Cuttin the Cord

I am not the least bit apprehensive about being in the delivery room for the moment the boy decides he wants me to stop enjoying "regular sleep cycles". I was there to see my niece take her first couple breaths and I can honestly say that it is the most amazing thing you can ever experience. I would even venture to declare it more life altering than the moment that you find out that professional wrestling might actually be fake. I say "might be", because there is no way the Ultimate Warrior wasn't giving it 110% every time he stepped into that damn ring with his neon speedo and tassles! I digress.

One question that immediately follows up my confirmation of delivery room presence is the classic dad job of cutting the umbilical cord. I have no problem with the actual act of cutting the cord, but I also am not a big symbol guy, and generally feel that anything medical should be handled by the professionals. I wouldn't be too excited to wrap my own parachute up the first time I went skydiving, even if the pros told me it would be fine. And if it is so easy that I can't screw it up, where is the real meaning in that? If the effects of my snip really amount to a Mission Accomplished banner on an aircraft carrier, it almost devalues it for me. One step further, if the converse is true, I could really destroy my kids entire P.E. and pool/beach-related social life with one slip of the scissors (outie), why the hell would you put that on a jittery first time dad?

I know I'm putting way too much thought into this, and when the time comes I will be probably be thrilled to clip the boy's tether in order to thrust him into the real world, but the whole thing still seems like a set-up to me. If it all works out and the little guy has a normal belly button I will take all the credit in the world, but if he has even a trace of an outie or any other abnormality I'm just going to tell him that the doctor was racist. It's my only hope.     

Natural Instincts

In my daily life I come across many of my natural inclinations that lead me to believe that maybe I shouldn't be allowed to raise a child. Most of them are just random immature things that shouldn't really enteratin me, but absolutely slay me, like any video of a fat kid falling down ( http://www.fatkidsfalling.com/ ) or when my dog farts and scares himself to the point that he freezes, locked in an instense pug stare while he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. I know what you're thinking...and you're right! If I end up with a chubby little flatulent kid, I'm completely screwed. I won't even be able get off the couch without peeing my pants from laughter.

Fast forward to today when I was discussing Halloween plans with a friend and came to the conclusion that I will likely stay home Halloween night and pass out candy to little kids. Unfortunately, I have this terrible knack for trying to make all normally innocent fun events slightly more fun by adding some sort of offensively childish twist to said event, like spinning in circles around a golf club before you hit your tee shot in order to see if you can stay upright, let alone strike the ball in a semi-athletic manner. For Halloween I figured I could buy tons of candy in order to encourage sugar-based behavioral and dental problems for all of my neighborhood kids, but why not also test their intelligence and determination while I'm at it?

I know the wife will disallow me to carry out my plan, but how great would it be to super glue pieces of candy to the sidewalk a few feet away from my house? Then not only could I spread the joy of snack size candy bars, but as the sugar-filled midgets left my residence I could also sit on my porch and watch chubby superheroes and skinny little ghouls attempt to pry up the tiny pieces of temptation. With any luck, the huskies ones will tip over in their sweet-induced rage.

The Name Game

We spent this last weekend camping and fishing with some close friends in the far off land known as "Lakeside". Lakeside is actually very open and green, and is especially cool if you are interested in rodeos or meth! Either way, we had a blast and we don't go camping nearly as much as we want to (as much as we talk about loving it), so I figured why not use it as the inspiration for a couple of name possibilities...

Camper- perhaps a bit too literal, but tell me your heart wouldn't melt if a little toddler in suspenders and bow tie wobbled up to you and introduced himself as Camper. Maybe it wouldn't, but maybe you're also a jerkface for judging my kid's name.

Flicker- not Flicka, like the black horse, Flicker, like the flames of a campfire. Now that I think about it, what could be manlier than naming the boy after a black horse? Flicka is also now an official option.

Steed- this is not at all camping related, but it is horse related. There is a soccer player in England named Steed and everytime I hear his name I think to myself he must have no trouble with the ladies at all. Or maybe he's just a massive dissapointment to the lasses, and has had to battle to overcome the unreal expectations that accompany such an intensely masculine name. Either way, it still makes me giggle with envy everytime I hear that name.

Birth Poses

The first and most likely pose is the standard proud new father pose. This classic is definitely unoriginal, but familiar and warm to all who have seen it and experienced it before. It’s essentially the same posture you would take after dropping a watermelon full of booze and it somehow miraculously did not break. You hold the watermelon/baby back down on your forearm with its head resting against your bicep. Cooing is optional, but glossed over eyes and bedhead hairstyles are mandatory components of this stance. This maximizes not only the cuteness of your father-son bond, but also makes your child look tiny and your biceps 30% larger than normal. This will most likely be my instinctual go-to pose, but if I can pull myself together long enough to realize what is going on , the I am definitely going with one of the next two poses.

This one is a doozy. What could be better than expressing to the world my love of sports, my love for my newborn son, and my general athletic prowess all in one moment as soon as the boy enters the world?
(That was a rhetorical question, please don’t offer me suggestions in the comments about what would actually be better). Therefore, I propose what can only be considered the greatest father-son moment in newborn history…the Heisman. Take the boy under your right arm, raise front knee as if in mid jump-cut, and extend left arm to fend off any would-be tacklers. Helmet optional, spiking not allowed.

Lastly, and perhaps most profoundly, I present a pose that has little meaning to me (I didn’t really care about the movie), but contains so much “in-your-face my kid is king of the world and I made him”-ness that I couldn’t help but consider it. And honestly, if it was sports related it would be the greatest birth pose known to man. In order to maximize drama in this pose you must receive the child and cradle it in your hands. Stare at nothing but the child for a ten Mississippi count or so, and then without speaking a word, turn your back from the crowd in the room and a slowly raise the child up above your head as to say, “Here he is. I made him and he is glorious” (obviously you’re just mentally speaking to the people on the hospital floor above you, bunch of jerks). I present to you…The Lion King.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

This really should be a non-issue. I shouldn't be at all concerned with the boy's hairstyles in his formative years. I shouldn't be contemplating letting him make these kind of decisions on his own, but I am, for one reason...fear of the mullet and everything it teaches us about society.

I grew up a relatively normal southern California kid in the 80's. My childhood was all about youth sports, the beach, and offensively bright neon clothing. You couldn't really pick my scrawny ass out of a crowd until the late 80's, when my ideas of a Val Kilmer/Ice Man-inspired flat top was "too military" for my mom's liking. In order for me to get the top of my head carved like a putting green she insisted I leave the back of my head untouched. In hindsight it really does sound like someone should have called Child Protective Services, but bear in mind that at this time in popular culture a Lethal Weapon era Mel Gibson, Patrick Swayze,and MacGyver were the dominant influences in harmless white male culture. Needless to say, the authorities were not called and a mullet was born.

In its time my mullet explored all the various stages of awfulness, especially when it was combined for a short time with a flat top and lines buzzed into the side of my head. Excuse me, I just puked a little in my mouth while typing that last sentence. When I finally was able to shed the Kentucky Waterfall my freshman year of high school I felt like a new man, a normal kid again. Too bad the first thing someone said to me the next day at school when I sat down sporting a new haircut was, "Did they let you keep the bowl?" I sat staring perplexed at the question until it was followed up with, "You know, the one they used to cut your hair with." Sweet, I went from the lamest haircut in contemporay culture to the lamest haircut of a generation previous.

But you know what I learned from having multi-generational shame heaped down upon me? I learned that kids are assholes and moms shouldn't be allowed to help with hairstyles. But I also learned that if I could overcome the hair equivalent of crapping my pants everyday of my youth, and still lead a semi-normal life, then there was really no reason to be ashamed of anything about my physical self. That's actually kind of a load of crap, I'm still ashamed about plenty, but at least I know none of it will kill me, and I have no problem making fun of myself for anything. And that's why I need to make sure the boy has some sort of funky hairdo for at least a short time. It will be like naming him Sue, but only temporarily.

Jiggly Junior?

Once upon a time, the wife and I were actually pretty decent high school atheletes. I was no by no means the Big Man On Campus and the wife wasn't planning on a career rooted heavily in corn rows and a general lack of repsect (WNBA), but we both owned letterman's jackets and are pretty proficient in nearly every sport. In the years since our days as student atheletes we have kept ourselves active by pursuing the always elusive Recreation League Champions T-Shirts. These crappy oversized cotton shirts are enough to keep you paying $50 every 4 months to be frustrated, injured, and stressed out once a week. Luckily, all those years of wasting our summers and weekends in far off places, being yelled at by mustachioed coaches finally paid off in the form of neutral colored victory clothes. It may hurt everytime I try to bend down and tie my shoes, but at least we still got it...at least enough of it to beat other desk jockeys at recreation sports.

Because of our active lifestyles and athletic endeavors, many of our friends are convinced that the wife will soon give birth to some sort of hyper-athletic robo-baby. I would love it if the boy wants to spend all his free time playing and watching sports with pops, but I also must face the very real possibility that my child might not have any interest in sports at all. Even more ironic, what if we end up with a pudgey little bugger? It's not likely, but I still have to wonder how I would react to such a situation (besides the obligatory "We're still not sure who the father is" jokes). I honestly don't care whether the boy is fit as fiddle or has to wear husky size Huggies, as long as he is healthy and happy I will love him just the same...I will just have way more comic ammunition if he's happily plump.

One thing I will definitely not do is force the boy to be something he is not, as many of my friends had to suffer through some very uncomfortable childhoods in order to try and meet family expectations. One of my best friends had a sadly hilarious incident when his uncle tried to intervene in his video game-based sedentary lifestyle. Out of respect for my buddy, and for insurance reasons I won't divulge his real name, so let's just refer to him as "Pameron" in order to protect his identity. Apparently one of Pameron's uncles did not feel that assiting Lara Croft raid tombs did not qualify as "exercise". It seems that he felt the only way to nudge Pameron down a more cardio-friendly path was to drag him to a local park and make him run laps around the park...in a wetsuit. Take a moment and marinate in that delightful imagery. An already lumpy young boy showing up to the park and being forced by his "caring" uncle to perform calisthenics, all while wearing a thick layer of neoprene. Either the man is was a terribly insenstive relative or just had the greatest sense of humor in human history. Either way, I can't wait to see what shape my little bundle of joy arrives in.

Bon Jovi wouldn't be my first choice...

But I can only hope that the boy will someday have a chance to rain down upon a sporting event with such unparalleled awesomeness...

amazing...

No Facebook for My Boy

If you know me at all you know that I am not a fan of social networking websites. I'm all for staying in touch with good friends, finding old friends, and generally messing with any current friends in a public arena, but after about a week of Myspace I had fulfilled both those needs and the thing just became dangerous. Not dangerous like this (fyi, the following video is not creepy, but is absolutely hillarious)...


But more dangerous in a tequila sort of way. Mysterious and intriguing at first, pure hedonistic fun for a brief time, and then ultimately puking followed by the runs. Allow me a quick juxtaposition (I hope that means what I think it does):

Shot #1: Logging on and creating a profile you are a little apprehensive at first, then once you realize that it's very easy to do and all your other friends have already done it without any hugely negative results you figure why not just give it a chance. It wasn't that great and you may have a dirty taste in your mouth, but screw it, you just want to have some fun with your friends.

Shot #2: You realize that your cyber self allows you to express who you really are. You feel the shackles of a dorm room or an entry-level corporate job slowly start to crumble away and really set you free. You're responsible all the time, why not have just a little "me time" and have fun with some old friends tonight? Besides, this is just the real you coming out, you're not acting like anyone else but you, the social panther that you really are.

Shots #3-4: You don't even know what happened here, it was so much fun you don't know why it took you so long to embrace it. This timeframe was a blur, but apparently you posting all sorts of "hillarious" photos of yourself and friends, and leaving inside jokes on other people's pages. Also, at some point you really start craving mexican food.

 Shot #5: You begin thinking, "What did people do before Myspace/Facebook?" and you start asking your friends to Myspace/Facebook you instead of actually talking to them in person or on the phone. You can't imagine why you don't drink tequila all the time. You are invincible!!!

Shots 6-??? At some point you start spinning and realize that maybe you weren't as cautious as you thought you were. It's too late now, the damage has been done and it's only a matter of time before everyone sees you blow chunks in specacular fashion...

Click on image to enlarge for comic details.

You were flying so high, but perhaps too close to the sun.

And that, my friends, is why my little guy won't be getting a Facebook page.

Possible Names

Anything ending in -berto: including, but not limited to Roberto, Alberto, Filiberto, Hilberto, Guarberto, Jackberto, Aliberto, etc...

Richard Pryor: purely for street cred.

He-Man: really, am I this brilliant?

Captain: God forbid the boy is an alcholic, but if  he becomes a stinking drunk how goddamn great would this name be? Even if he's normal he ends getting all sorts of tail based purely on his sea-worthy monniker.

A Father-Son Conversation

July, 2014

"Daddy, who is that man on all the movie previews. "

"That's Dane Cook. He is what daddy likes to call an ass-clown."

"Why daddy?"

"Sorry bud, that's just daddy's repressed envy bubbling up to the surface. Basically, Dane Cook is rich and famous because he realized that in order to maximize his success he didn't need work hard at becoming a better comedian or more talented actor, but that if he just walked around playing a caricature of himself and always taking the easy laugh he could make millions of dollars based purely on his looks and his ability to raise his voice when delivering a joke."

"What?"

"Just think of Dane Cook as the Jessica Simpson of comedians or the Larry the Cable Guy of Abercrombie fans. He's mildly talented at his craft, but he has figured out how to work a crowd by exploitin his physical appearance to make it seem like he is unique. In reality he just has more "product" in his hair than any non-ethnic man in America and he works very hard to remain barely unshaven every single day. It's not easy to make yourself look like you spent all night having sex and drinking Jaeger and now refuse to shower, but as a result he gets to star in the worst movies in the world with the most attractive women around."

"I have to poopy."

"Ok, but first tell me why we don't like Dane Cook?"

"Because he's an ass-clown?"

"You got it! If mom asks, you learned that word from the mailman."

I apologize to any Dane Cook fans reading this...I'm sorry you don't have good enough friends to tell you how bad Dane Cook sucks. The truth hurts.

Mister, urine trouble.

I have already accepted the fact that my little guy will eventually wizz on me at some point in his infancy. Anatomically speaking, for practical diaper changing purposes, baby boys are the universe's ultimate design flaw. They are like revolving doors with a "pull" sign (think about it). They seem harmless enough, but if you don't pay close attention at all times someone's probably gonna get it..."pow, right in the kisser".

In the grand scheme of things, it is a fair trade. I don't have to worry about paying for a wedding, "talking about feelings", or constantly having to fend off prospective young punk suitors. In exchange, I will likely get peed on (please not the face!) and have to teach the boy how to properly throw a ball. I can do this, but I think I might by a welder's mask to limit my exposure to the golden sprinkler.

Education Gap: The Entire Universe

I recently had a conversation with a good friend of mine. He is a very intelligent college graduate that, for a brief time, was actually majoring in astrophysics and aspiring to be a rocket scientist. We were discussing our shared interest in reading many of  "The Classics" that many people read in junior or high school, but we both missed out on for one reason or another. I told him about my inability to really enjoy The Catcher in the Rye, even after a second reading. He told me how he was truly dissapointed in Moby Dick, but not because of any lack of literary technique or drama. He was let down because he waited with great anticipation throughout the entire story for the main characters to get trapped inside the whale. When I laughed out loud and assumed he confused the story of Jonah and The Whale he took the unitentional comedy to the next level by correcting me...he got Moby Dick confused with the story of Pinnochio. Rocket Science.

I bring this tale up not because I want to shame my friend (even though he knows who he is and will likely read this blog...sucka!), but because there are quite a few areas in which my non-traditional educational background is lacking and I fear that I may pass these intellectual voids on to the boy.

For example, the entire universe. I know nothing about planets, stars, or constellations. Seriously, the other night I guessed that Pluto was the answer to a Jeopardy question in the Planet category. Once she was done laughing, the wife informed me that Pluto was no longer a planet. No longer a planet? How the hell can this crap be considered science?

Regardless, I'm considering just blatanly lying to the boy when he starts asking me all sorts of astrological questions. I will just rent The Last Starfighter, Starman, Enemy Mine, and the original Star Wars trilogy and explain how all the important intergalactic discoveries of our time were recorded for science's sake between 1977 and 1985. Star Trek will be completely omitted because the original series sucked and I don't want my kid's entire social life based on whether or not he can run at "warp speed" to evade alien bullies from the planet Wedgie. Besides, what is the the worst that could happen with a little misinformation regarding outer space...

Witchcraft and Boobs

Exciting blog title, right?

True: My wife will be having a baby before spring arrives.

False: The above truth somehow issues you a moral free pass to begin discussing the future of her chest-related bodily functions and how we "have to" prescribe to your particular superstition regarding infant nutrition.

Hey, Mr. Not-A-Doctor, it's a baby, we are going do to whatever is in it's best interest. We are not cavemen (is that offensive? is cavepeople more approriate?), we are semi-rational young adults that just so happen to dress their dogs up and put them Christmas cards.

It's great that your sister's coworker had a kid whose deviated septum was somehow attributed to breast milk or formula, but why don't you keep that adorable little anecdote to yourself. If that seems like too much to ask (you know, not discussing the most intimate details of a young mother's life) why not just start asking me if my nether-region is still sore from such a valiant effort to create human life. Maybe you're interested in how my urethra will react to having another young buck in the house? Come on, I'm full of "topics" for discussion!

Name of the Day

Chewy- are my Mexican roots bubbling to the surface, am I anticipating the arrival of a morbidly obese child, or am I just a closet Star Wars fan? Wouldn't you like to know, you nosey bastard.

Either way, it is a pretty adorable name for a wee lad. That is, until the year 2022, when I realize that my boy has become a mildy Mexican pudgey little Star Wars dork.

Maybe not the greatest name after all.

Sympathy Pains: Quit Your Jibber Jabber

You know what I assume is the most fun part about being a pregnant woman? I mean, besides crippling morning sickness (which apparently lasts all day and carries on for months at a time, like God is getting back at you all at once for every timne you miraculously escaped a hangover)or the total exhaustion caused by an ever-growing midget trying to steal your life-force. It's the awkwardnes that comes from the non-stop diarrhea of the mouth everyone else has in reaction to your current physical state.

Just think about this for a minute, who is more psychologically vulnerable about their outward appearance than a pregnant woman? The answer is Kanye West, but that's about it. And who has to deal with more unintentionally damaging public commentary and scrutiny on a daily basis? Nobody, that's who. But it's some sort of Pavlovian response for people who encounter a pregnant woman to immediately comment on her current state.

Examples:
"Wow, you look great. My friend Jenny looks like a planet right now, and she's only a month further along then you!"
-Great, as my hormones begin to rage and I get more sensitive I can take comfort in the fact that people will start comparing me to whole other worlds in a few short weeks.

"Are you wearing maternity clothes? Wow, those things cover up so well, let me see!"
-Yes, the items I spent hours of my life and hundreds of dollars on to hide the fact that my body is eeking it's way towards Grimace from McDonald's status, have now been completely validated by you exposing my Houdini-like clothes and pointing out how round my body is truly becoming underneath it all. What a friend.

"You're glowing!"
-In real life we call this sweating. It's the natural human reaction to an alien life form attempting to roundhouse kick his way out of your uterus.

Fear Alert: Red

GINGERVITUS
If you are already a parent, or suffer from this red plague yourself, then you know that this eternal curse will be at the top of nearly all expectant parents' list of fears. I could go on in great details about the adversity that ginger kids face on a daily basis, but any witty prose I could produce would merely pale in comparison to the scientific video presentation found here:



This heavy lifelong burden is only matched by the generally ferocious temperment inherent in the Ginger Nation. Bestowing red hair, freckles, and a skin tone that freakishly toggles between vanilla and strawberry ice cream is not only cruel, it is downright hillarious.

The only upside to this sad disease is the ability for you kid to have hillarious nicknames such as The Ginger Ninja, Ginger Nuts, and Daywalker.

Daddy Fear Factor: The Birth Month

So the boy will be entering the "real world" mid-February. For most this would seem like an innocent detail, but it scares me more than a car full of freshly inflated balloons (shut up, you have issues too).  There are a variety of factors for my apprehension surrounding a February birth, and since I need structure in order to avoid 3 page run-on sentences I will list them henceforth...

1. Wallet Death Blow- My wife's birthday, Valentine's Day, and now my firstborn son's birthday will all come together to create the perfect post-holiday destruction of my personal economics. "What's that buddy? You want a bicycle for your birthday? Well let me tell you what daddy wants, he wants Christmas to be moved to June so he can take a breather from the crushing financial legsweep you and mommy are delivering so early this year!"
2. Enunciation Issues- I've have always dreaded having to say February out loud, ever since my stupid 1st grade teacher told me I could pronounce it with or without the first "R". Sure, I could take the easy way out and ignore that beautifully rugged consanant, but what am I, some sort of fascist alphabetist? I am not. Also, I have large gums and thick lips, thus compounding my inability to pronounce this devil month's name.
3. Leap Year- I still don't understand the phenomenom that most 3rd graders could probably explain to you in three sentences or less. It's not because I have tried and failed, I just think whoever created this abomination of a calendar format should be shunned for such an oddball wildcard day (or lack thereof!). So now I have to try and figure out how to tell my son why is birth month is sooo much cooler than all the other months that every couple of years we have to steal a day from it, to even out the cool factor in fairness to the other months. I don't believe in month socialism and I won't push it on my son!
4. Birthstone- "Hey, little buddy, let's talk about your birthstone. You know, the random sediment associated with the 4 week period in which you decided to be born. It sounds cool, right? A rock that is just for you and the month of your birth. It turns out Ferbruary is for lovers and total froo-froo wussies who love purple stones that would make Elton John blush. Please don't ever ask me to buy you an amethyst piece of jewelry, it might make me cry testosterone tears. Even if you do ask, I will likely just make you sit on the couch and watch Road house on repeat until you denounce your birthstone."

Possible Names

I figured I might as well get the frontrunners out of the way now. I mean, it's pretty obvious that this short list is a compilation of some of the greatest boys name in the history of man.

MacGyver- a fan favorite across the board (as long as your board doesn't include anyone with ovaries).

Legend- maybe the greatest idea that has ever emerged from my brain.

Boo- I must give credit for Mr. Nunez for a name whose concise awesomeness is only surpassed by his amazing foresight: "They're not jeering you, son. They are all just cheering your name..."

Patrick Swayze- a combination first and middle names that come together to form unparalleled levels of badassness (names not allowed to be seperated, boy always to be referred to as Patrick Swazye, especially at all team sporting events).

Fear for the boy....Unibrow

There is no genetic history that I know of in either of our families, but what if the boy pops out looking like Bert from Sesame Street? Do I ignore it and tell him everyone's different and that he should be proud of what makes him unique? Or do I tell him the truth, that forehead mustaches are the follicle equivalent of a lazy eye, and if he ever wants to take anything besides "a friend" to a high school dance, then start plucking like his life depended on it.