Fatherhood is braving the murky depths.
I’ve been on this lake dozens of times. I’ve swam in it, jet skied over it, kneeboarded across it, and accidently swallowed what must be gallons of it. Never once did it occur to me that I was playing in the belly of a beast, 10,000 acres of drowning potential. Sure, I’m exaggerating—a little bit. But when you slip a couple of six-month-olds into a body of water where you can neither feel nor see the bottom, you’re instantly on high alert.
1.) Aspirate lake water.
2.) Suffocated by floatie.
3.) Inhale outboard motor fumes.
4.) Sustain head trauma from choppy water.
5.) Airway constricted by tight life vest.
Keeping my head above water is a secondary concern. And despite wearing a life vest myself, I’m surprised by how much more effort it takes to stay afloat while making sure my babies don’t suck lake. To make matters worse, I’m pretty sure that’s all they want to do. It’s as if this massive puddle of mud, dead animals, and pee is nectar on their virgin tongues. (And yet they hate green beans, but that’s another story.)
6.) Sun poisoning.
8.) Choke on lake debris.
9.) Ingest microbes.
10.) Strangled by fishing line.
I begin thinking of all the ways this day could go sour.
11.) Bitten by snapping turtle.
12.) Bitten by water snake.
13.) Capsize with pontoon.
14.) Sucked into propeller blades.
15.) Mauled by an errant jetski.
All this morbid prognostication is exhausting, but it keeps me sharp. To know thine enemy is the first step in making sure your baby doesn’t get:
16.) Eaten by rabid fish.
17.) Thrashed against bluffs.
18.) Struck by lightning.
19.) Snatched by bird of prey.
20.) Smote by Poseidon.
It’s not long before I find myself back on the pontoon deck. Greyson has surrendered to the gentle rock of the lake, towels strategically hung around him to block the afternoon sun. Charlotte intermittently chews on and talks to her diaper bag; it’s a relationship she’s kindled with everything from toys to people.
"It’s a lot different being on the lake with children," Ashley says wistfully. It’s true. Suddenly, the lake is laced with dozens of hazards previously unseen. My children, the victims. But we’ll be back soon, and as frequently as possible, because there’s really only one danger that concerns me:
21.) Smothered by overprotective parents.
Fatherhood is finally getting a little attention from a Playboy Playmate.
You know that nightmare where an excruciatingly attractive Playboy Playmate of the Year and a professional skate star ridicule you on national television? No? That’s cool. MTV made sure you and thousands of other viewers could live it vicariously through me.
Aside from those that came in the first few days (The Ellen Show, Jimmy Kimmel Live, Today Show, GMA, etc.), I’ve turned down every offer. Every cent of profit that’s connected with this blog goes directly into 529 plans for Greyson and Charlotte, but I’m still cautious as to how I earn that income. So with that being said, I must admit that the folks at MTV were very kind (and persuasive). For one time only, I licensed the video—for a nominal fee—to Ridiculousness.
I had only one stipulation: “Do not ridicule my daughter.” I’m happy to say they honored that request, and instead, did this. Here’s a transcript (or just skip to 14:48 in the video above).
Host: Oh no. Awe, whatcha doin’ little baby?
Motorboat. Reaction. Uproarious laughter from the audience.
Playmate: Oh my god. Wait. Those, those cut-off shorts scare me more than anything on that guy. Look at that. Who, what…? Look at his shorts!
Host: OH MY GOD! We got the…look at his pasty thighs! Look at his…
Playmate: I mean, do men wear those? I don’t…
Host: Oh my god. I’ve watched this video and thought it was so cute, over and over. Until now when all I see is two man thighs. Like, I can’t even look at it.
Playmate: If his legs are that scary in his outfit, can you imagine what that baby is looking at?!
Just so we’re clear, I’ve got thick skin and (as evidenced by the video) a densely woven forest of body hair. This stuff doesn’t even begin to hurt my feelings. In fact, my wife showed it to her eighth graders today…every single one of them.
And now they all totally judge her for sleeping with me.
Fatherhood is…wait, holy shit. I have the top story on Huffington Post Parents.
Hot damn. I’ve done it. I’ve officially aspired to the highest heights of the blogging world…I’m a Huffington Post Blogger.
Me, Alec Baldwin, and Wyclef Jean: Brothers in Bloggerhood 4eva!
I’m gonna have a drink over lunch, and toast to all of you—the fine folks who read me before the Huffington Post started linking the shit out of my content. Cheers!
(Here’s a link to the actual post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/adam-brown/stay-at-home-dads_b_1453744.html?ref=parents.)
On Mother’s Day, my good friend Greg became a father. In honor of this auspicious occasion—and because I’m really good at unsolicited advice—I’ve decided to dispense five morsels of parenting wisdom to him (and all the other freshman dads out there). I hope you’re ready, Greg, ‘cause I’m about to make you the best dad in the universe…except for Danny Tanner. He’s got us all beat pretty hard.
1.) Babies love music and they’re not very discerning when it comes to quality. Take this opportunity to lull your newborn to sleep with a heartfelt rendition of Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On”…on trombone. Don’t be surprised if, much like a Michael Jackson fan, your baby begins to weep hysterically as you execute some righteous glissandos. You really are that good.
2.) Babies are thrill seekers. Your wee one just spent nine months cooped up in a hot, squishy sack; it’s time for her to experience the world. And there’s no better way to do that than to strap her to the top of your car and cruise the block. The wind in her face will inspire her to take flight in all her endeavors (or something like that). A note of caution here. Your baby’s eyesight is a little murky for the first few weeks. Be sure to yell “duck!” as you pass under low hanging branches.
3.) Women were born to be mothers, don’t deprive your baby’s mama of any opportunity to embrace her domestic goddess. Let her return to cooking all the meals and cleaning all the rooms as soon as possible. You may feel the urge to help, but resist this temptation. It will diminish her role as the household nurturer. And if there’s one thing you NEVER want to do, it’s insinuate a new mom is incapable of performing her basic motherly duties.
4.) Late nights are inevitable. With all the baby stuff you have to do now, playing video games during the day will be nigh impossible. Luckily, gamers are creatures of the night, so that’s awesome. And more good news: research indicates that babies learn an absolute shit ton during their first few months on planet Earth. So if you hear baby crying from her nursery, she’s probably asking you to turn up the volume so she can better understand the nuances of modern warfare. Oblige away, Professor.
5.) Believe you’re the best. I’m going to get real with you for a second, the first six weeks are the hardest. You’re going to experience a range of emotions and tap into wells of exhaustion so deep you’ll beg for naps. Don’t give in. New parents establish their superiority over one another by rhapsodizing over restless nights. When it’s your turn at the one-up roundtable, you’ll be ready to trounce all the sleep deprivation stories with a true insomniac’s tale of woe.
best only piece of advice I should give you—hold tight to your sense of humor. Being a dad is an awesome experience—and Greg, I know you’re going to be one of the best—but it will be trying at times. When the shit hits the fan, turn it off and move it away from the changing table. Clean up, give cuddles, save the story for a toast on her wedding day.
All the best to you, your wife, and your newest addition.
Fatherhood is loving you differently.
Every morning, some time around one o’clock, my wife wrestles herself free of the bed sheets and slogs her way to the living room. Half asleep and completely exhausted, she takes her position on the right side of the couch, unlatches her nursing bra, and gets to pumping. It’s a quiet time of night. Lit only by a small table lamp, my wife listens to the rhythmic motor of her pump, barking like a metronomic dog in the distant dark.
She grabs her iPad and checks to see if I’ve updated the blog. Some times I have, many times I haven’t. Yet she checks dutifully every night, just in case there’s something—anything—to pass the time. Tonight, there is.
Tonight, I’ve written a letter for Mother’s Day and published it with perfect timing for you, my wife.
I love you. And I don’t mean like I loved you in high school. When I loved you in high school, I was freshly wounded by Cupid’s arrow. Lovestruck. I was a boy, in love with a girl, under a teenage spell.
I love you. And I don’t mean like I loved you in college. When I loved you in college, I was beholden to you. You gave me everything: your time, your love, your endless understanding. I loved you for being the lover I couldn’t be, didn’t deserve, but had in spite of myself.
I love you. And I don’t mean like I loved you when we got married. When I loved you on our wedding day, I was awestruck. We were two trees, growing side by side in a forest, branches tangled in concert. An intertwined silhouette.
I love you. And I’m not exactly sure how to say this. One day, when we’re old and gray. When our kids are grandparents, and our great grandchildren are playing at our feet…maybe then I’ll look at you and speak the words it took me decades to find.
Until then, just know this: I love you. Greyson loves you. Charlotte loves you. Our children couldn’t be who they are without you. And neither could I. Thank you for being our wife, our mother…our everything.
Happy (First) Mother’s Day.
All my love,
Fatherhood is being blown away by the little things.
This is an Excitement Feedback Loop (EFL). Here’s how it works. I cover my eyes, reveal them, and blow a puff of air in Charlotte’s face. She responds with a gleeful note of excitement, which, in turn, encourages me to do it again. The process is repeated until one or both of us pass out.
EFL’s are not exclusive to this type of interaction, though. For Charlotte and me, an EFL may be the result of any number of games like Upside-down Baby, Thigh Raspberries, or—my personal favorite—X-treme PeekaBOOM! (more on that later).
It should go without saying that any EFL should be entered into with considerable caution. Side effects include pronounced and debilitating lethargy post-loop; excessive salivation (mostly the baby’s); and the invitation for strangers to stare at you. The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychaiatry recommend that you not engage in any intensive EFL at Wal-Mart. (Or, what the hell, do! You’re definitely not going to be the weirdest person there.)
Unfortunately, EFL’s—like the one demonstrated in the video above—are only effective within a limited window. And the stakes will increase accordingly as the child develops a tolerance for this type of shtick. Don’t be surprised if instead of a puff of air in the face, it will take a trip to Disney World to elicit a similar response when she’s 7.
It’s why I play this little game with Charlotte (and Greyson) several times a day. The EFL of a six-month-old doesn’t cost a thing. It’s completely priceless.
(See you at Disney World in 2019.)
On Easter Sunday, my five-month-old twins were baptized in the Catholic Church. This is a big deal for a number of reasons, not least of which is the fact I basically consecrated them to a god I’m not even sure exists. And yet, despite my skepticism, I have no regrets.
I haven’t always been incredulous of Christianity, mind you. Quite the opposite. As an adolescent, I was a Bible thumper. I never would have called myself that at the time; naturally, I considered it a pejorative. And while in retrospect I still do, I understand how painfully accurate a description it was. I was a hand waving, prostrate praying, praise and worship junkie. I had been called into the ministry, served as the leader for our Youth Drama Team, and was well known among a church membership numbering over 2,000.
My memories of those days dwell in a menagerie of affection and chagrin. I imagine that’s true for a lot of folks who grew up in similar ecclesial communities. Charismatic churches with rock bands and weekly altar calls can be emotional playgrounds for the faithful. But when one falls off the monkey bars, it’s a long way down.
Doubt is a curious thing, isn’t it? It can be beaten back, but it can never be fully stamped out. Some Christians will tell you a modicum of doubt is a healthy part of faith. And I’d agree. A faith untested is a weak faith indeed, but doubt is also like a cancer. I hate to use that analogy because it unfairly maligns doubt as something destructive. Perhaps it is; it certainly felt that way for me as a senior in high school when I began doubting certain doctrines of my church—mostly the
miraculous magical bits. I endeavored to reason these doubts away. But fighting doubt with reason, I found, is like putting out a fire with matches.
It wasn’t long before I left for college. And the more I learned there, the less I felt like I knew God. Within a couple of years, he had gone from being an omniscient father with whom I had daily conversations, to a vestige of man’s early understanding of the universe.
I remember sitting in an anthropology class one morning as a junior. The professor, an eclectic woman by any measure and a perennial favorite among the student body, was discussing the role of folklore and mythology in shaping world religions. In the middle of her lecture, she paused, disconnected from the material, and quietly observed: “I don’t know how anyone could be a student of anthropology and still have uncompromising faith in their own religion.” It wasn’t meant to disparage the churchgoing students in the room; I don’t even think it was meant for anyone other than her. But it meant a lot to me, and it still does.
I wish I had the faith I did at 16, but my head won’t get out of my heart’s way. I suspect that’s probably for the best. So why then submit my children to a belief system that I find mostly unbelievable? The answer is simple, a modicum of faith is a healthy part of doubt.
Just as I could never be a fundamentalist Christian, I could never occupy the opposite end of that spectrum either; I find atheism and Christian fundamentalism equally arrogant. While one ideology professes to know the true nature of God, the other professes to know that God has no nature at all. Both require an astounding leap of faith to traverse the gap between what is actually known and what isn’t. As I see it, the best thinkers are the ones who never stop questioning—who can’t stop, because of a niggling notion that there’s always something more to be known.
I hope my children recognize faith and doubt each as positive expressions of the human condition, and that neither are mutually exclusive. In order to do that, I have to allow them the opportunity to explore teachings with which I may not wholly agree. One day, Greyson and Charlotte will be old enough to form their own beliefs, but until then, it’s my job to read them the menu. It’s why Ashley and I deliberately chose four godparents who represent differing religious perspectives; only one is a practicing Catholic.
Eventually, our spiritual horizons may broaden. Maybe we’ll visit mosques, synagogues, and temples. But that’s some years down the road. There’s a fine line between raising critical thinkers and confusing young children. I want them to experience the faith of a child, to understand how powerful it can be. But I want them to learn discernment as they grow into young adults.
I think Paul the Apostle said it best in his letter to the church at Corinth. “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.” The Corinthian Christians didn’t accept the resurrection story nor did they believe in the symbolic sacrifice of the crucifixion. In context, Paul’s counsel was meant to encourage them to grow stronger in their faith…to be less childlike in their pursuit of Christ. However, out of context, the irony is exquisite (and equally valid).
If my children grow up to be keepers of a faith, I hope it’s a faith mitigated by doubt. If my children grow up to be disciples of doubt, I hope it’s a doubt tempered by faith. But my greatest hope is that whatever their beliefs, they aren’t handed down by someone else—including me.
It’s 1:01 a.m. when my iPhone lights up the bedroom to let me know some asshole wants to text in the middle of the night. It turns out the asshole is our nanny’s husband. He’s texting to let me know Joan has succumbed to an inimical stomach bug and won’t be able to watch the babies that day.
Like many stomach bugs, this one’s getting around pretty quickly, kind of like the viral equivalent of Wilt Chamberlain. Two hours after I get the text, I’m doubled over the toilet alternating between bouts of diarrhea and vomit. I can’t shake it. It’s the least awesome I’ve felt in years, like there’s a wet towel lodged in my gut and I’m wringing it out with every heave.
I check in with Ashley. She’s not feeling particularly well either, but as the only one of us who hasn’t knelt before the porcelain thrown, she’s our last and only hope to care for the babies. She’s also our most expensive. Due to America’s egregious maternity leave standards, Ashley had to use all of her vacation days, all of her sick days, and then borrow from the sick bank to stay with our babies during their first three months. So now, for a substitute teacher to cover her classes for a day, Ashley will have $200 docked from her paycheck.
For that amount, I figure I can suck it up and play Super Dad for a few hours. But when I go to fix the 6:00 a.m. bottles, I end up nursing a Diet Sprite on the kitchen floor instead. As much as I hate to have her do it, Ashley makes the call and requests a sub. I waddle (defeated) back to bed.
When you have twin babies, $200 means a lot. It’s over 1,000 diapers; 2,000 ounces of formula; or 11,000 wipes. It’s also one day home with two babies and a sick husband. I’d say the potential for buyer’s remorse is pretty high, but we won’t know for sure until the end of the month.
(Stay-at-Home) Fatherhood is Stage 5: Satisfaction.
It’s the giggle you thought you’d never get.
The grunts and gurgles and rattles and bells they ring on the floor.
The dance you lead as she glances excitedly around the room; the smile he flashes when he flies like an airplane.
The sucking sound, the burping sound…and the smelly sound too.
The whine that follows the panicked cry, and the bottom lip you get to kiss.
The work you miss but still get done, the presentation you give over Skype to 80 attendants while entertaining the audience of 2 in your living room.
The nap you accidentally take when they don’t wake up from theirs.
The persistence of that itsy bitsy spider.
The brief moment you spend outside, protecting bald spots from the sun with your shadow.
It’s every thank you for every “Twins? How precious!”
It’s every sure enough for every “Looks like you got your hands full.”
It’s the heavy eyes shutting on the bedtime bottle and the endearing weight on your shoulder as they give up the fight.
It’s the hardest job you’ve ever had, the only one you wish you did. It’s the most accomplished you’ve felt in months.
I’d call up Mick and let him know, but I think I lost his number.
(Stay-at-Home) Fatherhood is Stage 4: Endurance.
When you’re a stay-at-home parent, some days are good, and some days are bad. Regardless of which end of the spectrum you find yourself when the sun goes down, every day is exhausting. More often than not you’ll find yourself living for bedtime. But the sun, as they say, is gonna come out tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that when you see that toothless smile in the morning, you’ll forget how hard the rest of your day is going to be.
Don’t worry. You’ll remember.