Six!

Yesterday marked the beginning of my summer vacation and a new record. I also came to the conclusion that even though Henry is just a little more than three months old, he has a great sense of humor.

Since the advent of Henry & Poppa Days (when I took a few weeks of paternity leave), I've been encouraging Henry to poop when held by someone other than me. He can eat four 8 oz bottles with me, just so long as he waits until Mommy comes home to unleash whatever Monster Doodie he has brewing in there. I don't mind changing him at all and we make a game out of it and sing songs and such. I just know he thinks it's funny, after all of my cajoling, to let 'em rip when I'm alone with him. And you know what? I would think it HILARIOUS if I were him.

Now, yesterday, he set the current record. Six poops! He didn't even eat six meals. I tell him he's supposed to wait for Mommy and all, he just giggles. I suppose I should be grateful he didn't do this, at least not yet.

Raising a Little Man

There is a crisis among the nation's boys. According to a recent Esquire article, boys are slipping in academics from kindergarten through college. I'm sure I'm not the only one to ask this:

What the heck is going on here?

When I found out that my wife and I were having a boy, I was ecstatic. I was so proud I could hardly contain it - actually, I didn't contain it and cried when Eugenia from Ukraine, the ultrasound tech, told us "da, is boy." Since then, I've tried to be the best Poppa I can be. Sure, Henry is three months old and has yet to be anything but a joy, really, but I still strive to be a father for the modern age while retaining the best parts of what it means, in a classic sense, to be a man.

These last few days have led to much introspection on my part. Our child care plans for the fall fell through and my wife will be a stay-at-home mommy. I'd landed a dream job teaching AP US History in Suffolk County, Long Island, and we were supposed to move out there - but we're staying in Brooklyn.

A little background is in order. My father, Papa Bear, was and is freakin' awesome. My little sister and I had pretty much everything we needed growing up - except a Dad who was around all the time. Like many men of his generation, he provided a wonderful home and created a financial stability for an upper-middle class upbringing. My parents have been married for 33 years and, as far as I know, are still completely in love with each other. He worked very hard. That's just it, though, he was at work a lot.

I wanted to be around for my children a little more than Papa Bear was. I don't mean to say that he was an absentee father - he made every Little League game, we played golf together, we did stuff around the house. I'm sure most people would consider him to be a perfect example of a great father. I decided at a very young age on a career that would enable my family to have financial stability (and a nice retirement for me) and be home a little more. I would sacrifice some of the niceties of a career in finance or law (nice car, big house, Mexican lawn service) in order to gain more time at home. I would be a teacher.

I'm pretty sure I was the only ten-year-old in my neighborhood to decide on a career for these reasons. I knew I wanted to be a history teacher while my friends were still dreaming of playing for the Mets or being an astronaut. I knew that eventually I could make a nice living - especially on Long Island - and be home for the kids. I also felt very lucky and wanted a career that would be of some benefit for society, however corny that sounds these days.

Fast forward roughly two decades. I was in my fifth year of teaching in New York City (yes, it's hard and worse than you've heard) and sixth year of marriage (also just as tough - I mean, I love you hunny!). We were having a Henry. We were finally financially stable. I put off my goal for PhD and a professorship to have kids - I just didn't want to struggle anymore and a doctoral program was a self-imposed vow of poverty. We had Henry in place for an infant room in the preschool where my ma teaches...only, the district refused to grant the director the extra room. Now it's too late to find a space in the ultra-competitive NYC child care game. Henry's Mommy would stay home come September.

Now I've been thrust into the very role I've resisted my whole life. Sole income, two or three hours in the car every day (a Chevy POS - oh God how I hate that car), and a teacher's salary. I'm struggling with the fact that now I lose out on time with the boy while not being able to provide the income that such a sacrifice would partly justify. On top of that, I read about this new crisis among boys.

First among the trouble is that almost 40% of households with young boys do not have a biological father present. At least that's not the issue here. I love my wife dearly and we've been together for seven years. I guess the hardest parts are behind us (although I'd like my hardest part to be behind my wife a little more, wink wink, nudge nudge). I read, my wife reads more, we're both educated. A boy that sees reading and is read to will probably read himself. That's good. I myself have a healthy contempt for authority, yet know when and where to challenge or defer - a lesson quite valuable for a young ruffian. I can see through any load of bullshit ever thrown my way. In today's America, how can I impart the value of honesty? I'm not religious, in fact I believe organized religion to be the biggest obstacle to human progress. It's clearly rewarded in this nation to lie, cheat and steal your way to the top. How many hundreds of crooked execs are out there for every one Enron CEO convicted? Don't even get me started on the government. While I think the lack of respect for laws in this nation are clear evidence of a society in decay, that's a topic for another day. I can't look to pop culture for any sort of role models - although I can't think of a time when one could. It's up to me to be the man.

But I don't feel like a "grown up." I guess I can be grown up enough for Henry. I'll still giggle at farts and use the word "boobies." As long as there are boobies, everything will be just fine.

Poop and Stuff

As the best indicator of a newborn baby's health, new parents are often obsessed with their child's bowel movements. Every diaper change is like a doctor's physical. Not so in this house. Every diaper change is an opportunity to have fun. First, let me preface this whole bloggy thingy with this: I talk to our son, Henry, all the freakin' time. I ask him questions, I tell him things, I spell words for him, I read to him from the New York Times (I even read selections from my Master's Thesis, The Ideology of the Reagan Administration and the Arms Buildup - he made it through more of that than my wife or my parents or anyone else I know), I sing songs, I make up songs. In general, our relationship thus far is one long conversation where we talk about (mostly) what I want and where I'm always right and where everything I say is pretty much designed to get Henry to smile or laugh. And, that smile and laugh is pretty much the greatest thing I've ever seen.

Back to the diapers. So, there are two songs that I made up for my boy of which I am most proud, at least so far. One, the Underpants Song, is sung to the tune of Camptown Races:

Henry's got clean underpants, doo dah, doo dah,
Henry's got clean underpants, Oh de doo dah day
Oh de doo dah daaaay, Oh de doo dah daaay,
Henry's got clean underpants, Oh. De. Doo. Dah. Day.

He gets this song when, you guessed it, he's got on clean underpants (usually a onesie of some sort). Now, this song is the kind of thing that will be burned into your brain and, most important, this song is a lot of fun to sing. Therefore, Henry has fun. Try it with your own kids. The second revolves around a favorite product of ours, Boudreaux's Butt Paste. I thought this product was great just because of its name (it's actually a great diaper rash preventer - like Desitin without the smell or greasiness). So, I sing the Butt Paste song. Generally, the words are something like this:

Butt Paste, Butt Paste, gotta have the Butt Paste
Put it on your butt, doo doo doo doo doo (or sometimes la la la la la)
Put it on your balls, doo doo doo doo doo
get some on your legs, doo doo doo doo doo
and a little on your taint, doo doo doo doo doo
and don't forget your p-p-p-penis*.

I never thought I was a good singer, and I still don't. I do make a great effort to sing in key, since I'm trying to develop Henry's "ear." I can sing along with almost anything so I do that. Our latest fun came singing along with the Dead's "Shakedown Street" from September 1991 at MSG (the show with Branford on sax). He LOVED it. Maybe it was how happy I was, maybe it was the dancing, maybe it was Jerry's voice. Maybe he's a little Deadhead at heart.



*I used to say "don't forget your mons pubis," but I later found out that is an area only above the vagina. Damn.

Greetings and Salutations!

Wow. That's all I can really say that sums up the past three months. Those few, those very few, who read my other blog, Bear's Blog-O-Rama, know that I'm a new father. This blog will be dedicated to exploring everything about fatherhood that I have, will, or hope to experience, along with my regular and oh-so-witty commentary about all the other shite the world has to offer.

So, why don't you join me? I guarantee lots of laughs, some insight, a little but of fun, and a whole lot of poop.