When one hears the word “Father,” certain images spring to mind – and many of those images are not positive. In fact, most of these images are ingrained into us at an early age. The traditional view of the Father is often that of the bumbling parent who cannot possibly survive parenthood without the help of his wife. This scene has been played out in countless sitcoms and television commercials. The father has his place when it comes to parenting and that place is firmly behind the mother.

And I have a problem with that.

Read more at Child’s Play x2: The Glass Ceiling Nobody Talks About

Parenting, I’ve discovered, is like true love or being hit repeatedly in the face, in that, you can’t really really know what it’s like until it happens to you. And just when you get it to stop hitting you in the face, it stomps on your neck and starts singing for-kids versions of bad pop music.

If I wrote a parenting book today, it would only have one word written in huge, bold letters on its single page: “Don’t.”

Yes, it was one of those days.

You know those days when you don’t get enough sleep and it’s Tuesday or Wednesday or some other day not a weekend and you wake up late and you have to rush the kids through breakfast and getting dressed and they seem just a little grumpier than usual and you really don’t want them to buy lunch that day in the cafeteria because who the hell knows what a “chicken pretzel” is but there just isn’t time to pack anything and the orange juice has spilled.

And then you drive them to school and rush them to class and one of them forgot their homework folder so you drive home and drive back again and drive home again and then you work all day and do laundry and fold and put away and go to the bank and buy groceries and suddenly it’s time to pick the kids up from school.

So you drive to school and drive home and then you’re doing math homework and you thought you would never have to do math homework ever again but there you are doing math homework and then you’re taking one to dance class and one to martial arts and picking them up again and making dinner and washing dishes and wiping tables and sweeping the floor and finally, finally you send the kids upstairs to play or watch television or anything really as long as it is far away.

And you put the kettle on. And for three minutes everything is done. And everything is still. And the only sound is the purr of boiling water about to become after-dinner coffee.

And you find that spot in the corner, that spot by the cupboard where you hang the aprons, where the stool is, and you collapse on the stool, and wait for the water to boil. And breathe in and out. And it’s the most wonderful place in the world, that spot. For three minutes.

And just as the coffee is poured into your mug and the sweet satisfying aroma fills your nostrils… crying and arguing and no one wants to take the first shower and he pushed me and no one can find the toothpaste and where’s the toothpaste and what happened to the god damned toothpaste?

Not every day is like that, thank goodness. But weirdly, it’s worth it.

I’ve often considered the important issue of online privacy for myself and my family. I’m not concerned with any of the crazy kidnap/murder/stalking scenarios that the media likes to play up. Just, in general, I think people should be able to control what personal information about them gets onto the internet. I have never posted the real name of anyone in my family. But I wonder if it makes any difference in the long run? A recent development has got me rethinking my strategy. Namely, face recognition in public search engines.

Read the rest at The Blogfathers…

I half-stood, pants around my ankles, and leaned forward with my arm outstretched towards the lock, inches away, just as a burly, Grizzly Adams of a man flung open the door. Backlit by the setting sun, I could only make out a bear-like silhouette that responded to my muffled “Grmph! Yarg!” with a “Hngh! Fwoo! Graahgh!” of his own, greeted as he was by me reaching unintentionally towards his area like a half-naked toilet zombie, before shuffling backwards apologetically and closing the door.

Later, my wife related the story of how she’d seen a rather befuddled looking unbear-like man crack open the toilet door, close it quickly, and with a shiver walk briskly to another toilet on the other side of the building.

I never found out who that mysterious stranger was; and if anyone on the campground had seen my waggle-taggle-gypsy-oh they weren’t letting on. But this stressed me out not at all. I walked out of that bathroom with my head held high, took a mighty breath of fresh air, and swaggered proudly back to my campsite, whistling.

I heartily recommend a camping vacation.

We left on Sunday, June 22, with a rented vehicle expertly packed with everything we would need to survive (and then some) for four days. My Lovely and Talented Wife and I have been camping many times, off and on over the years, but this would be our children’s first tent camping adventure.

We left Los Angeles behind quickly and without a second thought as we headed north towards our destination in Big Sur. We visited Ostrich Land and stopped for lunch at Andersen’s in Buellton. And then, beyond the elephant seals, about six hours into our journey and just miles from Big Sur, we found out that Highway 1 ahead was closed due to fire (the Basic Complex fire). It had been closed that morning and there was no way through.

And here I must give all remaining credit for the success of our trip to my Lovely and Talented Wife who, without batting an eyelash, simply said we should go back a few miles and ask some locals where a nice nearby campground was; and to my children who, despite my guilt about not being able to give them the camping trip I had planned for them, did not care where we camped as long as they got to sleep outdoors and cook with fire and go tromping through foreign places and eat roasted marshmallows.

And with that, we stayed our first night at San Simeon State Park which is a very nice family campground with hot running water and a creek with a trail that runs down to the state beach covered in river stones and jade and beautiful driftwood. And we cooked hamburgers and eggs and bacon and coffee over an open fire. And the kids thoroughly enjoyed the Junior Ranger program where they got to make a plaster casting of an animal track and got a great coloring book and a stamp from a real live ranger and got to touch a dozen different animal pelts. And life was good.

Our second day we headed up the coast to see if the road had been opened. We stopped at a shop at the Lucia Lodge and found the folks there extremely helpful and friendly (and you should stop in and say “Hi” and buy one of their ginormous chocolate chip cookies) but the fire was worse and the road was going to be closed for a while.

So we headed back down the coast again and stayed our second night at a National Forest Service campground called Plaskett Creek. This first-come first-served family campground was also very nice with large trees (next time we’ll bring a rope swing) and the loveliest pit toilets I have ever seen. Plaskett Creek has a fun, easy hike from the campground through a large open meadow to a trail that descends the cliffs down to a secluded beach that you’d never know existed from the highway. We met Harvey and his daughter Grace here. And there was much running around and laughter and marshmallows. And life was good.

We made our home in Morro Bay State Park on the third day where we got lucky and got the very last unreserved tent site. Morro Bay is a beautiful area with a lot to do. We’d stayed here once before, a decade earlier, under similar circumstances (a road trip with no plan and no reservations).

After setting up camp we hiked over to the museum and the scenic view above it. The museum is interactive and children are encouraged to touch and twist and push and pull every exhibit. Later we hiked around the campground itself and down to the salt marsh that is filling in the bay. I doubt it’s usual, but that day the hot water in the showers was free and the timers were turned off.

At Morro Bay we met John and Jody of Canada and their children. We gave them half of our strawberries and they gave us a fire log made of coffee. The firewood bundles were the most generous here and we had the best campfire of the trip.

And we stayed up long into the night, my wife and I each with a child falling asleep on our laps. We sat together silently, warm and at peace. And life was good.

Earlier that day, as I was headed to the public toilet, a grandfatherly gentleman a few sites from ours stopped me. He asked if two young children he’d seen earlier, a boy and a girl holding hands, were mine. I confirmed that they were. And he smiled warmly and thanked me and congratulated me on having the two most beautiful, happy children he’d ever seen.

And it was a wonderful feeling knowing that everything I truly needed was right there with me. And that it was so little and so much. And I could have stayed out there forever.

Read the rest at The Blogfathers…

The Girl is having trouble sleeping. The neighbor’s dog is barking beneath her window. She’s reading and drawing with the light on. I’ll check on her in a few minutes and tuck her in and slide the paper out from under her arm and admire her drawings and put her pencil away and quietly, quietly turn off the light.

From The Boy’s room, a gentle murmur. I stand where he cannot see me, just beyond the light outside his door, and listen. And my heart swells with pride. He is reading.

Read the rest of this entry over at The Blogfathers…

It was comforting. Like I’m doing something right. Like the sound of fresh-baked bread crackling on the counter as it cools. Like the smell of shaving lotion and the satisfied feel of a good shave. Like the fit of your wife’s hand in your hand. All of that times infinity.

You lost your first milk tooth today and began a life less deciduous. Congratulations. And thank goodness too because we were beginning to worry when that second row of evil-looking shark teeth appeared. You popped it out while trying to separate two LEGO bricks. LEGO truly is the Toy of Toys.

We know you had been anticipating this day for a long time and we have nothing but the utmost desire to keep you healthy and happy so we hope you will understand when I explain that the tooth you put under your pillow was not technically yours.

You see, after your lovely and talented mother dried your tears and cleaned your face and gave you a popsicle and made it all better, she took your tooth to the sink to clean it. And there, in a fit of uncharacteristic clumsiness, she dropped it directly down the drain.

She searched valiantly. I brought flashlights and tweezers and even offered to dismantle the sink but it was all for naught. Even as I write this, I imagine your tooth is making its way briskly to the sea. As I look out my window toward the setting sun, I can see it in my mind’s eye bobbing merrily along the canals and waterways of the municipal sewer system, passing heroically through the local treatment plant, and being disgorged triumphantly into the briny and everlasting embrace of the vast Pacific just as The Red Russian Army Choir reaches the thundering climax of The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

It’s really quite poetic when you think about it in those terms.

If this news upsets you, I can only offer you these words of solace: it wasn’t my fault. One hopes you will make a special note that I personally never actually came into possession of the tooth in question, my hands being otherwise occupied with a fine pale ale and assorted snacks.

By now you may be wondering what it was you put under your pillow this fateful night. I don’t feel comfortable writing in a public venue about how we acquired several spare teeth. But ask me about it some day.

Yours lovingly and toothfully,

Dad