At the Good Men Project today, a response to a dad who hates being called good.
Dad goes Andy Rooney on woman who praised his parenting
So this woman sees a man saddled with a one- and three-year-old disinfecting his shopping cart at Target. She calls him a good dad, the dad says thanks, but internally he’s seething.
“I absolutely hate it when strangers call me a ‘good dad,’” Matt Villano wrote in “Motherlode”, The New York Times parenting blog.
With no context — and no real basis for interpretation — the act of labeling someone a “good dad” suggests that most dads are, by our very nature as fathers, somehow less than “good.” That we don’t care. That we’re mostly cruel.
What’s more, the phrase evinces a heinous double standard: It’s not like strangers compliment women as being “good moms” for doting, loving and doing normal mom stuff.
You know what they say about opinions.
A lot of work to do but we got the right man for the job.
Grandpa prankster shifts strategies in scaring another generation
Pig face is retired. The man behind the mask is not. His grandchildren might breathe easier.
The man behind the mask is Duff, and Halloween is known as Duff Day. As a scare persona that he often kept balled in his pocket like antacids, Duff’s Pig Face is relatively new but effective. Pig Face appeared behind closet doors, on back porches, in basement recesses. Two grandsons will not come to the door unless they see their grandfather standing in full sight, waving him in. They’ve been scarred by a knock-off Texas Chainsaw Massacre pig mask and a grandfather that knows no limits. Cruel and unusual? Not in our family.
Our instinct to protect our children led to a soft rebuke, at best, because our dad was born on Halloween and, in the mornings of his youth, Duff would often find his toe tied to his big brother’s toe, their grandfather snickering silently in the corner. It’s in the family DNA and, as his children, we were used to it.
Corners weren’t safe in our house. Neither was the tub with the curtain drawn. Washing dishes, according to my sister, meant he’d jump up behind from the opening between the kitchen sink and the dining room. Dare to retrieve something from the pantry, which was connected to the crawlspace, which always had mice, and the door would slam: he was able to throw his shoe, from his recliner across the room, over your shoulder against the door. It was practiced like any skill. To this day, it’s easier to sleep on my right side because my left side faced the window that terrified my brother, the window that he glimpsed in the vampire movie Salem’s Lot, that provoked him to hide behind the couch and caused our mother to force our dad to turn it off. Duff promised to climb a ladder up to our window, to give the vampires easier access. This was our normal.
We had a presence in our house, the Ghost of John, who was to blame for any strange noises, and who hung out on the kitchen light fixture, what my sister describes as a “weird gooey guy with green half pants.” I vaguely remember the figure but the Ghost of John—as a presence—lives on in our home, with our kids, who blame silly John for the noises and knocks that might otherwise have scared them.
Our children’s metaphoric skin is thick, like Pig Face. Though we are no longer fun for Duff, his grandkids surprised him this Halloween: Pig Face was as scary as a squirrel. With so much competing for their attention, the grandkids were not scared. Our son has learned the joys of the scare, and also of the disappointment. His attempts at scaring his aunt—around corners, from behind doors—failed, and her response caused him the most trouble. “I grew up with Duff,” she explained. Attempts at scaring the Grand Pooh-Bah of scare have been met with loving mockery. Inspired by Leonardo the Terrible Monster, who is not good at scaring, the boy has had to seek out new victims. That makes Duff proud, and intent on finding a new mask.
Writer Tomas Moniz traces the roots of divorce in this essay on time and the influence of generations. “Family is the stories we tell to give ourselves roots, to make connections, to foster new possibilities.” Check out the piece at the Dads & Families section of the Good Men Project.
Ever catch leaves? It’s damn fun, the kind of fun only a five-year-old daughter can get me to have.
To all of you who’ve followed Experiments in Manhood the past two years–thank you. Your readership and support—your contributions through comments or stories or hits—has led to a new opportunity.
I’m the new editor of the Dads & Families section at The Good Men Project, a multimedia company launched in 2009 to explore the notion of manhood and all its permutations in the 21st Century. It’s been called “a cerebral, new media alternative” to glossy men’s magazines.
It’s similar to what I’ve been doing on Experiments in Manhood, my weekly column on fatherhood, for the past two years, except on a much bigger scale, with much bigger ambition, and with an active global reach. With sections ranging from Sex & Relationships to Fiction, and specializing in the first person narrative, the GMP is a community of over 10,000 subscribers with over 3.8 million page views per month. Those numbers have been increasing each month.
For the redesigned Dads & Families section, I’m hoping to build out the strong base of contributors with first person narratives—raw, honest, specific, insightful—designed to give readers a distinct glimpse of dadhood. The Dads & Families section will also have news in all its permutations: original source-based reporting, reactions to breaking news, reviews and responses to dad literature and art, Q&As, product reviews, convention coverage—anything and everything that adds to this conversation about what it means to be a dad. There’s more on this ambition at my first post.
This dynamic and wide-ranging conversation is not limited to dads. While that subject will remain, there are many interpretations to it, many perspectives to be represented, from granddaughters and grandfathers, adoptees and surrogates, sons and fathers—I’m open to anything that illuminates an aspect of the experience. As a community-based resource, the content and the dialogue will be shaped by the community.
Subscribing is easy and it costs nothing, just hit the “Subscribe” button on the main navigation bar. As much as I’d appreciate you reading up on modern manhood, I’d be more interested in hearing what you have to say.
Experiments will still be active and updated, but posts on the GMP will be more regular, varied, and diverse.
Thanks for reading,
I volunteered my wife to coach our son’s first-grade soccer team. Yes, I’ve had better ideas, and no, it was not done with cruel intent. It was the opposite: she’s been wanting to get into coaching since she graduated college as a Division II captain of her field hockey team. As a full-time nurse and a fuller-time mother, there was never the time, never the time. So I was being thoughtful.
For the first month I regretted my thoughtfulness. Working four ten-hour shifts plus obligatory call that can derail any planning or expectations of routine, she’s been staying up til midnight, surely unable to focus on the blur of semicircles and rectangles on her soccer diagrams. She studied: weekends with Google and copious print outs of Xs and Os; a library bag full of books like The Practical Guide to Youth Soccer Coaching and The Confident Coach’s Guide to Teaching Youth Soccer (those are the only two keepers worthy of renewal); she even rented instructional movies guised as entertainment, films so embarrassing that even the kids asked to turn it off. Each week she devotes hours of prep time for the one hour of practice and 45 minutes of game time each week. She bought cones and goals, water coolers and snacks, and she sends bi-weekly emails to the seven other parents breaking down practice pointers and lauding gameday individual and team accomplishments. It’s fucking nuts. Other parents—other coaches—are satisfied by showing up.
And since she has practice on the one day she’s home—the one day I’m at work—and since the gametimes overlap with our daughter’s soccer games, The Coach pretty much does it on her own. One team had four or five dads running drills before kick off, and the team played like they’ve been together since diapers. She didn’t know any of our son’s teammates, but her sideline is full of mothers filling cups, lacing cleats, heating bodies, cheering loudly, and most of all, praising the Coach.
On Saturday, three weeks of prep and experience paid off with the first victory of her young coaching career. For the rest of the weekend, there was a glow in her eyes, an easier smile, a skip in her step. Winning was nice—it always is—but the remarkable occurrence was how much these six-year olds had learned in such a brief time. They knew their zones, knew when to look for the pass or the shot, knew when to charge and when to fall back on defense. In the email that followed, the Coach identified how each player had improved and contributed, same as she had done after the previous two losses. The mothers have been effusive, and the kids are buying into what the Coach is selling.
“I want to play soccer every day,” our son said later that day, unsolicited and unprompted. “You know how much better I’ll get? Wanna play?”
We managed to construct our own custom action figures, which, speaking as someone who lived through the 80s–arguably the best decade ever for action figures–is pretty goddamned cool.
It seems like everywhere I look there are dad–writer dads in particular–staying home with their kids this summer. My north shore suburban pal Jason Fisk (http://www.jasonfisk.blogspot.com), who teaches middle school English, is home with his son and daughter, as is Patrick Wensink (http://www.patrickwensink.com), who recently made the top 10 sellers list in books at Amazon.com, and my good friend Paul Hughes (http://www.paulevanhughes.com), Executive Editor of Silverthought Press, who is the main event in a summer-long festival of fun for his own two toddler boys. The list goes on, and in all sorts of variations. Some of us are in it for the indefinite future, and some just till school starts again, but we’re in it, and (if Facebook statuses and photo albums are any indication) doing it up right.
One of the biggest challenges is just finding something to do, day after day, with energetic, enthusiastic, attentive, inquisitive, and seemingly tireless little people. So far as I know, none of us are made of money, so even the indulgences we do allow ourselves have to be carefully spaced out and controlled so as not to Chuck E. Cheese our way into financial problems. And how exactly do you do that during a Chicago summer like this when the mercury regularly tops 95 degrees for most of the afternoon, marooning you indoors almost as effectively as a blizzard?
Customizing your toys.
Let me explain. Around Christmastime last year I discovered that I worked right around the corner from Rotofugi Chicago (http://www.rotofugi.com/home/), which is one of these new “Art Toy” stores that sell the peculiar fist-sized vinyl toys (sometimes called “Urban Vinyl” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Designer_toys) popular in Japan and increasingly popular in the US in various places. I’m coming way, way late to this party of course, but there’s evidently a whole movement started in the mid 2000’s by musicians, artists, and street-art creative types who made their own custom limited toylines. A company called Kidrobot (http://www.kidrobot.com/) eventually brought this to the rest of us by making small, blank vinyl dolls (which I found at Rotofugi but can also be had at places like Barnes and Noble) called “Munny”s. (Munny, presumably because the original doll was shaped like a miniature cartoon monkey.) They have all sorts now, a cat, a bear, a crocodile, a giraffe, a kangaroo, a bunny, and all of them come with some sort of random equally cartoonish accessory you can use to make your own custom toy. I got one for John at Christmas and made him one, and we’ve made three more so far this summer.
We happened to get a Mini Munny (which is what they call the 4″ ones, they come in several sizes) named “Bub” who was shaped, as far as I can tell, sort of like a little bear. Bub came with a little plastic spear, and of course John immediately said “let’s make him a knight, no wait, a knight that’s a castle guard.” Why a castle guard seemed preferable to a knight, I’m not sure, but we went about it anyway. First I took the blank and added some armor and details to him with bakeable Sculpey clay. Then we baked him on a cookie sheet to harden everything and went about painting him.
I put two coats of spray-on Krylon Matte Finish on him, and he’s ready to play with, alongside the other Munny (a secret agent I made from a blank named “Foomi”).
After creating the secret agent and knight, I brought home two more blanks, a crocodile named “Kracka” and a cat named “Trikky”. I consulted John about what we should make them into, and he said he wanted a viking and a ninja. Specifically a brown-colored ninja. “Trikky” came with an axe as his random accessory, so that was easy enough, but I thought the cat would make a better ninja, so first we made “Kracka” into the viking.
I got a bit more adventurous with the sculpting this time, adding the helmet, horns, beard, and the shield that had to be baked separately. All of these of course are meant to be regular toys mixed in with John’s other toys, and I wanted to see how the Sculpey clay would stand being played with, so I glued everything down and double-coated the whole figure with Krylon matte finish. So far, a week later and even after being played with by John’s younger cousin Gabriel who is three and a half, I’ve only had to glue one horn back on this one after I accidentally knocked it off of a high shelf.
With the cat one, I decided to go for broke. John was firm on wanting a ninja, and my thought was that it wasn’t going to look cool unless I added a bunch of details and sculpted stuff to it. Here’s the cookie sheet with him in pieces right before we baked all of the Sculpey on. The figures are soft vinyl, but they’ll survive 15 minutes in the oven at 275.
Then I re-attached the arms and head and glued together all of the separate hardened pieces and made sure that his arms and head could swing freely without breaking anything off or rubbing against each other.
John helped paint the body a light brown and decided that the bird on his head (“Kracka”s random accessory) should look red like one of the Angry Birds. I did the detail work after it dried. With these, you have to do lots of coats of thin, watered down acrylic paint in order to get a nice even tone that doesn’t look brushed-on and lumpy. It takes a while, so be patient if you try it. As you can see from the picture we painted it right in front of the air conditioner to help it dry quickly between coats.
With all the extra stuff I added to the blank figure, the ninja cat (John and I named him and his bird Twitchy and Richelieu) is the most fragile of the four. I’ve had to repair the sculpted ends of his mask ties several times, and I’m kicking myself now that I didn’t find some way to use a cloth mask instead of sculpting it. Sculpey is relatively springy (like hard plastic), but when it’s thin, it’s easy to snap off if you push on it too hard. Otherwise, though, these toys are surprisingly good to go in terms of play. Once they’re Krylon-ed, they can withstand water and pizza sauce fingers and being put in a toy box with each other without chipping or losing much/any paint. John hasn’t taken any of them into the bathtub yet, but I suspect they’d survive it.
So at the cost of about a day’s work each, we managed to construct our own custom action figures, which speaking as someone who lived through the 80’s–arguably the best decade ever for action figures–is pretty goddamned cool. The blanks are $10 and can be bought at Rotofugi (http://www.rotofugi.com) Chicago, Amazon.com, and Barnes and Noble. If you’re in the Chicago area, I highly recommend stopping into Rotofugi just to see what the whole Urban Vinyl craze is about.
Mark R. Brand is a Chicago-based science-fiction author and the online short fiction editor of Silverthought Press. He is the author of three novels, The Damnation of Memory (2011), Life After Sleep (2011), and Red Ivy Afternoon (2006), and he is the editor of the collection Thank You Death Robot (2009), named a Chicago Author favorite by the Chicago Tribune and recipient of the Silver medal 2009 Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) in the category of Science Fiction and Fantasy. He is the producer and host of Breakfast With the Author and lives in Evanston, IL with his wife and son.
Day ten of not eating out. August means austerity. It’s not bad if you plan ahead, at which the frugal are adept. I am neither. The hardest part is the thoughtfulness of it all. Eating out, I know the kids are going to order from the kids menu, I know it’s going to be crap, and I know it’ll make them happy. There’s a pleasant surrender to it all, a break from trying to sneak nutrition into something they’ll enjoy. Eating out means I don’t have to puree shit.
Even for an adult there’s a complex compromise when you’re going out to eat, your sense of entitlement (“I’m paying for it”) butts against good sense (“I’m gonna pay for it”). Steamed broccoli I can make at home for cheap, those hand cut fancy fatty french fries, well, sure, I can’t get that at home. Cause I won’t make it. Cause I know better.
I guess we’re eating healthier. Lazy nights I call frozen nights, and throw in a pizza, or corn dogs, or veggie rolls. At least it’s not deep fried. We’re saving money. No, we’re not spending as much money. About $10/day on food. One of the problems with eating out, as a retired service industry schlep, is that I know we’re getting ripped off. The ambiance, the place, is worth it only with my wife. As in my wife only. Without kids.
Sure is easy, though. Cooking is work. Actually, cooking is fun—the cleaning up is work. It’s the opposite feeling of eating out. A big effort for an unknowable reward. Earlier in the month, before full austerity set in, we were low on food and I was low on energy and ideas. Then I remembered the juicy red globes on the vine in our new garden. Childhood. Grandma’s gravy. “We’re having pasta,” I told the kids. The boy whined. Gravy, or sauce as he knows it, is textured too inconsistently for his picky ass.
I googled. There was a recipe calling for a “mixe roux”, sautéing butter and olive oil with carrots, celery, and garlic, then putting deseeded tomatoes in there. It was such a longshot I didn’t bookmark it, and since the boy wasn’t going to eat it I made it how I wanted it, adding onion, Italian seasonings, and a baby pepper from the garden. Then I dumped in four skinned and deseeded tomatoes. Added a small can of paste. Some water. Sauteed it. Kept it bland, just in case. Pureed the shit. Made sure the kids were starved. Poured it over angel hair.
They ate every bite. No refills, but they ate all that was served. It was all vegetables. Organic and homegrown. Pretty good too with a sprinkle of crushed red. They’ve had pasta twice in the past ten days. Tomato vines have been plucked free, which is good, cause the kids were going to get sick of it.
What a simple joy of getting dinner from your backyard. Probably wouldn’t have happened if not for the austerity measures. For everything that sucks about being tight—and there is a lot—it at least demands ingenuity. And complaints.
Here’s the recipe:
Some olive oil
1 small pepper
Italian seasoning (oregano and basil and salt and shit)
6 oz can of tomato paste
- Whisk oil and butter together over med-low heat. Saute chopped veggies (except for tomatoes) and garlic until limpish.
- Boil tomatoes for 3-5 minutes, then take them out and put em in a bowl of ice so you can peel the skin off. Deseed. Put skinned and deseeded maters in the mix.
- Add paste to desired consistency, same with water. Seasonings. Stir and cook til it smells good.
- Puree the shit.
Even on its windiest days, Chicago’s stretch of Lake Michigan doesn’t have the kind of rolls you need to surf. It has waves, choppy, intermittent, and oftentimes violent. It is a reflection of its environs, sometimes majestic, sometimes menacing, reliably unpredictable, never surfable. Lake Michigan is so much greater than Chicago.
On the other side of that shapeshifting mirror, there was surfing. So she was told. For a girl who surfed both coasts and was now a landlocked Midwestern, the grail of this mystical third coast was worth pursuing.
She awoke at four a.m. to load the van, whip up her slumbering husband and her wayward mother, rouse her two kids, and inspire her teenage brother with tales of the surf, and take us all around the southernmost tip of the Great lakes to a lone surfshop in New Buffalo, then on up the shore to Warren Dunes State Park in Michigan.
A mere eighty-five miles from Chicago, the Dunes rose more than twenty stories above the shore, a massive mountain of sand set against a clear blue shoreline far removed from any industry. Yet there was a strange calm, an anomalous unwindy day, presage for the storms to come, perhaps, creating conditions for surfing in the imagination only.
The fish in her would not be deterred. She rented a paddle board, essentially a wide flat surfboard to stand on and to be navigated and propelled with a paddle. And she rented two sand boards, snowboards for the sand, so she and her brother could surf down the dunes. By this point, the lack of waves didn’t matter: everyone was made happy by the balm of the beach and the panacea of wide open water, which the boy referred to as “the pool.”
And it was lovely, clean, clear, cool, a baptismal font that washes away your workaday worries and returns to the state of grace of existing in the moment. The beach was crowded but because it was so expansive it was not Chicago crowded. You had your own space right on the shoreline, and there was no one jostling, bumping, jumping, or thrown into you.
We played Frisbee on the sandbar, monkeyed in the middle, kick boarded, paddle boarded, body boarded, swam with the fishes, her husband took a nap, her kids slid down a three-story bounce-house water slide, her mother frolicked and boarded, her brother and her surfed the grudging dunes. Then the sky went black, the wind whipped umbrellas and gear, horizontal fingers of sand and storm strafed the beach, and everyone ran for cover. The PA warned of tornadoes. There was flash flooding. An hour later it passed. Night came. Ninety minutes later we were home.
In a summer full of highlights, three generations got to have a day at the beach. We’ll be back, surfboards optional.