MenGetPregnantToo

To My Future Son-in-Law: I Promise Never to Beat You With a Bat

Has there ever been  - in the history men, dating, or baseball bats - a documented case of a man beating his daughter's date with a baseball bat?
More precisely: if there ever was such an occasion, was the father not charged as a criminal?
Good.
Then may I request a cessation to generalizations describing fathers as overprotective apes intimidating their daughters' suitors with weapons as a means of keeping them from the dating scene?
Thanks.

This baseball bat cliché was trotted out repeatedly during another enlightened talk radio discussion yesterday:
"Boys never want to go to the girls' houses and risk running into her dad answering the door with a baseball bat."
Imagine equally absurd statements about mothers being broadcast across major market airwaves:
"Boys only hope girls are not going to grow up to be as meek and mousy as the mothers who raised them."
It would never be tolerated.

As much as society is to be applauded for no longer tolerating an image of a stay-at-home wife and mother who is to be seen in the kitchen and not heard at the table; the image of the closed-fisted, Cro-Magnon male who fears any domestic responsibility or emotion is as clear as ever.

Yes, there are violent men; yes, they vastly outnumber violent women. But, they do not outnumber husband and fathers who are kind, honest, intelligent multitaskers who care for and support their wives and children.
We're are in a tricky position, men. For so long we, as a gender, insisted on occupying dominant roles in business and armchairs at home it is now difficult for modern men to assert themselves as the new norm.
Absolutely: despite a shift in gender roles, men still earn more, occupy more executive roles, and are less domestic than are women.
This does not mean we should not defend stereotypes defining us as violent and intolerant. 

Sitcoms and talk shows don't help our image, and multi-media is also struggling to recognize fathers as a veritable voice among Mommy Bloggers in the world of parenting commentary and advice. 
And men certainly don't help themselves. 
It is still unpopular for a father to defend his metrosexuality, or love for his children and domestic life, while sitting at his office desk or running his work site.
We need to work on that.

As for my daughter, I don't need to work over her boyfriends for several reasons:
1) I don't work people over.
2) She's 5-years-old.
3) I'm teaching her to be confident in what she wants and doesn't want (except where broccoli is concerned)
and,
4) She plays T-Ball, and has a bat of her own.
(See, I do have a sense of humor) 

 

 

 

I Love Coffee in the Bleachers (or: Why I Enroll my Kids in Baseball)

Top 5 Reasons for enrolling your children in organized sports:

5) Improve hand-eye coordination.
4) Learn to work as a team and socialize them.
3) Become involved in the community.
2) Increased physical activity means a healthier, happier child.
1) Coffee. (Specifically a medium Tim Horton's with two milk, one sugar)

My daughter began t-ball last week; my son will attend his first baseball practice on Saturday. This is my family's first venture into organized team sport. We are relatively under-programmed, compared to most other families I know, where our children are concerned. This has the advantage of the four of us not being a prisoner to a weekly calendar; conversely, we find ourselves occasionally bouncing off the walls trying to occupy each other.

With the two of them at home, there is less time to complete household or personal tasks in peace. Scraping stucco off the ceiling while praying your five and seven-year-old entertain each other can try your patience almost as much as digging plaster out of your eye.

When our community calendar was delivered, my wife and I combed through it convinced it was time they joined a team and became more exposed to life on an athletic field. For my son, soccer was eliminated; he was jostled on the pitch at the age of three and refuses to return. It was considered as an option for my daughter, but T-Ball was half the price thereby making it more risk-worthy should she end up hating it.
And so it began; that ritual practiced by millions of parents world wide: pick up from school, snack, homework, clean up snack, prepare supper, eat an early dinner, not quite finish cleaning up from dinner, change into baseball pants and cleats, drive to the field, get the kids to bed late, finish cleaning the kitchen, wake up the next morning and start again.

Except, amidst the center of this lifestyle hurricane, is an eye. In this eye there is calm. The eye forms in the following manner:
Upon arriving at the baseball field for the first practice, my wife speaks the magic words: "Who is going for coffee, you or me?"
"Ummm, I'll go, unless you want to." 
"Nah, I'd rather stay." she answers.

Off I went; my Bluetooth amplifying my playlist to an empty car, the scent of fresh coffee swarming about the cabin, and 'SERENITY NOW!' flowing through me like an enema of alone time.
Back on the bleachers, nearly three-quarters of baseball practice was still left. 
I sipped my coffee, spoke with other adults about adult things (our children, mostly), and held no responsibility toward anyone under the age of forty for nearly an hour.
Bliss.
Peace.
Organized community sports, how do I love thee? 

Of course, my son's weekly practices are now scheduled for Saturdays, 3pm to 5pm. The forecast temperature for this weeks scrimmage is 93°F. I can't stand drinking hot coffee in hot weather. There goes that theory.
Wait!
Iced Cappuccino, how do I love thee?...can a practice go into extra innings?

Photo Credit

 

For the Love of Serena, Will Someone Phuleeze Get Me Pregnant?!

Three things I will never do:

1. Spend an evening of intimacy with Ronnie Wood.
2. Share a bowl of chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds with Barack Obama.
3. Work myself into the Lotus Position without dislocation.

Three things I can never do:

1. Serve Eggs Benedict (covered with a perfect Hollandaise sauce, sprinkled with fresh chives and smatterings of smoked salmon) to Benedict Arnold.
2. Sit strapped into a cockpit seat, alongside the pet monkey I don't have, as a pioneer traveller aboard a Sputnik spacecraft.
3. Have a baby!

*****

After winning the women's title in Madrid on Sunday, Serena Williams made the following statement:

"Women are way tougher than men. That's why we have the babies, you guys could never handle kids,"
"We ladies don't complain we just do our best. On the WTA (tour) we are real performers, we are not about going out there and being weenies." 

These philosophical musings were in reference to Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic blaming their poor performances on the court's new blue clay.

Photo Credit

*****

It is conceivable that men will once day allow themselves to be medically tampered with to such an extent we will experience pregnancy. Whether they will find an orifice accommodating enough to allow a form of delivery for us other than Cesarean Section is a seperate challenge.
In the meantime, can we agree that "you don't know real pain until you've experience pregnancy and childbirth" be taken off the table as a counter argument to vasectomies, cystoscopies, head colds, and men's complaints in general?

If I could experience childbirth, I would. (No, you wouldn't.) Yes, I would.
However, I think the truth is: women wouldn't want me to have pregnancy on my physical C.V.; it would kick one leg out from under mom's OBGYN table. Where do you go from there? A man who's been through it all, and still complains about pneumonia? How do you shut him up then? 

If men were to bear children, we would survive the process. Why? How? For the same reason women do: we'd have to. One does what one must when one desires something enough, like children for instance. Or medical school; or becoming a pole vaulter.
Are pregnancy and childbirth more difficult than the training involved in Olympic pole vaulting? I don't know. I will never run along a track, jam a flexible pole into the ground, and catapult myself vertically twenty feet over a bar, hoping to land on a mat the size of a mattress on the other side.
Nor will I ever have a gestating human slowly push many of my major organs to the corners of my abdomen while stretching the uterus I don't have to the size of a basketball just before he/she forces his/her way past my pelvis which has expanded barely enough to expel this child I will have to care for for the rest of my life.

But neither has Serena Williams lived these experiences.
What she did accomplish on Sunday was win a tournament, pocket $630,000 in prize money, and then call me a weenie - a condition which apparently explains my inability to bear children.

The metaphor of men's inexperience of childbirth frustrated me so much during my wife's two pregnancies, I wrote a book about it: "Men Get Pregnant, too. (Despite Never Pushing a Watermelon Through a Pigeonhole). 
What I've discovered is: getting a book published appears to be nearly as difficult - although not as painful - as pregnancy. I might have an easier time pushing the thing past my cervix than I'm having promoting it to bookshelves at Barnes & Noble.
Perhaps Serena can lend me the money to self-publish in exchange for a stake in the book's profits? If not, I'd be happy to be the subject of the 'Serena Willams Medical Fund Promoting Pregnancy in Men'...as long as any experimentation doesn't come at the expense of my weenie. 

Photo Credit

FatherDaddy via The Good Men Project: Unlike Dads, Kids Don’t Care Who Hears Them Sing

Unlike Dads, Kids Don’t Care Who Hears Them Sing

So We're Clear: "Penthouse Forum" is Taboo; "Fifty Shades of Grey" is Candy?

There was a lot of playground chuckling at the elementary school yesterday. As the children poured out the side door, there was a twitter of girly chatter in hushed tones, punctuated by knee slaps and honest belly laughs. Youthful exuberance swirled around whispers of bonding among the population. Oh yeah, the kids were there, too.

My wife was lent a copy of E.L. James' "Fifty Shades of Grey". The best-selling novel had already made its round of many of the moms at the school who delight in sharing its hidden erotic secrets.
The book is described on Amazon.com in the following terms:

When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms.
 
Shocked yet thrilled by Grey’s singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of success—his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving family—Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks on a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey’s secrets and explores her own dark desires.

Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever. 

The book is advertised as the first of a trilogy. It will entertain women, and elementary school moms, for semesters to come.

From the age of about ten (grade 4), I remember peeking at black market copies of Penthouse and Playboy discovered in crannies under the beds of my friends' older brothers or in shadowy corners of their dads' closets under a pile of old cardigans. We hid and gawked at naked breasts and pubic hair as spies would at Cold War documents. It was a delightful sin.

As we grew older it became incumbent upon us to cease breaking into closets and trespassing under siblings' beds, and to begin moving the contraband ourselves. Paper/rock/scissors, double-dares, cash bonuses; one did what was necessary to not be elected to stand in front of the cashier dodging responsibility by insisting this copy of Playboy was 'for a friend'.

 Print in junior high eventually led to film later on. Earning minimum wage working the late shift at our local video store on Saturday and opening hours on Sunday made it possible to sneak adult movies home at midnight. We all just sat and stared. Nothing more. The dialogue was not worthy of analysis:

"Hello, ma'am. I've got your pizza."
"I didn't order a pizza."
"Maybe your husband did?"
"My husband's not home."
"Well, what to we do with this hot, steamy pie, then?"
Insert soft disco backbeat here.

The concerns about pornography have become more serious  with the advent of the internet. In many cases attraction has lead to addiction; real human affection has been replaced by solitude and virtual realities. Relationships which were unsteady at best are pushed off the plank by waves of easy-access adult entertainment. These circumstances, however, are the exception, not the rule.
Sex therapists and marriage counsellors agree there is a place for adult entertainment and playthings in any healthy relationship. When two adults consent, the emotional risk is low and the benefits can be great. 
Many men in healthy relationships - loving fathers, doting husbands, responsible contributors to society, guys who hold seniors' hands as they cross the street and guide lost children to their parents in the park - also enjoy pornography.
Due to stigmata and prejudice, however, a husband caught with an adult magazine stored behind his fishing pole in the basement is shunned; a father who admits to enjoying adult films is vilified. Yet, several hundred pages of female-centric erotic fiction (the first of a trilogy!) is an instant best seller, and is making the rounds of housewives across America.

If your husband is responsible, loving, and a positive contributor to your relationship and family, and one day you discover February's Playboy next to a stack of drill bits, relax. He's still the guy you brought home to your parents. Why didn't he tell you about it? Because human conditioning has been teaching him since the first grade to keep such things under mattresses. Why did he buy it in the first place? It's entertainment, a distraction; it provides a little bit of escapism and release - much like Anastasia Steele's fantasy man in Fifty Shades of Grey.

As for me, last night in bed as my wife fingered past the opening flap of this erotic work, I simply let her know if one day she needs to pretend I'm somebody else for half an hour, I'm right here.
Then I rolled over and went to sleep. I'll bet Christian Grey would never have done that.

 

 

"Baby on Board" Should Add: "But, Moron Still Driving".

You used to be that kind of person: tough guy; your seat adjusted at maximum distance from the steering wheel to more closely resemble the La-Z-Boy from which you watch the Big Game.
Your weave through traffic was more expertly negotiated than that of reed through a basket. Speed was never a consideration; you were in control, everyone else should consider easing to the right with the rest of the slow moving vehicles.
And your bravado wasn't restricted to city roads: with your black concert t-shirt, wide leather watch band and washed-last-January jeans, the odd physical altercation was just part of being you, man. Cool. Hard. Wild. Crazy. Bad to the Bone. 



But, a few months ago, a pregnancy and the birth of your first child mysteriously transformed you.

The miracle of gestation and the raw image of delivery sensitized you to your new role of Father. You were now to be made an example of. 
Suddenly, like Teen Wolf your mind and body were undergoing changes beyond your control: you began  eating more vegetables - Bok Choy, even - you chucked your last pack of smokes, your unrolled sleeves cover the tattoo on your arm, and you actually found yourself crying while cuddling your new infant in the middle of the night a few Wednesdays ago.

As a precaution, you licked and stuck a suction cup to your rear window. Suspended from it is a charming yellow diamond designed to replicate a school zone warning. It reads: "Baby on Board."
There. Now any motorist within six feet of your back bumper will be aware of your precious cargo. Mindful of your tiny offspring, drivers will keep their distance. Should they grow impatient behind you and your responsible daddy-driving, they will circumnavigate your safety car at a reasonable distance. As they pass, they will be drawn to your windows, smiling and waving at your little pea-in-a-pod strapped securely into his rear-facing overpriced car seat, originally designed for the monkey aboard Sputnik, as you travel along a major highway at 40 mph in the center lane. Safest place to be, you know, the center lane.
This was your new life.

Slowly, though, the shine wore off.
Being a parent was tiring.
You miss your fiends.
You miss leaving the house unencumbered by your man purse stuffed full of eighteen different types of absorbent materials.
You miss the person you used to be. The badass has been replaced by this tiny one, emitting weird smells.

One day, in your van, you notice the little guy remains asleep in the back whether the music is turned to a whisper, or quite a bit louder.
You realize he is undisturbed regardless of your car's velocity. So, why not ease the accelerator just a little closer to the floor; who'll know? As long as you don't come to a complete stop, he sleeps.
After all, caring for all his restless nights, teething, meconium, spit up, and fontanel, don't you deserve an occasional return to your badass roots?
After a couple of dozen trips, you affirm into the rear view mirror: you're an adult; as long as your wife isn't in the car with you, you can pretty much drive the way you always did and no one will object. The little guy unconscious in the back certainly doesn't care. Besides, he can't form words much less be able to tattle about your speed violations. 
Screw it. Get you motor runnin'

Left lane...right lane...center lane...why is this jerk driving so slow?..get outta my way...why is this geezer not on the side-road?..GOD, THIS FEELS GOOD!
Look, ma, I can turn without signalling! I can break hard to check a street sign and then speed up again, and then break hard, and then speed up again...look at this soccer mom doing to the speed limit in the left lane....flash-flash-honk-honk...you know what, I think I'll give her the finger...TAKE THAT, SOCCER MOM!
Woah, woah, woah...is this my street...I can make it....screeech...phewf, the guy I just cut off must be pissed.

He is.
He's me.
With my two kids.
In my van.
Without a sign in my back window, jerk. 
Dear Reader, did you ever ponder whether morons should be allowed children?

Mother's Day Gift Ideas from My Washing Machine. (and no, it's NOT a suggestion to buy a bigger %^#@ appliance!)

An absolute truth: washing machine manufacturers are in the business of selling washing machines.
A safe assumption: the majority of laundry loads are still managed by women.
A distinct probability extrapolated from the women I know: on their wishlist of 50 Mother's Day gifts, a mechanism permitting them to do even more laundry would be a whitewash.

Yet, here comes the parade of Mother's Day flyers, like marching bands through city streets, announcing sales on machines which are bigger, faster, more efficient, quieter, cheaper...guaranteed!
If only these qualities could be applied to our children for this 24 hour annual celebration of motherhood, life would be grand.

Happy Mother's Day!!

We are parents of a grade-schooler and a pre-schooler. As any of you who are, or have been, in a similar circumstance knows: this brings with it its own set of challenges. The pace required to manage little children is not always hectic, but it is constant. There is very little breathing room between minutes with children who see every moment as a question needing an answer. Our friends who have older children warn me of the transition from fighting to get the kids into the car, to worrying they haven't brought the car home yet.
For the moment, though, what we do most is chase, chase, chase. Chase for toothbrushing, for getting dressed, chase to the dinner table, to clean up their toys, chase them out of the room for the 5 minutes you're on the phone, and chase them into bed at night.
Twice a year, on your birthday and Mother's or Father's day, a parent is in a position to dictate the pace, even for only a few hours.

So, on behalf of my wife, here are some Mother's Day gift ideas inspired by - but not directly related to - my washing machine:

SPIN: Destabilize mom with pleasant surprises: let her sleep in, stuff a gift certificate in her shoe, leave a note saying "I love you" hanging outside a window, have flowers delivered to the door, prepare her favorite meal, give her a massage, go for a picnic lunch.

SOAK: Fill the tub with warm water, bubbles, and a bath bomb. Surround it with candles, and a flower, and a book. And again: make it a surprise!!

DELICATE: Plan ahead to lighten her load. Strategize so the day is filled with more of what she enjoys and less of what she considers work. It is important to understand her pleasures may not be yours. My wife likes gardening; compost and a wheel barrow get her excited. I prefer movies theatres to poop-in-dirt and a means to haul it across the yard.

PERMANENT PRESS: Get dressed up. Feel like fancy-pants adults again. Upgrade from Domino's and Scores and dine somewhere where patrons speak in hushed tones and the washroom don't have baby change tables.

OFF: Stop. Stop everything. Take a breath. Read a Book. Sit in a quiet room under a blanket. Take a walk and hold hands. Drive up a mountain and look out the windshield. Don't worry, Earth and life will resume their normal cadences again tomorrow.

If you do need a new washer and dryer? Great! Have it delivered 3 weeks from  now.

 

 

Dress Codes are Sexist, from My Head to My Pretty Feet.

Earth's northern hemisphere is slowly swaying toward the summer solstice.
Here, north of the 49th parallel, that is no insignificant phenomenon.
Parkas are parked, tuques are tucked away, and scarves strangle mittens into tiny bundles in cedar cupboards until next winter.
Jeans are replaced by shorts, long sleeves are truncated, and toes tuck and stretch as they peek through open toed shoes. 
Unless you're a guy looking for a decent meal in a nice restaurant.

Last week I reported for a 7:30 reservation at a French restaurant at a beach resort. I was turned away at the door because of my shoes. The hostess referred to the etching on the front door which specified "Closed Shoes" for men. 
I was wearing an ironed, button down shirt, black dress pants, and expensive leather sandals; it was 90 degrees outside.
No matter, a dress code is a dress code. I returned to my room and slipped on my gaudy, plaid, close-toed loafers. 
I clashed, but I was legal.



As I sat at my table I noticed all the women's toes marching by. Painted toes, bland toes, thin toes, fat toes, clean toes, furry toes. 
The bistro's problem wasn't really with my toes, but rather with my testicles.
The sign should read: if you have testicles, you must cover your toes - regardless of the pedicure you paid a fortune for earlier that day. If you have ovaries, you may expose as many digits as you please, regardless of the waxing or podiatric attention they may require.

Patrons also included men whose idea of respecting the 'closed shoes and no sleeveless shirt' dress code included: New England Patriots football shirts, old sneakers and soccer tops.
Clearly Metrosexual concepts had failed to reach not only management in these parts, but also the majority of clientele.
Women at all stages of cleanliness and casual dress apparently needed only heed a 'no flip-flop' rule.
The plunging neckline of a tight t-shirt straining to reach the beltline of a casually rumpled skirt was welcome at most other tables. But not my exposed toes.

What restaurants need is not a 'Dress' code; rather an 'Idiocy' code.
They should replace etchings on front doors with: "It's a formal restaurant, dude. Don't be an idiot. Pretend you're on a first date." Although for many men, that still means NFL gear.

It's time for the next evolution in men's mainstream formal wear. We need an alternative to suits at weddings and other functions, especially during summer months.
It is impossible not to get hot under the collar when your collar is cinched around your larynx guarded by a full Windsor.
No, I won't wear a kilt. I'm not Scottish, and I don't need something woolly near my Willy.
I also needn't dress like Tootsie to be comfortable. But, proper summer slacks (Did I just use the word 'slacks'? I really am getting old) and a light shirt should be equally as acceptable as a summer dress.
And, as for my exposed toes, I show them off proudly. This is, after all, the digital age.

Guest Post: 5 Steps to Maintaining Your Marriage by Dominique Goh

The wedding celebration is over, the guest has left and the wedding gown is sent of to the dry cleaners before it is being stored in the cupboard. Life is back to normal after the honeymoon. You are back to work at the same job. Nothing physically has changed to you but now onwards you are living your life as a couple instead of an individual. Being married for 11 years I know that it isn't all a bed of roses. Marriage is no fairytale. It's something which needs constant work and attention. As a wife and mother of three I feel exhausted at times at the end of each day after spending the time preoccupied with the kids and household. Even though how hectic daily life is I still try my best to spend some time with R while unwinding from the day's events when he is home. Here is a list of things which I have done to help maintain my marriage. 5 steps to Maintaining Your Marriage

1. Spend at least 5 minutes a day connecting with your spouse. This can be by just dropping a short text message asking whether he has taken his meal or that you are looking forward to seeing him back home tonight.
2. Be Open and Honest It is essential to have trust in a relationship. I do share my thoughts and concerns with R and we do agree to disagree at times and to respect each others opinions and wishes.
3. Remove the toxic people from your circle. It can be very distressing to have people around you who love poking into your relationship and trying to run your life. I'm sure you have heard about the Mother-in-law from hell and other similar associations. I'm blessed to have in-laws who are non-invasive and we get along very well. However I did have to associate myself from a few acquaintances which were not family friendly and tried to sow discord between R an me.
4. Schedule Date Nights/Couple Time As my kids are still relatively young at 20 months, 5yrs and 8 yrs old we haven't been able to go on date nights as yet. However we did manage to attend a couple cooking class and it was really fun.
5. Make it a point to give yourself space for personal development For a marriage to grow and be sustained you must also allow yourself to develop as time goes by. Only when we are able to grow personally are you able to bring new zest into a relationship.

  Dominique Goh, Singaporean elementary school teacher, freelance writer and mom of three who is passionate about parenting and educating kids. In her free time you can see her dabbling in photography, cooking and cake decorating and blogging at Dominique’s Desk.