That's Just Good Parenting!

Good news everyone! If you have been wondering whether or not you are a good parent, relief is at hand. No more will you worry you are spending too much time at work, or your meals are not as nutritious as they could be. There is freedom from guilt that you haven't taken your kids to Disneyland. If you have been concerned you don't set a good example because you smoke or drink too much. No way could you be the Worst Parent In The World. Octomom is!

Nadya Suleman, the mother of octuplets only a year ago, has decided that raising 14 kids with no income is a terrible idea. So she decided to do something about it. But what to do to raise money... Hmm...

Write a book about the experience. Nope. Too much effort.

Go on the lecture circuit counselling people about the fertility technology abuse. Nah. A person would actually have to have some charisma and appeal to fill a lecture hall.

Eureka! Make a porno!

But not just a regular "naive, pretty girl from a small town comes to the big city and has to have sex in a variety of manners with the director/doctor/fireman/director's wife in order to realize her dream" kind of porno. No. She needs to make a weird fetish porno where she whips and then nurses a guy dressed in a diaper.

Is that filmed in her own house? Is that her actual crib? Where the hell are her kids? Please tell me you at least locked them in the car for the afternoon rather that have then watch these shenanigans!

So there you have it. No matter how much you berate your son for striking out at T-ball, or dress your 3 year old daughter up like a 1930's hooker for the toddler beauty pageant, you are still a better mom that Octomom.

Read more at Dogs & Jeans.

I May Be 30... But I Need My Nub Nub

It's been a rough day.

First of all, when I got up this morning, I realized that my DVR did not record "Sister Wives", a show about a dude with four wives.

Then... I came to find out we were out of Rice Krispies.

Then... I had an accident in my pants.

Then I cried an endless waterfall of tears.

"It's gonna be one of those days!" I thought to myself, "Good thing I got this"!

I reached into my pocket and drew out my best trusted friend to whom I resort to when days begin to look as though they're sliding into the pit of Hades: a faded green pacifier.

"Hello old friend" I said as I cradled it gingerly almost expecting it to respond back to me. "When everything else fails... I can always depend on you!" I said as I popped the bulb of the pacifier in-between my lips and then began frantically sucking away the pain of the day.

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You may think this is strange and ask me, "Why are you, A GROWN MAN, sucking on a pacifier?" Well... my mother never weaned me off of it and before she knew it I had moved out of the house using my "Nub Nub" to help get me through the stressful moments in life.

Who was there for my end of semester finals? Nub Nub.

Who was there when my college girlfriend broke up with me? Nub Nub.

Who was there after I killed that hobo and feared I was going to get caught? Nub Nub.

Who's been there through 11 years of the Texas Rangers not being in the playoffs? Nub Nub



Watching close games stress me out. Who's there for me? Nub Nub.

So... you can imagine the kind of rift this created in my relationship with Bunny when I pulled Nub Nub out after our first major argument.

"What are you doing? Is that... a pacifier?"

"NO! THITH ITH NUB NUB!! AND HETH THE ONLY ONE WHO CARETH ABOUT ME!!" I screamed around Nub Nub who I held so delicately between my teeth.

"HA! Are you a man... or are you a baby?" she responded while simultaneously yanking Nub Nub between my pursed lips.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Give it back poo-poo face!" I screamed again before close-lining her then slamming her to the floor in order to wrench Nub Nub from her vice-like grip. I sure as hell knew that I wasn't no baby!

So don't judge me. I may be the largest person you've ever seen sucking on a pacifier... but it's my own business. My mommy never told me I had to give it up... so I'll give it up when I'm ready.

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Post Post Disclaimer: if you didn't notice my complete and total sarcasm... then you are indeed a complete moron.

On a more serious note: what's your thought on pacifiers? Should kids be allowed to decide when they don't want a pacifier any more? Or should there be some rules established i.e. "only a nap-time" or "only at bed-time" or "pretty much whenever they scream loud enough?" Or do you have no rules i.e. "Let them suck on that thing until they're 30 years old... like Papa K!"

I'm interested on starting a heated debate... make my wishes come true.

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Come visit me at my home: Hands To War.

How Do You Handle Pre-Teen Angst?

My daughter is eleven years old but wants to be sixteen.

She doesn't want to join in on any type of family fun (whether it's with me or if it's with her mom) because it's just "not cool" to do and it might hurt her "school rep".

Honestly...I don't remember having a "rep" going into the sixth grade other than being the class clown. Have times changed THAT much?? (they haven't for me, but that's another story)

She wants to dress older (tight jeans and a scarf around the neck when it's 90 degrees outside?). She wants to be treated like an adult. She wants to get her own way because that's what grown ups do.

So how do I cope with this? How does a single dad influence his daughter without it going in one ear and out the other?

Tell me...honestly...how bad does it get when she eventually goes to high school???

iPhone Expert - Dad or Teens?

When I got my new iPhone 4, I had immediate command of the basics. I could make phone calls, trade text messages (including dirty text message jokes), take photos, set my background screen, set an alarm, change my ringtone, check the weather, enlarge the font (age is killing my eyes, what can I say?)... even read Dad’s House single parent blog.

Forget that this was my first smart phone with a touch screen. I was iPhone tech-savvy from the get-go.

Or so I thought.

iPhone Pick Up With Esprit de l’escalier

When my teen son came over to my house, he had a field day with my new iPhone 4. He downloaded games, downloaded apps, rearranged icons, set up a passcode, synced it with my laptop, and loaded my iPhone up with songs – 344, to be exact!

Ok, so my teen son is the iPhone expert. What can I say? He has an iPod touch, and all his friends have mobile gaming devices. They’ve been swapping tips and tricks for Apple products during school lunches for years.

When my teen daughter came over to my house, she went even deeper into the device. She had just returned from Europe where she visited a friend, and she wanted her friend to know she’d gotten back to California safely.

Single Parent Month Without the Kids

“Are you calling her?” I asked.
“No, she’s still sleeping,” my daughter said. “They’re nine hours ahead.”
“Sending her a text?”
“No, I’m writing to her on Facebook.”

Okay, call me a dinosaur. I barely log into Facebook from my laptop. But from my iPhone? My teen daughter is a mega-expert in my eyes.

My Teen Daughter's First Screaming Orgasm (Humor)

The three of us were driving to dinner, for our first meal together since both of them got back from vacation. My son took my iPhone and downloaded yet another game. It was some maze thing where he had to move the iPhone side to side to work some ball from level to level. The damn thing was beeping like CRAZY!!!!

“See that switch on the side?” I asked. “Flip it down.”

Both kids went into meltdown overdrive. “No, that locks the screen!” “No, that will cut the game short.” “No, you don’t know anything about this phone.”

“It’s a mute switch,” I said. “Flip it.”

My son hesitated – after all, I’m an iPhone neophyte. He and his sister are the experts. What the hell did I know? I hadn’t even downloaded apps or loaded music or used Facebook on the iPhone by myself.

“Flip it,” I said.

He flipped it. The screen didn’t lock. The game didn’t quit. The annoying beeps STOPPED.

My Dad Invented Google (A Child Proud of his Parent)

“Wow,” my son said. “You know something about the iPhone that I didn’t know.”
“Of course I do,” I said. “I’m an iPhone expert.”
“No, you’re not. Tell me something else I don’t know.”
“I will when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now!”

All in good time, Son. All in good time.

Teaching My Teens How to Cycle

I recently taught my teens how to ride bikes. No, it wasn’t their first time on two wheels. What I meant to say was that I taught them how to cycle on road bikes like Tour de France cyclists use. We climbed some hills. We screamed down a mountain. My kids’ reaction?

They loved it.

We rented high-end road bikes from the Stanford bike shop. I showed my daughter how much my credit card would be charged if, for some reason, her bike didn’t make it back to the shop: $2,200. Yeah, it was a nice bike. Ultra-light titanium frame, racing wheels, Shimano gears. My son’s bike was nearly as nice, and just as fast.

We piled the rental bikes along with my Bianchi into the back of my daughter’s truck, then drove to the town of Woodside. We did a few mile warm-up on our way to the Santa Cruz mountains, then climbed Old La Honda road up to Alice’s restaurant.

The Old La Honda climb is tough. It gets very steep in some places. I can do the climb in around 30 minutes. I’ve seen amateur racers do it in 19. I figure Lance Armstrong and crew can shoot up it in 15. My kids and I did it in 45 - it was tough! (Hats off to my children for making it. Can we get one of the Tour podium girls to award a jersey, or something?)

Partway up, both of my kids were complaining about the difficulty of the climb. My reaction? I laughed my ass off. (They’ve given me so much grief over the years for not having perfectly flat abs, this was my payback.)

I also gave them climbing tips: sit back on the seat, lift with the knees (they had pedal clips), pull back on the handlebars to provide tension, keep the gear low and the cadence high.

Lunch at Alice’s was great – 1/3 pound burgers and chili fries, all around. (And no embarrassing hottie cyclist pickup attempt.)

We continued our ride to Kings Mountain Road. The climb from Alice's wasn’t as steep as Old La Honda, but it went on forever. All three of us were tired, especially with lunch in our bellies. But once we got there, we were in heaven – we descended for probably 15 minutes, passing through a canopy of Redwoods and Pines all the way down into Woodside.

Of course, I schooled my kids on the safe way to descend: weight on your pedals, not your seat or arms. If your turning left, put the right pedal down, and lean into the turn. Hold your hands in the horns of the handlebars so they can’t slip off.

After ice cream bars at Roberts Market, we pedaled a final quarter mile back to the truck. All in all, it was a twenty mile loop.

And already my kids are asking – when can we do it again?

Parenting - 2,945 1/2

OK…I know that you all know where I stand on overbearing and over the top parenting.

My philosophy is simple….let kids interact, learn, experience and enjoy their childhood. Yes…keep your kids safe and never put them in harm’s way…but at the same time you need to TEACH them …not hide them under your wing as to not experience what our world actually consists of.

I ran across a copy of Smithsonian magazine today and an article talking about children's stories caught my eye.

These stories are suffused with the same purity that makes children appear so marvelous and blessed,” wrote Wilhelm Grimm in the preface to his volume of fairy tales. If true, then life in the 19th century was worse than I’d ever imagined. Reading these stories today is like sitting through a Quentin Tarantino movie.

How will a child who has been overly sheltered (and yes…that is my nice way of saying it) react when he or she hits high school or college and has to experience sleeping in a bed without rails for the first time…or when the freak out at a friend’s house when they see a pair of scissors in the night stand?

I saw this article and almost threw up on the magazine…in the middle of the doctor’s office waiting room.

…A few more excerpts (enjoy!!)

Have you ever added up the body count? One poor girl is transformed into a block of wood and thrown into a fire. A father risks his daughter’s life by boasting she can weave straw into gold. An evil queen tries to off her stepdaughter with a poisoned apple.

I’ve come to realize that many popular children’s books are rife with malice and mayhem. Do you have any idea of the dangers that may lurk on your little ones’ bookshelves?

Let’s start with Goodnight Moon. Margaret Wise Brown’s beloved bedtime tale is a veritable hotbed of child safety hazards. First of all, the child’s—excuse me, bunny’s—great green bedroom contains an open fireplace filled with dangerous tools like tongs and pokers. The bed has no side rails. And what about the grandmother—a careless caretaker if I ever saw one. Why, she leaves knitting needles unattended in a child’s bedroom!

Who's the Most Compassionate?

As part of my teen son’s church confirmation celebration, there was a potluck dinner for all the families involved. At the dinner, one parent from each family told the group what made their child so special. My ex-wife / co-parent spoke about our son, and I was struck by one thing she said:

"Our son is the most compassionate member of the family."

That made me chuckle. My son is a good kid, and where children and divorce are concerned, he's especially doing well. But compassionate? Compassion means you genuinely don’t want others to suffer. The Dalai Lama is compassionate. Mother Teresa was compassionate. My first girlfriend post-divorce was compassionate.

But my son? He’s the kid who will eat a King-Sized Hershey bar in front of his sister and me, and not give us a single bite, even if we’re begging for a nibble. He’s the one who will loudly blow his conch shell over and over again while his sister is studying for a final exam. He’s the one who will borrow my tools to build some cool project in the backyard, then leave those tools outside in the rain for a week before I notice they’re missing.

I reminded him of all that, and told him he wasn’t even close to being most compassionate in our family.

“Fine, then who is?” he asked.

“Me,” I said. “I cook for you guys (and not just homemade hamburgers), pay the mortgage, shop for whatever you need.”

“You’re the parent, you’re supposed to do that. So none of that counts.”

“Well, I’m still pretty nice.”

“You tell me to get off the computer when I’m doing homework so you can do a blog post,” he said. “What’s more important – my education or your blog? And you also tell me to stop enjoying my TV show and make me take out the trash, or clean the bathroom. All those things make me suffer. You’re the opposite of compassionate.”

Interesting arguments, I’ll give him that.

“Okay, then your sister is most compassionate,” I said.

“You mean when she puts me in a headlock and gives me a wedgie for no reason at all?”

That sounded pretty harsh, and not very compassionate. I've said before, I'm not raising a princess. But still.

“Are you sure it was for no reason?” I asked.

“Well, I did eat her Toblerone that she’d been saving since Christmas. But she wasn't eating it. And I was hungry, which means I was suffering. If she was compassionate, she would have been fine with me eating it. In fact, she would have given me another!”

All right, so maybe none of us rate as most compassionate. But with creative arguments like that, my son will make one hell of an attorney some day.

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Parents Are F-ing Up Their Kids

When I think back to my childhood and what TV shows I watched. I find it funny how different things are today…with the ratings, parental controls and people lobbying against shit that really would not make a difference if kids had better parenting.

Overall…I think it is all about the parenting…not what kids see or watch on TV.

When I was a kid, I watched:
Cartoons including; Underdog, The Shmoos, Scooby Doo, The Flinstones, Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour and Sylvester and Tweety
As well as; the A-Team, Land of the Lost, Eight is Enough, Hawaii Five-O, Hardcastle and McCormick, Beretta, CHIPS, Dukes of Hazard, Planet of the Apes, Starsky and Hutch, etc.

These days…I don’t know that parents (in general) would allow young kids to watch those shows….well, with the exception of Eight is Enough and a few of the cartoons. I saw something years ago that named the Bugs Bunny Road Runner Hour and Sylvester and Tweety two of the most violent shows on TV. WTF?!

I guess I just don’t know why parents are not taking responsibility for their kids…and are just throwing the blame for their fucked up kids on TV and the entertainment industry. My feeling is that a kid (for the most part) can watch whatever …as long as the parents do their job teaching the child right and wrong, respect, and that they can talk with them about anything…the kid will be fine.

We don’t (again…for the most part) sensor anything that the kids watch and if they are watching something that is disturbing to them or that they don’t understand…we are there to openly discuss it with them.

I think that it is the kids that can’t (for whatever reason) talk to their parents and are left home in front of a TV with nobody teaching them about life…or the kids who's parents are so over protective that they can't do shit without mommy hovering and making all of the decisions...those are the ones who end up with the big problems.

PARENTS!!!!!! Schools don’t teach kids respect, honor, right and wrong and morals. They don’t reinforce the ‘family first’ mentality that I think all people should be taught. They don’t teach about peer pressure, gangs, the laws, how to communicate with parents.
THAT IS YOUR JOB!!!!

Stop blaming everyone else for your inability to spend quality time with your kids, communicate with them and teach them what they need to know to have a good life.

I propose we put a ban on sheltering children and fine parents who blame others for their kids fucking up or being complete sissies!

Who Should Take Time Off For A Sick Child?

This post really isn't meant to slam anybody in particular. It's also not designed to come across as cocky or arrogant on my part. I'm simply asking a question that, really, deserve an answer or at least some discussion.

Why don't more dads stay at home when their child is sick? I know the "old school" train of thought is to have the woman stay at home with the child. Even with the "new school" thought process, the single mother is expected to stay at home with their sick child while the father works. I've told my ex-wife that if our son is sick that she doesn't have to be the only one taking time off from work to stay home and take care of him. Now when I mentioned to my co-workers the other morning that I had to take a half-day off to take the "afternoon shift", I got a lot of the same reactions:

"Can you convince MY ex to act like that?"

Now, to me, this just seems like the normal thing to do. Just because the marriage is over doesn't mean the parenting partnership all of a sudden has to end, does it?

And the reactions continued when I mentioned on Twitter that I was home from work to hang out with my sick son.

"You are an awesome dad!"

I just don't understand the reaction. Do the single moms out there in the Blogosphere really have only douchebag deadbeat dads to deal with? When both single parents work and the child has to stay home sick, is it primarily the mom who takes time off?

And if it's the case (and it appears to be), then why is that? Why is the dad's job more important than the mom's job? Does the dad EVER take time off from work when the child is sick?

My ex-wife and I have agreed to do a 50/50 split when our son gets sick. Is this realistic expectation? We think that unless there is a major issue or meeting or situation going on at work, this is something we can both agree to…for now, at least.

So what's the deal, kids? Who takes the time off in YOUR situation? Are there any dads out there who are willing to put their kids ahead of their job? Surely I can't be alone here.

Whattya Mean You Don’t Know Your Age?

My son turned three back in September. Let me just stress right now that he is the apple of my eye and I love him more than words could adequately explain. He has truly changed my life and even though his mom and I are no longer together, I want to continue to be a positive influence in his life as well as a constant…always being around for him.

I say that because I'm about to complain and get some frustrations out, and I really don't want anybody believing that I think any less of my son. He is my world.

Okay…the kid can't talk. He says words from time to time, but they're mumbled or muffled or don't make any sense at all. The Ex and I both believe that he needs tubes in his ears (he sees a specialist later this month) and that the talking will develop ten-fold once he can truly hear and understand exactly what he's saying. His hearing is fine, too…he's already passed hearing tests and seems to know what we tell him most of the time.

When sitting with a picture book, asking him to find objects like turtles and oranges and ducks are a joy because the kid seems to be able to pick out just about anything. It's quite impressive, actually.

But over the weekend we were playing Chutes & Ladders. Obviously, it's a bit of a stretch to get him to understand the concept at this point…but I thought it'd be fun to try. So I'm spinning the little dial and asking him to tell me what number it lands on (it was a 3). He doesn't know. No worries, I think. I tell him and get him to repeat it out loud and we continue to play.

He lands on the same number. He has no idea what it is.

Okay…how about if I count out loud? Maybe he just can't recognize the numbers on a page. Surely he can count to five, right?

"One…two…"

"Eight?"

Sigh.

"No, buddy…there's no eight. How old are you?"

Shrugs.

"Well, you knew your age on your birthday. How old are you, buddy?"

"Eight?"

"No, buddy. One…two…"

Silence.

I was a bit stunned. I really thought that between the babysitter he's with every day and his mom (who has custody) that surely NUMBERS would have entered into the equation at some point. I mean, it's awesome to know colors and I don't expect him to know the alphabet yet (especially where he can't even pronounce words correctly), but why can't he even count to three yet?

Am I expecting too much out of him? Am I expecting too much out of him mom? Should I take it upon myself to be his numeric teacher? I know I shouldn't be frustrated, but am I really out of line by feeling this way?

Where Are My Teen Kids?

As a single parent with half-time custody, I’m supposed to see my kids half of the time. My ex's and my custody schedule works great. The kids are with me Monday and Tuesday nights, with their mom Wednesday and Thursday, and they alternate weekends between mom’s house and dad’s house. I love seeing my kids. Parenting rocks.

So how come this past weekend when they were supposed to be with me, they weren’t with me?

Because they're teens.

To wit: Friday night, my daughter’s friend from Sweden was enjoying her last night visiting the states. My daughter and all her friends were out till the wee hours giving waffle daagen a new name. As for my son? He was at a middle school dance, getting his freak on to Keisha (Tik Tok). With both kids gone, you think I could have persuaded a girlfriend to come over for couch sex or a movie. But, alas, I watched a DVD alone.

Saturday during the day, my son had some lacrosse activities, then hung out skateboarding with friends. My daughter slept in. I mean, she really slept in – till early afternoon. What’s a single dad to do when his kids are sort of around, but not really? I did yard work, pruning, taking down xmas lights. Gotta love quality family time, eh?

But not to worry – I insisted my daughter stay home and eat dinner with us Saturday night. And she gladly agreed, except that right after dinner she was heading off to the movies to see It’s Complicated with a child-of-divorce girlfriend. (They’re both 17, and can get themselves into R-rated movies.) As for my son? I forgot to command him to stay home for dinner, and he had a sleepover with those skateboarding friends.

Sunday is fun day, right? Er… for the kids. My daughter didn’t sleep too late, but once up her friends came by and whisked her off to the mall to shop for Winter Ball dresses. As for my son? He got invited to a Chowder Fest. Forty gallons of homemade clam chowder for forty guests. He ate five bowls, and loved it!

By Sunday night, my kids were exhausted. And here I’d spent the weekend holding down the fort in hopes we’d do something as a family. I'm a firm believer that parents should be present to their kids lives. Of course, that only works if the kids are present, too. Sigh. At least by my being around and giving them a long leash, they got to spend quality time with friends. That's important, too. Cool parent points scored.

The Winter Ball dress? My daughter didn’t find one. And the Chowder Fest? My son got a stomach ache from eating way too much. (Haha.)

As for this hot dad who wondered where his kids went - I had an awesome nap!

Next custody weekend, I won’t be sitting around solo. I’ll simply make plans of my own.

Tough to admit

Sitting on a cold concrete floor with my arms crossed and my head buried in my chest, a man twice my size and with blood all over his shirt began to walk toward me.

He stopped a foot away from me to my right, unzipped his pants, and began to pee in a urinal. I could have reached over and touched the dirtiest toilet I had ever seen from the only available place to sit when I was led into the cell in the Los Angeles-area jail.

Never moving my head while he was there, I closed my eyes and began to wonder what brought me to what was no doubt the lowest point in my life. I am lucky enough to be a father of four beautiful girls, have the job that I wanted ever since I was in grade school, and I am generally pretty happy in life.

Yet, here I sit with nine other men, at 2 a.m. on Sunday morning, in a 10x10 cell, knowing that five hours later my girls would wake up and ask my roommates why their Dad was not home. That thought made me realize that there was really only one thing that could make me jeopardize everything that I had in my life.

It was alcohol. Like my mother had been all my childhood and my older brother who developed into one as a young adult, I knew then that I had become an alcoholic.

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Seven hours earlier, I fought through Los Angeles traffic en route to my 20th high school reunion. Truthfully, I didn't want to go and see my former teammates on what was one of the best football teams our school ever had.

However, I was repeatedly told that I had no choice.

"Brett, you have to go," Jenny said, who I had known since junior high and was the reunion organizer. "You are the football coach of the school we graduated from. How can you not go? Everyone will want to see you!"

That was exactly the reason why I didn't want go. While seeing old friends and sharing stories from the past was intriguing, having to answer questions on why our football team is now struggling was worth avoiding.

"Don't worry about all that..." Jenny continued. "You will have a blast and everyone won't care about what the team is doing now."

She was right. I did have a blast and everyone was more interested in seeing pictures of my girls than how the team was doing.

For five hours, I laughed, shared parenting stories, and reconnected with people I had grown up with and hadn't seen since graduation. And, I drank.

Every time another former teammate or friend walked up to me to talk, they brought with them a drink for me. I didn't buy a drink during the night. But, that didn't stop me from not knowing how many I drank.

Despite going with the intention of not drinking, I never turned down a drink and was enjoying downing beers with my former drinking buddies.

I was funny, loud, and felt pretty damn good about myself. The shy, insecure kid from high school was now the head football coach at the school we all went to and was also the fun guy to be around.

Shortly after 11 p.m., I began to say goodbyes and started to head to my car when I was stopped by one of my oldest friends.

"Hey, are you OK to drive?" he asked while puffing on a cigarette.

"Yea, I am good. But, let me bum a few cigarettes for the drive home. It will keep me busy and awake."

He handed me three cigarettes and I got in my car and jumped on the freeway. I drove for 30 minutes and thought I was driving just as I would if I was sober.

Driving in the fast lane, I finished the first cigarette and flicked it out the window to avoid the smell lingering in my car. Rolling my window back up, I checked the rear view mirror. My heart began to race as I saw the flashing lights of a California Highway Patrol car behind me.

I couldn't believe it. I had no idea how drunk I was, but was pretty sure I was over the legal limit of .08. Moving my car off the freeway and onto an off ramp, I told myself to calm down and act relaxed when the CHP approached my car.

Stopped on the side of the road, I waited as two officers approached both sides of my car.

"License and registration please," said the younger of the two CHPs.

"Here you go, Sir. Everything alright?"

"Well, everything was alright until you threw a cigarette out your window. Have you been drinking?"

I was speechless and didn't know what to say. Stupidly, I lied.

"No, Sir."

"Well, you were driving fine and we pulled you over because of the cigarette. But, I can smell alcohol on you. If you would have told me you had two beers, we would probably have let you go. You need to get out of your car for a sobriety test. Are you willing do that?"

"Yes, Sir. Whatever you want."

I got out and went through test after test. I touched my nose with my eyes closed, counted backwards, and walked foot over foot down an imaginary line. After I was done, the CHPs talked to one another quietly for a moment before asking me to blow into a breathalyzer.

I agreed and waited patiently after blowing the first time. The younger CHP then asked me to blow again. It was after the second time that I began to understand the situation I was in.

"How fucked am I?" I asked as he waited for the results. "Am I fucked? I am so fucked. Damn... I can't believe this. I am so fucked."

He then looked up from the breathalyzer and told me what I didn't want to hear.

"Sir, you blew .0823. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

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After two slip-ups on consecutive weekends after my arrest, I am proud to say that I have not had a drink in 115 days. It hasn't always been easy, but it also hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either.

Instead of drinking after football games with other coaches, I drink iced tea or have a non-alcoholic drink. No one harasses me about not drinking, and I can't believe how much easier it is on Saturdays or Sundays at football meetings or practices without suffering from a hangover.

The definition of an alcoholic is different for every alcoholic. I believe I am an alcoholic because I couldn't stop once I got started. Enough said.

I am thankful that my night in jail didn't involve me hurting anyone with my car, didn't cause me to lose my family, my job, or end the relatively new relationship I am in with a wonderful woman. It could have been a lot worse for me and my family.

But, that still doesn't change that fact I am... "Brett, and I am an alcoholic."

I’ve Got a Plan

I love my dad, I really do. When I was growing up, he was a workaholic. Hell...he’s STILL a workaholic and he’s in his early 60’s so I guess some things don’t change. He’s never been the most open with his feelings, which is probably why I’m a bit closer to my mom.

My dad enjoyed an emotional distance. I don’t blame him...I think that’s just how a lot of us were raised back in the 70’s (or maybe I’m just providing an excuse for him). My dad never really threw the ball around much with me. Hell...he doesn’t like sports so I didn’t grow up watching anything with him (unless I wanted to waste time watching curling). My dad can build pretty much anything he wants, yet he never taught me how to hammer a nail. My dad loves to go camping, yet other than my grandfather taking me as a young boy, I never learned how to put a worm on a hook or make s’mores by a campfire.

My son recently turned three. This boy is the light of my life. At this point, where I’ve been separated for 2 ½ years and my girlfriend lives 3 hours away, I’ve already made conscious efforts to not only spend time with him as he grows up but to spend quality time with him.

Now maybe my version of quality doesn’t necessarily jive with everybody else’s...but I don’t care. I want to spend Sundays with him watching football from 12pm to 12am (okay...maybe he’ll be in bed before that but I’ll totally let him stay up late as he gets older). I want to throw a baseball with him (or football) and help him learn how to catch. I want to do a “fist pump” with him so we have our own secret handshake.

Bottom line? I want to be the dad that my son WANTS to come and visit. I want him to grow up saying, “Man...I remember how much fun it was to watch football with pops; eating pizza and chicken wings and getting excited about every little play.” I want him to reminisce about spending a Saturday night with me watching Hockey Night in Canada (and I’m not even a big fan of hockey).

This isn’t about one-off’s, either. My dad took me to see the local hockey team maybe once or twice in my entire lifetime. He took me to see wrestling once when I turned 16. We did sporadic things together, and that’s fine (again...I love the guy and really don’t want to hold any resentment or sound like I do, either). But in my eyes, it’s extremely important to set-up trends and regular occurrences.

My boss at work has season tickets to the local hockey team. He’s got three kids. He can’t afford five season tickets (including his wife) so he rotates everybody on who gets to go, with the occasional family night with all five going together. His children know that no matter what else happens in their childhood, their father’s great joy was to watch hockey with them on a regular basis (or coach them in basketball, or watch them play soccer...).

It’s not even about sports, either. I can’t wait to help educate my son on music. ALL music. See, I’m a former DJ...both on college radio and in the clubs while in my 20’s. My parents raised me on country music before I gravitated to rock as a young child (thank goodness). I can still, to this day, fully appreciate all forms of music. A good song is a good song, whether it’s country or rock or dance or cheesy pop. I think too many kids close their ears to the world of music that’s out there around them. I’m really hoping that my son can at least appreciate other forms of music, regardless of what his favourite may or may not be.

This is my plan, anyway. It’s not perfect...it’s not really specific. It could totally backfire if my son would rather watch Broadway musicals than Monday Night Football. That’s alright, though...I’ll love him completely anyway and have to start seeing if Wal-Mart has a “Broadway musical dvd” section. As long as I make it a regular event that he’ll always remember, that’s all that really matters to me.

I think my dad might have taken our relationship for granted. I have no plans on doing the same thing with my son. I’ve got a plan.

****

Canadian Bald Guy is just a thirty-something single dad who is trying to find his place in the world…no more, no less. You can check out his regular ramblings at I Used To Have Hair.

The Lava Spews - All Over The Place

As the temperatures around the country are cooling off and Fall is in full effect, I thought it a good time to spread some more hotness throughout the nation.

I knew that I would not have much time to scout for more hotties, as Halloween, Turkey Day and Christmas are all just right around the corner, so I have spent the past week trolling.

You’ll all be happy to know that my search was so successful that this blog is slowly turning into quite the lava pit.

So, without further ado….I’d like to present you all with our newest Hot Mamas!!!!!!!


UberDorkGirlie of Life in Monkeyland
Faerie Mom of TheFaerieCastle
VodkaMom at VodkaMom

I highly recommend that you jump over there and show them some love…as they will be visiting all of you to do the same!

Lastly folks, We’ve had a bit of a shift in contributors here at Hot Dads.
A few of the boys were not able to fit extracurricular blogging into their busy lives and had to step back (for now) and we have also added some new testosterone to the mix.

Please bow and welcome:
Surfer Jay from I have to wipe their what?
CanadianBaldGuy
and
Mocha Dad

Dear Santa

Those of us with children have to understand the annual Dear Santa letters. These are the letters that we ask our children to write to Santa well before Christmas asking for a few very special things. We do this NOT to reinforce the belief in Santa Clause but for our personal gain.

This is how we, experience and knowledgeable parents get a reasonable list of what the kids want for Christmas. If we ask the kids to make a list for us of what they would like for Christmas…it would read something like this;

I want: a pony, plasma TV for my room, a new laptop, Uggs, Vans, Xbox 360 (with Internet connection), gift cards (to A & F, American Eagle, Vans, AMC, Baskin Robins and Blockbuster) the new iPod, the Blackberry Storm and some cash. (or something like that)

The dear Santa letters look something like this:

Dear Santa –

I know that you must be very busy this time of year, but I wanted to write to you to tell you that I have been very good this year and I have kept my grades up.

There are only two very special things that I would like for Christmas this year and they are; a new bike (because mine is much too small for me) and some new clothes……oh and…for mommy and daddy to have the best holidays ever…and I love them.

Love, Kid

There is a significant difference in what is wanted when talking to parents vs. the infamous Santa Clause…no kid wants to be seen as selfish or too needy to Santa.

Get them to write letters!!!!!!

And that is my wisdom for the day.

A Young Man's Game

I am not a 24 year old, though I often wish that I was. I want to indulge in the lifestyle of my youth but I cannot. I feel like Tom Hanks in Big, a young man trapped in the body of somebody who's much older with much more responsibility than I should.

It's not that I'm decrepit. Sometimes the wants of the younger me conflict with the needs of the elder me. Take for example this Halloween weekend. My favorite band is coming to Southern Califorina to play a 3 day festival. It sounds completely awesome and is something that if my life were completely my own I wouldn't hesitate to do. But my life no longer belongs to me alone. It's Halloween weekend and there is no way I could or would miss out on that day with my kids. They could be crushed. I'm kind of bummed to have to miss it, but honestly it's for the best. They're probably saving me in the long run because the physical toll of three days of living like it's Woodstock would most likely take weeks to recover from.

I have to face the sad fact that I can't bounce back like I used to. I was talking with a friend of mine about the old days when we would say up till dawn with Red Bull and booze coursing through our veins. She's still single and mentioned that we should all go out like that again. I looked at her as if she had more than the normal amount of appendages. We didn't even start those nights till 10pm. Most nights these days, I'm passed out on the couch by 10:30, Family Guy reruns playing in the background while a small line of drool runs down my face. (Sexy image, huh ladies?)

I still think like a young man, but I traded in that lifestyle the day the first umbilical cord was cut. Kids don't care if you've been up all night. They won't stop soiling their diapers just cause you're hung over. Their hunger doesn't subside cause you need a nap.

What about you? What do you miss most from your pre-parent lives?

Our Idealized Selves

My friends tell me that I’m much funnier in my blog than I am in real life. I wish I could disagree with them, but they’re kind of right. In real life, it’s usually the most obvious joke that pops to mind and unfortunately for those around me, I lack the impulse control not to say it. My cheesy sense of humor has become a thing of legend amongst my friends, who somehow still have the will to hang out with me.

On line though, I have control over what I say. As a writer I can fine tune what is said. Drinking a few beers before sitting down to the keyboard will yield even better results, though it makes typing a bit more challenging. I spend a lot of time editing and rewriting. I’ve probably taken five passes at this paragraph alone (so you can only imagine what my friends endure with “unfiltered DGB”). On line, I have the ability to be a slightly different version of myself.

These days, we live our lives on line. We blog. We tweet. We update our status. We present ourselves through words on a screen. But is the life we lead on line true? Or are we creating idealized versions of ourselves? My guess is that it’s the latter, which is why social media has become so prevalent. In these great big informational tubes, we project a carefully crafted image of ourselves for the world to see.

This being a parenting blog, logic dictates that the majority of us lurking about here have kids. If you think about it, having kids is similar to living on line. Stay with me on this. Kids, at least the young ones, idolize their parents. It doesn’t matter if the jokes are cheesy, or we burn the toast or we drop the ball during catch. Our kids, at least for a little while, see us as the idealized, perfect versions of ourselves. They think we are hilarious, great cooks and amazing athletes. They view us as the person we wish others would see.

Do you wear different personas in your life? If so, what are they and how are they different from your true self?

-DGB

Neosporin Moms at the Playground

Have you seen that new Neosporin® commercial with three hot moms at the playground? (Not a men's playground, but the kiddie kind.) They're sitting on a bench, undoubtedly talking about Jon and Kate divorce news (I'm kidding), when a kid falls off a slide and yells out in pain. The moms immediately reach into their bags for the new Neosporin® product: Neo To Go! It's some sort of First Aid/Pain Relieving spray.

But wait - they don't just pull the product out. They spin it on their fingers like a gunfighter in the old west. Three hot moms ready to save the day!

To which I say: WTF? What happened to letting kids tough it out?

Don't get me wrong - if there's blood, chances are someone needs a bandage. If an arm gets broken, paramedics should be called.

But a scratch?

I'm guessing if those were three hot dads sitting on that park bench, undoubtedly talking about the best chicken marinade recipe, mai tai recipe, or maybe just waxing on about backyard sex (this time I'm not kidding), the men would have shrugged, told the kid to dust himself off, and the dads would have gotten back to the manly business of hanging out.

I realize women might perceive behavior like this to be uncaring. Please know, we dads care a lot. It's just that men are genetically predisposed to teach our offspring how to be tough. Even the most caring, loving father knows not to fawn over a bump or scrape at the playground.

It doesn't take a David Letterman joke about Sarah Palin for people to understand that men can be crass.

Is that so terrible? After all, every hot dad knows that crass rhymes with bad ass.

‘Normal’ childhood? - Part Three - The Bat and the Broom

Be sure to read part one and part two before this one

At the ripe age of about 9, and after causing some sort of stink at the dinner table, I was sent to my room while everyone else finished their dinner and had their ice cream.

Now, we lived in an old Victorian house and my room, the one that I shared with B1 was on the top floor …the converted attic.

Sitting up there sulking on the edge of my bed, wondering if I could coerce B2 to sneak me up some ice cream after dinner, I was startled by a freaking bird flying right through my open window. As it zipped back and forth around my room, spinning in circles, seemingly very disoriented, this ‘bird’ swooped down and got its feet caught in my hair.

Pause for image of said hair. (and maybe a bit of laughter)




Completely freaking out, running in circles, yelling for my mother and flinging my arms up to try to dislodge this hair intruder….I hear my mother yelling up the stairs, “I told you to be quiet up there…or you’ll stay up there all night!”

Continuing my cries for help, my mother stormed her way up to my room, cursing me enough so that I did not know who to be more scared of…this beast clawing at my head…or the one about to bust through my bedroom door with a belt.

A second later my mother burst though my door, with belt in hand and a lung full of air to scream at me. Upon seeing the flapping, tangled mess that was once my head, she screamed, “BAT!” and swiftly ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Shocked that A. It was a bat in my hair and not a bird…and B. that my mother would run out and just leave me there. I continued screaming and running around the room. A minute or so later she barged back into my room…armed with a broom. She march straight at me and began bashing me on the head with the broom…worried more so about hitting the bat than the structural integrity of my cranium. Once she successfully knocked the bat loose from my hair she dragged my whimpering body out of the room (as if I were a wounded soldier being saved by a war hero) and slammed the door once again.

After pleading with the man that lived next door, the bat was evicted from my room. The story ends with a haircut appointment for me early the next morning.

As the stories are seemingly endless…I’ll continue with another next time – Military Training

Raising Girls is Easy

I grew up in a house full of boys, so when my daughter was born, I had no idea what it would be like raising a girl. Let me say for the record - it's been easy. Far easier than raising a son.

Boys are a terror. I know this from the grief my brothers and I gave to my dear mom. We broke things like crazy. Windows. Toys. Each other. (No broken bones, but plenty of stitches.) We ran around the house like wild animals, yelling and screaming. We wrestled until there were tears. We aimed slingshots and bee-bee guns at each other, sometimes even firing. (Like a Jon and Kate divorce proceeding. Ha!)

Where was brother protective services when we needed it?

While my son isn't quite that out of control, he is a handful. He amuses himself by building things that are way too dangerous for public use, then inviting his friends to use them. Like the time he hung a wooden platform from a tree branch, piled it with patio furniture, then had everyone get on - only to see it collapse. (No one was seriously injured in the writing of this blog post.)

He also loves starting fires, which I admit comes in handy when we're cooking homemade hamburgers, or fixing our Jamaican grilled chicken marinade recipe. But fire isn't such a great idea when he's supposed to be in his room doing homework, but is actually lighting matches and melting candle wax all over his desk. WTF!

Men and fire.

My daughter has been a piece of cake. She does her homework, keeps a tidy room, never talks back. Oh sure, she could help more often around the house. But she's so sweet, and so good at keeping her nose clean, I kind of don't care. She's seventeen, and far from a loose girl - she's more focused on getting into college than getting pregnant. So there are no early-grandpa fears for me! (Watch, she has a drawer full of sex toys I don't know about. Ha.)

It's not just home life, though. Sports teams have been way easier with her. Granted, girls can be catty at times, but they'd rather get along than not. Plus, the coaches early on were usually moms, as opposed to manic Little League dads. As a result, my daughter's teams had way better parental camaraderie (i.e. parties!) I love watching my daughter do her sports.

So, next time someone tells me what a headache their daughter has been, I will knock on wood and say a little thank you that my daughter has been so easy.

Unless, of course, my son already lit that particular piece of wood on fire. Or hung it from a tree.

Doh!