August 14, 2012 at 11:39 pm , by Nick Shell

20 months.

I’ve never called my son “Buddy.”

No, it’s not that I’m one of those parents who takes things too seriously; proclaiming that calling my son such a casual nickname willcause him to respect me less in the long run.

Nor am I bitter that my dad wouldn’t let me get a My Buddy doll when I was a kid in the Eighties, so therefore I just boycott the word altogether.

Ultimately, I just don’t think I have the right personality for it. I watch my good friend (andthe most talented photographer I know) Joe Hendricks play with his son:

“Hey there little Buddy! Look at you starting to walk! That’s my main man! What a champ!”

That will never be me. I’ll never talk like that. I could never pull it off.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

It’s just that my friend Joe is more of a Buddy kind of guy than I am or ever will be.

He is the epitome of the nickname “Buddy.” Not only does everyone I know happen to know Joe, but he’s the kind of guy you want to be your friend if he’s not already.

As for me, I’m more an introvert/extrovert hybrid. And I never refer to my own friends by that word. I never say, “Yeah, last weekend me and one of my buddies…”.

I use the much less interesting and affectionate term, friend, instead for my… friends.

So what word do I use for my son when I am talking to my him?

Son.

As I unpack my subconscious on this, I realize that I enjoy reminding myself that I am his father. I find a lot of my value as a human being in being a dad.

I suppose I choose son because it makes me feel good about myself. It carries this idea of mentorship, especially when I use it to instruct him:

“Alright Son, pick up your toys, then we can go downstairs and watch Elmo.”

“Son, come with me. We’re going to try out our new jogging stroller.”

“You have a good night, Son. I love you.”

To me, the word carries a lot of emotional and spiritual meaning with it. Plus, it goes without saying that packaged into the word son is friend.

But it’s all personal preference and it doesn’t matter in the end.

The dads who call their son “Buddy” are doing what’s right for them and their relationship with their son, as are those of us who use another name instead.

People show affection and emotion in different ways. And I think all this talk right now about a man calling his son “Buddy” is just simply a reflection of that.

June 14, 2012 at 10:38 pm , by Nick Shell

A year and a half.

I’m gonna say it: I’m suffering from “over-awareness awareness.”

What started out as noble and respectable causes, the use of awareness ribbons on cars and on the Internet has now officially jumped the shark.

Earlier this week I was driving behind a car displaying  a “zombie awareness” ribbon magnet, with an image of a rotten brain oozing out.

And another car promoting Labradoodle Awareness. Um, okay. I’m aware. Now what?

So I figured today, I might as well add to the noise. I hereby introduce to you the “Non-Doofus Dad Awareness” ribbon.

One of the re-occurring themes here on The Dadabase has always been an attempt to stigmatize the practice of making dads and husbands out to be idiots; especially in ads and sitcoms.

Yeah, remember the whole Huggies fiasco not too long ago? Oops.

This week more than one person forwarded me an article from Adweek entitled “The Demise of the Doofus Dad in Ads: A backlash against the bumbling father figure is paving the way for Superdad” by Heather Chaet.

It felt good to read such an on-target article reiterating what I’ve been saying for a long time. Here’s the meat of it:

“The garden-variety parent, regardless of gender, suffers from sleep deprivation, wrangles pickups for play dates and hopelessly dodges pointy little plastic things strewn across the kitchen floor…”.

Chaet goes on to point out in her article that for many parenting couples under the age of 30, Mommy is now making more money than Daddy:

“But as the family dynamic has changed, with more women becoming educated and entering the workforce and men sharing more of the load at home, the doofus dad—an increasingly extinct figure in the culture—nonetheless has remained a fixture in some ad campaigns.”

Like many Generation Y dads, I don’t make as much money as my wife; not to mention she has a Master’s Degree and I don’t.

So if I can’t be the main bread winner or the most educated, I at least want to know I can get one thing right these days: being a good dad.

Therefore, it’s never funny or cute for anyone (whether in my private life or on a TV commercial) to portray me as anything less than competent as a husband and father.

No, I don’t have to be drawn up like I’m Superdad. But just as I wouldn’t want my wife to be portrayed in a condescending manner in pop culture as a mom, I don’t want to be an outdated stereotype either.

It’s not just being represented as a Doofus Dad that annoys me. I also loathe being lumped into the categories of Dead-Beat Dad, Absentee Dad, or at best, Would-Rather-Watch-Sports-Than-Spend-Time-With-My-Kid Dad.

Two years ago, fellow Nashville blogger Jon Acuff brought to my attention a sadly familiar tradition in churches with his blog post, “The Wild Difference Between A Mother’s Day Sermon And A Father’s Day Sermon.” And I quote:

“One feels like a Lifetime movie, the other an episode of ‘Scared Straight,’ where high school students are forced to listen to convicts yell at them about their lives.”

So this is why I have created the Non-Doofus Dad Awareness Ribbon. Because I am proud to be a good dad. Iam not a doofus.

Sure, I’ve got my dorky side, but I’m a darn good dad; just like every dad out there reading this today.

Hey, it’s pretty much a given that if you read Parents magazine and The Dadabase, you’re automatically one of the good dads; representing the majority, not the stereotyped minority.

So like a kid on the playground trying to get his frenemy in trouble for cussing, I will make better effort to “out” the companies and organizations still doing those stupid dad-bashing ads.

At the risk of being considered a doofus, I am proudly displaying my Non-Doofus Dad Awareness Ribbon on myPinterest and Facebook.

You’re welcome to join me; all you fellow dads who are equally annoyed by these insulting concepts of husbands forgetting their wife’s birthday and being all grossed out over changing a dirty diaper.

December 18, 2011 at 7:34 am , by Nick Shell

13 months.

For the past five months, while driving my son home each day, he has always dozed off to the sounds of Weezer or The Red Hot Chili Peppers. I have depended on him getting that nap every day. But over the last week, that has changed.

I think it’s because of a number of things. It’s now dark when I pick him up from KinderCare, so I imagine it makes it more difficult for him to fall asleep. Plus he’s transitioning into the toddler class now. He doesn’t want to drink formula anymore, just solid foods and water.

All these changes at once are surely effecting his psyche.

So now, on the drive home each day, he cries and screams as loud as he can. There is only one remedy.

In an act which is the equivalent to me standing on the tips of my toes, I reach back to his rear-facing car seat and use my pointer and middle fingers to lightly tap the top of his head and forehead. He instantly stops wailing; becoming silent.

After my entire arm begins falling asleep, I take my hand away to let the blood start flowing again. It typically takes about 8 seconds for him to realize what has happened and then he’s back to screaming.

I can’t help but laugh. I mean, it’s pretty hilarious that my son cries as hard as he can until I start tapping the top of his head again. It’s funny how something that stupid can solve the problem; and that it’s the only way to solve the problem.

Yes, it’s ridiculous. But it’s also pretty humbling.

Though I continually am aware of how unworthy and unqualified I am to give life to another human being and soul, and to raise him on top of that, it’s little things like this that begin to convince me otherwise.

Maybe in some capacity I actually am chosen to do this job. Even if I don’t believe in myself as a dad, God evidently does.

After all, just the presence of the tips of two of my fingers dancing along to the drum beat of whatever rock song is playing through the stereo speakers is all he needs.

Literally, that’s all he needs. Every once in a while he’ll reach up and grab onto my pinky, as to hold my hand, but only for a few seconds. Then he lets go.

I know him. That’s just our shared style of father and son bonding. If he’s going to hold someone’s hand, it’s going to be Mommy’s.

Apparently, I am helping him cope with being afraid of the dark by him feeling my constant movement, as to scare the ghosts and monsters away.