When I first started this blog, I never really believed that anyone would be interested in hearing a guy blather on about fatherhood.
After all, let's face it. We still live in a world where men are not really encouraged to discuss their inner feelings. Most of us just don't want to hear about it.
If society has taught us anything, it's that there's a fine line between being a strong, confident man who is in touch with his feelings and being a giant wuss who cries at every father-daughter dance, likes to bake banana bread, and loves Jane Campion movies. Iron Man meet Iron John.
So yeah, really, who the fuck would want to listen to some random NYC Asian-American dude talk about being a dad?
But four years, ten pounds, and two colonoscopies later here I am. Still standing.
In fact, this is my 337th post. It's hard to believe. 337 times I've released my mental diarrhea out into the public arena. Who knew I even had that much to say?
Since its inception, this blog has been my own personal soapbox. It not only serves as a place for me to transcribe my personal journey into fatherhood but also lets me vent about the truly important issues of the day that seriously affect all of us.
Like sitting at the pediatrician's office yesterday, I jotted down an observation. Look, I wrote it on this napkin. It says: DO SOMETHING FUNNY ABOUT BABY DROOL. You see, that's the joy in writing this blog. Taking on the big guys.
Anyway, four years ago when I started this site, there weren't really any dad bloggers around. In fact, as far as I knew, it was just me, Greg, LOD and a small handful of others.
Then, along came Dutch, Danny, and Matthew. Pretty soon, more and more dads started entering the blogosphere. It's almost as if they started springing up in waves. I loved it. I've always enjoyed reading new dad blogs and wanted to give all of them as much attention as I possibly could. In fact, whenever I had free time, I'd do variouswrite-upsintroducing all the new dad blogs as they came online.
As I've said many times before, mommy blogs are like the giant 800-lb gorilla of the parenting blogosphere. They are an amazing revolutionary force of sheer will, spirit, and determination. They're fantastic and I love all of them. (Don't forget I was always on your side, ladies, 'cause I don't want to get hurt in the coming revolution. And by the way, don't you all look sexy today! Did you lose some weight? Is that a new haircut?)
What the hell was I talking about again? Ah yes, mommy blogs as 800-lb gorillas. Well, if that's the case, then daddy blogs are like the tiny gnat on the gorilla’s ass. Although our numbers are growing larger by the day, in all honesty, most people don’t even know we exist.
Alltop is an amazing, new kind of site. If you are interested in celeb gossip or politics or gaming or fashion or geeky stuff, the top posts in a wide variety of different genres are covered all in one place, without you having to load anything into a feed reader. It's absolutely brilliant.
The fact that there are now enough dad bloggers out there to justify their own channel on Alltop is amazing to me and warms the cockles of my soul. At last count, Alltop listed 81 different daddy blogs! How cool is that? I can't wait to see more and more added to the list.
Thanks to Guy and AllTop for recognizing the growing popularity of Dad bloggers. Now, go check them out here.
And if any of you know some other dad bloggers out there who either aren't on the list or I've never mentioned before, leave their URLs in the comments below.
Speaking of fathers...Al Copeland (the mack daddy of fried chicken and legendary founder of the Popeyes restaurant chain) passed away this week. I was so upset that I poured out some cajun gravy and dirty rice for my homie last night. Rest in peace, Al. Thanks for making the world a better place than it was before you entered it.
As a true New Yorker, I don't think I could ever live in the suburbs.
I just can't picture myself in the front yard in a robe and boxers screaming at those damn O'Reilly kids to get the hell off my damn lawn and keep their damn freaky music down. I can't stand the thought of complete strangers being able to just walk up to my front door and ring my doorbell. I also suffer from terrible allergies and have severe reactions to polo shirts, Dockers, pastel sweaters, light-beer drinkers, and Stepford wives.
But most importantly, I don't know what the hell I would do if (1) the roof leaked, (2) the basement flooded, (3) the boiler broke, or (4) I couldn't find a restaurant that delivered decent sushi.
Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against the suburbs and I wholeheartedly understand their appeal. In many ways, the promise of a nice house with a patch of land where your kids can run around in a safe neighborhood and get a decent public school education is the very epitome of the American dream.
After all, very few immigrants would ever risk death to come here for the dream of sharing a studio apartment with 8 other people in a crime-riddled ghetto with burned-out schools and bullets flying. Hell, if they wanted that kind of life, they could have stayed in Karachi. Or Mexico City. Or Baghdad.
However, while the suburbs are personally not my cup of tea, I do often dream of living out in the country, somewhere far removed from the hustle and bustle of urban life.
I'd have an enormous house, abundant acreage, and maybe even a barn and some horses. My closest neighbors would be 5 miles away. I'd drive an old jeep and teach English or History at the local high school. On weekends, I'd go fly fishing for trout in the creek behind our property. The Peanut and BossLady would fly kites in open fields with all the other local families. At night, we'd all come home, invite a few friends over, roast a pig, and drink some moonshine on the porch underneath the stars.
Yes, my friends. It's true.. Your favorite urban father has a part of him that has always longed for a simple Lake Wobegon life.
Although I've done a lot of things in my life, traveled all over the world, and seen some incredible things, there is a big part of me that pines for a much simpler life than one I've ever experienced. Every time I buy a jar of homemade jam, take a hay ride, or eat cotton candy at a state fair, I think about how different that life would be.
If there is a single metaphorical event that symbolizes my nostalgia for life in a simpler era, the drive-in movie is it. For years, I have always wanted to go to a drive-in theater.
Every summer, I look on the internet to see if there's one nearby. Unfortunately, I've never been able to find one within 150 miles of New York City.
Until this past weekend.
BossLady, knowing of my misguided love for drive-in theaters, made arrangements for us to go to New York City's only indoor drive-in theater and the world's smallest. It has only one car.
Started by artists Ben and Hall Smyth, DRV-IN is a temporary 350 sq ft storefront on the Lower East Side consisting of a 1965 one-of-a-kind Ford Falcon convertible, a giant indoor movie screen, painted starry skies, artificial grass, a potted tree, and a vintage popcorn popper. While the car can be reserved for as many as 6 people, BossLady thought it would be more fun if it were just the two of us. Needless to say, she was right and I had a total blast.
This month, DRV-IN is featuring a list of films that feature Ford Mustangs. We chose the French film, "La Femme Nikita."
Together we sat in the back seat, drank some beers, ate some popcorn, and were ushered back to a time when going to the movies didn't mean packing up the car, driving out to the homogenized chain theater and being forced to sit through 30 minutes of commercials for Starbucks, McDonalds, and American Express while being price gouged for a $15 combo of soda/popcorn.
This is how movies were meant to be seen.
After the movie on Friday night, I decided to keep going with the non-urban phase. So, on Saturday morning, the Peanut and I drove out to The Doctor's country house, where we spent the rest of the weekend going on pony rides, hunting for worms, going to the local Easter egg hunt, climbing rocks, and counting stars.
You know, I think I could almost get used to this country living.
Between our gubernatorial scandal, the crane collapse, the Sean Bell
shooting, and the demise of Bear Stearns, there is a lot of bad news
filling the local headlines here in New York.
However, for some reason, I find myself obsessed with the tragic story of young Nixzmary Brown,
the 7-year-old Brooklyn girl who was systematically starved, abused, tortured, and
beaten to death at the hands of her own parents. Every article I read
about her has me in tears.
According to her own father's confession, both parents hit Nixzmary repeatedly
with a belt, dunked her head in cold water, and used duct tape and
bungee cords to tie her to a chair. A litter box was her toilet. The
young girl was completely emaciated and, at her death, weighed 37
pounds (roughly the weight of a child half her age.)
The fact that a parent can inflict such pain on their own child is beyond my realm of understanding.
The scary thing is that one need only watch the local news anywhere
in the world to hear these horrible tales of abuse. Nationwide, the
trend has gotten so bad that there are websites solely devoted to documenting cases of child abuse.
I don't know about you guys but there seems to be a shocking rise in
the incidence of child abuse on this planet and I think it augers for
the end of the world.
Look, to a certain extent, I understand man's inhumanity against
their fellow man. I don't believe we'll ever see a world without war or
conflict. At a purely macro level, human beings are violent creatures
intent on seeking conflict with others.
At the individual level, I also get the fact that occasionally
people are going to brush up against another individual and hey, their
life must end. That doesn't make it acceptable but, at some level, I
think we all understand that transaction. As Dennis Miller once said, we're all big boys and girls
and we dig our own graves.
But when did we start taking it out on innocent children?
How about we all join in making a little pact with one another?
You've got to promise me that if you ever get to the point in your
life where you are so puzzled, confused, and frightened that you feel
that the only way out is to abuse or molest a little kid, well then, you
have got to fucking kill yourself. You've got to bite the bullet and take one for the team.
Do we have a deal?
Because honestly I can't think of anything worse in the world. What compels a person to take out their anger on a mere child? And how can people do that to their own children?
I get the fact that raising a kid is damn hard work and can
often be an exercise in futility. I've frequently thought that parenting is the greatest test of
man's patience since Job.
There are times when I've spent an hour
cooking my daughter her favorite dinner and she's tossed it onto the
floor in a rage of fury. I've walked into her room to see that she's painted the walls with poop. We've gotten into more fights about bedtime than I thought were even possible. She seems to have her most extreme meltdowns at the most inopportune times imaginable.
And don't even get me started on how many books of mine have been
destroyed because the Peanut ripped out the pages, stuck them in her
mouth, and said to me, "Look, Daddy! I'm chewing gum!"
But see, that's where the true test of parenting begins.
When you can stand on the brink of chaos, teeter on the verge of
insanity, want to throw yourself off a building and still look
at your kid and say, "God damn, I'd do anything in the world for that
little munchkin"...then you're ready to be a parent.
Almost.
Run out and get yourself a copy of "Finding Nemo." Watch it 50 times. Pour some milk on your favorite shirt. Now deprive yourself of sleep for about a year.
"I come from a home where gravy is a beverage."---Erma Bombeck
Me? I come from a home where nobody ever made dinner. They made reservations.
We joke that our entire family lacks the genetic ability to boil water but I'm not kidding when I say that, one Thanksgiving, my mother served us boiled turkey and stuffing. My father's idea of cooking can best be summed up by his signature dish, ghetto fried rice. Even the dog won't go near it.
The sad reality is that none of us are very good cooks. However, the ironic part is that we're all obsessed with food. Hence, our family memories surrounding food are quite unusual.
Those wonderful smells that conjure up childhood memories of your mother's homemade pot roast? The mental image of your family gathered around a giant feast whipped up by three generations of your family? The thrill of grandpa cooking up his famous five-alarm chili while grandma bakes homemade apple pies?
Yeah, I got none of that.
Our family's shared memories of food revolve around great meals we've had at restaurants together. Like when we discovered that little restaurant in Harlem that made the best Chinese dumplings. Or when, twenty years ago, we knew Tom Colicchio was destined for future greatness when we tried his braised rabbit. Then, there was that time in Italy when we said "screw the Sistine Chapel" because we found a place that made the world's greatest hot-pressed spinach and mozzarella paninis.
Friends of mine consider our family's dining habits to be weird. However, as a wise man once said, "it ain't weird if it's the only thing you know."
"In Mexico we have a word for sushi: bait."---José Simons
Of all the foods about which I'm passionate, sushi holds a special place in my heart.
I eat it at least 4 times per week. I love the quiet precision required to handle the fish. I love the subtle flavors. I love the artful presentation. And I love sitting at the sushi bar, drinking a few beers, and talking to the chef about his craft.
I've always had this fantasy of quitting my job and opening a tiny sushi restaurant in Manhattan with myself as the chef. The restaurant would only seat 8 people at a time and would allow me to create high-quality sushi in a serene and peaceful setting. It's a dream that I think about all the time.
Unfortunately, there's only one real sushi school in the United States and it's in California. Real sushi chefs apprentice for years in Japan under a master. Top sushi chefs have been known to spend several years learning solely how to properly prepare rice. Many don't even touch a knife until they've been apprenticing for at least five years.
I'm no spring chicken but, at the same time, better late than never. Don't be surprised if someday you come to this site and there's a post saying, "Sayonara! Gone fishing."
"There is no love sincerer than the love of food."---George Bernard Shaw
On the other hand, I know that a passion for food isn't enough. Hell, I've worked my ass off in enough restaurants in Manhattan to know how difficult it is to survive in the restaurant business. That's why I'm always amazed by chefs who are so passionate about their cooking that they couldn't imagine doing anything else.
Living in New York, I've been fortunate to hang out with a lot of these amazing chefs. During the summers, I've barbecued with Rocco DiSpirito at The Doctor's house. I've downed shots with Mario Batali. I've played hoops with Bobby Flay. And I've broken bread with Jean-Georges Vongrichten. They're all normal guys who just tend to be exceptionally passionate about what they do. I always love hearing what they have to say about food.
It's also why I'm hopelessly addicted to food shows on television. Between all the shows on the Food Network, BBC America's "Ramsay's
Kitchen Nightmares," and the Travel Channel's "Anthony Bourdain: No
Reservations," I find myself watching an enormous number of television
shows that revolve around food.
How bad have things gotten for me?
Well, last night, I had a dream that Paula Deen was my best friend; Giada De Laurentiis was my second wife; Bourdain was my
drinking buddy; Bobby Flay was my next-door neighbor; and Gordon
Ramsay was my personal chef.
Thankfully, in my dreams, I still hated Rachel Ray.
"Life expectancy would grow enormously if vegetables smelled as good as bacon." ---Doug Larson
Two months ago, I had my annual physical. I discovered that I had abnormally high LDL cholesterol, blood pressure, and triglycerides. Now, I generally eat pretty healthily and I work out on a regular basis so it was pretty clear to my doctor that these are genetic traits. However, he's fairly conservative and doesn't like the idea of putting patients on statins (like Lipitor) unless it's a measure of last resort; his rationale is that once you're on them, you're on them for life.
Instead, he proposed that I work with a nutritionist and together we would conduct a three-month experiment to determine whether a change in diet could significantly improve my blood health.
I'm currently subsisting on a diet of egg whites, spinach salads, fish, almonds, whole-grain bread, flax seed, and steamed vegetables. I'm allowed to cheat off the diet for one meal a week. I know this sounds limiting but my cheat meal last week was General Tso's chicken wrapped in two slices of pizza.
In all seriousness, I feel great. Without even trying, I've lost 10 pounds. I've never crapped so well in my entire life. And I've discovered that jogging 5 miles while watching the Food Network doesn't make me want to kill myself.
My blood is getting tested again in two weeks but I don't know if I can hold out any longer. Today on the subway, I almost licked someone's face because she smelled like butter. Yesterday, I saw a short guy in the elevator wearing all brown and I thought he looked like the cutest piece of foie gras I'd ever seen.
I know this diet is healthier for me but this is really no way to live. In the grand scheme of things, I drive way too fucking fast to be worrying about my cholesterol.
"How can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?"---Charles De Gaulle
Despite my love of food, I'm no food snob.
The French? Those cheese-eating surrender monkeys are food snobs. Every time I go to Paris, I end up getting in an argument over my belief that the only new contributions of French cuisine in the past 50 years have been Au Bon Pain and the Croissanwich.
Screw them!
As much as I love food, I hate eating pretentious food that has no personality behind it. Give me good old-fashioned American road food any day of the week. Serve me some ribs from Dreamland BBQ or The Salt Lick. Throw me a couple of lobster rolls from Red's Eats. Order me buffalo wings from The Anchor Bar. Or what about cheesesteaks from Gino's? Pizza from Grimaldis? Burgers from the Shake Shack? The curry chicken puffs from Yank Sing? The chili dogs from Pink's? The fried chicken from The Horny Toad?
Good Lord, is it any wonder my cholesterol is through the roof? Damn!
"We are the only culture that can stand in front of a microwave with a burrito in it and scream 'FASTER! FASTER!'"---Ross Brown.
Since BossLady works longer hours than I do, I pick the Peanut up from daycare every day. When it's warm out, we'll go to the playground for a few hours. Otherwise, we'll come home and read or play imaginary games together.
One activity that we like to do is make dinner together. When she was younger, I'd let her nuke things in the microwave. She would put some mac-and-cheese in the oven and I'd lift her up so she could press all the buttons. While it cooked, she would squeal with delight.
Now that she's almost 3.5-years-old and has a little more patience, I've been teaching her how to cook. We started off making some homemade tomato sauce. Then, we moved on to making sandwiches together. Now she even knows how to cook fish and steam vegetables.
However, I think I've created a monster.
Last week in daycare, the teachers cooked pasta with the class. My little 3-foot gourmand was so shocked that she felt compelled to tell the teachers that they were doing it all wrong! When I asked her what her teachers were doing wrong, the Peanut gave me a look of disgust and said, "Daddy, they put Ketchup on their noodles! Isn't that gross?"
Ladies and gentlemen, I now bring you the first in a recurring new series of videos called "How To Cook Like a Three-Year-Old." Today's lesson is "Pasta"
Recently, I've been reading a slew of food-related books. In the past few weeks, I've finished Anthony Bourdain's "Kitchen Confidential," Bill Buford's "Heat," and Michael Pollard's "In Defense of Food." Lately, I've just started reading "My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals."
It's fascinating to read what 50 of the world's greatest living chefs would want to eat for their final meal on the planet. Laurent Tourondel wants nothing more than a BLT sandwich made in his own kitchen. Alain Ducasse would have a simple roasted quail in Madiran wine sauce, then smooth celeriac puree with nutmeg, and a finish with apple slices. Thomas Keller says he would begin with half a kilo of osetra caviar, followed by some otoro, a quesadilla and a roast chicken, Brie with truffles, and for dessert either profiteroles or a lemon tart.
Some chefs pick the food of their youth, the simple dishes that remind them not only of home but also of why they became chefs in the first place. Others are less sentimental and simply pick their favorite dishes from their favorite chefs. Everyone has a choice and it seems to verify the old adage that you can tell a lot about a person from what they eat.
Personally, I think my last meal on this planet would be a Peter Luger's porterhouse steak with sides of creamed spinach, bacon, and German-style potatoes. I'd finish with some Junior's cheesecake. And I'd wash it all down with a bottle of first-growth Bordeaux. I'm not quite sure what that says about me.
What about you? What would be your last meal on the planet? Give me all the juicy details.
Yesterday, my not-quite-3.5-year-old daughter smacked me on the butt and said, "Nice job today, Daddy. I'm really proud of you!"
IF HILLARY HAD WON, THEY'D HAVE GONE WITH "VANILLA ICE"
After John Edwards dropped out of the race, Ben Cohen and Jerry Grenfield, co-founders of legendary Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, publicly endorsed Barack Obama for president. Those of you in the U.S. know that Ben & Jerry's is famous for naming flavors for those they admire; past flavors include "Cherry Garcia" (named for Jerry Garcia) and "Americone Dream" (named for Stephen Colbert.)
Recently, Slate Magazine held a funny contest to name a new ice cream flavor for Mr. Obama. Some of my favorite entries included "Obamana Split," "Baracky Road," and "Barackademia Nut." Ready for the winning entry?
"Yes, Pecan!"
Man, I love this country! Is that brilliant or what? What flavor would you make up for McCain?
THREE PHRASES I NEVER THOUGHT WOULD COME OUT OF MY MOUTH
(1) "Eat your broccoli or no dessert."
(2) "Stop putting Cheerios in your vagina."
(3) "Bend over so I can wipe your butt."
CHECK YO HEAD!
On Tuesday night, I saw the Beastie Boys in concert (that's right, mofos. On a SCHOOL night!)
The concert was fantastic. The Beastie Boys and I are roughly the same age and in many ways, I consider their music to be the soundtrack of my youth. Throw in the fact that they're native New Yorkers and I feel even more of a special kinship with them.
Quick thoughts:
(1) The crowd was very strange. I expected a typical cross-demographic representation of B-boys, club kids, hip hoppers, and hipsters. However, the audience was predominantly a bunch of thick-necked white guys from New Jersey. Lots of air-punching going on.
(2) When the tickets say that doors open at 7:00, you know that the band probably won't come onstage until 10:00. In a previous life, you would have spent those three hours drinking with your friends or trying to meet women. Now, you spend those three hours quietly calculating how much you'll ultimately have to pay the babysitter.
(3) Also to be filed under "Sign of the Times," you will incredulously leave the concert before the band is done playing because you want to "beat the rush." Teenagers will look at you scornfully with disgust.
(4) When you're no longer 25 years old, you can't run around onstage for 3 hours straight. The Beasties are no different. I found it amusing how they would alternate high-energy songs with funky mellow instrumentals. It reminded me of myself trying to jog.
(5) I was always a big fan of MCA (aka Adam Yauch.) I used to run into him at bars, concerts, or parties back in the day. Now, I think it's funny that the only time I see him is when I'm at the playground with the Peanut and he's there throwing a frisbee with his daughter. Man, the times they are a changin'.
PARENTING JOKE OF THE DAY
A woman gets on a bus holding a baby.
The bus driver says: "Holy shit. That's the ugliest baby I've ever seen!"
In a huff, the woman slams her fare into the box and takes a seat near the rear of the bus.
The man seated next to her senses that she is agitated and asks her what's wrong.
"The bus driver insulted me," she fumes.
The man sympathizes and says: "Why, he's a public servant and shouldn't say things to insult passengers."
"You're right," she says, "I think I'll go back up there and give him a piece of my mind."
"That's a great idea," the man says. "Here, let me hold your monkey."
3 THINGS A MAN SHOULD NEVER DO...EVER
(1) Wearing a toupee or use spray-on hair. Toupees always look fake. With spray-on hair, you're essentially painting your head. If you're going to paint your head, then while you're at it, why don't you just wood-panel your testicles, ok?
(2) Ask a policeman, "You ever shoot anybody with that thing?" Ask a woman, "Hey, you got a license for that ass?" Ask yourself, "What would Martha Stewart do?"
(3) Shout out a response to "Are you ready to rock?" (That question is, and always should be, completely rhetorical.)
BANNER VOTE
Thanks to everyone who submitted MetroDad banners for the site. I can't believe how many you guys sent in. It was awesome. Thanks so much.
Here are my five favorite banners that readers submitted. I'm not sure which one I'm going to use. Tell me which one you like best. The designer of the winning banner will receive (1) a brand-new Apple Shuffle, (2) a full ensemble of work-out/casual athletic clothing, and (3) a $50 American Express gift certificate.
When I was seven, I told my mother that I wanted to learn how to ski.
Like most immigrants new to the country, my mother had never gone skiing before in her entire life and, at the age of 33, didn't feel compelled to start learning anytime soon. However, she was adamant in her desire to expose me and my brother to everything this country had to offer.
After doing some research, my mom found these discount group tours that would take us to the mountain and provide ski lessons. I remember how she'd wake up before sunrise in order to pack breakfast, lunch and snacks. Then, the three of us would get into this giant bus with a bunch of strangers and drive for several hours to the mountain. While I was in ski school, she would sit inside the lodge all day with a book and my little brother by her side.
Those early bus trips fostered my deep-seated love for skiing. Since then, I've been fortunate enough to ski at more than 50 different mountains in four different countries. I love it.
For a city boy like me, there are very few things in life more enjoyable than waking up early, putting on my ipod, and skiing by myself in the great outdoors. I love the peace and quiet. I love the solitude. I love the thrill of challenging yourself to overcome your fears. And besides, what's more fun than writing your name in pee on top of a secluded mountain?
Ever since the Peanut was born, I've been waiting to get her up on skis.
In fact, ever since she could speak, I've been working on getting her excited about skiing. If she asked me whether skiing was fun, I'd always reply, "Well, do you
like chocolate cake? Ice cream? Penguins at the zoo? Staying up past
your bedtime? Skiing is just like all that stuff...but even better!"
So, after waiting all season to find the right weekend, I finally decided that I was going to take Peanut skiing for the first time this past Sunday. Although at 3.5 years of age, she's still a little too young, I wanted her to get in a couple of days skiing this season so she could start getting really excited about it.
Fast forward to Sunday morning.
The night before, BossLady and I had gone to a friend's dinner party for his 35th birthday. It was an intimate gathering with a few close friends. However, my buddy counts among his close friends Sting, P.Diddy, Josh Hartnett, Dean Winters, and several other recognizable names. The dinner was totally bizarre and I think I ended up drinking half a bottle of vodka. I vaguely remember an extremely drunken conversation with P.Diddy, where I ended up giving him a man-hug and saying, "keep doing what you're doing, man." I'm lucky his bodyguard didn't beat the crap out of me for being such an idiot. Oh well.
Needless to say, I woke up early Sunday morning with a massive hangover. The last thing I wanted to do was get in the car, drive two hours, and give the Peanut ski lessons. All I wanted to do was die a slow death or eat bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches all day in front of the television.
But then suddenly I got the image in my head of my mother waking up before dawn so that her oldest son could learn how to ski. She didn't even like skiing and was doing everything possible to allow me to learn.
How could I not do the same for my own daughter? Selfish bastard!
I popped out of bed, swallowed about 10 Advils, and then jumped in the car with the Peanut. Three hours later, she was up on skis for the first time in her life. She was so tiny compared to all the other kids. And although there was one occasion where she had a mini-meltdown, she eventually started having a great time and was soon tearing down the mountain yelling "Yippee!"
She loved riding on the "magic carpet."
And hitting her friend C on the head while wearing helmets.
When we got home, she was so excited about having gone skiing that she wouldn't shut up about it. First, she talked BossLady's ear off over dinner. Then, she demanded on calling my brother and my parents to tell them that she "went skiing for the first time by her big-girl self." She even wanted to call all her teachers and friends at home to tell them about it.
Honestly, I don't know who was more excited: me or her. It was so amazingly cool to see my daughter having so much fun skiing for the first time. I felt like I'd been waiting for this moment forever and it only served to remind me about how many things I want her to experience during the course of her lifetime.
As the old bumper sticker says, "Life is short. Carpe Skiem."
. What activity are you dying to do with your kid? Now or when they get older? And for parents of older kids, did you always find your children receptive to sharing some of your interests? Or were they like, "Pshaw, old man. Camping is for losers."
