parenting

Leave a comment Posted on Nostalgia, parenting

I Am Worth Following, According to My Son

June 16, 2011 at 9:14 pm , by 

Seven months.

In the age of Facebook and Twitter, I never have to tell my son to “like” me or “follow me.”

Since learning to crawl, Jack uses every opportunity to make use of his newly acquired skill.  He’s like an SUV in human baby form. If my wife or I are sitting down on the floor with him as he is playing, he will make an effort to go out of his way to purposely crawl over our legs- if nothing else, to prove to himself he can handle it.

He obviously is always up for a new challenge.  Tossing the TV remote controller a few feet away from him is no longer an inspiring incentive.  Crossing the room is no longer that big of a deal to him anymore.  Instead, Jack’s newest self-induced challenge is to crawl from one side of the house to the other.  But not for an electronic device or the newest, coolest toy he could imagine.

Instead, I am his motivation.

When I come home from work every day, after greeting him and my wife, I typically go two rooms away to brush my teeth (I’m sort of obsessed with personal hygiene) and change into some more comfortable clothes and a hat.  By the time I’m done, I look up, and there he is:

So proud of himself that he journeyed the baby equivalent of the length of a basketball court to get to me.  And of course, I’m always so proud of him.  The best part is the big toothless smile on his face every time.  It’s always a highlight each time he does it.

Sometimes when he follows me across the house, he doesn’t stop crawling until he runs into my ankles.  And then he just stays there with his forehead leaning against my leg and his cold, clammy hands on my toes.  Other times, he will squeeze through between my ankles, offering up an obligatory grunt as if it’s a tight fit for him.

Honestly, when he follows me around the house, Jack reminds me of a little puppy or a kitten; who can’t talk, but who can show his affection and admiration by his gravitation towards me.  And yeah, that makes me feel pretty dang cool.

So while it’s always cool to realize I’ve gained a few more Twitter followers or a handful of “likes” for that day’s Dadabase post, nothing can compare to a little blond haired baby boy who thinks I’m the Shazbot.

He “likes” me the most and is one persistent “follower.”  And I just never want to let the little fella down.

As you may have noticed at the very top of the post, it no longer says “Six months.”  That’s because today, Jack is officially 7 months old!

Leave a comment Posted on Nostalgia, parenting

Man’s Constant Awareness of His Need to Provide

June 15, 2011 at 7:53 pm , by 

Six months.

The Dadabase

For a nostalgic guy like me, it can be very difficult to “live in the moment.”  And that’s not a good thing when it comes to being present in body, mind, and spirit as a husband and father.  Not to mention,  it’s sort of impossible for me to stop thinking about how I will provide for my wife and son.

In 1996, while most other 15 year-olds were listening to cool alternative grunge bands like The Smashing Pumpkins, Bush, and Stone Temple Pilots, I additionally had something they didn’t have: a cassette tape of the first album by The O.C. Supertones.

You’re probably familiar with hearing someone say “I grew up really Jewish… bar mitzvah, the whole deal….”  Even if it was simply Seth Rogen on Conan who said it, you understand the concept of “growing up really Jewish.”

Well, I “grew up really Christian.”  I learned to play the guitar in Junior High because I led the music for my church’s youth group on Wednesday and Sunday nights.  Every summer I went on a mission trip to a different state or country, doing repairs on widow’s homes during the day, then participating in drama and singing performances at city parks in the afternoons.  (Yes, I had a trendy W.W. J. D? bracelet.)

And while DC Talk was the coolest Christian rock band back in the those days, I also was a huge grassroots promoter of The O.C. Supertones- the main Gospel ska band of the ’90′s.

Last week as I felt like listening to nothing but all of their albums back-to-back, a line from their song “Unknown” stood out to me.  I have been listening to that song for 15 years but it finally made sense to me at a time when I needed to hear it most:

“Killing ourselves faster than fast; living in the future, living in the past.” I haven’t been able to shake the thought of how constantly I do just that:  I participate in the self-destructive behavior of either A) dwelling on how I should have/could have/would have done things differently in my past, if I was able or B) dwelling on how much better life will be a decade from now when my problems will hopefully have worked themselves out.

I realize that with all the positive vibes I constantly send out in my daily writings here on The Dadabase, I may sometimes make my version of being a dad and husband seem easier than it actually is.  And perhaps it seems that Jack never causes any stress for my wife or I.  But despite my optimism and quirkiness, my life is as normal as they come.  I encounter the same basic stresses as all other dads and husbands.

Admittedly, I question some of my past decisions and actions.  And I seriously wonder about my future; financially.

The Dadabase

Since moving from our secure jobs in Nashville before Jack arrived, we now live on a much smaller single income, with a kid.  Yeah, the thought of money stresses me out big time. Living here in Alabama now, I can’t provide for them the same way I used to.  Money sure isn’t everything, but Nashville’s good economy definitely eased things in my mind.

As I am wired to do, I ultimately feel responsible for providing for my family. So I question the version of myself who a few years ago led me to make the decisions to get me here today.  And I often fantasize about a future time when I won’t feel the stress that I am feeling now.

Of course, my making a habit of mentally time traveling is not a good thing. Because if I keep going back far enough, I may fantasize about a time when I had no real responsibilities and no family of my own.  And it is nothing but counter-productive and selfish to subconsciously covet the 21 year old college version of myself who made money by selling egg rolls and Hot Pockets from the mini-fridge in my college dorm.

The weight of my responsibilities is constantly on my mind.  Will I be able to care for my family?  Am I good enough for them?  Should I have gotten something other than an English degree a decade ago in college, so I could be assured I’d make enough money to be the breadwinner at age 30?

This is an honest, vulnerable look into a guy’s brain.  I’m never unaware of my need to provide. Never.

Other men have greater or less financial concerns and decisions to make.  But still, as men, we are perpetually terrified of the realistic demon who reminds us that nothing we can do is ever enough.

It’s a matter of reminding myself that that even the ravens, who don’t even sow or reap, who don’t have storerooms or barns, are still fed. And I am much more valuable than a bird.

The Dadabase

 

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Cabbage Patch Kids Babyland Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia

June 14, 2011 at 9:29 pm , by 

Six months.

Cabbage Patch Babyland

A few days before leaving for my 30th birthday weekend getaway in Dahlonega, Georgia, my sister asked if we were going to be anywhere close to the Cabbage Patch nursery called “Babyland.”  It turns out, the bed and breakfast we would be staying at was conveniently just about 20 minutes away.  Accidently awesome! (That’s one of my new catch phrases that will soon sweep the nation like “just saying” as well as one. word. sentences.).

By the way, my parents kept Jack for us that weekend.  That’s why you won’t see him in these pictures.

Babyland is one of those legendary places where if you grew up in the South and in the Eighties like I did, you’ve heard about it- almost wondering if it’s just a fabricated urban legend.  Mainly all I knew about it was that you could go visit a nursery of Cabbage Patch dolls- like a real nursery. Well, if it involves a random adventure, my wife and I will be the first in line.

Cabbage Patch Babyland

I will just say this right off the from the start: I highly recommend going to Cabbage Patch Kids Babyland.  First of all, it’s free admission.  Granted, it’s sort of out in the middle of nowhere, but for us, that was part of the allure.  The building itself is a new, beautiful mansion.  When we walked in, we asked a stranger to take our picture as we sat in a giant head of cabbage.

cabbage patch doll

Cabbage Patch

Then we walked through the nursery with the “crying” (recorded baby noises running through the speakers in the ceiling) Cabbage Patch babies. Next we entered the grand room where the main attraction is the actual cabbage patch itself- where the Cabbage Patch babies heads are “sprouting up.”  It made me think of that game at Chuck E. Cheese’s where you try to hit the gopher when it pops out of the hole, but you never know which one it will come out.  There where all these baby heads and they would randomly start moving- but you never knew which one would be next.  It entertained me, perhaps more than it should have.

cabbage patch

babyland cabbage patch

The whole place is like a huge nostalgic museum featuring the history of all versions of the Cabbage Patch Dolls, mixed with the ultimate Cabbage Patch Doll store.  When Jack gets older, my wife and will look forward to taking him there. The Cabbage Patch Kids Babyland is not just for girls.  I would be completely confident in taking my son just because I know how mesmerized he would be by all the magical moving baby heads.

babyland cabbage patch

So if you’re planning to be driving through northern Georgia in the near future, consider going a bit out of route and taking your kids to this one-of-a-kind palace. I can assure you that you will be just as entertained as your kids, because with all the retro memorabilia there, it’s a ticket straight back to 1983.  And who wouldn’t want to go back to 1983? Seriously.

cabbage patch

Cabbage Patch

Leave a comment Posted on parenting, Storytelling

Jack the Ripper: A Real Gas Act

June 13, 2011 at 10:01 pm , by 

Six months.

The DadabaseHere at The Dadabase, I try to keep things classy, but it doesn’t help when Jack would rather keep them gassy.

I only know what it’s like to have a little boy.  If my wife and I ever have a daughter, I’m sure things will be dramatically different.  One of the main differences I wonder about is if baby girls are as gassy as my son.

Males are expected to be funny.  And Jack definitely is.  Even as a newborn with closed eyes who slept most of the time, Jack made a habit of breaking the ice (by breaking the wind) with every new person who would hold him.  It was his way of saying, “Hi, nice to meet you.”  A bit of an initiation for each new person, as well.

Nearly seven months later, Jack’s still practicing his potty humor.  Last Sunday as I was driving home after church, my wife reminded me that we needed to stop the car for gas.  Right on cue, Jack did his part to help: “Ppppffffffthhh…”.

The Dadabase

Later that day, I was holding Jack out on the front porch, letting him gaze at the sheep farm across the street.  One of the farm workers pulled up in a red pick-up truck.  He had the windows open and the radio on.  A Pat Benetar song was playing: “Hit me with your best shot… Fire away!”

So Jack did.  Like he actually knew what he was doing.

I can’t keep from laughing out loud at his gas antics, especially when we make conversation with Jack and his response is simply “ppppffffffthhh…”.  It’s as if to say to us, “You know what I think about that…?”

The Dadabase

In his head, he has already associated his “gas leaks” with humor.  Even when he’s not feeling himself, I can make the (in)appropriate sound with my mouth, and without fail, Jack immediately starts laughing out loud.  Sure, I’ll eventually have to teach him to behave properly in public as he gets old enough to understand manners and self-control.  But until then, Jack gets a free pass on passing gas.

And I guess that’s one of the many reasons that children take us back to a more carefree place.  Without worrying  about social expectations, without having to appear to always keep it all together, without a necessary world of concerns, children ultimately remind us of a time when the biggest problem in life was that Teddy Ruxpin’s size D batteries needed to be replaced.

For what it’s worth, it took four of those stupid batteries.

The Dadabase

Leave a comment Posted on Nostalgia, parenting

Boys Should Be Boys: Raising a Bambino

June 12, 2011 at 8:17 pm , by 

Six months.

Do you raise a boy baby differently because he is a boy instead of a girl?  Should you treat him any differently because of his gender?  The obvious, implied, correct answer is “yes.”

As if this wasn’t already established, I’ll just go ahead and put this out there: I can be a bit funny about stuff sometimes. And I don’t mean “ha ha” funny.  I mean “peculiar.”  I’m just set in my quirky ways, leaving others to deal with the flashes of absurdity.

bambino

That being said, I’m realizing already how particular I am with how I raise Jack.  I know he’s only 6 months old and it’s basically irrelevant now to even think about these things, but it’s important to me that he is seen as a boy, not simply a baby. For example, Jack doesn’t use a “passy”; he uses a pacifier. “Passy” sounds way to much like “prissy.”

And when he gets a little older, he won’t be drinking from a “sippy cup,” which to me sounds like “sissy cup.”  Instead, he will be drinking from what I cleverly named his “bambino cup.”  (“Bambino” is Italian for “little boy.”)

I don’t like words that sound like they should be referring to what a cute little girl would say.   Yes, Jack is a baby, and he’s not yet a little boy- but he is a boy baby. It matters to me that he is treated appropriately masculine even in his first several months of life.

That being said, I should go ahead and point out some irony.  With a new cousin on the way (my sister is pregnant with a little girl, due July 2nd), when we take Jack to my sister and her husband’s house, he gets to try out some of his cousin’s toys before she gets here.  I have no problem whatsoever with Jack playing on an all pink play pad with a pink bird that plays a sort of girly song when he pulls it. Why not? Because it’s so obvious that he’s “messing around” with a girl’s toy.  It’s funny and ironic and something to joke about.

I carry Jack around with necessary caution, but I’m not too delicate with him.  He is an adventurous boy.  Sometimes as he’s rolling around on the floor he slightly bumps the back of his head down on the carpet rug, loud enough to make a [thud!] sound.  When he even notices that he’s “supposed” to be hurt, he gets over it in about two seconds.  Especially when he checks our facial expressions to get confirmation that he really he is okay.  Then it’s back to rolling around.

Jack will have manners when he gets older; he will say “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.”  He will be respectful and well-behaved to both adults and his peers.  I will make sure of it. He will be a Southern gentleman.  And even so, he will get into some (innocent) trouble.

He will break a window with a baseball.  He will stay out too long playing out in the woods and worry me that he’s not home yet.  He will step out to the line of danger but will be smart enough not to cross it.

There’s nothing wrong with letting a boy be a boy.  And that’s coming from a former little boy who broke a window and stayed out past dinner time because I was having fun playing in the woods.  But I also knew how to behave in public.  So if there’s anything delicate about being a boy, it’s the crucial balance of being “rough and tumble” along with knowing when to say “please”and “thank you.”

Granted, it’s all about raising a well-balanced son.  Being involved in music and art are just as important as being a boy scout and playing sports.  Any of those activities he wants to do and he enjoys, I will encourage him- whether he’s artistic, athletic, or equally both.  As for me, I was never an athlete (or a good one, at least) and it ultimately led me to have an interest in writing- which is why you are reading this today.

Unnecessary Bonus:

All this testosterone in the air is causing me to consider renaming my blog.  I could just see it now…

Randy Savage Italian Jewish

Artwork courtesy of Jeremy Schultz.