MetroDad

Why BlogHim wouldn't be such a good idea...

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In honor of the fact that the 2nd annual BlogHer conference starts in 5 days, I thought I'd re-post this entry from a year ago.  It was originally written after the close of last year's conference. 

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As many of you know, this past weekend marked the inaugural BlogHer conference, an event designed to provide an open forum in which to discuss the role of women within the larger blogging community, to examine the developing code of blogger ethics, and to discover how blogging is amplifying the voice of women worldwide.  All worthy causes and it seemed the event was a phenomenal success.  Female bloggers from around the world were able to not only coalesce as a group but also, as my friend Laid-Off Dad put it, "to name each other's knockers." 

But all kidding aside, a small part of me was a little jealous that some of my favorite bloggers gathered in one place for a long weekend.  I would have liked to meet some of the amazing female bloggers that I read on a regular basis.  But aside from that, I think the fact that a group of women could multilaterally mobilize and organize such a prodigious event is truly a testament to the amazing organizational fortitude of women as a whole. 

You think male bloggers could ever organize an event like this? 

I think the planning of it would be so chaotic and comical that it would almost be worth it to try and organize one just to watch the fireworks.  Personally, here's how I think a male blogging conference would work out...

The two aspects of planning BlogHim that would actually NOT be controversial are location and date.  These are no brainers.  Location?  Vegas.  Date?  Super Bowl Weekend.  Done.  And whereas the women were able to double up and share rooms at one of the 24 hotels servicing the conference, I'm thinking that all the guys could chip in some dough so we could get the Rainman Suite at Caesars. 

The women were organized enough to get corporate sponsors like Nokia, Red Herring, Technorati, Yahoo & Google.  However, I'll bet that the guys would be happy with a couple free cases of Bud Light and the chicks from Hooters.  Because as all guys know, corporate sponsors are for pussies!  Screw The Man!

BlogHer featured an impressive array of symposiums, including "When Globalization is Good for Women," "Blogging for Business," "Mommy Blogging," and "Minority Female Bloggers."  I don't even know how we would begin to organize an agenda for men.  What would it include?  "Blogging Apparel:  Boxers or Briefs?"  "BWI: Blogging While Intoxicated"?  Or maybe "When Worlds Collide: Blogging & Internet Porn"?

What I really admire about BlogHer is that the women bloggers were all so supportive of one another.  Unfortunately, there's no way that you could put several hundred male bloggers in a room together without some sort of competition starting.  Because ladies, if you've ever wondered why your husband's business conferences always include a round of golf, it's because testosterone needs an outlet.  Take away the golf aspect and you'll have a few hundred guys having a drinking contest or starting a food fight.  Don't over think it and wonder why.  It's just how we are. 

Furthermore, you can't put that many men in a room together without a few dozen arguments starting.  That's another indisputable fact.  Men like to argue.  It's nothing personal.  We just like to do it.  Women don't like to argue.  They like to reach consensus.  That's what I love about women. 

But what I love about men is that we'll never shy away from a good argument.  We can spend hours debating anything.  Will Griffey make it to the Hall of Fame?  Is Ashley Simpson hotter than Jessica?  Could Batman kick Jet Li's ass?  Ford or Chevy?  Because men will argue about anything, it's hard to imagine exactly what the controversy would be at a male blogger conference.  But make no mistake, there would be one. 

At the end of BlogHer, it seems that on-line friendships ventured into the real world.  Lifelong relationships were formed, heartfelt hugs were exchanged and tears flowed freely with laughter. 

At BlogHim, I think guys would exchange e-mail addresses (so we could send each other funny photos) and possibly cell-phone numbers.  But tears?  Hugging?  I don't think so.  As guys know, there is still a lot of controversy surrounding the etiquette of the man-hug..  To be on the safe side, I think we'd all just high-five one another and go our separate ways.  We'd say that we'd keep in touch but, within a few months, we'd find a business card in our wallet, look at it, wonder who the bozo was that gave it to you, and then chuck it in the trash.

So unfortunately, I think the only way that a BlogHim conference could ever take shape is if some women organized it on our behalf and kept us in line.  Since that's not likely to ever happen, I'll just take pride in the fact that so many women were able to organize something as cool as BlogHer.  Like I said, there's a part of me that's very jealous that they all had this great opportunity to meet and come together.  And though they did open the conference to men, I was surprised to see that so many men actually did attend.  I was thinking about attending too...but then my balls dropped.  (Seriously, fellas, what would compel you to attend a conference for women named BlogHer?)      

Anyway, kudos to you women for having the wherewithal to pull off such an event.  Guys, we've got to get our shit together and organize a similar event.  Any volunteers? 

Hello? 

Anyone? 

Bueller? 

Awww....fuck it.

To all those attending BlogHer this weekend, have an excellent time.  I expect full updates and detailed reports.  And if any pillow fights or jello wrestling matches happen to break out, please be sure to send photos!

Sine Qua Non: Only in Long Island

Do any of you remember the TV show from the 70's called "Zoom"?  It was a PBS show produced by WGBH in Boston and it was the first television program hosted entirely by kids. 

Anyone remember it?  No?  Damn, I'm getting old!

When I was a little boy, "Zoom" was one of my favorite TV shows.  One episode, in particular, made a very memorable impression on me.  In it, the "Zoom" kids went to visit a man who had built these incredible treehouses in the forest, all of them on different trees and connected with one another via an elaborate system of planks and walkways.  It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen and, from that day on, I became obsessed with treehouses. 

Sadly, I never got my treehouse.  Instead, I scoured the streets looking for people who had bought new appliances and were throwing the boxes away on the street.  Back then, finding a refrigerator box was a huge score.  I'd drag the box home, carve out some windows with an Exacto knife, paint the sides, and throw in my sleeping bag.  Voila!  Instant treehouse!  Once finished, I would hole myself inside the box for days with my collection of comics, my baseball cards and my Encyclopedia Brown books.  Ahhh...good times, my friends.  Good times. 

Anyway, in the latest of my "Only in New York" series, I've discovered that one of the latest trends in local parenting is to have a professional architect build your kid's treehouse.  According to this NY Magazine article, some of these treehouses are going for prices well over $100,000!!!

Here are two examples of what you get for your money...

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How amazingly cool is that?  Man, I'm 37 years old and I'd STILL love to have a treehouse like that.  In fact, that one treehouse on the right looks bigger than my first apartment in Manhattan.  And I'll bet it doesn't have crack whores living next door either!

Now, I know some of you are going to rant about the moral depravity involved in dropping that kind of dough on a fucking treehouse.  After all, the disparity beween the rich and poor in this country is growing faster than Rush Limbaugh's rap sheet.  The number of CEOs making over $20 million per year has increased exponentially over the past few years (even as the companies they managed went bankrupt) and more and more people are struggling like hamsters in a giant Habitrail just to maintain a middle-class standard of living.  Our national and personal savings accounts are the lowest they've been in generations.  Our health care system is an Orweillian nightmare.  And the paltry amount of money spent on education in this country seems likely to ensure that future generations will probably be woefully unprepared to compete in the global marketplace. 

Now, many of you know I don't like to discuss politics on this site.  However, I will say that I'm generally in favor of capitalism.  As Dennis Miller once said, all the other systems have worked out about as well as a Lee Greenwood booking in Baghdad.  My only beef with the system is that it puts a bunch of crusty old rich guys on Capitol Hill in charge of determining how best to allocate resources so that we have better schools and social programs to help those who are less fortunate. 

Besides, let's be honest.  Who among us doesn't want to be rich?  Who hasn't bought a lottery ticket when the jackpot is over $200 million?  Who doesn't want to never worry about providing for one's family?  Nobody should feel guilty about it.  Trying to get rich is practically our national pastime. 

It's heartening to see guys like Warren Buffet and Bill Gates give away the vast majority of their fortunes in order to improve the betterment of mankind.  I hope they motivate other rich dudes to do the same thing.  However, if they'd rather spend their money on treehouses that cost $100K?  Well, God bless 'em.  Who are we to tell anybody how to spend their own money?  Sorry.  It doesn't work like that, comrades!

Anyway, I'm babbling.  I'd just like to end this by saying that if any uber-wealthy readers out there would like to buy my family a $100K treehouse, we'd be more than happy to accept your largess. 

Alternatively, we'll also take any empty refrigerator boxes you might have.

(By the way, on the off chance that there are any "older" readers out there who, like me, fondly remember the TV show "Zoom," then check this out.)

 

Sine Qua Non: Only in Park Slope

When I was a little kid, we used to sell lemonade on the sidewalk.  The going rate was about $0.25 per cup. 

In junior high, we used to walk around Sheep's Meadow in Central Park and sell bottles of water for $1.00. 

Now, I know having a kid these days is different from previous generations.  Kids (especially those that grow up in the city) are so mature and cosmopolitan at such a young age that it continues to astound me.  It's particularly fascinating to be dining at a restaurant, only to hear a 5-year old kid at the next table ask whether the frisee salad comes with portabella or porcini mushrooms and whether it's possible to substitute cantalet for the aged reggiano. 

But now?  I think I've seen everything...

Only in New York.  Only in Park Slope.

(AstroPop via Eater.)

Phantom Dinner Guests

I fucking love guacamole. 

If I'm at a party and someone's got some good guacamole, I will just sit there by myself and dip chip after chip into the bowl.  If nobody's watching me, I'll scoop the guacamole onto a chip and just lick it off.  I won't even eat the chip.  I'll just keep dipping the same chip into the guacamole repeatedly.  (Totally gross, right?  I'm like a double dipper to the nth degree.) 

Because let's face it.  Chips are really just vehicles for your guacamole.  They're dry, salty and taste like crap on their own.  If guacamole didn't exist, I'd never eat another chip in my entire life.

Why am I talking about this?  Because in the familial relationship metaphor of inter-generational dynamics, BossLady and I are the chips and Peanut is the guacamole. 

Whenever we're around my parents, BossLady and I might as well not even exist.  The Peanut is my parent's first grandchild and to say that they are "fawning" is to insult fawns everywhere.  Peanut is their life.  Their weekly schedules, their vacations, their daily conversations...all of it is at the mercy of a little 20-month-old girl. 

Yesterday, we had a family dinner with my folks and MetroBro to celebrate BossLady's birthday.  Though my wife's birthday is always cause for celebration, I think we've officially reached the point where my parents would celebrate Idi Amin's birthday if it meant they got to spend time with their granddaughter. 

At one point, I looked up to see my father physically wrest Peanut away from the BossLady so he could carry her.  Didn't even say a word.  He just grabbed her out of BossLady's arms like the Lindbergh baby.  I know he didn't mean to be rude.  He just loves carrying the Peanut around. If it were up to him, the Peanut's feet would never touch the ground and the two of them would spend their days reenacting the marsupial relationship between Angelina Jolie and young Maddox. 

During dinner, as usual, all attention is focused on the Peanut.  Sometimes when I'm speaking, I can actually see my mother's mind working as she pretends to listen to what I'm saying.  Although she may be looking directly at me, I know that, in her head, she's thinking, "I love my granddaughter so much.  I wonder what she's doing this very nanosecond.  She's so cute!  Where is she?  What is my son saying?  When will he be done talking?  I just want to see my granddaughter.  I love her so much."

Like many people, I've found that my parents are far better grandparents than they were parents.  Particularly in the case of my father, he seems to be atoning for various past sins and transgressions.  He's already much more involved in the Peanut's life than he ever really was in my own.  It's almost as if he's getting a fresh start. 

Having been severely abused by his own parents, my father ran away from home at a very young age.  He never had parenting role models to admire or emulate.  Because he was abused by his family, he's always had problems dealing with emotional issues and has a very dysfunctional way of dealing with expressions of love and affection.  My relationship with him when I was younger was always tumultuous and conflicted.  Parenting was NOT a subject that I imagine he spent much time thinking about.

In several ways, having the Peanut has changed the dynamics of the relationship between me and my parents.  Like everything in my life now, my primary concern is my daughter's well-being.  And because I never had any grandparents of my own, I'm glad that the Peanut does.  I'm glad that she gets all this doting attention.  I love the fact that she has so many people who love her as much as I do. 

So if it means biting my tongue as my father grabs the Peanut from me?  Or sitting silently as my mother ignores me?  Or going to family reunions and feeling like the Invisible Man? 

Well, that's just fine for me.  I'll just be here in the corner eating some guacamole with my fingers.

 

Girl's Gone Wild: The Toddler Years

Tonight, the Peanut got pissed at me because I wouldn't give her a cookie.

Honestly?  I don't even know how she saw the fucking cookie.  It was perched on a countertop way beyond her line of vision and semi-hidden by a sippy cup. 

All I know is that, at one point, the two of us are hanging out and playing musical instruments together.  She's jamming out on the harmonica and I'm rocking some serious triangle action.  Next thing I know, she completely freezes up and I see her tiny eyes scanning the entire kitchen with the intensity of Jack Bauer looking for a terrorist in a crowded mall.  For a second there, I half-expected her to pick up an empty toilet paper roll and start using it as a telescope.  Instead, she made an immediate beeline for the cookie and tried to use her one inch vertical leap to grab it. 

Since it was close to dinner time (and because I'm the world's most sadistic father,) I refused to give her the cookie.  In my best approximation of an actual grown-up, I calmly told her that the cookie would spoil her appetite and that, if she waited a little while, we'd have dinner together. 

First, tiny tears start welling up in her eyes. Then, she begins whimpering softly.  Next thing I know, she's screaming so loudly that I'm convinced my neighbors will think I'm flushing a cat down the toilet.  I lean down to hug her but she kicks me in the nuts.  She then starts flailing around on the floor like an epileptic fish.  Her arms are going in one direction, her legs in another.  If the screams hadn't been so maddingly deafening, I think I would have sat back in a chair and laughed my ass off. 

Instead, I gave the Peanut a "time-out." 

This was actually her second time-out.  BossLady gave her one the other day because the Peanut thought it would be fun to overturn the laundry basket and start tossing Diet Coke cans out of the pantry.  While BossLady and I thought this was hilarious, we didn't want to set a bad precedent so we suppressed our smiles and scolded the Peanut.  Of course, our lovely daughter went absolutely bonkers, started screaming again, and commenced throwing soda cans like a young Satchel Paige.

So we stuck her in her crib until she cooled out (thank you, Supernanny!)

Clearly, we're at the beginning stages of the Terrible Twos.  I'm fully cognizant of the fact that the Peanut's behavior stems from an irresistible urge to make her own choices.   Recently, I've been reading a lot of parenting literature to help me prepare for this latest phase of the Peanut's development (and the ensuing onset of oppositional behavior, constant impatience and decision reversals.)

All the same, it's fascinating watching it up close and personal.   In one moment, the Peanut is cute, adorable, and charming.  Two seconds later, she's stubborn, demanding and impatient.  She's like a miniature Asian version of Sybil.

Wish us luck, my friends, and feel free to offer up any advice.  Because right now, BossLady and I are locked in a battle of the wits with a 20-month old girl who has suddenly come to realize that she knows exactly what she wants at any given time.  Nature and Nurture are colliding straight-on and the stakes are high. 

Winner gets a free cookie.

 

How to order bologna in 3 different languages!

After I was born and my mother returned to work, my parents left me in the care of a 70-year-old Korean nanny.  Although she was a very warm-hearted woman who doted on me as if I were her own child, the only thing I really remember about her is that she was really old.  Also, that she smelled like a combination of Old Spice and kimchi. 

Being very old, the nanny tired easily and would often take several naps throughout the day.  Whenever the urge to sleep hit her, she would just plop me in front of the TV and allow me to watch hours and hours of Sesame Street.  Unfortunately, she only spoke Korean and didn't realize that I was watching Sesame Street in Spanish.  To her, any language besides Korean was pretty much all the same.  Can you really blame her?   

After a few years together, the nanny either left our family for greener pastures or passed away.  Her absence was never fully revealed to me.  It was only years later when I saw "The Vanishing" that I thought about her again.  However, what I DO remember is being a young boy sitting on my bed as my mother introduced me to our new Colombian nanny.  Needless to say, the new nanny didn't speak Korean. 

But, more importantly, she did allow me to continue watching Sesame Street in Spanish. 

I tell you all of this only to explain how it was that I ended up going to nursery school speaking a strange amalgamation of English, Korean and Spanish.  I like to refer to it as "Spanklish" but, in all honesty, it was like a really fucked-up version of Esperanto.   Needless to say, nobody at nursery school could understand a single word coming out of my mouth.  This was a very traumatic situation for a sensitive 5-year old kid like myself. 

For all I knew at the time, EVERYONE on the planet spoke Spanklish.  It wasn't until that first day of school when I realized that I was much "different" from all the other kids.  The first clue was when I looked around the room and realized I was the only Asian kid in the room.  Although I'd seen white kids on television, they were usually speaking Spanish.  How come all these kids knew how to speak English?  Is it any surprise that I wouldn't let go of my mother's leg and that she had to use her vacation time that week to stay with me as I adapted to this freaky new environment?

The second clue was probably when I turned to my mother and said, "Mama, donde esta le byun-soh?"  (Spanklish translation: "Where's the bathroom?")

Over time, I eventually learned to speak only English and began to communicate with other people.  Not only that but I also started making my first friends.  By the time I reached first grade, I thought I was the All-American kid and I was ready for the next phase of my cultural reimmersion project...the after-school playdate. 

Now, if discovering that you were the only person on the planet who spoke your own language wasn't shocking enough, imagine how my little mind was blown away when I started to see how OTHER people lived.    

See, my mother was a bit of a maverick in the early 70's in the sense that she believed in eating only healthy foods.  This would have been unusual for MOST mothers of the time.  Imagine how weird it was that an IMMIGRANT mother chose to adopt this lifestyle.  I don't know where she came up with this but I'm thinking it came from the Korean-language version of Reader's Digest.   For years, that was the only periodical I ever saw in our house.  Her obsession with this magazine dictated a lot of what went on at home.  (It also explains why her jokes were never that funny.  Apparently, the anecdotes from "Laughter: The Best Medicine" didn't translate well into Korean.)

Unfortunately, Mom's nutritional policies were quite confusing.  Steamed fish, rice and vegetables were on the "OK to Eat" list. However, so were Big Macs and Kentucky Fried Chicken.  My entire concept of beverages consisted of juice, milk and water.  I didn't even know there were other choices available!  Most of the time, I subsisted on rice, seaweed and bananas.  A little bland, yeah, but what the heck did I know? 

Imagine the shell shock I had when I saw what all my little friends were eating at their houses.  Holy crap!  Soda, cookies, potato chips, hot dogs, sugared cereals, Wonder bread!  What was all this stuff and who did I have to kill in order to get more of it? 

It was like entering another world that had been closed off to me for my entire existence. I immediately vowed to myself that I would start making up for lost time.  Sure, the first 5 years of my life may have been lived in ignorant bliss but, dammit, if I had anything to do with it now, those wobegone caveman days were over!

Soon enough, I started arranging my own play dates.  I stopped chosing friends based on their personalities or any shared mutual interests but rather on what kind of food their mothers kept in the fridge.  I couldn't get enough of this American food.  I'd do ANYTHING to get it.  I was like a 3-foot tall heroin junkie dressed in a Mighty Mac and Buster Browns.

But, in all honesty, if there was one food that fascinated me more than anything else, it was bologna.  What was this creamy, delicious mystery meat and where did it come from?  Who was this Oscar Mayer man and how could I shake his hand? 

I loved EVERYTHING about bologna.  I loved the rounded plastic packaging that perfectly enveloped all the slices like a custom-made glove.  I loved peeling off the outer rind and eating it separately.  And I loved the fact that bologna was a gateway drug leading me to the wonderful world of condiments.  Cheese!  Mustard!  Mayonnaise!  What a glorious food this bologna was!  It went well with virtually everything!  Only a country as great as America could invent it.  Clearly, my parents had made the right choice in deciding to move here!

Apparently, the love of processed meat products is handed down genetically to subsequent generations.  My 19-month old daughter, the Peanut, absolutely loves blogona.  Last night, I watched as she smiled gleefully and shoved tiny little handfuls of bologna into her mouth as fast as she humanly could.  Every time she finished a slice, she would look up at me with her big eyes, hand me her bowl, and say, "More?  More?"

Me?  I just sat there looking at her lovingly and thought about when I was her age.  About my weird trials and tribulations.  About how bologna opened up a new world for me.   And about how different my daughter's life would be from mine.

And so, as I refilled her bowl, I leaned over, gave her a kiss on the cheek and whispered, "Konbay, mi hija yep-boo-dah!  Bologna es chway-go-da, isn't it?"

(Spanklish translation:  "Cheers, my beautiful daughter! Bologna really is the best, isn't it?")

Pulling the Goalie!

When it comes to power struggles in spousal relationships, I like to think that BossLady and I are two global superpowers choosing to maintain hegemony by dividing the world between us.  In the realm of financial issues and our social calendar, I am the all-powerful leader of the free world.  In the realm of everything else?  My opinion is about as important as Guam's. 

Now, surprisingly, this works out pretty well for us.  Like any great couple, we've learned to pick and choose our battles.  For the most part, I'd say we split most of our differences amicably and we each usually end up satisfied half of the time.  We're like the Atlanta Falcons.  Every year, we go 8-8. 

But obviously, there are certain family decisions that need to be made unanimously. 

One of these decisions is having a baby.

Now, raising is a child is an awesome responsibility that ideally requires the full determination of two willing and able adult participants.  Therefore, you'd like to think that most husbands have a choice when it comes to adding additional members to the family.  However, I've learned that the part of the marital contract detailing a husband's voice in this matter is about as relevant today as Hammurabi's Code and probably about as useful as an Iraqi constitution.   

You see, my friends, the BossLady has decided it's time for us to have another baby!

The Peanut is 19 months old right now and we've been discussing the idea of L'Enfant Part Deux for quite some time.  Since we decided long ago that we would only be having two kids, I assumed that we weren't in any hurry to have the second one so soon.  After all, Peanut is just starting to get to a really enjoyable age where we can communicate with one another.  It's only a matter of time now before she starts speaking in complete sentences and we can have actual conversations.  I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that time.

Now, I wish I could say that BossLady's desire to have another child is not based solely on emotion. However, I know this woman like the back of my hand and part of what makes us a great couple is that I always know what she's thinking.  Here's what I think she's thinking...

• BossLady started a new job in January.  Although she enjoys the work, the hours suck ass.  She's surrounded by a bunch of ambitious, soulless and childless Type-A workaholics who don't mind logging 16-hour days.  It kills her that she often gets home after the Peanut has fallen asleep.  I can't really blame her but I know that she's thinking that if she gets pregnant, she'll not only get at least 3 months of maternity leave but there's also the slight possibility that she'll never have to return to work and can just be a SAHM.

• BossLady also has "The Baby Fever."  Quite a few of our friends are pregnant now and she wants nothing more than to hug and cradle a tiny newborn.  Since the Peanut doesn't like to cuddle anymore and squirms more than Dick Cheney at a congressional hearing, we need a replacement.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

As usual, I don't entirely disagree with the beautiful BossLady.  There's a part of me that would love to have another child right now.  Shit, if money were no object, I'd knock her up until we had enough kids to form our own Little League team!

But unless I win the MegaMillions, this probably isn't going to happen.  So, in my opinion, we don't need to hurry and we can at least wait until the Peanut is a little older before we start trying for another kid.  Or at least that's MY opinion. 

I have to admit that another reason I'm a little hesitant to jump back into the baby-making business is because other parents keep telling me that the second child is usually the complete opposite of the first.  Frankly, that scares the crap out of me.  The Peanut has always been an unbelievably easy kid.  She's healthy.  She's a good eater.  And she's always slept great.  She practically came out of the womb with a smile on her face and she's got an adorably friendly nature that warms the cockles of my heart. 

So, when I think of "the opposite," I conjure images of our next child entering the world with devil horns and a pitchfork or maybe looking like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. I have visions of raising a colicky insomniac who won't eat, won't smile and hates me with every fiber of her being. 

Now, I want to emphasize that, despite our slight differences in opinion, BossLady and I have not been arguing or fighting over the decision of when to have another child.  Let's just say that we're continuing the current discussion with increased frequency. 

But, every once in awhile, she'll make a Freudian slip and say something that reveals just how badly she wants to have another baby RIGHT NOW!  Last night, for example, she was trying to get me in the mood  and she accidentally said, "C'mon, baby.  I'm ovulating!"

Memo to all you women out there:  When you're not sure that you're ready to have another child, this is akin to telling your husband, "Hey honey.  Doesn't this nightie make me look like your mother?" 

It's funny.  BossLady had an extremely difficult childbirth.  I'm not kidding when I say that she was in labor for well over 36 hours.  In fact, her first words to me after the birth of the Peanut were, "She's cute.  Too bad she's going to be an only child!" 

I'm just kidding.  Actually, her first words were, "YOU did this to me, motherfucker!" 

In all seriousness, I didn't quite realize that my wife's biological need to reproduce again was stronger than Star Jones' chair on the set of "The View."  I actually thought the pain and anguish of childbirth were so strong that, in a year or two, I would be the one who would have to convince HER for a second child. 

Shows how much I know.

So what do you think, Internet?  Any opinions?  What are the pros and cons of having another child right now versus waiting a little longer?  For those of you with multiple kids, is there any age difference among them that works out well? 

Shit, I gotta run.  I think I hear my wife's uterus calling me from the other room!

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Married to the MetroDad

MetroDad is off to Vietnam this week and while he’s off to bring home the bacon, he’s asked me to keep you company.  And since you don’t know me, I thought what better way to introduce myself than to have my first guest post be about your beloved MetroDad?  You all know MetroDad as a witty, obnoxiously funny, fashion-conscious Korean-American who is not only  a seasoned world traveler, a whiskey connoisseur, tech geek, and grammar snob but is also, above all, an endearing, loving and completely devoted father. 

But have you ever wondered what it’s like to be married to The MetroDad?  Let me share a few things…

Addiction
If MetroDad is addicted to anything, it’s reading.  Every morning, he reads the NY Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the NY Post.  He also has subscriptions to about 15 magazines.  GQ, Esquire, The New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Atlantic Monthly, Sports Illustrated, Men’s Journal, Money, Smart Money, Time are only the first ten.  Yes, my man is well-read.  My only complaint is that he never throws an issue out.  So, whenever he’s sleeping or away on a trip, I take it upon myself to do some recycling.  It’s the only way I can prevent our home from looking like the Unibomber’s.

MetroDad’s Mistress
Yes, MetroDad keeps a mistress.  He’s always with her right after I go to bed.  I’ve known about her for quite some time actually and while I tried to fight this, I realized early on that I had to pick and choose my battles.  Sometimes I catch him humming THEIR song.  Other times, I can hear her in the other room with him.  And after the first round, he usually goes back for another repeat.  Yes, my friends, her name is ESPN Sports Center.  And I do pray for her demise one day since she seems to be the mistress for many men.  That ho-bag!

Sleeping with MetroDad
Our bed is like the McDLT.  Hot side hot.  Cold side cold.  During the winter, I like to be comfortably toasty and under a fluffy, snuggly down comforter.  For MD, it could never be cold enough.  Even if he’s lying still, MetroDad is always warm.  If he had it his way, he would leave all the windows open during a blizzard and still sleep in the buff.  But I have admit that to wake up in the morning and seeing him sleep in the buff is a major bonus – except when I wake up and realize that I caught a cold because MD had opened a window while I was sleeping and stolen all the covers from me.

Waking MetroDad
In all our years together, I have never seen MetroDad wake up on his own.  MetroDad MUST be woken each and every day.  He has no biological alarm clock.  If he does, it’s probably set for 5pm.  Every morning, I have to wake him.  There was a time when I would sit up and shake his arm to wake him.  Until one day, in pure MetroDad form, he told me that the proper way to wake him is with a gentle kiss and an “I love you” whispered into his ear.  If he’s anything, he’s consistent!

Personality Hallmarks
I often hear MetroDad muttering to himself while watching tv.  Believe it or not, he likes to correct tv shows and commercials when there is a seemingly HUGE grammatical gaffe (to him, that is.)  The most popular mistakes involve the improper use of fewer/less, nausea, graduate, and whether/if.  Is it any wonder why I love this man?

MetroDad is an uninhibited man.  He can’t keep a tune to save his life but he shows absolutely no inhibitions when we’re at a karaoke bar and he starts belting out “Pretty In Pink.”  The same holds true for his laughter.  No matter where we are, whether it’s a wedding, a restaurant, or a movie theater, MetroDad has an honest, infectious laugh that everyone notices.

MetroDad has a taste for the finest things in life.  When I first met MetroDad’s parents, his mom told me that she used to call him the Prince because even as a child, MetroDad had exquisite tastes in food and in clothing.  Sometimes I forget that I’m married to a metrosexual and not just a regular man.  For example, we wanted a more comfortable couch for our den (MetroDad refers to it only as “the MD Lounge”).  So, I found a great used Portico couch for $200 located in a loft in SoHo.  The only thing we needed to do was to replace the ugly yellow upholstery.  Thinking about the Peanut and any other future child, I wanted a more practical color and fabric:  chocolate brown twill or canvas.  But MD had other plans and would not compromise.  Dark chocolate brown was agreeable to MD but twill or canvas was too plebian for our MetroDad.  Nooooo, this couch was to be covered in velvet.  I love velvet just as much as the next metrosexual but what I thought could be a $200 used couch turned out to be a $1000 lesson in furniture shopping.  Actually, I’m sitting on this couch right now as I type.  It’s covered in a canvas slipcover!

Private Language
Like most couples, we have our own terms that only the two of us know.  I will share a few of them here with you.

BDS – For those of you who know Korean, BDS is short for Burning Ddong Gumong (meaning Asshole) Syndrome.  This is a term we use (more often by MetroDad) when we eat something so friggin’ spicy that it burns on the way out.  MD seems to be in a perpetual contest with himself to eat only the spiciest foods on the entire planet.  Proper usage:  “Honey, I’ve got BDS….”

Burning Heart Syndrome – this refers to the inevitable heartburn from eating all the aforementioned spicy food.  Proper usage: "Achh, honey!  I've got the burning heart!"

Stinky Butt – This is MetroDad’s nickname for the Peanut at home.  He rarely ever calls her Peanut in real life.  Proper usage:  “What’s up, Stinky Butt?”

The Jimmy Leg – this is a term we use for MetroDad’s restless leg syndrome.  At night, MD feels the need to kick his legs out every minutes.  And if it’s after a night of partying, he needs to kick his legs out every few seconds.  After partying right along with him, there’s nothing more I want than to just fall asleep.  The Jimmy Leg prevents this and I often have to kick MD out of bed.

My favorite moments of the day with MetroDad
-Watching him wake up as the Peanut tries to kiss and hug him in the morning.  He’ll slowly wake and realizing that it’s the Peanut, he’ll take the blanket to swallow her up in a big bear hug.

-Taking the elevator down with him on our way to work.  It’s our first moment alone together and for those brief 8 seconds, it’s our chance to say we love each other.

-Coming home from work.  These days when I get home, the Peanut is already fast asleep.  The first thing I do when I get home is change out of my office clothes.  As soon as I’ve changed into my jeans and t-shirt, MetroDad will throw me down on the bed and for a few minutes, we’ll just be in each other’s arms and just talk about our days, the good, the bad, what amazingly cute things the Peanut has done that day, anything and everything.

MetroDad is indeed real and indeed human.  He’s got his quirks and idiosyncrasies like the rest of us.  It’s exactly those quirks that made me fall in love with him.  I could watch the grass grow with this man and still be the happiest woman.  I thank my lucky stars for him because without him, I wouldn’t have any of the joys that I have in my life today.

So, I thank you for letting me keep you company.  I was a little nervous to write, especially after MetroDad announced that I would be posting.  But I hope you enjoyed it here.  Till next time,

BossLady

 

The Modern Jedi's Guide to Parenting

"Why do I get the feeling that you will be the death of me?" — Obi-Wan Kenobi

Many of you know that I'm an avid reader of parenting books.  And in my on-going quest to be a better parent, I've traversed the entire diaspora of parenting literature and gleaned bits of information from virtually every book ever written on the subject.  However, after all this research, I think I've come up with a new and novel approach to parenting. 

I'VE DECIDED TO RAISE THE PEANUT AS A JEDI.

Like young Master Luke, the Peanut is both impatient and impetuous.  Therefore, I believe that she would benefit greatly by learning the way of the Jedi.  Their collective wisdom has provided guidance for thousands of generations.  How can you argue against that? 

I have to admit that part of the fun in raising one's child as a Jedi is that you get to talk like Obi-Wan Kenobi or Yoda all day.  But in all seriousness, I'm finding that these Jedi pearls of wisdom are turning out to be a lot handier than I thought!

• When the Peanut sees me eating a cookie and runs over to grab it out of my hand, I quickly hide the cookie in my pocket and say, "Your eyes can deceive you; don't trust them."  Other times, I'll look her straight in the eye and say, "These aren't the cookies you're looking for!"

• If we're at the playground and Peanut tries to follow one of the older kids, I pull her aside gently and whisper, "Tell me, Peanut. Who's the more foolish: the fool, or the fool who follows him?"

• Lately, she's been having fun pushing me around.  I'm trying to break this habit quickly so she doesn't do it around other kids.  Any time she pushes me, I boldly prounounce, "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

• And when she starts throwing a hissy fit demanding that something be done HER way, I'll just pick her up and loudly proclaim, "Only Sith deal in absolutes!"

In teaching the Peanut the ways of the Jedi, I've been forced to use a few Jedi tricks of my own.   As I mentioned last week, the Peanut has become a very fussy eater.  Therefore, for the past week, I've used my Jedi powers at dinnertime every night to convince her that she's actually a dog.  I put her food in a dog bowl, set it on the floor, and say to her, "Puppy, you are.  Hungry is the belly of the puppy!" 

And just like that, she's convinced that she's a little puppy and will start eating out of her dog bowl...

What?  You've never played Jedi tricks on your kids before?  No, really.  Never?  C'mon.  'Fess up! Have you?

Notate Bene...

(1) When training a young Jedi, it is imperative to ensure that your child's powers be used only for good rather than evil.  However, it is equally important to make sure that they never use their newfound powers against you.  Peanut's friend Juniper is also a young Jedi and has sometimes been known to mind-trick her own parents.   

(2) Yeah, internets, I know this is a terrible precedent to set.  If I don't stop feeding her out of a doggy bowl, the Peanut is only going to want to eat on the floor.  However, I'm thinking of just sticking a tatami mat under her butt and say that she's eating "Asian-style."  What do you think?  Is the wife going to buy it?

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Fucking Hector!

There's been a lot of talk recently in the blogosphere about women gaining weight after pregnancy and/or marriage (read my girl MIM's post, then go read this, this, this, this, or that.) 

Still here?

Now, I'm not jumping into this debate for many reasons.  The first is because all the women writing about it are some of my favorite bloggers and I respect their differences of opinion.  Secondly, I never get involved when women argue. Most men only need to learn that lesson ONCE. The third reason?  Well, to tell you the truth, it's because I'm a total narcissist and I don't really care about OTHER people's weight gains.  I'm much more concerned about MY OWN.

You see, my friends...about 6 months ago, I wrote a post about my new pot-bellied friend Hector (actually, the pot belly was mine.  I just decided to name him Hector.  For some reason, he looks like a Hector.)  At the time, I blamed my weight gain on the BossLady's pregnancy and the ensuing months after the Peanut's birth.  I immediately issued a one-man fatwa on my new little belly and swore that he would be gone in a month or two. 

In the meantime, it was kind of fun having him around.  I've always been fairly lean and athletic so I was enjoying the new company.  Every once in awhile, when we were on the couch, I'd even put BossLady's hand on my stomach and "make the baby kick."  Fun stuff!

Now?  Not so fun.  Hector is still hanging out here and he ain't paying the rent.  He's like that annoying roommate that you used to be friends with but now you can't stand and he won't stop calling you. 

Besides, beach season is around the corner so my vanity and self-respect demand that I start kicking things into a higher gear.  I don't have man-tits and I still look good in a suit but unfortunately, Hector's not so easy to hide when you've got no shirt on.  He's like that character Kuato in "Total Recall."  (Remember?  The psychic-mutant leader of the Mars rebellion who lives in that dude's stomach?)

Anyway, it's become clear that my 37-year-old metabolism has slowed down to a crawl.  Also, I have very little desire to hit the gym because I'd rather spend all my free moments playing with Peanut and the BossLady. 

So, in my typical Type-A personality manner, I've decided to dig in my heels and go for broke. I cancelled my gym membership and instead bought a used elliptical trainer for the apartment (God bless Craigslist!  Before them, where did people go to find used junk, concert tickets and transvestite hookers?)

Anyway, we planted the elliptical right in front of the TV and, so far, it's been great.  After the Peanut goes to sleep, I flip on "Inside Edition" or "SportsCenter" and work out for an hour or two.  I'm truly optimistic that the elliptical won't turn into the most expensive fucking coat rack this side of the Mississippi!

Now, I'm working on altering my diet.  Unfortunately, science has yet to figure out a way to lose weight by subsisting on a diet of foie gras, Peking duck, fried chicken, gnocchi, proscuitto and steamed pork dumplings.  So far, I've been contemplating my options and here's what I've come up with so far...

Atkins Diet
I've tried this before and lost weight on it.  It fits right in with my predilection for porterhouse steaks.  Only problem is that whenever I try Atkins, I feel like I'm a pork chop away from a heart attack.  Also, I find that when I'm on Atkins, I only crap once every two weeks.  Unfortunately, I do some of my best thinking when I'm on the can.   

The Zone
This diet seems very confusing.  Also, it involves math and measuring (two of my weaker skills.)  A few years ago, BossLady and I tried this home-delivery service called Zone Chefs.  Every morning at 5:00 am, they delivered fresh-cooked Zone meals to your front door.  The only problem was that there wasn't enough food diversity in the meals.  To this day, we both shudder and flinch anytime we hear someone say the word, "fritatta." 

Vegetarian Diet
Could I really live without meat?  Doubtful.  If I could eat pizza,donuts and bagels all day and lose weight, I might give it a try.  After all, have you ever met a fat vegetarian?  Unfortunately, I think I'd be a cranky bitch if I didn't eat meat.  After a month without a burger, I'd probably kill someone.  This one's not going to work out either. 

The Keith Richards Diet (aka "The Lohan")
This one sounds pretty easy.  It consists of coffee, alcohol, cigarettes and cocaine.  It can get a little expensive but it's been proven to work wonders for that quick short-term weight loss.  Unfortunately, I'm looking for more of a lifestyle solution.  Besides, this diet requires wearing leather pants and my wife says I'm not allowed to wear mine anymore.

Of course, I could just eat a healthy balanced diet but where's the fun in that?  Besides, I'm a member of the MTV generation.  Not only do I have a short attention span but also I'm looking for fast, easy results and instant gratification! 

What you got, Internet?  Tips, tricks, comments or commiseration?  Bring it on!