Orange County Register

Tricky news, people:

My wife - a spectacularly beautiful, smart, sweet-hearted woman; a woman I love and respect and, yes, (I’m man enough to admit this), a woman I sometimes fear - has learned about my secret:

This blog.

The rat was one of her college roomies. She called to tell my wife that she’d read something in this blog. I wasn’t there for the conversation but, knowing the woman I’ve been married to since dinosaurs roamed the - well, awhile - I’m guessing my wife didn’t let on that my blog was news to her.

The truth is I didn’t hide this blog from my wife. At least, not on purpose. See, she has a blog too. It’s about our family. And it’s done almost entirely to let other family members check out whatever is happening in our lives. It’s like a really long Christmas card, with room for commentary.

At least, I think that’s what she blogs about. I don’t know, technically, because, technically, I don’t read it.

Read the rest of this entry »

Late last week, I edited a two-part story by Amy Taxin that, at its core, is about the very definition of family ties.

Since both days (read PART 1 and PART 2 here) are available on line, I can spill the beans: In the course of trying to get U.S. citizenship, a young woman learned that she isn’t biologically related to either of the people she’s grown up calling “Mom” and “Dad.”

What makes the story rise above the ho-hum undisclosed adoption tale is that Mom and Dad didn’t know this either.

That’s right. Mom went into an Equadoran hospital 20-some years ago, had a kid, came home with a kid and, with Dad, raised that kid. Then, a few years ago a DNA test (and, later, a re-test) told Mom, Dad and kid that they’re as related, biologically, as strangers sharing a cab.

What’s cool about the story is how much this family, now in Fullerton, has been un-changed by it all.

Sure, the young woman wouldn’t mind knowing who gave birth to her. And, yeah, the mom would like to meet the child she actually gave birth to.  But, when asked, both women hug and cry and say that they’re as connected to each other as ever, DNA notwithstanding.

And Dad… Read the rest of this entry »

Took my son to an Angels game last night.

He’s 8, and while he’s a solid little baseball player, he’s currently anti-baseball because it’s not, you know, a video game.

Anyway, the giveaway to every fan in attendance at the Big A last night was a foam thing that isn’t, technically, a finger, but can be waved like one.

As we entered the stadium, he was given a non-finger foam thing and took ownership of mine, bringing his pre-game total to two. When we got to our seat, he mooched the non-finger foam things from the two dudes we were at the game with, boosting his foam finger collection to four.

Next, he tried to pick up several dozen non-finger foam things littering the ground all around us., but I kiboshed that (chanelling my wife, apparently), saying they were too funky to touch.

Whatever. He had four non-finger foam things and he was ready to rumble.

Which he did.

Over the next eight innings, my son made headwear.

First, he made a sweatband. He put it on and deemed himself cool. Next, he made an Indian number, using one non-finger foam thing as a headband and as many as three others as feathers.

Finally, he curved the foamy things around a bit, twisted some like balloon art, tied them up, scrapped away some crud that had imbedded itself into one of them, and - voila - he had a huge, red baseball cap.

All foam. All original. All very chic in a Project Runway-goes-to-the-Big-A sorta way.

And there’s nothing wrong with that!

As we walked down the ramps (eighth inning, I’m ashamed to say) at least three strangers commented. As we hit the exit gate the usher said in a low, usher-type voice: “very creative.” Even in the parking lot, a lady who was doubled over between a couple SUVs looking like she was about to find some keys or hurl, glanced up and nodded appreciatively at my kid’s hat.

When we got to the car, he said: “That was a great baseball game. I didn’t watch any of it.”

Hey, the Register has a cool Father’s Day quiz about fathers. Click here to check it out. Or don’t.

The questions are easy, but I still only got a C. And I’m a father. Grrrr.

Earlier this week, in this space, I picked up a verbal pitchfork and shouted: “Let’s fight manscaping! Who’s with me?”

Your response was sad. It went, collectively, something like this: “Uh, dude, not me.”

So my little idea, the one that would build self esteem for hairy dads everywhere in this, their annual week of glory — an idea that’s flying under the as-yet-uncreated Web site name HairIsOKDammit. com — should die.

So sayeth the masses. Or, if not masses, then a thin majority of the six people who commented.

Reading between the lines, the thinking on manscaping seems to break down into a few, distinct camps:

1. Some women like hairy dudes. Theirs is an attitude that, while appreciated, renders the whole Web site thing moot, no?

2. Other women want their men to shave… sorta. While confusing (and, as dudes, we’re used to confusing messages from women, so that’s not really the problem), this mindset provides an all-too-convenient out for the hairy, self-esteem challenged guys who otherwise might join the cause. In this camp, a dude can shave some parts, leave other parts alone, and call it a life. Given the general laziness of most men, the choice is too irresistable. It also obliviates any need for HairIsOKDammit .com.

3. Still other women want dudes to say, probably aloud, that it’s okay for women not to shave. Okay, (hypocrisy alert) that’s just stupid. What man alive in this century, in this culture, has grown up looking at photos of, reading about, fetishizing, pondering and otherwise fantisizing about hairy women? Very few. My point…? I forget, actually. But it might be this: For dudes, the hair issue is about hardware, not software. We’re built to like women in an unnatural state of non-hairiness. It’s not a choice. Conversely, the whole manscaping thing has come up only in the past few years, and seems like a very loud, very specific choice by some women, Bravo TV and the manscaping industry.

4. The manscaping industry. The men, women and ointment peddlers in this camp believe the phrase “unwanted body hair” is redundant. They think men should be as hairy as, I dunno, a trout. And until that state of hairlessness is achieved, hairy dudes should hand over a credit card and bite hard on the wooden board as they RIP THE WAX OFF OUR CHESTS…

So, with that, I’ll let HairIsOKDammit .com die a natural death.

Unless, like a chin hair, it regrows.

Manscaping, as you all already know, is that lame, 15-minutes-ago phrase used to describe the defiance of manliness through unspeakable acts of waxing and shaving and God knows what else to all body hair.

The concept is so breathtakingly stupid that thinking about it has driven me into something of a fugue-state, somewhere beyond ranting and simple, burning hot hatred. Clearly, the manscaping idea is a plot hatched by the cabal of those who sell grooming products and/or services, and the people who invented Bravo. And, just as clearly, it’s obnoxious.

Still, it exists. Even my children - lovely, innocent, Spawns of Satan that they can be - have knowledge of the concept. They recently suggested that a father they know very well manscape his body through extreme waxing and/or turning all his chest hair into dreadlocks.

Sigh.

So, as we approach Father’s Day, I am launching a counterinsurgency, this one aimed at wiping the concept of “manscaping” from the culture and, at the same time, boosting the self-esteem of billions of hairy men across the globe.

My movement has no people to promote it. It has no money. It has no plan. In fact, it has just one thing - a possible name for a possible Web site: HairIsOKDammit .com

I haven’t, technically, launched this site. But I’m thinking it would be a good start, particularly if it can be done in a way that discourages the porn industry from joining in. (This is impossible, of course; but a guy can dream.)

Anyway, I’m taking opinions on this topic off line and might comment in a future post. Here are some starter questions:

- Is manscaping stupid? If so, how stupid?

- Should people who push manscaping be stoned to death or simply sent to an ice floe for some one-on-one time with the hairiest mammal I can think of, a polar bear?

- Is manscaping a plot by women, Bravo TV show producers, or women who happen to be Bravo TV show producers?

- Is manscaping … good? (It’s not; that’s a trick question.)

We’ve joined a swim team.

And, yes, this is the one youth sport where parental use of the pronoun “we” is acceptable.

Swim Team is the Bataan Death March of youth sports. As swim team parents we have been told that we will wake before dawn to erect tables and tents and stake out prime poolside real estate. We will continue into the evening to make moist, high-calorie, Martha-level baked goods, hand sew multicolored Speed-Os, shave our own bodies, program software for our NASA-level timing equipment, and weep.

At our pre-season parents meeting - the one timed to erase any logical consumption of dinner and the second and third quarters of a Lakers playoff game - an experienced swim team father confided to me that he typically spends six hours at a race in which his son competes for 34.7 seconds.

And complains.

See, swimming is at least as hard on the swimmers as it is on the parents.

As a kid, I was on a swim team. It helped me morph from borderline obese to merely chubby, and helped me build confidence (fat, it turns out, doesn’t necessarily slow you down until you get to the higher levels of swimming… see above). And I loved it.

For awhile. By the end of junior high, a swim teammate I’d kissed decided she liked somebody else and, regardless of her no-good-cheating heart, I’d come to loathe the relentlessly moldy white bottom of the pool and any adult who forced me to stare at it for two hours a day. I also had come to appreciate the easy access to oxygen available to all long-distance runners and full-time baseball players, which is what I soon became.

Anyway, it’s possible my kid will love swimming. It’s possible he won’t. Either way, I won’t push.

I don’t usually lose my temper with my kids.
And my kids, generally, are pretty cool. We all actually like each other. Behavior, so far, has not been a big problem.

But even people who get along don’t always get along. And last night, my son (8) and I had a dispute.
Let’s skip the details. Let’s just stipulate that he was being 8 and, apparently, so was I.

And, in the course of our argument, I made him cry.

Or, rather, I’m pretty sure I made him cry.

See, he’s vehemently anti-crying. My wife doesn’t cry much. Neither does our daughter (13). I don’t.

And my son - a toughman but, still, you know, 8 - cries infrequently for a man of his years. He busted his foot once and didn’t make a peep.

But as we stood our ground last night - me being unusually harsh, maybe even scaring him a little; him being weirdly stubborn about something he knew he shouldn’t do - he gulped and frowned to try to hold it all back. And then…
He turned his back to me.

Most likely, he was crying. I can’t say for sure because he wouldn’t let me see.

I have no idea what this means, but I know I feel crummy on several counts.

Read the rest of this entry »

Confession.

I once fed my daughter ice cream for breakfast.

I’ll skip the details (nutritional nonsense from my spouse) and cut to what I see as the chase: My daughter ate it and we were not late to work/day care. (Busy Dad Tip: I’m pretty sure it was chocolate.)

On another occasion I fed my son one of those tiny, sweet tomatoes. We were at a Farmer’s Market thing across from UCI and the tomato wasn’t, technically, washed. I did rub off most of the dirt clumps.

Again, the Flithy Tomato Incident, as it has come to be known, has sparked years of commentary (something about how some of the brown material might not have been dirt) from those in my home who have a profound sense of hindsight. But, again, the bottom line? He dug it.

All of which raises this question:

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever fed your kid?