Yesterday, I tried to live blog cooking with William on Daddy Daze’s Facebook fan page (you’re a fan, right?). It didn’t really work because Facebook is a pain in the ass. But that’s not important. What’s important is why I did it: It’s our responsibility, our duty to make the dishes we grew up with, to honor the women who prepared them and to teach our own children to do the same. By eating green bean casserole, polenta and spinach and chicken with mushroom sauce we show our respect for the hard-working women who fed a hungry family on a razor thin budget.
After undergraduate school, I lived in a basement apartment about the size and shape of a phone booth. At one end was a twin bed, and at the other end was a love seat. Next to the bed was a narrow, wooden crate. I kept my alarm clock on that shelf and my TV — an appliance I received as a pity loan — balanced on top. At the foot of the bed was a closet so shallow that the corners of the hangers bumped the back of the door.
Between the bed and the love seat was what I called the kitchen. A white enamel counter top followed the wall for about five feet before bending into an “L” and extending for another two feet. In the center was a sink about the size of a large dictionary. Next to that were two electric burners — a glorified hot plate.
Beneath the stove, just before the “L,” was a small refrigerator that may have been designed by Fischer-Price. Inside was a freezer about the size of a shoebox that sealed itself closed with ice every seven to ten days. Typically, people place things into a freezer for long-term storage. If I failed to eat my frozen goods quickly, I had to free them with a hammer.
I had no phone (I used a pay phone in town) and no car.
Shortly before Grace was born, we attended “parenting prep” classes at the hospital. When the nurse wasn’t showing us just how pliable my wife’s vagina could be, she was offering practical advice. The most useful, it turned out, was directed toward the future moms.
“Moms, don’t pay attention to the way Dad does things.”
Now let me make it very clear that this is NOT one of those “silly fumbling Daddy just can’t get the poopy diaper right” deals that seems to pass as comedy these days. I detest that nonsense and, frankly, find it insulting. However, it is true that my wife and I do certain things differently. For example:
• I have washed my son off with the sprayer in the kitchen sink. I’m pretty sure my wife has not.
• I told Grace that sticking raspberries on the ends of her fingers is “funny.” I think “rude” was the word my wife used.
• I’ve noted that I think it’s a riot when Grace’s poo-poo “looks like tortellini,” and encourage her to compare it to other nouns in her world: Animals, toys, even Dora the Explorer.
We live by the beach, and we’ve got a sandbox in the backyard, so the kids are around sand all of the time. Since we’d like to keep as much of the sand outside of the house as possible, we’ve taken the steps that help a coastal family survive a sandy summer.
First of all, the outdoor shower is up and running to rinse the kids. As soon as we get home it’s swimsuits off and under the shower. Also, the clothesline has been strung up for the swimsuits and Strawberry Shortcake beach towels (as an aside, nothing says “Manhood” like pinning Strawberry Shortcake beach towels and princess swimsuits to a clothesline). I’ve also mounted several hooks to the ceiling of the tool shed to hang bags of toys, beach chairs and so on.
It sounds like we’re well prepared, but Bill still manages to smuggle sand into the house.
I remember my father in his twenties — younger than I am now — wearing plaid pants, dollar store slippers and a bright blue t-shirt that read “Master of Disaster” in fuzzy iron-on letters. A soggy cigar hung from his mouth. It was early in the morning, and we had already been up for hours, fishing for our breakfast in a Canadian lake. Standing in the grass, he was gutting a perch. I must tell you, there’s nothing quite like sawing the head off of a still-gasping fish.
Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.
As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.
“…I’m gonna be like you, Dad. You know I’m gonna be like you….” – Harry Chapin
“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil
“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader
I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.
I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).
My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.
As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.
I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.
And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.
December brings lists, and MSNBC has published the top baby names of the decade. Thanks to celebrities like Gweneth Paltrow, afflictions like Apple and Nevaeh (“heaven” spelled backward) are more popular than ever. Fortunately, classics like Emma and Emily, Jacob and Matthew are still in the top ten.
I agree with George above: Nine times out of ten, Nicky, Vinny and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker.
Children of the 70’s had 4 options when it came to TV: Snow, snow, snow, and news. Most of the time you settled on Bowling for Dollars or M*A*S*H. For kids, Saturday was TV Day, and we sat glued to Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dog, the Road Runner and even the crap like Grape Ape and Honk Kong Fooey.
If you missed your show, you were out of luck. Back to snow and M*A*S*H for another week.
That was then.
Thanks to the miracle of TiVo, our kids rewind live TV, hitting the pause button and ask for specific episodes. Darn whipper-snappers.
There are entire networks that air nothing but children’s programming, 24/7. Most are garbage: Twenty-two minutes of programming wrapped around eight minutes of ads or worse, an entire show that promotes a doll, action figure, play set, etc.
As a former latchkey kid who watched more television than a Nielsen family, I’m strict about how much time the kids spend in front of the tube. While flipping past the junk, I’ve identified five shows that I’m happy to let my kids watch. In fact, I think they’re kind of fun myself. Here they are, in no particular order.
Part 1: Overheard at the Harley Davidson Dealership
William: That’s a motorcycle! Me: Yes. William: It’s cool! Me: Yes. William:…and pretty.
Me: No. No, no no. No.
———-
Part 2: Overheard from the booster seat
William, upon noticing his runny nose: My nose is coming down.
———-
Part 3: Overheard at breakfast
Grace: Oh, it died. Me: It “died”? Grace: Yes. Me: What died? Grace: The butter. Me: The butter died. Grace: Yes. You need to put more. Me: On top of your dead butter. Grace: Yes. Me: Um, Okay.
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
She stared at me as if I had grown a second and third head of my own. “Elmo is a monster. He’s funny. Telly Monster is nice. Don’t forget Cookie Monster.”
She wrinkled her little nose. “Zöe,” she said.
“Right, Zöe!” I said. “Zöe is a ballet monster! Did you know monsters like ballet?”
She laughed, and that was it. No more complaints about monsters. I marched out of that room as if I were about to take the center podium at the Olympic Games. Super Dad, right here. Everyone gaze upon me and know that I am The Man.
So, two weeks ago, when nearly-three-year-old William started with the monster routine, I was ready. “Step aside,” I thought, “and let The Master do his thing.”
Fail.
“Waaaahh! I want Da-deeeeee!”
I went into his room. “What’s the matter, William?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Oh, but you’ve got your night light, your friends.** See?” I turned the light on, then off. “The same friends, just in the dark.” I turned the light back on and pointed to the wall. “See your pictures?” (His walls are covered with mini posters of The Boston Red Sox.) I turned the light back off. “The same in the dark.”
I could tell he wasn’t buying it, so I sang another song and he settled down.
The next night brought same thing. “But that monster is going to get me,” he said. This continued for almost a week, and then I broke down. My Super Dad Powers were gone. Just like that. I traded in my cape and mask.
I went downstairs and grabbed the seashell night light we bought while on vacation. (It had been living in the bathroom.) Back in his room, I plugged it into the socket right next to his crib. “That’s my Florida light!” he said, and proceeded to hold each of his friends up in turn so that they could “see” it. He changed his orientation in the crib so that he could stare at it while lying there. I closed the door and he went to sleep.
That was about a week ago, and he hasn’t had a disruptive night since. My powers failed, but at least my boy is sleeping. With his Florida light. And his friends. And the hall light on.
Welcome to the club, kid.
*Apologies to Rod Serling
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
Children of the 70’s had 4 options when it came to TV: Snow, snow, snow, and news. Most of the time you settled on Bowling for Dollars or M*A*S*H. For kids, Saturday was TV Day, and we sat glued to Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dog, the Road Runner and even the crap like Grape Ape and Honk Kong Fooey.
