Looky, Daddy!

Good Masthead

August is wheezing out its last few humid breaths, and with its passing, our month-full-of-mastheads is also ending. Those of you who wrote at the beginning to say I would be inundated with photos within the first few minutes of the offer were absolutely correct and now I'm sitting here feeling ten different kinds of bad that I have so many unused photos. If yours is one of those, do not fear, I'm sure I'll work them in sometime, but as of tomorrow, I'm going to go on a masthead hiatus for a while. Perhaps when the twins go to preschool in two weeks, I'll pick a morning and post the remaining mastheads, a new one every five minutes, simply because I can. It's not like I'll have anything else to do, then, right? Right? Agree with me if you know what's good for you, people. I'm this close to the edge.

In the meantime, I've compiled a page of this past month's mastheads, and you'll find it here, with one more to be added tomorrow. You all were great sports for sending  in your photos, and I hope that someday your children will not use them as evidence at your depositions.

Month o' Mastheads

Would That You Were So Famous

My dad wants to know if Kathryn ever runs out of words. The answer is no.

For the past two weeks, Kathryn has been in Texas, staying with my parents, and not running out of words. My mom loves it. My dad has duct-taped two pillows together and wears them as a hat. I can't blame him; two weeks is a awfully long time to experience raw Kathryn, a creature whose energy level is only exceeded by the volume of her normal speaking voice.

Every summer since we moved to New Jersey, Kathryn has spent a week or two back in Texas with my folks. I believe this arrangement was originally suggested by my wife as a way to get her hands on our expected inheritance a few years early, figuring that one week with Kathryn could shave up to six months off the rest of my parents' lives. A good plan to be sure, but I'll never see any returns from it as my exposure to Her Royal Webkinzness means I will be dead before I finish this post. Add in the twins and I actually died during childbirth. My own.

So for two weeks my oldest daughter and all her words have been holding high court in the wilds of Waxahachie, Texas, or as my sister-in-law called it once, the Hollywood of the Strip of Land Between Dallas and Waco. For a while Waxahachie looked like it was going to have a solid career in movies, with a few filmed there each year, even a couple of Oscar winners. Most of the films were period pieces, except for one when, for a few fun weeks, my family and I sat out on our back porch in the evenings and watched David Byrne film True Stories at the house across the creek.

None of my family ever made it into any of these movies, but that is not to say we all escaped the camera's loving eye. All four of us once appeared in a particularly delightful and lighthearted commercial for an industrial herbicide. The members of my family, along with three-quarters of the rest of the town, were each paid ten dollars to march through the town's square in a mock parade, singing the theme song of a chemical developed to keep grass from growing in lettuce patches. Again and again we marched, singing what might have been the only theme song ever written for a known carcinogen, and I'm not sure any of us were troubled by it. I know that I was not. Even if you had pulled me aside and described to me in detail the specific ecological effects of this particular product, I still would have sung along, because ten dollars could buy me THREE STAR WARS ACTION FIGURES, and I would have stepped over the bodies of thousands of dead song birds for Star Wars action figures.

My brother was featured in a close-up, the camera zooming in on him as he smiled a smile that told us the eradication of unwanted broadleaf grasses from our lettuce fields was the but first step in our American battle for dominance over all things natural, a fight that continues today. For this, he earned himself an extra $10 which I feel certain he blew all at once on a box of Verbatim floppy discs.

Not too much has been filmed in Waxahachie lately, and certainly nothing was filmed there in the past two weeks, for which I am relieved. Because if Kathryn had somehow made it in front of the camera, I know how she'd have spent her ten dollars.

And it wouldn't have been to buy herself any more words.

Eleven Months Longer Than The Mom Thought We'd Last

Put on something nice, grab a jacket, and let's go. I'm taking you out to dinner. Yes, you. C'mon.

It's our blogiversary.

You deserve something nice, something really special, so you know what I did? I stopped by that store, you know, the one you like so much, and I bought that necklace you've had your eye on. I know, I know, but I already bought it. I bought it and I threw away the receipt so you can't make me take it back. You deserve it.

Yes, you. You who read me day after day. You who comment when something tickles your fancy. You who lurk endlessly without so much as a hello. You who have read from the beginning and you who who found me today. You who write me with advice, and you who don't. Especially you who don't.

There were times when I didn't think we'd make it, and to be honest, as I peruse my archives, there were times when you had every right to leave. But I was new at this thing called blogging and I guess you sensed that and you forgave, and continue to forgive, my occasional missteps.

Many days I feel this little site is about to go belly-up, that if I can't come up with something out-of-the-park clever to say, then you won't come back tomorrow. I sit down on the floor of the twins' room as they nap, laptop warm on my thighs, and I fight the urge to pull the plug on us, so that I no longer feel you looking over my shoulder, wondering where the funny is, or I hear you counting the days since my last post, feeling that with each new day I had better be that much more riotous when I come back.

And then other days it all just comes together, like magic. Usually those days involve poop. But not always. Okay, always.

Still, we've had some wacky times. Like when my oldest daughter accidentally locked herself in your bathroom. Or when we met in New York City to take pictures of our shoes. Or when the New York Times linked to me by accident, or Time Out Kids took away my third child, or PrimeTime Live filmed me looking like an ass. There was the time when you introduced yourself at that store in Montclair and we stared at each other for a few minutes, neither of us knowing what to say next. Or when you sent me coffee because I had forgotten to buy my own. And I know I'll keep this site going just so I can add more of you to my list of yous. Because, really, and I mean this sincerely, with no tongue firmly planted in any cheek, it is because of you that I write.

So put your new necklace on and let's hit the town. You look great.

Unless you're a dude.

Or maybe even if. Send a picture and we'll see.

Ask The Dad

Dear The Dad:

Aside from a couple cool twin moms, I find it very difficult to get together with traditional stay-at-home mothers. I've thought a lot about how nice it would be to find a couple stay-at-home dads to hang with … but I am not the forward kind. In fact, I don't even know where to find these men in my part of the country, which I'll describe as being The Last Place on Earth You Want To Be. I'm not from here and, lately I've been experiencing socializing withdrawal. Where should I go to find these guys, and how do I approach a dad for a possible playgroup (for our children), kind of like your 3-Martini Playgroup? Oh, and I think my husband would be OK with this, but what about the wives? Help!

Greatexpectations

Dear GE,

First of all, let me apologize, as I feel your question is somewhat my fault. Here I am, spending nights and naps at my computer, making stay-at-home dads the world over look cool. Exposure to my  jocular anecdotes and near-rock-star charisma have, and not surprisingly so, I might add, given you dreams of finding your very own version of me in your area,  which I am sad to say unless you live in Northeastern New Jersey, is just simply not going to happen.

Then again, since you describe your area as "The Last Place on Earth You Want to Be," maybe you do live in Northeastern New Jersey, and in that case, you can find me at the park across the street from my house. Listen for the screams.

But in all honesty, I do have some serious reservations about the mixing of stay-at-home dads and stay-at-home moms. One morning last week, my girls and I were hunkered down at Jennifer's house, pounding coffee and ignoring the caterwaul of two sets of twins and one set of toys, when the inevitable happened: We finally ran out of things to talk about. This wasn't awfully surprising since the only things we really have in common are our twins and a willingness to disguise our attitudes toward them with alcohol, but still it was a heavy blow. Now, of course, men have long had an activity for those awkward moments when they realize every topic of conversation has been exhausted, but since I had my own genitalia surgically removed and dumped in a Staten Island landfill on that fateful day three years ago when I saw that second set of heartbeats on that ultrasound, sex was not an option, which left Jennifer to fill the gap in her time-honored woman's way: Talking about feelings.

It was frightening just how natural it came to her. I haven't been back since.

So, GE, while I absolutely understand your desire to find and befriend the stay-at-home dads in your area, I strongly recommend against it. It will only lead to heartbreak. But if you still choose to do so, most stay-at-home dads can be found cowering in their basements, surrounded by slightly bloodied head-shaped wall indentions, muttering curses under their breath and missing their genitalia, while all kinds of chaos reigns above. Listen for the screams.

Hope this helps,

The Dad

Got a question for The Dad? Email me.

Email The Dad

I Should Stick to Writing

It didn't work. Well, it sorta worked, but not really. Anyway, I'm not going to spend any more time on it than I have, because while I was doing it for you, Gentle Reader, it also took me away from you for too long.

What it is is a multimedia Flash presentation of how my family's trip to Philadelphia went. You see, there are a limited number of ways you can describe traveling with twin toddlers and a seven-year-old, and I feel like I've exhausted just about all of them. So within five minutes of returning home, I decided to do something different and downloaded the trial version of Adobe's Flash, an application that I HAVE NEVER USED OR EVEN SEEN IN USE BEFORE, and attempted to make something with it.

It goes without saying how stupid of an idea that was.

Anyway, I'm on Day 2 of working on it sans sleep and my girls have watched all the PBS Kids they can stomach, so it's time to call it a day. So without any further ado, you can click below to see what I cobbled together. Just a warning, it's LOUD and it plays right away, the mysteries of the autostart and pre-loader not having revealed themselves to me. It also loops endlessly, the video becoming more out-of-synch with the audio with each iteration, an especially humiliating feature.

Oh well, it's not like this blog isn't a parade of my failures already.

And for you lucky ones who don't know, those animals are Webkinz. Web-kinz. It's pretty much the only word Kathryn says now. Well that and the words "I want more" and sometimes "please".

Enjoy! My Family Trip to Philadelphia

Six Flags, August 9, 2007

El Toro: 70-mph wooden roller coaster.

I'd Have Watched It Twice If I'd Had Double My Writing Time

I would have had a post written for today, but I spent all of the 8 minutes and 14 seconds of writing time I've had since Monday watching this.

glumbert.com - Louis CK hates his children

Thanks Kate.

30 Days Is Just 1,440 Back-to-Back Episodes of DragonTales

As best as I can remember, there were about five of us crowded into the small room, six if you count the guy in the hospital bed. One of the other five was me and one was The Mom, which I find almost impossible to imagine because the year was 1987 and The Mom was still a good thirteen years away from being The Mom. Further, she was four years from even being The Girlfriend. Four years from The Girlfriend, six years from The Ex-Girlfriend, eight years from The Re-Girlfriend, nine years from The On-A-Break Girlfriend, ten years from The Fiance, eleven from The Wife, and thirteen from The Mom.

The guy in the bed was still and quiet. He was awake, we knew, since he had acknowledged our group's presence with a look, but as we jostled around his bed, he neither moved nor spoke. He was a freshman in college. We were all freshmen in college. He had no skin on his back.

He had been one of many students piled into a convertible which had been driving too fast after too many drinks when the driver lost control. Most everyone was thrown from the car. Two lost their lives. Our friend lost the skin on his back when he skidded down the highway at an initial speed of 70 miles per hour.

As we shuffled around the room, one of us, a girl whose name neither The Mom nor I can recall (which makes me nervous because I don't want her pseudonym to accidentally coincide with her actual name so I'll call her Gertie because surely had her name been Gertie we would have remembered it) stubbed her toe on one of the machines that surrounded the hospital bed.

"Ow!" Gertie exclaimed, loudly.

"Shhhh!" the rest of us replied.

"But it hurts," Gertie said in a voice that I now recognize to be the only voice in which a seven-year-old can speak between the hours of 3 PM and forever.

At this, our friend in the bed opened his eyes again. Then he opened his mouth. "Pain," he croaked, "is a relative concept."

I tell this story a lot, not just because it shows how witty a guy with no back can be, but because it is so undeniably true.

Eleven years later, when The Future-Mom and I got married, we did not take a honeymoon. We were too busy, you see. The Mom was knee deep in grad school, cranking out her master's thesis on Underwater Pottery Techniques of 13th Century Half-Polynesian Tradesmen Named Joe and I was doing something equally compelling by taking night classes to get a teacher's certificate in a subject that I never proceeded to teach. We were far too busy to take time out for a honeymoon.

"Busy-ness," I hear my voice of today croaking, "is a relative concept."

And it is. With each new day, I look back on moments past and think what a total dimwit I was to believe I was busy before. Except, and here's the kicker, in one month the twins start preschool. Preschool, people, are you listening to me? Puh-ree. Suh-chool. And just like that, I will instantly become the least busy I have ever been. Ever.

Oh sweet Mary and Joseph, my nipples are hard just thinking about it.

I'm Two!

I am thinking of an object, but it is a secret. Bring it to me. Quickly. It will be the third thing you bring me, but it will not matter as I'll be incoherent by item number two.

Kindly do not suggest we go to the park before I suggest it myself. If you do, I will need to rub my face on the ground in anger.

Pick me up. No, not that way. Pick me up the other way. Nevermind. Try again when I stop screaming. Tomorrow.

May I wash my hands by myself? Very good. First I must let the water run for twenty minutes. Please do not disturb me for the duration or the time will start over from the beginning.

Television is the perfect compliment for any activity, don't you agree? I'm already filling my lungs in anticipation of your response.

And Party Every Day

So today begins the month of reader mastheads at Looky, Daddy! Every day (more or less) for the month of August, I'll be posting new mastheads made from photos sent in by you, Gentle Reader. This is not a contest. There is no competition here. If you sent me a usable picture then I will post it as a masthead sometime this month.

By usable, I'm talking about the photo itself, not the subject of the photo: It must be wide enough for a masthead (860 pixels) and of decent or more than decent resolution. As for the subject, that's your business. So far we've got babies through teenagers, mostly captured in what can only be assumed was not their best moments. All of them I've cropped and a few of them I've altered more dramatically, though most I have not, and the decision to alter had very little to do with the photo itself but was far more dependent on how long the twins napped the day I worked on it.

And then there were the times when I made the banner, then washed down a few too many olives with my vodka, and went back and worked on it again. And that's when you get stuff like this:

If only the photo had been big enough to show the platform boots.

All of the mastheads will be displayed without attribution, because while I know that everyone who sent me a photo wanted me to post it, I'm not sure that anyone wanted a name attached. However,  feel free to out yourself in the comments section when your photo is displayed, if you wish.