All a guy has to do is spray a little Momvelous on his person, head down to the local playground, and the soccer moms will swarm to him."
*****

And so will the flies.

Sex And The Suburbs

I know a lot of stay-at-home dads have trouble fitting in with the moms in their children's playgroups or blending in on the playground. But as much as I may gripe about double standards, I really do have the best of both worlds.

In my neighborhood, I spend more time with the wives than I do with the husbands. We'll chat while the kids play. Then the guys come home from work and I put on my Guy Hat and we start talking about sports. My Mondays this fall were spent having coffee in the morning with the moms from Zoey's preschool class followed by Monday Night Football in the evening with the neighborhood guys.

I'm lucky. While I'm one of the guys, it also seems I'm one of the girls. They act very comfortable around me.

Sometimes, a little too comfortable.

Last week, Zoey, Zed, and I attended a brunch with most of the kids (and their moms) in Zoey's preschool class at the home of one of the moms. There's no way I would invite fifteen kids into my home. Unless I was looking to collect insurance on it.

It was nice. She had hired two babysitters to watch the children (except Zed; there was no way I was allowing some teenager to watch my boy. I've mentioned I'm neurotic, right?) while the moms (and me) ate brunch and chatted.

So the moms and I were sitting at the table when Woman #1 began talking about her daughter co-sleeping with her and her husband. Woman #2 asked, "What does that do to your sex life?"

I looked at Woman #1, expecting to find her blushing. But no, Woman #1 answered back! In front of me! And with her answer came the great unlocking of a sexual Pandora's Box as all the women began talking about sex.

Seriously, I felt like I was sitting in the cafe in Sex And The City.

Question! Does that make me Stanford?

I'm thinking, Hello! Y-Chromosome present! But they didn't stop. As I began eyeing the table, searching frantically for a pencil or something sharp to jam into my ear canals, their conversation grew more graphic.

Look. I'm not a prude. I'm just extremely shy and uncomfortable in social situations. I'm uncomfortable enough in my own skin, let alone in a group of people, let alone in a group of women, let alone in a group of women talking about sex. I was trying to think of a way to steer the conversation over to sports (which is my modus operandi when I can't add anything to a conversation), when I realized I had the ultimate Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Zed!

I got up, excused myself, and Zed I headed to another room for a diaper change.

His, not mine.

GHS: 0 (at least none caused by my kids)

No Dads Allowed! This Means YOU!

Note: This originally appeared on DadCentric on November 3, 2005.

Yesterday, I received a comment from Mr. SAH'D. Seems he took his son to a playground and it was packed with other children and their mothers. He began talking to one of the mothers and found out it was a playgroup for stay-at-home moms. When he inquired about becoming a member, he was told, "Next time [the playgroup] meets, we could vote to allow you in."

The hell? It's 2005, people!

I've met a lot of cool moms at the playground. We talk about the kids, the weather, different amusements in the area, blah, blah, blah. You know, friendly small talk.

I've also seen a lot of stuffy Buffys and Muffys, the kind of moms who are only at the park to socialize, sitting in their lawn chairs, sipping their Starbucks, all dolled up like they're headed to the Debutante Ball, while their kids are dangling from their toes at the top of the monkey bars or buried headfirst in six feet of sand. I'm assuming these are the types of moms Mr. SAH'D met.

I wonder how his application process will go....

President: Ladies, the Committee for Urban Newborn and Toddler Socialites (play the acronym game) is now in session. The first order of business is to rule on allowing fathers into the playgroup. Does anyone have anything they'd like to say on the matter?
Muffy #1: My husband would kill me if he found out I was talking to a man.
Buffy #1: If we let fathers into our playgroup, what's next? Different races? Different religious backgrounds? What will become of our moral fiber?
Muffy #2: There is no way I'm taking my kids up to the park and have some guy undress me with his eyes!
President: I think we've heard enough. Let's put it to a vote. All those in favor of allowing fathers into our playgroup, say aye.

[crickets chirping]

President: All those opposed, say nay.
Everyone: NAY!
President: The nays have it. No dads allowed.

Mr. SAH'D, I hope you start showing up with your child when the playgroup meets. Your kid could still play with the other children. The other children won't care if your kid came to the park with his daddy (gasp!). Just make sure you bring your iPod, because I doubt you'll be having any conversations with these women. Not that you'd want to anyway.

What do you think he should do?

(Dis)Orientation

Today was orientation for students and parents at Zoey's preschool. This year, Zoey will be attending three days a week (last year she did two) for three hours a day. Five of the seven children she went to school with last year will be in her class this year, along with six new children. One of her teachers from last year will also be one of her two teachers this year.

So, needless to say, she's pretty psyched.

Zoey l-o-v-e-d preschool last year. All summer long, she pretended she was one of her friends and I would be another one of her friends. Or she would take on the role of one of her teachers while I acted like one of her friends or the other teacher.

You get the picture.

Since she talked about her teachers so much, I figured she would be beside herself when she saw them again. As soon as we got to school, we saw Mrs. Smith (the teacher from last year who would not be her teacher again this year) in the hallway. Mrs. Smith bent down to talk to Zoey. Zoey smiled and kept on walking. No hugs. No squeals of joy. Just a smile. Talk about being too cool for school. This kid was on a mission: to find her friends.

When we got to the classroom, Mrs. Jones (the teacher from last year who would be her teacher again this year) tried to talk to Zoey. Poor Mrs. Jones didn't even get a smile. Zoey had already spotted one of her friends, so she walked on by Mrs. Jones without even acknowledging her presence.

Once all the kids and parents arrived, the teachers gave us a brief introduction of what was expected of our children and us during the school year. The teachers then played and talked with the children while the parents stood nearby. One of the moms needed to go up the hall and speak with the preschool director. She asked me, since her daughter and Zoey are such good friends, if I would keep an eye on her child while she ran up the hall. Sure. I'm already watching Zoey and Zed. What's one more? You sure you wouldn't rather have the Mom with the three-year-old, two-year-old, and the crying infant in the corner watch your child?

As soon as the mom left the room, her daughter needed to go potty. That figures. I immediately relinquished my duties to another mom. There was no way I was following her daughter into the bathroom. Not in this day and age.

The teachers then passed out the rulebooks along with a questionnaire before taking the kids outside. Here was my questionnaire:

Q: Does you child have a "security item" (a favorite toy, pacifier, blanket, etc.)?
A: No. Why? Is this something I should be concerned about? Is she incapable of feeling? Should I line up a kiddie shrink as soon as possible? Please advise.

Q: Does your child have any pets? If so, what are their names?
A: No. Just imaginary ones. And they're all named Freako. And they're all dead.

Q: Is your child a leader?
A: Does the term alpha female mean anything to you? But you'll find that out soon enough. And so will the other poor children.

Q: Is your child capable of voicing his needs and concerns?
A: See above answer.

Q: Is your child capable of "going potty" by himself?
A: Yes. However, she feels the need to strip from the waist down (including any footwear). And, well, let's just say she has problems putting her clothing back on. So if she's in there for more than ten minutes, you might want to go in there and help her figure out which way her panties go (Why do they not put tags in the back of children's underwear? Do they secretly hate parents?).

Q: Does your child have a favorite color?
A: Pink. And I pity any other little girl who shares this color. Tears will be shed by both parties.

Q: Please provide any additional information that may be of assistance to us during the school year.
A: I am one of those "hands-on" parents. I will want to know what she did at school, how she did at school, and anything else I can wrestle from your memory. When you see me coming, you will cringe because you know you're in for at least a five-minute conversation. I apologize in advance for any and all inconveniences I may cause. Wait... I bet you wanted more additional information about Zoey. Sorry.

Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids And I Won't Tell You Your Eyebrows Make You Look Like A Clown

Today, Zoey attended her friend Helen's gymnastics class. It was "Bring A Friend To Class Day," but a more appropriate title would've been "Bring A Friend To Class And Giver Him/Her A Taste Of Our Crack Class And Hopefully He/She Will Fall In Love With It And Pester His/Her Parents Until They Finally Relent And Enroll Him/Her Day."

As I stated in an earlier post, Zoey already attends a gymnastics class, which is much more kid friendly than the one she attended today. Helen's class was in an Olympics training facility. Well, not really, but there were all these eight- to ten-year-olds doing flips on parallel bars and balance beams. It was pretty impressive. And over in one small corner was the "kid area," which consisted of a few mats, a balance beam, some obstacles, and a rope ladder.

Unlike Zoey's class, the parents aren't allowed in the gym with the children; instead, the parents stay in another room and watch the kids perform through windows, giving the place a zoolike feel (which, if the other kids are anything like Zoey, is a fairly reasonable comparison).

There were a bunch of Soccer Moms talking about Soccer Mom Things in the viewing area; as usual, Zed and I were the only representatives of our gender present. Through my travels with my children, I have deduced that there are two types of Soccer Moms:

• Type I: those who view me as a hero for what I do (which I am not) and instantly include me in on their conversation.
• Type II: those who view me as a pariah, almost like a sexual predator (which I am also not), and instantly shun me and keep a watchful eye on me lest I get too close to their children.
  

Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Sometimes I think I should've called this site Neurotic Dad.

Anyway, I was walking Zed around the room, trying to keep him occupied while feigning interest in the conversations around me. One woman (hereafter referred to as Ms. Bea Yotch (I'm assuming that's not her real name)) whom I did not know and had not spoken to said, "If he gets too heavy, I'll hold him for you."

You don't think I'm capable, do you, woman? I do this all day long, sometimes with Zoey in the other arm. Besides, I still get a little nervous when other members of our family hold him. Like I'd really trust a complete stranger.

"I'm fine," I replied. "I'm used to carrying this big fellow around." I then went into my spiel about how big he has been at various stages in his life (it's a wonder I don't carry his developmental chart around with me) just to make friendly conversation.

Zed began to get cranky so I gave him a bottle. Ms. Yotch was staring at us the whole time. Finally she said, "Most husbands wouldn't do what you do." I always pity the women who say things like that to me (I hear it a lot) because I know what they really want to say is "My husband would never do what you do."

So I gave her my stock reply, "I wouldn't trade it for the world," because:

• It's the truth.
• It's no big deal and don't know why others make such a big deal out of it. They wouldn't say the same thing to a woman.
• I have trouble dealing with compliments, especially from complete strangers.
  

After he finished his bottle, Zed drifted off to sleep. Ms. Yotch just sat there, smiling at him. She was really beginning to creep me out. Finally, she looked at me and said, "Do you have a blanket to cover him with?" Look, lady, leave me alone. I'm not his baby sitter. I'm his father. I think I know what I'm doing.

"No," I replied, "he'd end up in a large pool of sweat." She was quiet for a few seconds before adding, "Their body temperature drops when they're sleeping."

Evil Chag was ready to curse this woman out. He began wrestling control of my mouth from Good Chag. But then the kids entered the room, so he slinked back to the dark recesses of my mind to think his evil thoughts.

One of the little girls in Helen's class took one look at Ms. Yotch and said, "Mommy, where are her real eyebrows? Why did she draw some eyebrows on her head?"

Evil Chag laughed. I promptly invited the little girl over to my house for milk and cookies. Her mom just looked at me funny and rushed out of the room. Guess she was a Type II.