The Diaper Genie

There is an empty spot in the corner of the house where the Diaper Genie used to be. Walking past this now vacant spot never fails to evoke a small cheer from me. I hated that freaking Diaper Genie.

The Genie may have been designed for ease, but it quickly became a dirty, stinky symbol of one of the worst parts of early parenting. There isn’t a single person alive who likes changing diapers, mother or father. But unlike my own father, who had the great fortune of being a parent in the 70’s where dads were held to a different social standard and therefore has never changed a diaper in his life, my wife and I were equal partners in this parenting thing. Meaning, we both had to deal with a lot of shit.

In addition to diaper changes, it was my job to replace the bag inside the Genie. Somehow, like my kids, it seemed in constant need of changing. I couldn’t take my diaper-fueled aggression out on my children, so I channeled it towards the Genie. Over the years I grew to loathe it. Yet there it sat in the corner of my house, mocking me.

I wanted to destroy it, Office Space style. Or have Andrew W.K. blow it up in some spectacular fashion. But I didn’t have access to explosives and I thought it might have freaked out the kids to see their daddy bashing it in the backyard with a baseball bat. I was close to being rid of the damn thing too. But Sprout, like in every other phase in her life, was steadfast in her stubbornness and refused to poop on the potty.

The day finally arrived not with a bang, but with the polite urging of my wife to finally be rid of it. Even though we had agreed that the Genie’s services were no longer required, there it sat. My wife grew tired of waiting for me to devise a clever plan to demolish the thing and hinted that it might disappear on it’s own. But this was my funeral to give. So I opted for a simple and unceremonial burial in the trash bin. On trash day, I gleefully wheeled it out to the curb and waited for the green truck to arrive.

Usually the kids run to the window to gaze upon the garbage truck as it collects our refuse, like a couple of cats staring down a squirrel on the tree in the yard. However, that day when the truck came to collect I stood along side them, watching and happily waving goodbye to the Genie forever.

Shattering Stereotypes

As my hair stylist draped the smock over me she asked, “So what are we doing today?”

“Cut it short,” I said. “Super short.”

“Really?” She replied. “Is WonderWife™ going to be okay with that?”

I stared at her incredulously. “She doesn’t run her hair choices by me before she gets a hair cut.”

I was truly shocked at the question. This is a woman who’s been cutting my hear for nearly 12 years. I see her more often than some of my friends. She also cuts WW™’s hair. She’s known me before I met my wife. She knows us as a couple. She knows about our relationship. Yet for some reason, she has the misguided perception that I need to get permission on my choice of hair style.

The next morning the kids were getting dressed. Sprout decided on a flower print top with a paisley pattern skirt. Now I’m no fashionista, but even I knew that this was a horrible, garish combo. Yet WonderWife™ and I encourage our kids to dress how they like, even if the outfits are disastrous.

I had plans to take the kids to the aquarium that day. “You know this is going to reflect on me,” I said to WW™.

“What? No it won’t.”

“I’ll be out in the world with two kids by myself. Everyone who sees Sprout’s outfit is going to think that I dressed her.”

“Oh,” said WonderWife™. “Yeah I guess you’re right.”

It’s amazing in this time of dad’s being more involved than ever that the notion of the hen-pecked husband or clueless father still runs rampant today. It’s a stereotype that I work hard to shatter.

So where does this come from? As much as I hate to bag on my beloved television, a lot of this primitive thinking is spoon fed from the magic box. Modern Family is a great show, but Phil Dumphy is an idiot—the prototypical clueless dad who leans on his wife for everything. Commercials are even worse. How about the Yoplait ad where the woman is on the phone talking to her friend about eating Boston Cream Pies while the husband stares into the fridge, directly past the many yogurt containers clearly marked Boston Cream Pie that are stacked up on the shelf at his eye level while attempting to look for the sweets his wife is describing?

This kind of dad discrimination has to stop. Women, look around you. Us guys are not as clueless and inadequate as we’re made out to be. I do not need to ask my wife’s permission to hang out with friends, see a movie, buy clothes or get my hair cut. When I make plans I will often confer with my wife to make sure I haven’t forgotten some errant birthday party. But that is consideration, not permission.

It’s true that WonderWife™ runs the household. It’s true that I may, at times, ask here where the toilet paper is when I know exactly where we keep it. But that’s laziness, not ineptitude. When it comes to the things that matter in our lives, I’m an equal partner. I’m really good at being a husband and father. I am not clueless and I am not a stereotype.

And besides, my wife really likes my hair super short.

What's In A Name?

I was asking the Bean about his new friends at camp and he brought up a girl. There was a certain twinkle in his eye that I had never before seen when he talked about her. He liked her voice. It was funny in a good way, he said.

“So what’s her name?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” 

He had only been going to camp for about a week. So the next morning I issued him a challenge.

“Today, buddy boy, your goal is to find out that girl’s name,” I instructed.

“Okay, Daddy!”

That day he didn’t get the girl’s name. In fact, the whole next week he didn’t get the girl’s name. He still referred to her as the girl with the funny voice.

“But what do you call her? If her back was turned to you and you wanted to get her attention, what would you say?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you pull her hair or poke her in the back?”

“Daddy, I would never do such mean things to her!”

I pretty much dropped it after that.

__________________________________

As I came home from work WonderWife™ told me, “You’ll never guess what happened at camp today. You have to talk to the Bean.”

The Bean had excitedly wandered over, like a puppy who wants to play.

“So…?” I said to him.

“I did it,” he said. “I asked her, ‘What’s your name?’”

“…and?”

“And she said, ‘Oh, you know!’ so I said, ‘I don’t’ and she said, ‘Guess.’ I told her I didn’t know so I gave up.”

He waited a beat and said, “So it’s her fault!”

_______________________________________

Today was the last day of camp. The Bean raced over to me as soon as I walked through the door.

“I know it! I know it!” he screamed.

“Well…what is it?”

“Um…” He stood on his toes to whisper into WonderWife’s™ ear.

“You already forgot it?” I said.

After a beat it came to him. “It’s Eliza!” He said beaming proudly.

Camping

I think it might have been an episode of Curious George that inspired the Bean to talk about camping. Not just talk about it, but ask to go. It wasn’t long before “camping” was added to the ever-growing list of things to do this summer.

Though I am by no means an avid camper, I love it. This, by the way, goes against my upbringing. I was raised by people who have never slept anywhere that didn’t have a mattress a roof and most likely room service. My parents are mystified by how I grew up to love camping (in the same way they are mystified by how I grew up to be a movie nerd). But why not love camping? It’s about slowing down, about teamwork and hanging out with friends, telling stories and drinking beer. Plus there’s the ever-present wood burning smell, which is my favorite aroma in the entire world.

I was extremely excited to take my boy camping. But would he like it?

In a cunningly strategic move I enlisted one of my best friends, who has two boys similar in age to the Bean, to journey with me on this expedition. Our boys get along really well, and as a bonus I’d get some good bonding time with my buddy once the kids went to sleep. Assuming the kids went to sleep.

We arrived at the campsite with a car packed to the gills and three very excited, very loud little boys. The grounds amounted to a dirt field in the middle of nowhere. There was a total of two trees on the campgrounds, and thankfully one of them was on our site. Despite the 100 degree temperature, we had shade and a strong breeze that made pitching the tents challenging, but prevented us all from keeling over before the sun went down.

When evening approached, my buddy and I showed the boys how to build a campfire. My lighter was useless in the wind. Thankfully our neighbor, who was clearly an expert camper based on his gear and palatial tent, had a blowtorch. All of us, young and old, ooh and aah’d over the awesome toy.

The sun went down. Sticks were procured and hot dogs were cooked on said sticks. The boys learned the insane fun of throwing things into the fire to watch them burn. I taught the Bean how to roast a marshmallow. This prompted a lengthy discussion turned debate about the preferred method of roasting the confection. I like when they catch fire, rendering them crusty on the outside and molten on the inside. The Bean came to favor a more refined approach, where the outside was gently toasted to a light brown. That may be one of the only things we differ on.

Ghost stories were told. I showed the boys how to hold their flashlights under their chins when telling their tales for maximum creepy effect. Surprisingly, for a kid who can be afraid of the most unexpected things, the Bean’s stories were the most elaborate of the kids.

At one point I sat by the fire as the boys were running around. The Bean stopped playing and pulled his chair next to mine. Together we sat and talked as the orange flames licked the wood in front of us.

The sky was clear and the full moon hung so brightly overhead that we didn’t need our lanterns. Way past their bedtimes, the boys finally settled into their tent. After much talking and giggling, exhaustion overtook them and they fell silent. Asleep. My buddy and I toasted a few beers while the fire consumed the rest of the woodpile. We threw things into the fire and watched them burn.

Sometime during the night, the Bean migrated from his tent to mine and my buddy moved into the tent with his boys. The Bean was wide-awake when daylight broke. His stare shook me awake. The rest of the grounds were silent. I think we might have been the first ones awake in the whole place. Together, my boy and I watched the sun rise.

“Let’s go for a hike,” he said.

The day before I had been unable to convince him to hike with me. Now after I had spent the past 24 hours loading gear, pitching tents and chasing after three young boys who were hopped up on marshmallows and bug juice he wanted to go?

Barely conscious I groaned. “Aw, it’s too early for hiking, buddy,” said the man who was decidedly not a morning person.

“How about breakfast?” he eagerly asked.

That I could do. Thinking about the slab of bacon in the cooler, I sat up put on my sweatshirt and exited the tent.

“Are we going to put a pancake on a stick and cook it over the fire?” The Bean asked.

“Interesting idea. We’ll have to try it next time. You do want to go camping again, right?”

“Oh yeah, Dad. This was the best time ever!”

The Reason Why There Is A Piece Of Glitter On My Face

WonderWife™ was out running an errand. The kids were finally down for their rest time. At long last quiet had descended upon the house.  I was mere moments into seizing the first opportunity I had all day to gorge myself at the trough of Facebook and Twitter when a scream rang out from the Bean’s room.

I burst through the Bean’s bedroom door like Whatshisface Baldwin in Backdraft, to find him sitting on his bed, wet and surrounded by shards of glass.  The Bean had thought that vigorously shaking a snow globe next to a wall was a good idea and naturally, it broke.  I inspected him for cuts and seeing that there were none proceeded to the calm-the-kid-down stage so I could inspect the damage.  My worst fears had been realized.  The bed had been compromised.  The shimmering contents that had once been held captive safely inside the glass orb had now been released into the world, like spirits from the Arc.  Glitter was everywhere--all over the Bean's bed, cascading down the wall and plastered against half of the Bean's face and hair. 

I cannot stand glitter. If glitter were a food, it would be cilantro. Yet my parental duties to clean up the glass and glitter fiasco outweighed my loathing of the stuff. So I did what needed to be done.  I rolled up my sleeves and got to work making the Bean's bed once again sleep-able, knowing that this was to be far from the last time that I would be seeing the evil shimmery bastards.