Posts Tagged ‘
father and son ’
Wednesday, September 12th, 2012
Yes, my wife approved.
I’m not exactly sure why she did, especially without any hesitation, but needless to say, she now has a mohawked husband and toddler son; for no good reason.
Our ‘hawks go all the way down in the back, to a point. No sissy “faux hawk” stuff here for this father and son duo.
We mean serious business these days.
Jack and I are surely only the first of many to support the matching “soccer mohawk” this fall season:
A 3 guard on the sides blended into about an inch and a half on top.
It’s subtle enough for people at work (yes, I work a “real job” in an office besides writing The Dadabase) to ask: “Wait, do you have a mohawk?
This is usually followed by a 4 second delay, and then:
If that question has a valid answer, it would be that I wanted to have the same kick-awesome haircut as my son.
He and I never keep the same hairstyle as the haircut before, yet we always seem to have the same hairstyle as each other.
A mohawk should be no exception.
Plus, I wanted to spread “Matching Father And Son Mohawk Awareness.”
But instead of making a special ribbon magnet for the car, fathers and sons just have get matching mohawks to prove they mean it in their hearts.
It’s a movement I can get behind.
So much for my son not looking like me. We are now like Spike and Tyke, the father and son bulldog duo from Tom and Jerry.
Okay, fellow dads with a son: Now is your chance to finally have that mohawk you always wanted.
Just send your wife a link to this blog and show her the proof of what is normal and acceptable in the culture of modern American fatherhood.
My wife let Great Clips do this to her husband and son. There is hope for you, my fellow dads.
Fist bump out.
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Wednesday, August 1st, 2012
I don’t envy new dads.
There’s that token “I’m holding my kid for the first time” picture on Facebook that automatically gets like 53 comments and “likes.” I know, because here’s my version of that picture posted 20 months ago.
And then comes the culture shock and the learning curb.
Months later arrives the anger resulting after someone pulls you aside and tells you that it’s normal for an infant to start sleeping through the night at 3 months old and that “crying it out” is just a natural part of it.
“You mean all three of us could have been getting sleep this whole time?!”
Even worse, no one really tells you how to get your baby to sleep through the night, anyway. Meanwhile, the extreme parents try make you feel guilty for even exploring the idea.
Again, I don’t envy new dads.
Hallelujah, I am well past that stage now! I’m no longer a “new dad.” I’m a father of a toddler.
New dads, I am writing you this from the future. It gets better.
A lot better! It took me a while, but I’m finally at that point where I can proclaim, “I LOVE being a dad!”
In fact, I kind of have a man crush on my son.
I add him to my current list of man crushes: Ron Paul, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Bruce Springsteen.
What really propelled me into this state of fatherhood nirvana was probably this past weekend.
There was nothing monumental about it: We took Jack to swim lessons, and on a wagon ride, and just hung out a lot with him.
But the whole time, he was cool. Not high maintenance, not needy in an annoying way, just chillaxed like Jack Johnson.
Sure, it’s easier to feel good about myself as a dad when my kid behaves well the entire weekend. But his 48 hours of perfect behavior which allowed our family to have fun and stay in good moods was largely a result of my diligence with him.
I love to see those moments of “it paid off!” in parenting.
What topped off this perfect weekend was when my wife handed him over to me to put him to bed for the night. He ran right up to my face as if he was going to awkwardly kiss me like Paul Rudd or something.
Instead, he gave me an “Eskimo kiss.” (My wife has been working on teaching him to do that.)
I can’t explain it. But that somehow melted my heart… but in the most manliest of ways, of course.
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bromance, Bruce Springsteen, father and son, man crush, my son, Ron Paul | Categories:
Deep Thoughts, Must Read, Nostalgia, People, Storytelling, The Dadabase
Sunday, July 8th, 2012
“Jack is just a little version of Nick!” is something people never say, nor should they say. Whenever I post a new picture of my son and me on Facebook, no one compares the two of us. Because, really, there’s nothing to compare.
I look like the token Jewish actor from any and every sitcom you’ve ever seen in your life and my son looks like he stepped out of a time machine from the 194o’s… from Norway.
While I’m an olive-complected (I’ve got a green tint to me; it’s more noticeable when I wear black) and have dark brown hair, my son has a porcelain shine to his skin, along with undeniable blue eyes and (for now) blonde hair.
My physique makes me the kind of guy you’d expect to play the super hero before he turns into the super hero.
Meanwhile, my son, who is in the 75% for weight, is a strong and sturdy boy who inspires people to ask me what sports I think he will play when he gets older.
(Rugby, wrestling, football… all of the above.)
Yesterday I was at the pool with my son and my wife. While it didn’t feel like anyone was staring at us, I thought how if anyone there was people-watching us, they would surely assume our son was adopted.
It doesn’t matter to me or bother me that my son is keeping alive the rarest genes of my wife and me. It’s simply something I’ve noted from the beginning. And now at 19 months, the lack of physical similarity is still very evident.
Yeah, it’s weird and it’s funny to me, but for some strange reason I sort of like the unpredictability of it.
Every time friends hang out with us who haven’t seen us in a while, they always look at Jack, then at my wife and I, then back at Jack. Then they say us, “Who do you think he looks like?”
They say this thinking that because he’s our flesh and blood, we’ll have some magic intuitiveness that helps us see some resemblance they apparently don’t.
Well, no magic here, folks.
I imagine there’s a decent chance that as my toddler son transforms more into a real boy and eventually a young man, he will begin to look at least a little bit more like me.
Or at least his Mommy.
Either way, it’s safe to say that at least, physically, he’s no “mini-me.”
I think if he and I were given a “resemblance score” we would get 0%.
But hey, I’m open for a second opinion.
If you, the reader, see more of a resemblance than I do, let me know.
Would you give us a score higher than 0%?
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Sunday, April 22nd, 2012
After 90 minutes of napping together in a rocking chair in an upstairs bedroom at our friends Jamie and Peter’s house yesterday, my son Jack woke up slightly sweaty, drying himself off on my luxurious Italian arm hair.
He was disorientated. I could see him trying to figure it all out:
Why was he in a little girls’ bedroom? Why did he fall asleep in his Daddy’s arms as opposed to a crib? Was he still in a dream, like in the movie Inception?
Finally he looked up at me with curious eyes and plainly announced our mutual code word…
Then I said it back to him.
As explained in Stuff My 15 Month Old Says: Current Top 7, “bah-bah” is Jack’s way of making a donkey sound.
It’s recognized as the donkey sound only because of the almost sad, dropping tone Jack uses to imitate a donkey; not because of the word “bah-bah” itself, which doesn’t actually sound like a donkey.
By speaking our mutual, exclusive code word, it was as if to say:
“Okay, Dad. I don’t know how we got in this weird place. But you’re here too, so I’m sure you can find a way to get us out of here. Right?”
I led him downstairs to the living room where he remembered the school bus slide he was playing on earlier, before he got hit by the tranquilizer dart… metaphorically speaking.
He was safe and back to having fun. But he wouldn’t have left that room upstairs if it weren’t for us assuring each other with our code word.
How did “bah-bah” (with a dropping inflection) become our secret word?
Jack is in his car seat in my car for at least an hour every weekday. Sometimes when I haven’t heard a peep out of him in over 10 minutes, I check on him by using our code word.
He always answers back with it.
Then after that became normal for us (go ahead, give yourself a second or two to take that in) I started saying the code word when I pick him up from daycare every day.
It’s not, “Hey Jack, I’m here! I missed you son!”
Personally, I think having a donkey sound for a secret code word is pretty original. Especially for the fact that it’s taking the tone of one animal sound and masking it with the phonetic sound of another.
That would be like mooing a monkey sound; if that’s even possible.
Now Jack and I need a secret handshake.
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Tuesday, March 27th, 2012
Today on MSN’s home page there was a strange headline proclaiming “Buzz About Father Donating Sperm For Son’s Baby.” I couldn’t resist. I had to read it.
As the article explains, a man in The Netherlands stepped up to the plate for his son who is biologically incapable of having a child with his wife.
So the baby’s biological father will actually be his legal grandfather. Accordingly, the baby’s legal father will be his biological half-brother.
This is not illegal. Though it is pretty weird. I think for most people, the word “creepy” comes to mind.
But again, it’s not against the law. Should it be? Are there any particular moral issues involved here?
I think it’s safe to say that there are some psychological time bombs regarding this family’s dynamics. But does this case break a moral code, or does it just go against what is considered normal and acceptable in our society?
It’s not like the the father and daughter-in-law became sexually involved in order to have a child in the son’s place. But by the father donating his sperm, the ultimate outcome is still produced when the baby is born.
Imagine knowing that your own child is half of your spouse and half of one of your parents.
I feel like this is the strange twist ending of some psychological thriller movie.
Actually, this situation is very similar a story line in HBO’s drama series, Big Love. Nicki Grant’s ex-husband marries her mom in an attempt to have a biological child with her; having already fathered a child with Nicki.
When that plot revealed itself I remember thinking, “Okay, that’s an interesting story, but it’s simply unbelievable.”
Well, now that I’ve read this story, I’m less disappointed by the previously unbelievable story line on Big Love.
Right now I have the song “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh (A Letter from Camp)” stuck in my head, only the words are “Hello Grandpa, hello Father…”.
So here’s what I want to know: Is there anyone out there willing to defend this dad who donated sperm for his son?
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