Looky, Daddy!

Ask The Dad

Dear The Dad

My husband and I are expecting our first child in April. We are both currently working, but my job pays better than his plus it has better benefits. Once or twice I spoke with him about maybe staying home with the baby while I continue to work, but he said he's not interested. Actually, he said being a stay-at-home dad wasn't "manly" enough.

My husband would be great with a kid, I know, plus it makes A LOT more sense financially if he stays home instead of me. What do you think I should do?

Thanks,

Wife of a Manly Man, Cedar Park, TX

Dear Wifely Wife,

Not manly enough? NOT MANLY ENOUGH? Ma'am, your husband clearly has no idea about the definition of manly.

Commuting to and from work is not manly. Sitting behind a desk is not manly. Attending meetings is not manly. Reading emails, memos, or quarterly reports is not manly. Working for the Man is not manly.

Manly means one thing and one thing only: Having sex. And not just any old sex. It means having good sex, life-changing sex, baby-making sex.

Being a stay-at-home dad is the only job I know of  in which you push around, in a stroller, for all the world to see, the evidence of really great sex. What could be manlier than that?

I walk around my town, pushing my girls in their big, massive SUV of a stroller, yelling out in my booming voice, "Look upon me, housewives of New Jersey! See what I hath wrought! I am the twin-maker, the maker of twins! Look upon my deeds with awe and wonder!"

Women, both young and old, swoon before me. Men, their manliness dulled by years of pencil-pushing, quake in my presence. I am easily the most manly man you will ever meet.

So tell your wuss of a husband that he's wrong, but it doesn't really matter anyway. Tell him he's not nearly manly enough to be a stay-at-home dad. Very few men are.

And that is probably a good thing.

Cheers,

The Dad

Got a question for The Dad? Email me.

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Mr The Dad Goes to Washington

Today's post will be a short one, as I just got back from a quick weekend trip to DC to listen to my dad deliver a speech to a museum full of important people that would have easily laughed themselves out of their chairs had they known a stay-at-home dad was in their midst. (And no, thankfully, my dad is not a politician. He's a homebuilder. Actually, he's the National Homebuilder of the Year due to his remarkably high-performing building techniques and his recent construction of a "zero-energy" house outside of Dallas. Not that I'm proud of him or anything.)

Anyway, on the Friday morning before I felt, as I was driving Kathryn and Camilo to school, Kathryn asked me in her timid (read: whiney) voice, "Daddy, how long are you going to be gone?"

I explained that I would only be gone for two nights (two nights! Just remembering it causes me to get a little weak in the knees) and that I'd be back in time to take her to school again Monday morning.

Kathryn is just a tiny bit attached to her dad and she replied with a very sad, almost teary, "Okay."

Silence followed. Impossibly, Camilo and the twins were even quiet, too, perhaps sensing the gravity of the situation in Kathryn's mind. So I lamely tried to make light of my little trip with a couple of dumb jokes. It didn't work.

"Dad?" Kathryn began, her whine approaching the upper register of human hearing.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Can you be gone longer? Momma said we would have ice cream every day that you are gone."

And the Winner Is...

Before I announce the winner, although I must say it is hard to build up suspence when all you have to do is go click on the poll and you'll know who won, I'd like to take a moment and thank all of you. Your participation in this haiku contest has set the bar really, really high for any future contests that the Looky, Daddy! team might organize. (The team, by the way, consists of me and me alone. If I let the The Mom help plan contests, we'd have the see-how-quickly-The-Dad-can-stop-blogging-and-put-away-these-three-baskets-of-clean-laundry contest with the prize being The-Mom-not-unplugging-his-computer-again.)

Many, many thanks are in order for our guest-judge, Emily, from Dream/Baby Haiku. She had an unenviable task and handled it with the same grace, style, and wit which makes her blog such a fun read. Thank you, Emily.

Re-reading your 134 haiku, (134 haiku!), I feel that they contain some lessons that I would be remiss not to extract and share with you. They are:

• Most parents only like their kids while their kids are sleeping.
• Poop up to the neck is a sublime literary device.
• It takes six syllables for a baby to fall down the stairs.
• Having twins keeps many parents awake at night. The thought of having twins keeps the rest awake, too.
• Babies are messy. Really, really messy. Over a quarter of the submissions were about poop, pee, spit-up, or spilled milk.
• The more sleep deprived you are, the more likely thinking in haiku will drive you over the brink.
• Our species would have become extinct long ago if children didn't smile and giggle at just the right moments.
• In a house with kids, quiet moments are moments to be feared.
• "Sensory integration dysfunction" has ten syllables. "Homeostasis" has five.
• I'm glad I don't lactate.
• Cuddle and swaddle your kids all you like, they'll still pee on you when they get the chance. (Or in their own ear. Who knew?)
• Anonymous off-topic submissions to my blog are most often made by the dad of The Dad.
• I should not read, or even re-read your submissions while drinking hot coffee.
• And most importantly, the good people at Vizu polls have no math skills whatsoever. I hope nobody calls for a recount on this thing, because at last glance, the top five entries each received over 20% of the vote for a total of 119%, with the other five entries garnering an additional 45% of the vote for a grand total of 164%. That is a figure even Florida would have to question. So, not to take the wind out of the winner's sails, but, honestly, God only knows who really won. Or maybe JHC.

But nevertheless, we are gathered here to present you with a champion so, without further ado, I hereby announce that champion to be Uneven Exchange by EOMama.

Uneven Exchange

Once worked for money

Now work for tyrants who pay

In boogers and poo

Now, EOMama, if for some reason you are unable to accept your prize of coffee, chocolate-covered espresso beans, and donuts (perchance you are Mormon or there is no Krispy Kreme near you) then the aforementioned Looky, Daddy! team will happily accept the prize on your behalf.

Otherwise, EOMama, I'll send the prizes out to you tout de suite. That way they can sit there in your house, teasing you as you slowly recover from that stomach virus your kids gave you yesterday.

Enjoy!

The 10 Haiku Finalists

Well, here they are. Emily did a truly heroic job of narrowing down our entries (and I'm not just saying that because The Mom's haiku made the cut) and now it is up to you. Check out the finalists below and then vote for your two favorite haiku in the poll that follows.

Feel free to campaign all you want in the comments section. Finalists, why should they choose yours? Readers, why do you like the ones you chose? Authors who didn't make the cut, why has your genius been ignored? But remember, at LookyDaddy, everyone is a winner. Except for you. That's just the way it goes sometimes.

To begin, here's a haiku from Emily:

With Honor to All

What a bright display

Of literary loving -

How lucky we are!

Now, I present the Finalists:

#1 The Breast Pump

Black Backpack Pulses

In a Quiet Room Mom Hides

Milk Overflowing

posted by Amy

EM's comment: This has rhythm and a really clear image. Been there, done that, too.

#2 Watch What You Say

Sweet girl two years old

Playing with toys, frustrated

When she says, "Oh fut."

posted by John

EM's comment: Very futty.

#3 Little and Sweet

Cooing "swim like fish"

Baby butts are adorable

Hineys in the bath

posted by The Mom

EM's comment: Too cute. Extra points for using the word "hineys".

#4 Dad Is Not Confused

Nipple Confusion

No question if bad or good

They Are Never Bad

posted by Noodad

EM's comment: Sound Like Confucius. Wink Like Grasshopper.

#5 Uneven Exchange

Once worked for money

Now work for tyrants who pay

In boogers and poo

posted by EOMama

EM's comment: Special award for best use of the p-word.

#6 Untitled

your dirty face, socks

rolled down, i relive my youth

chocolate kisses

posted by cstarling

EM's comment: Daring yet precise use of form, elegant thought.

#7 Life with the Atypical Child: A Haiku in Five Parts

when the crying stops

the laughter spills from your breath

ah, the joy of you

they told me you had

sensory integration

dysfunction at four

it all makes sense this

diagnosis. Not a bad

boy, just needs some help

now with therapy

your grin is as wide as Earth

I can do it mom!

you have come so far

have worked so hard, we know now

success is your smile

posted by Liesel Elliott

EM's comment: Okay, I'm counting this one as one big epic haiku. Call it accommodation. The subject warrants it. Rock on, boy!

# 8 Untitled

the smooth, velvety

skin on your round cheek gives like

a ripe peach when kissed

posted by G

EM's comment: That's so darn right I can smell it.

#9 The Joy of Sucks

Passy is like crack

She may never give it up

Binky at college?

posted by Farley

EM's comment: I do like a little humor in my haiku, but this would never pass the content controls at schools. My blog doesn't either.

#10 Untitled

Little smile so sweet

And then you scream for hours

All so wonderful

posted by Don Emerson

EM's comment: Up and down and up again, zen-like balance.

Ah, Sweet Relief!

It is now 12:01 AM on Tuesday, November 14th, and I do hereby declare the Haiku-a-thon to be over! And not a moment too soon. My wife has threatened me with bodily harm and even divorce if I paused in the middle of one more conversation to count off syllables in my head. (She was bluffing about the divorce, though. Long ago we made the rule, borrowed from my parents, that the first one of us to file for divorce automatically gets the kids. We think it's the secret to a long, if not necessarily happy, marriage.)

So now it's up to our guest-judge extraordinarre, Emily of Dream/Baby Haiku. By tomorrow (Wednesday), she'll have whittled the vast number of haiku down to a mere 10 or so. Then I'll post those finalists and you, Gentle Reader, will have the chance to vote on the winner.

Stay tuned...

Something Special

Well, if the ongoing haiku-a-thon has taught us anything, it is that parents are obsessed with poop. Really obsessed. I mean seriously, people. Poop, poop, and poop. That’s all that parenting is about, really. Which brings us to one of those questions that you never find in a parenting book, but you really need to know and answer before you ever even think about procreating.

Of course there are hundreds of questions that you and your spouse need to answer before you venture into the swampy morass of parenthood, but none are more important than the name question. No, I’m not talking about the name of your prospective child. You can name your child almost anything. Truly. You can name your wee one Princess Babylove, if you want. (And yes, it is important to state here that I do know a child named Princess Babylove. That is her name. Princess Babylove. I’m going to write it once more, because I know that each time I write it, it means that hundreds of readers will subsequently read it. Princess Babylove. Maybe if I write it again, LookyDaddy will shoot to the top of the list for any Google searches using the terms "Princess" and "Babylove." That would please me immensely. Princess Babylove.) Anyway, my point is that once you've said a name enough times, it's strangeness wears off. Any name, no matter how far-fetched or ridiculous it sounds, will, after you say it a few dozen times, seem perfectly normal.

"Hey, Kathryn. That was Princess Babylove’s mom on the phone. She invited you over for a playdate. Want to go?"

"A playdate with Princess Babylove! You bet!"

No, it is not your kids' names that should give you pause, it is the name of their poop.

For the first six years of your child’s life, there is nothing, no single substance, that you will speak of more than poop. It will pervade your discussions in the same way its odor pervades your house. You will talk about poop to your spouse, your friends, your baby, and sometimes, when your sanity is at more of an ebb than a flow, yourself. And thus, what you call it is of utmost importance.

You can choose to be edgy, cavalier, and cool by using grown-up names for your child’s excrement. This is, apparently, a popular tactic up here in the godless northeast, but I feel I would be doing my readers a disservice if I did not strongly warn against this. Remember, whatever you call it now is what your sweet darling will call it in five years. To their kindergarten teacher.

"Mrs. Doohickey? I need to take a dump."

You can go with the old American standby of "Number Two." This is a popular option, with many obvious benefits, but it does have the unfortunate side effect of reducing your kids to helpless giggles when they start to learn arithmetic. Plus I have learned from experience that most kids have absolutely no idea which number they need to make until they are actually making it, throwing the whole number system into chaos.

But whatever you do, don’t do what my friend’s parents did. My friend, whom I will call Andrew because that’s his name, had parents that went the cute route. They named it Something Special.

"Mommy, I need to go potty."

"Do you need to make Something Special?"

Andrew told me once that his parents' use of the Something Special moniker was so persistent and pervasive that, in his mind, those words will never refer to anything other than crap. Andrew is now in his forties and is still known to cringe when a waiter says, "Today we have Something Special on the menu."

The unknowing cruelty of these well-meaning parents becomes apparent very easily:

"Are you planning to do Something Special for your birthday?"

"Ho ho ho. Do you want Something Special for Christmas this year, little boy?"

"I made you Something Special for dinner."

"Why don’t we go back to my place? I’ve got Something Special in mind for you, big boy."

Andrew told me that he still feels uncomfortable flying a certain domestic air-carrier due to their mid-1980’s ad campaign, "We’re American Airlines. Something Special in the air."

I've been so tickled by Andrew's oft-repeated stories of poop-related horror and wonder that I am sorely tempted to make t-shirts for people in the know (that means you, Gentle Reader) like this:

   

You know, as I am reading over this before I post it, something I never do often enough, I am a little concerned that Andrew might not be too thrilled about me posting about him in this way. So, if you don't mind, Gentle Reader, can you go back and pretend that I've been using a pseudonym for him? Something manly, like Roger.

Or Princess Babylove.

Single White Female

I'm in fear for Lila's life. It was funny at first. In fact, everybody laughed. The twins laughed. I laughed. Other people who heard it laughed.

But only Victoria's laughing now.

Let me backtrack. It is well known that toddlers think that adults are idiots. I ask my little girls what sound a cow makes at least 20 times a day. They always happily answer, but you can kind of see in their eyes a look that says, "You, sir, are a moron." At least that's the look they give me with 99% of the animal sounds I ask them to make. It is only when I ask for a dog sound that the look changes. Then I get total silence and a dammit-the-big-man-is-trickier-than-we-thought look of vacancy and embarrassment. My girls are incapable of making a dog sound.

It's probably my fault. I could never decide if dogs say woof-woof, arf-arf, bow-wow, ruff-ruff, or, my favorite, the Japanese wan-wan. So as a result of being given too many choices, the twins are paralyzed like apoplectic deer in headlights when asked this most common of questions.

But none of this is why I think Lila is in danger. I'm getting to that. Be patient.

Animal sounds are not the only idiotic questions we parents pepper our children with. Far from it. And the latest question in the LookyDaddy household is, "What is your name?"

I place my hand on Lila's head. "What's your name?"

"Lila!"

I place my hand on Victoria's head. "And what's your name?"

"Lila!"

Both twins scamper off, giggling.

It used to be funny. Now only Victoria laughs. "I Lila! Tee hee hee!" And Lila and I look at each other nervously. Lila's not old enough to understand the intracacies of persona mimicry or identity theft, but she does know that there's only one Lila, and she's worried that soon it might not be her.

I live in constant fear that one day, after nap, I'll go in to the twins' room and there will be just one baby.

"Where's Lila?"

"Lila? I Lila! Tee hee hee."

But for now, Victoria is showing no signs of appropriating anything other than the name. Still, I'm keeping my eyes on her. And maybe I'll install a nanny-cam in the nursery. Just in case.

Haiku-a-thon

You may have noticed a new site on my blogroll: Dream/Baby Haiku. This blog was brought to my attention this past weekend and I think it's brilliant. You should definitely check it out. Right now. Go ahead. The rest of this post will wait until you get back. Now shoo!

So over the weekend I emailed Emily, the writer of those brilliant haikus (haiki?) and asked her if she would be a guest-judge for a LookyDaddy haiku-a-thon, to which she graciously agreed.

So here's the deal: Compose a 5-7-5 haiku related in some way to the raising of children. Then post it in the comment section. I'll be taking submissions from now until midnight on Monday, November 13th. There is no limit to the number of submissions you may make.

On Tuesday, the 14th, Emily will, using whatever mystical means that poets use (perhaps she'll just count the syllables in each line), cull the haiku submissions down to five finalists. Then on Wednesday I'll take those five finalists and give you, Gentle Reader, the chance to vote for your favorite one.

The winner of the popular vote will receive an exclusive LookyDaddy Please Help Me Through Another Day with My Kids gift pack, which includes a pound of dark roast coffee, a pack of chocolate-covered espresso beans, and a gift certificate for a dozen glazed Krispy Kreme donuts. Mmm, tasty.

Just to get the ball rolling, here are a few originals penned by yours truly, The Dad. Enjoy them and then get to writing.

It’s Dad Again

Morning coos turn to

Hollers of disappointment

Different parent, please

Hot Dog

Render from a pig

The least appetizing cuts

Feed them to your kids

Shopping with Twins

With stupid questions

You impede my shopping cart

Should I mow you down?

Alone Time

Twins wail and bellow

How can he abandon us

As daddy goes poop

Carpools With Camilo, part 2

Christmas must be just around the corner. I know this not because I've seen the displays at the mall. I would rather participate in a voluntary study of some kind of particularly invasive and controversial surgery than take my girls to a mall. It is also not because of the cold snap that has hit the country. Cold snaps only affect those who go outside, and with the twins deeply rooted in the "I'll do it myself" stage, I think it's better for everyone concerned if they continue to spend most of their day indoors. In the bathroom. In the tub. Under a mattress. Guarded by fierce dogs.

But I digress.

I know that Christmas is upon us because Camilo and Kathryn have begun to argue about Jesus again. Believe it or not, this is a bit of a relief, because of late, our Carpools-with-Camilo arguments have avoided safe topics, such as religion, and gone into the social sphere. Apparently their elementary school is home to a little more than eight hundred thousand secret first-grade clubs and it is very important for both Kathryn and Camilo to loudly and repeatedly proclaim their (1) membership in, or (2) opposition to, each of these secret clubs.

There's the Spider Club, the Care Bear Club, the Baby Bear Club, the Magic Witch Club, the Lunchtime Club, the Playground Club, the Spider-Bear Club, the Baby Spider Lunchtime Club, the Magic Baby Care Bear Witch Club, and a bunch of others with names so complicated that it confirms my long-held suspicion that First Graders should never be allowed to congregate in groups greater than one.  And Kathryn and Camilo are in about half of these clubs and enemies of the other half. And it is very tiring.

But now Kathryn and Camilo are back on their old favorite, Jesus. Today's argument was about how Jesus died. Camilo was adamant that Jesus was hung. Kathryn was equally insistent that Jesus had been nailed to death. Both children brought forth a truly staggering list of supporting sources, pictures they had seen, videos they had watched, members of the clergy they had consulted, peyote buttons they had chewed, that proved with no doubt that they were correct. Finally, Kathryn turned to me.

"Daddy, how did Jesus die?"

But there was no way I was getting into this one. Not in an election year.

Does New Jersey Even Have a State Flower?

Never drive the back roads of Texas in the Spring to look at bluebonnets. It's simply too dangerous. You see, for every laid-back flower lover slowing down to gaze serenely at a field of these most beautiful of wildflowers, there are ten frantic parents in their monstrous SUVs careening around wildly looking for just the right field of blue in which to plop down their baby and start taking pictures.

And these parents are insane. I know because I was one of them.

These parents are juggling too many intangibles. First, there's the baby. A bluebonnet expedition requires that your baby be both awake and happy despite long hours in the car. Good luck with that.

Then there are the fields themselves. Despite how serene they look, most bluebonnet fields are either surrounded by big, ugly fences or next to an interstate highway. And all of them are infested with mound after mound of fire-ants.

Lastly there is fear. See, every Texan is told from an early age that it is illegal to pick bluebonnets. They are the State Flower and they are easily as revered as smoked brisket, high school football, and Republicans. So when you place your baby in the middle of a field of these sacred flowers and the first thing she does is grab, mangle, and destroy as many as she can reach, you put your camera down and start nervously looking around for the state police.

But Texans are a hardy lot and usually they finally get their picture. I got mine, and here it is.

Kathryn systematically destroyed over 300 bluebonnets that morning without ever pausing once to look up at the camera. We have been on the run ever since.