MenGetPregnantToo

Time to Give the Tiger Woodses of the World What They Deserve: To Be Ignored.

For some reason I cannot explain, I'm fascinated with the Tiger Woods saga. Or, at least I was, until this week.

In the Montreal Gazette this past Saturday, sports editor Stu Cowan wrote "Who Will Cry for Tiger Woods?" In the editorial, Mr. Cowan cites a book by Tom Callahan: "His Father's Son: Earl and Tiger Woods".  The book apparently describes Tiger as a mimic to his father's ethics and conduct; both are depicted as controlling womanizers.

 

Millions have followed the downfall of the Great American Hero who was Tiger Woods; the billionaire with a beautiful Nordic wife, two children, a diamond-mine grin, and a stratospheric golf game. Within twenty months, his now former spouse has fled the Florida heat for the cooler comfort of Scandinavia, his sponsorship opportunities have become nearly skeletal, and Tiger's existing wealth is reportedly diluting. In the middle of all this, fortunately sheltered from the media, are the two children  - experiencing the joys of shared custody -  who call Tiger Woods "Daddy."

 

With the blossoming of mobile phones, internet streams, and the wave of the information age, it will be difficult to protect the kids from discovering the definitions of 'philander', 'divorce', 'sex-ting', and 'cheat'. It will most likely, and unfortunately, be outside their mother's control to decide when and how they will learn the details of Daddy's saga. At some point in his own life, Tiger reached a deeper understanding of the personality which was his father, and, either consciously or not, absorbed many of his traits. How do I know? It's out there for all to read, watch, download, and capture; it was even deemed the worthy subject of Mr. Callahan's non-fiction book. The circus has reached maturity; some of the actors will, no doubt, benefit financially through books deals, reality shows, and interviews. This is how things are done. There is an existing machine ready to apply its template to whatever crisis it's fed. Chomp, chomp, chomp...next!

I don't know why I was so interested in watching this self-destruction. I think partly it was due to the unbelievable nature of it all; at the height of his popularity - before it transformed itself into notoriety - was there another athlete with a brighter sheen to their marble than Tiger Woods? Following this present-day tragedy was like taking a sledge-hammer to Mount Rushmore, with Mr. Woods's children being sheltered by an umbrella.

What words can be used to describe Tiger's pattern of behaviour? Psychopathic? Sociopathic? Ego-maniacal?

At home several days ago, what began as a dinner conversation about the fall of Empire Woods, morphed into a theoretical debate about the ability of the powerful to deal with their power, and whether corruption is an inevitable symptom of prestige and authority. At the time I capitulated to the belief that no individual with a billion dollars in the bank, and a coterie of cocktail waitresses at their feet, could resist corrupt sources of temptation. Now I think that's a bunch of hooey.

Sure, there are very few Tiger Woodses out there; a marriage of physical beauty and athletic ability witnessed only once or twice every other generation. But I have to believe there are billionaire fathers commanding heaps of clout within their dominions who manage to keep it in their pants. To assume that absolute power corrupts absolutely is an insult to the powerful. I refuse to accept that a great dad and husband will inescapably become a faithless Lothario following a financial or sociological windfall.

Maybe we should just accept that Tiger became his father's son, a person he would have grown to be whether as a sports legend or a telephone repairman. After all, there are repairmen who are philandering oafs and can't hit a golf ball worth a slice of cheese. We don't hear about them because they are in every way commonplace, and perhaps it's time we bestow upon the fierce Tiger the same fate deserved by the whimpering repairman: ignore him.

Household Chores: A Labor of Love & Hate.

I firmly subscribe to the philosophy "Money Doesn't Buy You Happiness." But:

If you are already a generally happy chap, a surplus of disposable income can do much to remove restrictions which cause stress: choosing a more comfortable vacation destination, throwing the family in the car for a last minute trip to a nice steakhouse because you just don't feel like making supper tonight, or having someone to keep your house in order.

I don't mind household chores; however they do infringe on time I would otherwise fill quite easily with more enjoyable activities. But since, for the moment, I do not have a butler, or maid, or cook, or concierge, I must do my share of deck-swabbing. After several conversations with wives whose husband abhor housework, I'll be the voice of an unsilent minority. I don't mind scutwork, but there are some undertakings I prefer:

Laundry: I don't get the objection to doing laundry, unless you are making trips to a pond with a stick of detergent and a washboard. The machine does most of the work; turn it on, put in your soap, dump in the clothes, and wait. Then hang the delicate items or fill the drier, and wait (and return to tending to the kids who barely take a breath bewteen "Daddy, daddy, daddy's"). Then fold it all while watching Entourage, and put it all away.

  

Ironing: Again, a very Zen activity. No heavy lifting, just the gentle 'whoosh' of the steam, and the instant gratification of watching those creases slip away - like watching a zamboni resurface the local rink - and then fold and hang. Bring it on.

Vacuuming: One of my defining personality traits is my need to know, in advance, what is planned, and how long it will take. That's why I don't mind vacuuming. The dimensions of my house never change, nor does the size of my vacuum cleaner. I know I must push or pull it over the entire surface of the floor, and then put it away. I've also brought my blood pressure down a couple of notches by accepting that, regardless of how carefully I plan my route, there will inevitably be a dust bunny under my left foot immediately after I put the vacuum cleaner away.

 Gardening: Ok, up until two months ago, I would not have considered this a chore. After all, a household can function quite nicely without a garden. But, being married to someone with a green thumb who heads out to tend to our yard while I'm vacuuming, I've officially put this on the list. After all, if you do have a yard, you cannot let the whole thing wither and die. Besides, after much campaigning, not only  - as a salad lover  - do I now have a lovely vegetable garden, but also a wife who sees to it the garden survives from one week to the next. When I do get out there and (with much tutelage) plant, weed, transplant, and water, it clicks; I get why gardeners become obsessed with gardening. Who would not want the responsibility of being outdoors, among the flowers and trees, trowel and watering can in hand, communing with nature? It sure beats painting the deck.

 
Painting: I...hate...painting. I really don't know why. It, too,  involves no heavy lifting and no dirty pipes, and as long as you prepare properly, there are worse ways to spend a day than listening to the radio while running a brush along a plank of wood or a sheet of drywall. But I hate it. I hate that I'm always chasing after my own drips, I hate that my attention span allows me to really concentrate for only twenty minutes before I start to colour outside the lines. I hate that you can run a brush under a tap for a day-and-a-half and the thing is still wet with paint. I think it says a lot that when you remove the last letter, this chore becomes "pain". Although, it would be a close contest between painting and...

Dusting: Please. There are few activities more mundane than running an implement along, around, and under surfaces to remove particulate matter made up largely of human skin cells. A comedian once said that men specifically avoid dusting so we know where to put things back on the shelf when we're done with them. Although I just recently discovered our vacuum clear has a flexible hose with a duster attachment, so I guess it will still beat painting.

Plumbing: Believe it or not, ripping out, cleaning, disposing, and installing toilets and sinks doesn't bother me. I am as far from being a germophobe as is humanly possible. As much as I subscribe to money not bringing me happiness, so do I believe that which does not kill me makes me stronger. I don't wash my apples, I squish fruit flies with my thumb and forefinger, and I rarely get sick. As a result, bring me your dirty toilets and out-dated sinks, as long as there are no rusty nails which will require an as yet uninvented tool to reach an unreachable spot which houses a nut which has been rusted into its current position since your centennial home was first on the market.

 

Cleaning Bathrooms: Again, I'm no germophobe, so as long as the cleaning the washroom isn't a prelude to painting the thing, bring it on.

Cooking and Cleaning Up Afterward: I love cooking, as long as there is sufficient time and counter space. I don't mind clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen after a meal either, I don't enjoy doing both. That is the standing policy in our house: if you cook you don't clean, and vice-versa. There are exceptions to the rule: I will gladly clean after my own home cooking if my better half is seeing to brushing little teeth, washing little hands and faces, and getting the troupes into their pjs. Scrubbing pot-scum can be infinitely easier than preventing cavities in a tired child.

How goes the division of labour in your home? After more than a decade together, the two of us have reached a definite rhythm and balance, which is supported by a deep understanding of who enjoys doing more of what. That being said, I'll never enjoy homemaking so much that money couldn't buy me a little more happiness...and cleanliness, too.

 

To Those Who've Sent Me an E-Mail...Ooops!

Hey All,

Due to a small technical glitch, your e-mails have been redirecting to an erroneous address. Were this a Monty Python film I would say: "The person responsible has been sacked." But since that person is me, and I'm still here, all I can say is: "The problem is now fixed. Please feel free to send your messages along once again."

Cheers and apologies,

K.B.

Yeah, I Know. I Was Like That Too, Before Kids.

'Caught a rebroadcast of Billy Joel's 2008 concert in New York City's since demolished Shae Stadium. Spectacular show. 'Made me wanna get a grand piano, made me wanna be a rock star, made me notice how, at great rock shows, strangers never hesitate to smile at each other. 'Made me remember life before kids. Now? Peter Gabriel's coming to town? Meh. I'm kinda tired, tickets are kinda pricey.

   a

Wasn't the case when I was a D.I.N.K. Double Income No Kids.

When I started dating my now-wife we didn't want kids. We both worked odd hours, which often meant slow mornings with coffee, newspapers, and  morning adult television. Ya know, like, the news...or, like, Good Morning America...or, like, going back to bed after breakfast. We would also often work late, which meant bottles of wine being opened after midnight as opposed to bottles of formula being reheated at 3am. It meant listening to full albums (yes, kids, artists used to release entire collections of songs, all at once) until the wee hours of the morning.

Ironically, I always liked children, and always had a way with babies. I loved holding them, cooing at them, making them smile by digging my nose into their bellies. It's just that once I reached an age when I could have my own, I kinda went 'meh', I'm kinda ok it just being us. I'm likin' the lattes and last minute movies. I'm diggin' the urge to rent roller blades and then walk the whole way back 'cause my legs are kinda tired. And, you know what? On the way back? 'Think I'm gonna grab myself an ice coffee.

Other people's children never bothered me, either. Nor did some parents' tendencies to prattle on about nothing other than being a parent. I enjoyed their stories, and after all, once I talked about my latte and roller blades I was pretty much done. Not everyone I knew was tolerant of baby stories, however. In one famous exchange I witnessed a colleague of mine, who was single and spent nearly all his income on world travel, bark at another colleague concerning the frequency with which the latter would bring in pictures of his young son. The response was impeccable: "Buddy, when you stop bringing in your goddamn vacation photos, I'll stop bringing in baby pictures."

Parent one, S.I.N.K. (Single Income...) nothing.

That being said, there were certain concepts I just couldn't sink my teeth into as a D.I.N.K. Friends of ours had just had their first child, a little girl. We would, as per our usual routine, invite them over for an afternoon coffee, or out for a late lunch. Suddenly, they couldn't make it 'cause the baby was napping. They couldn't wake the baby! "Can't you just let her sleep for forty-five minutes, then wake her up and bring her along?" No, they said. She's miserable when she doesn't get a long enough nap. I said g'bye, and hung up. Seriously, I would say to my wife, they can't go out 'cause the baby is sleeping? Sheesh! Only later, once my sleep deprived son demonstrated to me that perhaps if Linda Blair had had a proper power nap everything would have been alright, did I understand.

   

As you can see, at some point, we changed our minds. I don't know when I changed, or when she changed. I do know we seemed to experience the change together. We wanted kids; we needed kids; if we didn't have kids, there would be a certain sadness forever. So we had two, then I underwent a vasectomy. I love kids, but two would suffice.

I still do not subscribe to the parenting mantra which gets regurgitated so often at the wrong times to the wrong people: "Children are a blessing. Without children your life is just a little bit empty. It's something you don't understand unless you have kids."

Bullshit.

People who want kids should have kids. People who don't want kids should not have kids. As a matter of fact, some of the people who want kids should not have kids, and some of those who don't want 'em would probably make fantastic parents, if for no other reason than their ability to think before they act. I can easily understand why a childless individual would find parents monotonous. We do talk about our kids all the time. When we're not comparing them to other kids, we're selling checklists on street corners of their latest accomplishments or cute moments. You know, not everybody cares. But, you know, it's kinda like that person who is always talking about work; it's not wrong, it's what they do for eight hours a day. And, when you take away from twenty-four hours the eight hours during which you're asleep, plus the time occupied with the mundane - groceries, showering, going to the bathroom, sitting in traffic - most of what's left if you're employed outside the home is work. Conversely, when you are raising children, that is what you do with most of your time, the rest of it is occupied with activities much more banal.

We also always talk about our kids because we are still, each day, discovering them for the first time. We're also new at this, and it's a pretty big deal. My wife once described being a parent as the most intense relationship she's ever had. Talking about it is one way to shed the nervous energy, the discovery of this developing spirit. It's like the world becomes a psychiatrist for the person who is now responsible for the education, emotional and physical wellness, intellectual development, clothing, nutrition, and eventual dating habits of another human being. And it all starts with a blob of sleeplessness and excrement. We don't want to bore you, but we can't help it. Just know that we know we can be boring. We were D.I.N.K.s, and chose to become otherwise. We fled Xanadu.

I realized, though, sitting on my couch watching Billy Joel rock Shae Stadium, that perhaps there is a difference between becoming and father and turning into one. I think I'm going to start pushing myself towards the odd event I used to enjoy as a D.I.N.K., but have since left behind. If you do the same, reader, perhaps we could be strangers smiling at each other from a couple of rows apart in a stadium somewhere. You'll know it's me; I'll be the guy who leaves before the encore; gotta get up with the baby tomorrow.

 

It's Not About Quitting or Keeping a Job; It's About being Happy.

Recently, 24-year-old former journalist Kai Nagata posted an essay: "Why I Quit My Job". It was written shortly after leaving his position of Quebec City Bureau Chief for CTV Montreal. Its essential message was one borne of a restless, unfulfilled spirit, who, finding himself at a crossroads, decided to abandon the life he knew in favour of the possibilities available in a future unknown. He is single, and has no children.

A few days later, a rebuttal was posted by Sandra Thomas of The Vancouver Courier: "Why I Didn't Quit My Job". Its focus was several points made in Kai's article, citing arrogance, and a preachy tone. Also, she writes, she did not quit her job because: "...I’m not 24, I have bills, responsibilities and a love of this community I can only afford to live in because of my paycheque."

Primarily, we should embrace this exchange, if for no other reason, than to celebrate the internet as a forum for this intelligent and healthy debate which otherwise may not have taken place. Although I may not agree with all of what Kai wrote, I can't help but believe that, as a result of his post, at least one person will find some inspiration to make a change in their lives before they think it's too late.

The question for each of us is: when is it too late?

"Why I Quit My Job" has its share of opponents. A portion of them, at least, convey the idea that Kai's youth, inexperience, and lack of personal responsibilities to others make it easy for him to post a three-thousand word dissertation, pack his belongings into a truck, and drive into the setting sun. The proponents of the same piece cite a young man, wise beyond his years, taking advantage of youth and experiencing an inspirational awakening.

I spend most of my time as a television director and producer. I am married with two young children, and live in a house which is nearly a thirty minute drive outside Montreal. Twenty years ago, I wanted to be an actor, ten years later, I wanted to be a doctor, ten year after that, I work in television. So it goes. I used to regret the efforts I didn't make: school, work, saving money, etc. Only recently did I learn what I consider to be two important lessons: not to regret what has passed, and work toward whatever will make you happy. Of course the older I get, the larger the imprint of my life includes responsibilities to those around me - employers, children, spouse - and the more I understand that "what makes me happy" must fit into a certain framework.

I will not, at age 39, begin studying toward the credits I would require to begin a decade-long journey in medical school. I will also not quit my job to wait tables and pursue the dream of an Oscar. That time has passed, and had I pursued more closely those goals when my lifestyle was more permissive, I would certainly not be married to this woman with whom I share these children. I couldn't imagine a life without them. Many people feel frustrated at missed opportunities and personal, financial, and chronological investments which did not pan out: divorces, death, lost investments and others. All one can do is ask: am I putting in every possible effort to be as happy as possible. Time spent on regretting the impossible is time wasted.

Granted, a single parent will probably never have the luxury of quitting an unsatisfactory job, throwing their belongings and children in the trunk, and heading for the west coast. And a 24-year-old will definitely look back twenty years from now, wonder where the time went, and second-guess certain choices. But I hope that, as Kai has, my children find their inspiration at a young age, and have the courage to act upon it. I know I draw inspiration from them, both to feel happiness in my reality as it stands, and knowing I have strength to continue to better all those challenging moments ahead.

The Chasm Between Alone and Lonely

For a social creature, I am remarkably solitary; for a solitary being, I am remarkably sociable.

I am married with two children, ages six and four. With the hectic schedules including staggered work hours, homemaking responsibilities, school, extracurricular activities, and sleep, it's a challenge to find time devoted purely to the pleasure of the four of us being together as a family. It is an even greater challenge for my wife and me to escape without our offspring for a few hours together. Possibly the greatest challenge of all is to schedule some quality time to myself, alone. The quality of that time is not necessarily determined by how the time is spent (reading a book, napping, watching a movie), but rather can that time be dedicated to, and isolated from, thoughts which do not centre on my own needs? Despite being alone, is there stress being created as a result of the chores which still wait to be completed? Will I hear whispers from the dishes in the sink, the carpet that is not being vacuumed, supper which is not being prepared? At what point during my time alone will I need to glance at the clock as it counts down the hours and minutes before the rest of my life returns?

I believe everybody needs time as an island. I don't believe we are all born requiring the same amount of isolation from the rest of the world. I have many friends who, after what I would consider a short period of time by themselves, crave sociality. Genetically, I am at the other end of the spectrum. Even as a child, I found comfort in the silent isolation of after-school detention (maybe that's why I had such a mouth on me). Some of my earliest memories are of being at peace with my early bedtime; I would lie in my room as the summer breeze puffed at my Richard Scarry curtains, listening to the waning sounds of my older siblings in the backyard as the sun set. I would run my bare foot along my wallpaper (also a Busytown motif), pressing my toes against the printed emergency vehicles and occasionally poking at a seam in the pattern as the glue began to show its years.

As I grew older my hermetical tendencies never diminished. I was interested in calligraphy, which I would practice alone in my room. I would spend hours listening to music through headphones, air drumming as a member of the band, or lip-syncing in silence, holding a deodorant stick or hairspray can (I did my part to create that hole in the ozone layer, to be sure). I was a dreamer.

As an adult, little has changed, except that I am now more aware of that inner voice (and I no longer use hairspray). The irony is that often though my initial preference may be to remain at home rather than attend a celebration, once I'm out and about, I'm often the first to engage strangers in conversation, and end up being surprised by own enjoyment of the evening's entertainment. Ultimately, though, what I entertain most, are thoughts of time alone.

There are aspects of my personality that I am (slowly) fighting to overcome. For instance, I am not a "doer". When a toilet is leaking, or the grass needs cutting, or the mouldings need gluing, I initially see these responsibilities as impediments to the fun I could otherwise be having. I am (slowly!) convincing myself to embrace those tasks, not as obstacles, but as steps to improving my surroundings and lifestyle, as well as activities I can share shoulder to shoulder (sometimes eyelash to eyelash) with my growing children. My DNA makes it very difficult to begin any activity (writing included) which doesn't revolve around playfulness or relaxation. However, my strength of will is becoming more disciplined. I'm (sllloooowwwllllyyy) understanding the ends justify the means; the "ends" also include the feeling of satisfaction which accompanies the completion of any task - such as a blog entry.

I still revel in the time spend in mental limbo, be it reading, or long-distance driving. I don't know that I will ever - even when I am alone - feel lonely. Perhaps I should embrace this aspect of my personality as a blessing. I know there are many people who have little choice where loneliness is concerned. Their effort is conferred not seeking refuge, but companionship. Each of us spends ironic moments envying the perceived advantages of the other; one wishing for a community, the other for an island, and both for moments which bring to them their own variety of peace.

I have been alone for the past hour, composing this post. My son just sauntered in, all four-and-a-half feet of him. He's sitting on the floor, a few feet from me, constructing a tower and slide for his marbles. Would I rather he weren't here? That I not hear his little voice as he talks himself through the assembly? No. He looks so small from where I sit, and that smallness is fleeting, as will be his desire to show daddy his marble tower and slide. Besides, tonight, after my children are asleep, I can read a few more pages of a novel, or lose myself in a movie. Then, I too will sleep and recharge my mental engine, for tomorrow I'm painting the deck.

 

 

Commentary: Men are allowed to Complain!

For the following several hundred words, I AM MAN.

I place myself on the pulpit, and reach new heights of egotism by assuming to speak for slightly less than half the human population: MEN.

We have a reputation, we do. Our colds reputedly sideline us for longer periods than they do women, our injuries supposedly render us more incapacitated for a greater period of time than would  a similar affliction befalling a woman.

Maybe true, maybe not. I won't dwell too much on the veracity of the argument...my carpel tunnel sidelines me for days when I type for any extended period.

I will say this: Sometimes things hurt. And when they do, Man says "Ouch", and every once in a while, we deserve a "There, there, poor  baby". Not all the time, but certainly following these real-life scenarios:

Case #1) I recently had a cystoscopy. I will spare you the details of the procedure; since after already posting the details of my vasectomy, I'm worried this blog is transforming into The Kenny Bodanis Museum of Natural history. What is most important is: it was painful, and triggered painful and unsightly side-effects which lasted for twenty-four hours.

During that period, and only during that period, I complained about my level of discomfort, as well as the general unpleasantness brought on by the procedure.

The response? "Try getting your period every month."

Case #2) A family friend recently underwent a prostate exam. He commented how uncomfortable he felt lying on his side while someone's finger snuck in the back door. He didn't complain it was painful, he didn't miss work, and he didn't refuse to empty the dishwasher. He said "I felt uncomfortable".

The response from the woman he was with: "Try having a baby".

On behalf of Men, let me clear the air with some grand concessions: Pregnancy and birth bring with them back pain, swollen feet, nausea, interruptions in sleep patterns, horrible cramping, loss of appetite, muscle strain - both internal and external - resulting from hosting a growing human being for nine months and then expelling it through an opening previously only used for much more meager purposes, wild hormone changes, and a host of other symptoms men will never fully appreciate since we will (most likely) never experience childbirth. Granted, acknowledged, agreed, and confessed.

Now, can you allow us that it's uncomfortable having a finger up our ass? Especially someone else's.

No one wants someone's Beetle pulling into their pre-paid underground parking spot. Sometimes it's a really old doctor, with an equally old, rusted, vintage Beetle...pulling into your spot. Prostate exams command such lore, John Fogerty wrote a song about them:

 

And Chevy Chase crooned during his:

 

Prostate exams and cystoscopies are not the armageddon of medical conditions. But please grant us that we may experience some pain and discomfort while being examined by parts normally reserved for submarines, and winter gloves.

When my wife had the flu, I commiserated, sympathized, did the laundry and the cooking; all the right things. All I want in return is, after returning home from a good scoping, someone to say "That sounds damn uncomfortable."

KB

P.S. The doctor didn't find anything serious, thanks for asking.