Looky, Daddy!

Trees and Apples

A message from my dad on my answering machine yesterday morning:

I don't know what you're thinking, but I'm thinking Crap! I forgot my parent's 45th wedding anniversary.

Listen, Dammit.

It's happening. Right now. In California. The fall of our society.

People of the same sex are getting married.

Listen. Listen hard. You'll hear something: The fabric of our world ripping apart.

Can you hear it? Listen again. Just below the clinking of the champagne glasses. It's there. I know it.

Maybe it's beneath the speeches and the well-wishes and the congratulations. Keep listening.

Maybe it's beneath the laughter.

Our lives are being torn apart, I know it! Keep listening.

No, that's not it. That's kissing. You can't tell kissing from the upending of everything our country stands for? Boob.

Listen harder. Listen past the sound of children knowing that their parent's bond is now legal and binding. Listen past the sound of couples being granted their rights. Listen, dammit!

It's there, beneath the words of ministers and justices and officiants, beneath the pledges of love.

If only people would stop clapping, I know we could hear it better.

Blackout

The water off the Jersey Shore is 55 degrees. On Father's Day I spent upwards of six hours in that water, long enough for any of the more Father's-Day-ish parts of me to bid adieu to the external world and find a new home somewhere between my kidneys and my pancreas. I'm not sure they can be coaxed back out before the next Father's Day comes around. Not that anyone's trying.

On the plus side, lifting forty pounds of toddler flesh over each and every wave that hit that shore did wonders for my pecs. Tell me again, when will trips to the beach be relaxing? Every year I hear learned people recommend books I should take to the beach, and every year I wonder what they expect me to do with them there. Use them to hold down the blanket, perhaps? And  while you are answering that, tell me why do we even take a blanket? Who sits on it? Neither my wife nor I, that's for sure. Not while there are ball-numbing waves to lift our kids over.

And a Happy Belated Father's Day to you, too.

In other news, the storm that spanked New Jersey last week left much of our town without power for a day or so. That night, while the upper floors of our house filled with the unnatural heat of the day, the five of us slept on the basement floor, willing the coolness up from the concrete and into our bodies. The twins were beside themselves with the arrangement, the candles, and the company, and they spent the night waking repeatedly just to see if we were all still there. Kathryn, as is her wont, spent the night twirling and shadowboxing, never having more than one body part touching the sleeping bag in which she was supposed to be sleeping.

The next morning, still without power, Sharon fled to work and my girls and I fled to the local cineplex, where Jack Black assured us "there is no charge for awesomeness." Which explains why his new movie cost me $31.

The power came back on at about 3 PM, and the lights immediately illuminated the mountains of crap I had ignored up till then. So we turned them back off and went outside, where all three kids were amazed to learn a sprinkler required no electricity whatsoever.

But Really, You Are All Winners

The votes are in and the winners have been chosen. They are, in order, Amelia and Her Underpants, Phaidra and Her Disappointed Son, J.E. Pettit and His Bottomfeeding Baby, Charles the III and His Booze, and The Whole Jackson and His Cleverly Disguised Performance Problem.

Winners, email your addresses to lookydaddy [at] gmail [dot] com, and a big ol' box of books will be sent to you with surprising expediency. Enjoy!

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog.

The Second Annual Limerick Finalists

Nudity, drunkenness, violence, drugs, and anal beads. This year's batch of limerick finalists has 'em all. And poop and poop and poop. This time, our ever-talented judge, Emily, let a record three poopcentric poems through to the finals. It must have been the heat.

The ten finalists are below. Following them is your polling form. For your voting ease, I took the liberty of naming the limericks that were submitted without a title. This year, the top five vote-getters will be receiving eleven dad-themed books from Hachette Book Group.

Vote for your favorite two limericks. Voting ends Tuesday, June 17th at 9 PM EST. Finalists, feel free to campaign in the comments section.

At Least I Was Wearing a Shirt by Amelia

On a walk with my boys, I'm aware
Of another mother's bold stare
"Yes, they're twins," I reply
She says, "No, that's not why"
Instead of my shorts, underwear

Emily says: This has the perfect twist at the end of the last line.  Way to go, Amelia.

While the Kid Sleeps by The Whole Jackson

The kid is asleep in his bed
When a passing thought goes through my head
I look my wife in the eyes
I whisper, she sighs
But we fall asleep kissing instead

Emily says: Awwwwww.....so romantic.

A Butt for All Seasons by Sasha

Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn
Comes the call: Mom! Wipe my bottom!
I'm cleaning the feces
Of several species
Human and furry: I've got 'em.

Emily says: This has a jaunty little bounce to it, and rather universal application!

One Playdate Changed My Life by Charles the III

For the first few years I was a monk
I was being a good dad I thunk
And then one afternoon
I learned a new tune
Parenting's easier drunk

Emily says: I just love thunk and drunk. The whole last line flows like a smooth liquor.

Does Not Mention Homeostasis by Tapey's Mom

You opened my fridge for a Coke;
If you knew what was in there, you'd choke.
Right next to the cheese,
My son's stool sample, Jeez!
I've got poop in my fridge, that's no joke.

Emily says: This has got so much neat, um, texture to it.

Electronic Babysitter of Champions by Mia

Most friends of mine think that I'm daft
They snigger, "I'd never allow that!"
But when my 5-year-old Einstein
Does nothing but whine
It's a break when he plays World of Warcraft.

Emily Says: This is sort of terrifying, but, kudos for the confession, and rhyming the title of the most important MMOG of all time.

Baby's Crawling by J. E. Pettit

Baby's crawling! I've noticed, of late,
She exhibits a worrisome trait:
She's been swallowing more
Of the crap on our floor,
And much less of the food on her plate!

Emily says: I just love the cleanliness of this. I mean, structurally. Not literally.

Just Say No by Burt

I wish that my daughter was sleepy
Her cries and her wails defeat me
I'm trying my best
But I can't get no rest
And drugging my baby's too creepy

Emily says: God bless you, Burt. We all think about it sometimes.

Have You Seen My Bracelet? by Jolene

My angel has special needs
from her therapy down to her feeds.
I may lose my mind
someday hoping to find
how her poop ended filled up with beads?!?

Emily says: Let go of your worry, Jo, you will never know...at least it wasn't something bigger!

Summer Camp by Phaidra

When I picked up my son he said, "Bummer."
The first day of camp made him glummer.
"Do you have a bad day?
Did you not get to play?"
"I thought I was staying all summer."

Emily says: Perfect timing. This one deserves a rimshot/snare/tophat drumroll after it.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

I Need a Bun to Bite

I have learned that our poet-in-residence and guest judge, Emily, will be delaying announcing the limerick finalists until Monday. This, I need not tell you, is one of the hazards of dealing with poets. It is also one of the hazards of paying your guest judges diddleysquat.

In the meantime, busy yourselves with this:

The Second Annual Looky, Daddy! Limerick Challenge

Alright people, it's contest time.

You know the drill by now: Write a limerick. Submit it below.

The limerick should have something, some tiny thread, connecting it with childrearing. Mentioning poop is not obligatory, but don't let that stop you. What is obligatory is that the poem actually be a limerick. They have a form, people. Learn it, live it, love it.

Our original poet-in-residence, Emily, from Dream/Baby Haiku, has graciously agreed to judge for us again. Emily's job is to select ten finalists that I will then post here for popular vote. Emily does her job well and these contests would not happen without her, so to her I send my undying gratitude and one of my children's kidneys like we talked about. What she does with it is her business.

For the first time, this contest actually has a sponsor, Hachette Book Group, who will be providing the prizes to the five limerick authors who receive the most votes. This sponsorship will come as a great relief to anyone who has ever won one of my contests because I am notorious for taking months to send out prizes. The prize for our last winner was not even sent in the same year as the contest. I wish I were kidding. So this time, the five limerick authors whose works receive the most votes will each receive, just in time for Father's Day, a box of eleven "dad-themed" books, or ten if yours is the one I open to steal the copy of Living on the Black inside. The complete list of prize books can be found here.

So that's it. As always, there is no limit to the number of submissions you can make. I'll close the contest Wednesday night at midnight EST and have the finalists up Friday morning. Let the limericking begin. Here are mine:

 

And The Stupid-Twin-Question-of-the-Day Award Goes To...The Dead Woman

Perhaps you are wishing to die, ma'am?
Down your throat this big stroller I might cram
Your question's so rude
Asked in front of my brood
Which one's the aggressive one? I am.

Out of 71 Countries Studied, American Children Rank 72nd

The outlook gets glummer and glummer
Our kids couldn't be any dumber
We don't need to ask why
As the time just crawls by
I blame it on three months of summer

At Least It Wasn't Porn

"Tonight you be the endless-game player,
The pee-wiper of the pee-sprayer,
I've a book I must write!"
Then she caught me that night
Watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Ask The Dad

Dear The Dad,

I have a daughter too, and while I only have one, I wonder if we have the same concern: Do you worry that a fine gentleman with a cash fan and Levolor shades will come along and sweep her off her feet? That's right, I'm worried about this guy.

Yours in fear, Burt

Dear Burt,

That guy could have Kathryn at "hello," or however it is the young people greet each other these days. Kathryn is all about the money these days. This is the same girl who, right at the beginning of Spring, blanketed our neighborhood with these:

I have no doubt, if Mr Cashfan lived on our block, she'd have put two in his mailbox.

Dear The Dad,

Do you think Hillary should give up and concede to Obama?

Thanks, The Godfather

Dear The Godfather

No. Months ago, I bet The Mom I could get Lila potty trained before Hillary gave up. I need Hillary to hold out just a little longer if she can.

Dear The Dad,

My husband and I are buying our first home; we close on May 28th.

Our home features a detached garage with a ginormous finished/insulated room included – windows, a little wood burning stove, electrical outlets – quite cozy, really. It has been agreed that said room will become “The Man Cave”.

My husband has a HUGE clown head trashcan lid made of fiberglass (with its painted gaping maw the trash receptacle) acquired one night from the Clown Museum in Delavin, Wisconsin. It’s legendary. It even made the News.

He would like it to sit in our mud room, greeting our guests with its evil clown grin...looking out the windows and terrifying the neighbor children. I feel this item is more of a “Man Cave” novelty.

Question: Is this something you feel I should concede, or banish forever to the designated Man Zone?

Awaiting your response, @ndrea

Dear @ndrea,

Coulrophobia. It's real. It's debilitating. Think not of yourself, but of the children.

Put it in the mud room.

Dear The Dad,

I have four-year-old triplets and a 2-year-old singleton. I recently let my husband go on a 10-day vacation by himself to hang out with all his buddies from college. The only reason he came home after 10 days was because he thought he had alcohol poisoning.

While he was gone, I took all four kids to Disneyland and to visit relatives by myself. Don't you think it's only fair that my husband lets me go somewhere now for 10 days, while he takes the kids to SeaWorld? Would The Mom cut you loose for 10 days of drunken debauchery so she could hang out in Amusement Park Hell with the kiddos?

Sincerely, The Greatest Wife Ever

Dear TGWE,

You birthed a singleton two years after triplets? Honey, you came to me for advice two years too late.

Dear The Dad,

My husband hates his job - truly loathes it - but has been unable to find anything else remotely acceptable. Should we consider stopping the practice of emptying our bank accounts to pay for child care and let him take care of our baby? Or rather, should I consider letting him do it? Come to think of it, maybe I should be writing The Mom about this one.

Sincerely, Nevermind

Dear Nevermind,

I'll take a stab at this first, then I'll give you The Mom's answer.

I loathed my job, too. I was an eighth grade math teacher. No one could loathe their job more than I did. So that makes me wonder this: Does your husband loathe his job, or does he loathe going to work? Because to some people, "Stay-at-Home Dad" sounds a lot like "Don't-Go-to-Work Dad." Nothing could be further from the truth. Nothing. If your husband doesn't like going to his current job, how will he feel if he lives at his next job. How will he handle it if, instead of saying goodbye to his boss every day at five, he tucks his boss in bed every day at eight. Some of us didn't exactly think that through when we made our decisions oh so many years ago.

Now here's The Mom. Her answer was a little wordy, so I edited it a bit as this post is already too long:

Dear Nevermind,

Keep in mind...stay-at-home dads...are...stud[s].

Dear The Dad,

I'm jonesing for another contest.

Think about it, John

Dear John,

The Second Annual Looky, Daddy! Limerick Challenge will begin on Monday. Get ready.

And Suddenly It All Becomes Clear

The real reason my wife suggested we celebrate Kathryn's eighth birthday a full two months early by taking her to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull? This:

A crystal skull cake.

I'm just happy she didn't suggest we take Kathryn to Sex and the City. God only knows what kind of cake she would have made for that.

My Second Grade Pencil

I know I promised you an Ask The Dad today, yesterday, two days ago, but one e-mail I received--in a misguided attempt at getting real advice--requested a response not from me but from The Mom, and Monday night, when I passed the laptop over to The Mom, she promptly coughed a lung onto it. So that will have to wait a few more days. But as you know, marriage is nothing if not a competition, so that same Monday night, as I looked at my wife drowning in her own phlegm, I said, "Oh yeah? If you think you are suffering, watch this!" and I promptly signed myself up as a chaperone on Kathryn's second grade field trip.

I won.

Actually, ever since Kathryn made the extremely inconsiderate decision of contracting epilepsy (One week seizure free, by the way! Thank you and thank you again for your concern and well-wishes.) her school, fearing an episode away from home, has been pestering me to come along on field trips, and they have not been very gracious accepting my normal response: laughing and hanging up. But that boost of seizures Kathryn had this month made me rethink the issue and, before I knew it, I was calling the school to see if there was room for one more person on the bus. And, god help me, there was.

Second graders should not be allowed to talk about intangible events or objects. Their conversation should be limited to concrete objects that they are holding in their hands at that moment. For example, if someone happens to be holding a pencil, they should be allowed to say, "I have a pencil." If they choose to, they could describe the pencil. "It is yellow. It has an eraser." At this point, others could chime in. "Yes, and it has a silver metal band. The band holds the eraser to the wood." Or, if someone happens to have a pencil of their own, they could produce it and say a few things about it as well. "My pencil is blue," and so on.

Under no circumstances should they be allowed to talk of pencils they have seen, or once had, or heard about from someone else. Because I guarantee you, each and every second grader has seen, or had, or heard about the coolest pencil in the world, and they will not rest--or lower their voice--until their pencil is crowned the champion of all pencils, and award that apparently goes to the student lying the most and yelling the loudest when an adult finally breaks down and asks everyone to please shut up. FOUR FEET LONG WITH SCALES LIKE A SNAKE AND FEATHERS ON TOP THAT REALLY ERASE AND LIGHTS THAT RUN UP AND DOWN THE SIDES AS YOU WRITE AND AN ALARM THAT SOUNDS WHEN YOU MAKE A MISTAKE AND--- and I was looking around for my own 'coolest pencil in the world,' one sharp enough to end my miserable life then and there.

When I got home, I made a sign out of cardboard nailed to a wooden stake reading "BULLSHIT!" If I am ever coerced into attending another of these field trips, I will take it with me and hold it up as needed.

Which will be always.