Clark Kent's Lunchbox

6 Things I Want My Sons to Know About My Depression [TODAY Show]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 11 Sep 2014 17:17:00 +0000

As it did to so many, the news of Robin Williams’s death came as a great shock to me. How could a man with such talent and charisma who brought me to tears, both of joy and sadness, on so many occasions be gone so suddenly? Then details of his depression came to light, and I understood. The National Alliance on Mental Illness estimates that 6.7 of American adults live with major depression, and of those, 2.6 percent, or 6.1 million people, are afflicted by bipolar disorder. I understand, because I am one of them.

When I initially informed my first wife of my diagnosis and the associated concerns I held for our three boys, she expressed strong reservations about saying anything to them. This, however, is exactly the problem for men with depression. It actually needs to be talked about more, and if I don’t talk with my sons about the twisting despair brought on by depression, who will? There’s actually a lot they need to know. So, boys, listen here:

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5 Things I Wish My Bosses Knew About Fatherhood [TODAY Show]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 12:51:00 +0000

I consider myself fortunate to be working for an employer who understands the demands of fatherhood. This hasn’t always been the case. Through the course of my professional life, which has spanned the military, corporate America, freelance work, and small business, I’ve had bosses who discounted the value of fathers.

Such attitudes come from a general cluelessness shared by men who represented a different generation — everyone knows that fathers are much more involved these days. Still, half of working fathers surveyed in 2013 consider work-family balance a challenge while 46 percent feel they are still not spending enough time with their children.

I have certainly felt the pressure of this crunch, and it would be a lie to say I always chose family over work. Some circumstances, deployments for example, deny the option of choice; however, there have been other moments when I wished my superiors knew a few things about what it means to be a father. Here are five:

TODAY Show Parents: The Sugar Milk Hack

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 13 Jun 2014 15:37:00 +0000

If you haven't already heard I've got a new writing gig at--wait for it--the TODAY Show via their website which just this week they renamed from Moms to Parents. I am thrilled and honored to be part of an all-star lineup of fellow dad bloggers that includes Doyin Richards, Jim Higley, Whit Honea, Carter Gaddis, and Adrian Kulp who in our inaugural week of posting shared their favorite dad hacks (#dadhack). As you will see, their clever tips are much more advisable than mine. Below is an excerpt from my patent-pending, sugar milk hack.

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One would think a guy with five kids would have a whole slew of shortcuts to help ease the burden of parenthood. I do not.

This is not to say I am without creativity. It’s just my techniques lack a certain classiness. While many parenting hacks warrant viral validation via Pinterest, mine rank with the redneck who crafts a BBQ grill out of a shopping cart. Effective? Yes. Share-worthy? Possibly after obliterating a case of Milwaukee’s Best.

Case in point: My teen son and tween stepdaughter are now of an age where they require deodorant, yet they are afflicted by some form of adolescent dementia that causes them to forget to apply said deodorant. The solution: Affix the deodorant to the door frame at eye-level using Velcro, and voila, no more stinky kids. It’s effective because it’s unorthodox. CONTINUE READING

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Want the full story? Get a copy of Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can't Afford Vodka

The Power of Dad: Lessons Learned

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Sun, 08 Jun 2014 20:47:00 +0000

My father as a Green Beret in Vietnam

My father is, hands down, the toughest, hardest working man I have ever met. A lot of people say this about their fathers, and I don’t doubt them, but how many can say they watched their father calmly hobble into the house to take a shower and then drive to the ER after accidentally sticking an ax blade into his shin? What truly amazed me about that memory, though, was waking to the sound of the crunching gravel from our driveway as my father left for work the following morning. At the time he was the company president, and everyone would’ve certainly understood had he decided to take it easy for a few days. But that wasn’t my father.

My father was the youngest of six who grew up on a meager, Pennsylvania farm, fought in Vietnam as a Green Beret, and then drove the length of the country to pick up my mother after proposing to her over the phone. Soon I and my three younger sisters would come into the picture, and through the years we watched our father come home from drawn out days at the chain of agri-businesses he and his brothers had started only to go right back to work mowing the yard or tending to the massive garden that would feed us through winter.

If anyone ever out-worked my father, I imagine it was his father, a fearsome bare-handed boxer who laid street bricks during the day before putting in a shift at the local factory. No doubt this is who my father gained his tireless ethic from, and it was a trait he intended to pass on to his own children.

The worst place any of us kids could be was caught parked in front of the TV on a Saturday afternoon, especially when a ceaseless number of tasks awaited—planting rows of potatoes, cutting fields of weeds, splitting piles of firewood, or shoveling snow from the drive. There were times I swore my father invented chores just to aggravate me.

I recall my father telling me to pick up dead branches in our yard one early spring evening. Eager to return to the game I had been playing, I rushed the job, missing a fair amount of sticks in the process. When my father later expressed his disappointment I burst out bawling. “I haven’t been in the Army!”

The overly dramatic reaction by my 9 year-old self threw my dad off, and his stern expression eased. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he wanted to know.

“Because,” I said through my tears. “I’m never gonna be able to work as hard as you.” I don’t remember what my father said next, but I do remember him smiling at this. Maybe it was because he took it as a compliment, or maybe he realized that I was already measuring myself against his high standards. And they were high.

At eleven I began working at my father’s company on Saturdays and sometimes after school; as I got older this would extend to my summers as well. Having a wad of cash in my pocket was a good feeling, but I can’t say it was always fun earning it. My father wasn’t about to let me be “the boss’s kid” who got over on the others. Lord help me if Dad ever caught me without a broom in my hand or lounging on the loading dock. At the times it seemed unfair, but looking back I see the lesson along with many others.

Over the course of my teens I would learn about perseverance, personal responsibility, and selflessness to name a few. I also learned what respect meant. No matter what mill I worked at the warehouse guys, a roughneck bunch, all admired my dad for his frequent tendency to get out of the front office and come help unload a semi-truck delivering a load of rock salt or mix up a two-ton grist order for a customer. In other words, being willing to roll up your sleeves and get dirty with everyone else was a noble quality.

Actions spoke the loudest of my father who had few paternal platitudes (other than the proverb stating that if a man wasn’t willing to work, he shouldn’t be allowed to eat). But he didn’t need them to endue his children with compassion, humility, and a mischievous sense of humor to go along with his work ethic.

It was what these thoughts that passed through my head as my two oldest sons helped me move last weekend. As a marketing manager and part-time writer who sits in front of a computer all day I don’t work near as hard as my father, and I also don’t have a feed mill for my sons to learn what I did which has me constantly looking for just such an opportunity to convey to them the importance of hard work.

Beyond this, though, I wonder too what my sons see in my actions. The power of my dad’s example came not in one or two isolated examples, but in a whole multitude of moments strung together to paint a consistent picture I would try to pattern my own life on. I suppose such a concern is inherent to fatherhood, and it will constantly be on my mind. If this thought ever troubled my father, he needn’t have worried. I’ve earned every meal I’ve ever eaten since leaving home.

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Oral-B recognizes that fatherhood is a compilation of moments too. Join them as they partner with the March of Dimes and with “Football’s First Family,” NY Giants quarterback, Eli Manning, his father Archie, and daughter Ava in celebrating fatherhood’s little moments. See other dads celebrating these moments using #PowerofDad on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. And if you’re looking for a great gift for your hard-working father, Oral-B is offering $7 off on their Oral-B 7000 Black power toothbrush. (Click here for savings.)

Disclosure: In accordance with the rules that government agency made I am letting everyone know that I was compensated for this post by Oral-B in conjunction with the Life of Dad network which should not detract from the sentiment behind the words. This is just one of those ways in which I earn food for me and my family.

How Social Media Ruined Me as a Parent

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Wed, 30 Apr 2014 18:02:00 +0000

I’ve been blogging for a little over six years now, seven if you count that first year when I posted nothing but inane drivel. In that time I also gained familiarity with the various social media channels—Facebook, LinkedIn, Google+, the Twitters, etc. And while blogging provided me with an outlet to work through my journey as a stay-at-home dad, social media granted access to a community of fellow parent bloggers sharing their own stories.

Eventually this lead to substantial freelance gigs, a published book, speaking engagements, and media appearances, not to mention numerous chances to participate in campaigns with major consumer brands. My experience soon resulted in a position as a social media marketing specialist which then morphed into a content marketing strategist before I earned my current title as online marketing manager. In the blogging world such accomplishments are generally considered milestones of success, and I am exceedingly grateful for all the doors my modest blog has opened for me and my family. Despite this, though, in some respects I feel social media has ruined me as a parent.

The negative implications of social media are nothing new, but the notion of its effects on my parenting first struck me this past week while chaperoning my middle son’s overnight class camping trip. From the moment we arrived at the camp ground I was constantly checking Facebook on my phone. It seemed odd, then, that my son didn’t want to hang out with me during the day’s early activities. I mean who doesn’t want to be around a distracted, middle-aged man who’s cursing about cell reception and fretting over battery life?

Thankfully the Creator only made me a partial dumbass, endued with the capacity for recognizing my own dumbass-ed-ness, and thereafter I put the phone away, save for the occasional momentous photo. Later that night as I lay zipped up inside my sleeping bag I couldn’t escape the thought of how I nearly ruined what ended up being an unforgettable bonding experience for me and my son. The more I considered this, the more I realized, too, the other ways in which social media has specifically contributed to my list of parenting fails.

To start with, social media has heightened my sense of inadequacy as a parent. It’s bad enough feeling I’m not doing enough as a father without scrolling through Instagram to see more than a few pics of families doing magical things together. Don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing inherently bad about this. I do it too. It’s just that I can’t help but to believe I’m falling short.

“Hey! Look at us having an awesome time at Disneyland!”

F#ck Disneyland. This as I stew in my own guilt after telling the kids to go entertain themselves because it’s a free preview weekend on HBO and I have to binge watch every episode of True Detective before the midnight cutoff. I forget sometimes that many of those great moments in social media parenting are sponsored events put on by big brands and PR firms for bloggers, but that doesn’t make me feel any better as I yell at my bored children for bickering while I attempt to squeeze in the first season of Game of Thrones too.

What’s ironic is it wasn’t that long ago when I was once considered influential enough to warrant requests to cover advance movie screenings, offers of free merchandise, chances to interview celebrities, and invites for all-expense paid trips which, I ain’t going to lie, was a lot of fun. The only problem, though, was that it didn’t pay the bills, and at some point I needed to focus on bringing home more bacon and fewer blogger perks.

I didn’t then, nor do I now, lament this choice, but my kids, however, took note of the decline in good times enjoyed during the “roaring bloggies” prompting one of them to ask if I had lost my job as a blogger.

Perfect. Now they see me as a disengaged father and a failure.

Regardless of their present day impressions, I am confident my children will come to understand my decision and the associated reasoning which extended beyond simple dollars and cents. There was also, what I call, the Kardashian Syndrome.

You see, having your own parenting blog, in a sense, is similar to having your own reality show where, like the Kardashians, you’re essentially famous for nothing (and even the fame is relative since it’s largely self-perceived). For me, though, instead of shallow, self-absorbed, privileged bitches, the premise of my blog was: Corporate exec loses job and becomes stay-at-home dad to stepdaughters he hardly knows while also trying to reunite with his own sons. That was my show, and the stories I told through my blog were like regular episodes.

This was all fine and dandy except that at a certain point I ran into same problem that leads most reality shows to engineer situations in order to create drama or get a laugh while still trying to pass them off as “real.” I’m not saying I fabricated events like, oh, I don’t know, going into hysterics because some redneck called my son a sissy for wearing a pink headband at Wal-Mart or whatever, but as a creative writing professor at Rice once told me, “real life is too messy to write about coherently, that’s why they say based on actual events.”

In other words I was running out of reality to feed the social media beast, which in time lead to deriving moments of paternal greatness out of otherwise meaningless events. I let my kid tag along on a trip to get gas for the lawnmower so I can post 600 pics of the entire escapade across Instagram and Facebook before then banging out a 3,000-word blog post about how the whole experience touched me as a father. It was so Meta.

The underlying subtext to all of this of course is that, hey everyone, I’m an incredible dad.

This is where things started to become unsettling for me. Over time it got old always being the hero of my own narrative, always gaining some new fatherly insight, always responding to my children’s needs exactly the right way or learning an important lesson when I didn’t. There’s an inherent danger in being able to shape the story as only you see it, and the perception can easily become your own skewed reality. This bothered me because, if I know nothing else, it’s how hopelessly flawed I am, especially as a parent. (Kids, keep it down! I’m trying to watch my stories!)

Somewhere along the line I had bought into the notion that I was a daddy blogger. This was my personal brand, so to speak, in the same way Kim Kardashian, Honey Boo Boo, and Phil Robinson are reality TV stars. And I played the part. Soon I had a hard time determining whether I was interacting with my children because I truly enjoyed being with them or if it was because I was a daddy blogger. In a moment of honesty I realized the answer to this was more the latter than it was the former, and in that instant I suddenly lost the desire to blog, post, tweet, share, and so on with any regularity.

Fatherhood is not my personal brand; it’s a part of my identity, something that runs much deeper than the veneer of being branded a dad blogger. My social media exploits had, in effect, ruined the authenticity of my parenting which can easily happen when all your parenting actions are being validated publically by oodles of blog comments, Likes, and re-tweets.

It’s the proverbial slippery slope, and the next thing you know, people are referring to you as a parenting “expert.” Let me just say here that having a blog doesn’t make anyone an expert (or a good parent) any more than TV makes Kim Kardashian talented. (There’s no such thing as a parenting expert because who out there has really figured it out?)

Yes, I still blog from time to time (as you can see here), and I post the occasional pic of the family to Instagram and Facebook. I haven’t completely shrugged off participating in social media. Social media in and of itself wasn’t the real problem. The problem had to do with me. Now I’m a bit more judicious in what I put out there. I question my intent before I click any buttons. If it’s just to make myself look good as a dad then I hold off.

Mad Men Season 7, Episode 1, Time Zones: The True Don Draper

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 23:16:00 +0000

When we last saw Don Draper prior to the Mad Men Season 7 opener, the normally cool and collected paragon of masculinity entering the beginnings of an existential crisis. Soaked in booze, he's landed himself in jail for the night after punching a preacher. He's alienated himself from his young daughter who earlier caught him in the middle of his latest affair. He’s angered his wife, Megan, by jerking her chain over his previous commitment to move to California, and he’s lost his job after coming clean in front of a major prospective client about his Dickensian upbringing at a sleazy whorehouse.

If we feel any empathy for Don it’s anchored in the irony of his attempts to fix the things he himself has broken. Admitting to being out of control, he pours out his alcohol and promises Megan a fresh start together in LA. The chance to open an office on the west coast, however, was an idea he stole from a co-worker, and later on, to atone for this, Don then offers it to one of the partners who is trying to save his marriage from an affair with Peggy Olson. And although Don’s honesty about his boyhood is courageous if not heart-wrenching, the timing of his self-cathartic admission is wholly inappropriate to the extent that not even his own charm and genius can protect him from the move by the baffled heads of Sterling Cooper Draper & Pryce to let him go.

The façade of Don Draper’s world is self-destructing, leaving him with nothing but the ugly truth of who he really is, something the show’s writers hint he’s ready to face in the Season 6 finale when Don takes his children to the dilapidated brothel where he grew up. It was just enough of a tease to leave me wondering for months after which road Don would take in order to restore his suddenly shattering life.

While some are expressing their boredom with Don’s character and others are complaining about his emasculation, this is the moment in Don’s story arc that I’ve been waiting for over the past six seasons. Until now Don has always had something going his way, namely his career, and he’s largely been immune to lasting consequences. That, it seems, is about to change.

What’s amusing, though, is how the season’s first episode quickly throws up the illusion that Don’s world is still intact. Impeccable looking as always, he arrives in LA to the backdrop of “I’m a Man” by The Spenser Davis Group where he’s greeting by his alluring wife who pulls up to the airport curb in a bad-ass Austin-Healy convertible. By all appearances one might think it’s good to be Don Draper, except that most of the remaining hour is spent slowly deconstructing that myth.

Megan’s acting career is taking off in LA, and you soon get the sense that it takes precedence over her marriage. You also feel something’s not right with Don when Megan’s weaselly looking manager has to reassure the normally confident Don that his interest in Don’s wife is strictly professional. It’s then funny that Megan, who’s tipsy, is immune to Don’s storied sexual magnetism when they stumble home after dinner.

Don, we see, is no longer king of the castle anymore either, spending the weekends commuting from New York to Megan’s place in the Hollywood Hills where he’s warned about flicking his cigarettes and told not to tear ads from her magazines. When he purchases a large console TV as a gift to her, she get angry at the intrusion into her space.

Again, Don is oddly out of character turning down the advances of an attractive widower (Nev Campbell) he consorts in pillow talk with while on the red-eye flight back to NYC. His excuse is that he has to get to work, a line he’s given to Megan already too, but we soon learn it’s a lie. Don is out of work, reduced to pitching his ideas by proxy through freelancer and recovering alcoholic. Freddie Rumsen.

The show’s final scene leaves us with an atypical image of Don, raggedy in a bathrobe, sitting on his balcony out in the cold, very much alone.

For as long as I've followed Don Draper I’ve continually wondered what he would do once everything he had was taken from him. At the moment he seems precariously close to this point. Fans may not be happy to be presented with this version of Don who appears to be barely hanging on, but for me, a down-and-out Don Draper has always been a logical eventuality. Like it or not, his character must go there if it’s to be fully developed.

As with his role as a father or the circumstances related to his divorce, I once again found myself easily identifying with Don, this time through the context of his career. I know exactly what it feels like to be at the top your game, supremely confident in your abilities with a slew of accomplishments to back up your reputation only to be let go without warning.

I wasn’t near the ass Don was (or at least I don’t think I was). I never intentionally used and discarded people the way Don has. Regardless, when you lose your job you are utterly robbed of your confidence. You start to believe everyone, not just those you worked for, no longer has faith in you, and soon you have no faith in yourself. It’s in these seemingly hopeless circumstances that you are forced to make choices, choices that define character. As Matthew Weiner takes us through the series-ending season of Mad Men, I am eagerly expecting to finally see the true Don Draper. The only question, though, is will we love him, loath him, or pity him.

Does The Buying Power of Dads Really Matter?

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 13 Dec 2013 13:30:00 +0000

Recently several articles dealing with the role of today’s modern father and how marketers should view them popped up in my news feed. As a longtime dad blogger with a background in marketing and experience working with major brands, I have a keen interest in such information. One of the reasons I blog is to help collectively reinforce a positive image of fatherhood, and in a sense, the way marketers represent dads in their campaigns can serve as a gauge of success in regards to this. Sometimes brands get it, and sometimes they don’t. Often the difference is the reality verses perception.

The reality, it seems, is that men place a higher value on their involvement as fathershttp://www.chicagonow.com/marketing-strategist/2013/10/dads-redefine-fatherhood/ over other more traditional functions. According to Boston College’s 2011 The New Dad Report, when it came to defining what it meant to be good father, men prioritized providing emotional support, being present, and being a teacher well above other aspects such as providing discipline and financial security. This, of course, is a big shift from the days when being a good father was measured by merely bringing home the bacon. So too is the amount of time fathers spend with their children, a metric a Pew Study discovered has tripled since 1965.

Based on these and other findings we know fathers are more involved. What then are marketers to make of this? A number of brands to include Dove, Subaru, and Tide have gotten behind this movement by introducing campaigns involving dads. However, is the hype surrounding dads justified? Not necessarily says Stephanie Azzarone, founder of Child’s Play Communications and blogger at Mom Market Trends.

In a joint survey of 1,250 couples conducted in conjunction with the independent research company, the NDP Group, Azzarone concluded that moms (80%) are still the dominate decision maker when it comes to household purchase decisions. The results did indicate that dad’s influence was increasing when making joint decisions, but as the sole (keyword sole) influencer the numbers were miniscule. Further findings showed that depending on the product, purchase decisions still fell along traditional lines with men leading the way in products related to home repair, lawn and garden, autos, and tech while women comprised the majority in areas such as toys and children’s clothes among others.

On the surface the outcome of this survey may appear to discount the dad’s role in household purchase decisions; however, this was not the intent. Instead, it was merely attempting to get a general idea of how much of a sole influence dads have and in what areas, and then compare this to what their spouses think. Ultimately, Azzarone’s goal was to determine whether dads really are the “new, new thing” and then to suggest where marketers should be spending their dollars based on the research’s outcomes.

Do these findings, though, diminish the need for brands to consider dads when marketing what would be considered traditional mom-centric products? In a word, no. As noted earlier fathers are definitely more involved in their children’s upbringing, and that no doubt means some overlap when it comes to related purchase decisions. But there’s another reason as well.

In a recent report released by the Creative Artists Agency’s Intelligence Group, researchers found that the newer generation of Americans is not so concerned about adhering to traditional gender roles. 62% of those questioned said they felt no need to conform to society’s ideas of how men and women are defined. For marketers this means brands will need to relook at the message they are sending when trying to reach fathers. Unfortunately, however, this has not happened yet in the minds of those men who took part in the survey as two-thirds believed fathers were poorly depicted and 36% thought marketers lacked an understanding of today’s man.

Such perceptions mean companies still have a lot of ground to make up. Jamie Gutfreund, chief strategy officer at The Intelligence Group, put it best when she stated that if brands want to connect with dads they need to show fathers as “real, three-dimensional people, instead of bozos who are too incompetent to cook breakfast.”

Will dads attain the level of purchasing power moms have? I don’t think so, but it all may be a moot point in the very near future. As Gutfreund rightly says, "People are not numbers; they have complicated personal positioning, and brands cannot assume that someone is a type in a way that they used to." In other words, dads matter.

Breaking Dad: Say My Name

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 06 Dec 2013 13:00:00 +0000

First allow me to apologize for the “Breaking Dad” portion of my title. I realize it’s a bit cliché, and thousands of dad bloggers and journalists have probably already worn it out. Hopefully, though, by the end of this you’ll agree it still applies.

By admission I was a latecomer to the television phenomena that was Breaking Bad. I resisted the hoopla for as long as I could, but left with nothing substantial to entertain us, my wife and I binged our way through all five seasons in a matter of a few weeks.

Naturally, as a father and husband I was drawn to the show’s premise: A once world-class chemist, turned teacher, manufactures methamphetamine to secure his family’s financial security after learning he is dying of cancer. Simply put, the man wanted to provide for his family, and debate me if you want, but I believe this is an inherent instinct men are wired with.

Walter White, the central character for those of you not familiar with the show, is faced with a desperate situation, a desperation that compels him to extreme measures. But the illegal drug trade, as Walter and his under-achieving partner, Jesse Pinkman, find out is a slippery slope, and the two continually find themselves crossing moral boundaries as they lie, steal, and murder to protect themselves.

Walter’s predicament is more than unfortunate; it’s unfair. He’s a good father with a son and baby on the way. He loves his wife. And he works hard, taking a second job at a car wash after school to make ends meet. It’s tragic then that a man who seemingly is doing the best he can should be suddenly stricken with cancer, the treatment of which will leave his family saddled with insurmountable debt.

Walter is understandably angry, but the root of that anger stems, not from his diagnosis, but from events well in the past. Earlier in life he was a gifted chemist who help found a company that would go on to be a multi-million dollar corporation. Walter, though, never reaps the benefits of its success. For reasons, whether pride or ego, Walter leaves the partnership abruptly, a decision that leaves him with a simmering rancor.

Everywhere he turns Walter sees men with more money, more power, and more confidence than him. Yet here he is emasculated, his talents wasted as a modest high school chemistry teacher. His cancer is only the final straw. Walter’s plight is quintessentially unfair and undeserved, his anger justifiable.

It’s this anger and frustration, though, that taps into a dark side of Walter, something we get an early sense of after he tells his boss off at the carwash, and then later sabotages the BMW belonging to a rude and arrogant lawyer. Soon he embarks on a journey of transformation from Walter White, mild-mannered family man, to Heisenberg, ruthless drug kingpin.

Walter and Jesse’s exploits are comical early on. It’s hard to forget the image of a pasty-looking Walter standing desperately in the New Mexico dessert wearing nothing but a button down shirt and sagging briefs after trying to poison two thugs trapped in a dilapidated RV being used as a mobile meth lab. However, as the story progresses Walter increasingly relies on his wits, intelligence, and skills to become a major threat to the Mexican cartels and a legendary, mythical figure to the DEA, all of whom he managed to either elude or eliminate.

By season five, Walter is no longer Walter, he is Heisenberg, producing meth with complete impunity, and making a fortune his family could never spend in their lifetime. As Heisenberg, the man who has conquered a drug empire, he soon becomes brash and full of bravado. Each time the situation begins to fray, Heisenberg, through manipulation or force manages to reign in back in, all the while justifying his actions as being in the best interest of protecting and providing for his family. The great irony in all of this is that in the process he eventually loses everything including his family.

Predictably Walter becomes of victim of his own undoing as Heisenberg. A single tiny detail causes his world to unravel quickly. In the end Walter attempts to right some of his wrongs the best he can, but the damage is far beyond repair, and he cannot escape the inevitable outcomes.

As my wife and I devoured episode after jaw-dropping episode, I was surprised at how much I could identify with Walter. And with Heisenberg. I found myself asking over and over to what measures would I go to in order to provide for my family?

I recently finished two books set in turn-of-the-century America, E.L. Doctorow’s Ragtime, and Dreamland by Kevin Baker. Both recount with chilling detail and haunting imagery the measures taken by the poor in the struggles to feed their families as they lived in the rundown tenements of NYC. To say that these conditions were deplorable and horrific is an understatement. Again, I wondered what would I have done living under those same circumstances.

The thing is, today isn’t so different from the 1890s and early 1900s with our flailing economy, inept government, and our entitled elite. Many historians and economists have made this same observation, and based on their arguments, it’s hard for me to disagree. The frustration is palpable, the solutions thus far, untenable.

Many people, good, honest, hard-working people and their families are suffering because of decisions and circumstances beyond their control. I know. I am one of them, and like Walter White, I am angry.

Seven years ago I was at the top of my game career wise just as Walter White once was. I made good money, I provided for my family, and I had a bright future. Then came the recession. I lost my job and with it went my self-confidence. Since then life has hammered me until I’ve become like a bent nail that can’t be driven any farther.

I’ve watched my family suffer, and I’ve questioned what I did that they should deserve this. Like Walter I love my family, and I’ve done the best I could to make ends meet these past seven years. As the saying goes, the universe it feels has conspired against me.

It seems as if the mailman delivers a new bill every day. I skip meals so my kids can have the food we can afford, and our medical expenses are out of control due to multiple trips to the ER from major asthma attacks. What’s more, we have to jam in as many doctor’s visits in as possible before January 1st after we were informed by my wife’s publicly traded employer that we should probably look into the insurance offered through the Affordable Care Act because what the company plans on offering next year is shit.

Some CFO is getting a big holiday bonus, and you can be sure if I see their BMW idling unattended at a gas station, well … angry? Yes, but what I’m more concerned about is the similar desperation Walter White felt in providing for his family.

Recently I lost my job, again because somebody else wasn’t doing theirs. Another set of circumstances beyond my control. And thus far, despite all efforts I haven’t been able to secure even part-time employment, so with many bills already overdue it’s a real possibility I won’t be able to provide a Christmas for my children.

Am I being dramatic? Not at all. Thousands of men, if not more are in this situation. It’s reality. It’s my reality, one we as men are not supposed to talk about openly today because to do so is to admit to our ultimate failure as a man.

Mind you, this is no pity party or plea for charity. I still have too much pride for either. I only share these details to put into context the question I’m about to pose.

For the most part we as dad bloggers talk about the safe and easy topics, cute anecdotal stories, universal paternal truths, and the occasional moral outrage over some issue of slight. Transparency and authenticity are buzzwords we throw around as we make ourselves the heroes of our own stories, all the while ignoring darker places and harsher realities. Would you traffic meth, or even kill another person if you felt it was the only way to feed and protect your family? Could you be the antihero of your story?

As I sat on the couch weighing the actions of Walter White I asked my wife what she would think of me if I did something illegal, but only because I needed to provide for the family. Given the current set of circumstances, I actually entertained the thought for a moment. The thin line that keeps me from ever acting on it, though, is the same principle I try to instill in my children—decisions have consequences, both good and bad, and you have to be willing to live with them.

For Walter the consequences were painfully inevitable. He lost it all, yet at the same time an argument could be made that Walter did achieve his original goal of providing financially for his family. In the end he died knowing his family was taken care of as a result of something he had worked for and earned. Because of this he died a man, an imperfect and flawed man yes, but one whose sense of pride had been restored.

Whatever the future holds, I want to die a man. All I ask is for is a chance to stand in the middle of some wind-swept desert where I can plant my feet in the rocky sand, look life in the eye and demand, “Say my name.”

Say. My. Name.

…You’re goddamn right.

Update: Since the original posting of this entry I have become gainfully employed, and thus, can disassemble the meth lab I had constructed from a Barbie Easy Bake Oven, LEGOS and an Erector set with half the pieces missing. It was quite a sight.

This post was originally published at The Good Men Project
Photo Credit: Original Created by Author

If You Give a Mouse CPR

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Wed, 13 Nov 2013 21:09:00 +0000

Most people know I’m not a cat person, and yet, despite this we have a cat. The reason for this is simple: Our house was being overrun by mice last winter, and conventional methods such as traps and poisons failed to stem the tide. A cat, therefore, seemed like the only other cost-effective option. After a brief search through Craigslist my wife found a suitable feline candidate that was even advertised as being a good “mouser.”

In short order our mouse problem was no more, even though I only ever saw the cat catch one of the furry little bastards. My guess is that our cat’s mere presence was enough of deterrent to keep the mice at bay. Since then the cat has been splitting her time between being an entitled indoor cat and a prey-stalking outdoor cat—something akin to a Kardashian living a dual life as a ninja assassin. It’s not uncommon to open the front door and find the limp body of a once perky chipmunk or hairless baby squirrel at least two or three times a week.

I know the common belief is that these little “gifts” are a cat’s way of showing they are happy, but the reality is cats have an inherent kill pattern programmed into their brains. That and they are very bad at disposing of the bodies. (See this infographic.) Thus, if you suffer from Phagofelinephobia, take heart, once the cats have had their fill your corpse will be found (of course, on whose doorstep is anybody’s guess). I digress.

What I’m getting at is that cat has been taking a proactive approach to rodent prevention as we ease into the winter months. Admittedly, regardless of my personal feelings towards the cat, I‘ve been pleased by the results which is why the other night I was okay with being roused from my slumber by the cat digging at something under our bed. A cursory, if not blurry-eyed investigation found that the cat had cornered a baby mouse.

Apparently, though, this must have been one of those “non-murder” days for the cat because she made no effort to end its young life. Instead she looked up at me with an expression of, “Are you going to take care of this thing or what?”

I rolled my still sleepy eyes. Fine. And with that I picked the mouse up by its tail, and gave it a once over. Disgusting. Even so, I wasn’t in a killing mood myself, and rather than smashing its head with a hammer or crushing it with a nutcracker I tossed the little guy outside into the cold dark night. It could fend for itself—survival of the fittest and all that.

I will say here that it did occur to me that if there was one baby mouse, there were likely others, and if this one was under the bed then where were the others? Putting two and two together was a tad disconcerting, but not enough for me to care about anything beyond crawling back under the covers. If my wife happened to wake up screaming I’d deal with things then.

Fast forward to later that afternoon. My boys are hauling in their bags for the weekend when I hear one of them exclaim, “Look! A baby mouse!”

Apparently I hadn’t done a very good job of getting rid of the thing. Somehow it had managed to crawl under a crinkled up leaf where my kids, who have some weird, uncanny radar for finding helpless creatures famous for spreading the plague, discovered it. In less than five seconds they had the mouse in a shoe box filled with premium grade toilet paper for a bed.

Great. Now I’m stuck with the damn thing, and once it dies because I sure as hell ain’t gonna do anything to help it out, I’ll have to give the “death talk” to a bunch of distraught kids.

If I thought that was the end of it I was about to find out that the situation was only about to get better.

A few hours later I heard the excited rush of children bursting down the hallway. “We found another!” they all cried with glee holding another hairy brown creature smaller than my thumb.

Lovely.

But they weren’t done.

Later that evening they came across yet another baby mouse. Apparently they were part of a happy little mouse family living tucked up neat and snug behind the basement heater. My guess is that the cat caught and killed the parents on a murder day, but dislodged the babies in the process. Whatever the case, three very lucky mice were now being fawned over by a bunch of ecstatic children who saw themselves as the animal world’s Florence Nightingale.

All through the next day the kids would make periodic checks on their orphaned babies, and then report their findings. Why they felt the need to provide me with the details I don’t know. My stance on the matter was fairly obvious, but as time wore on there was a growing desperation in their voices. The mice were slowly dying of starvation.

Out of sympathy for my children I felt compelled to step in.

To Google!

A quick search yielded a litany of tips and facts related to the care of orphaned mice. Did you know you shouldn’t give baby mice cow milk? Yeah, it gives them cramps, and they die. Instead these lactose-intolerant creatures require baby formula—the expensive kind that’s gentle on their digestive track.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I said to my wife on the way out of the door to the grocery store.

By the time I returned home, though, one of the little fellows had passed on to the great cheese barrel in the sky. The children were saddened, but they quickly turned the focus of their concern to the others as I mixed the formula and feed droplets of it to the other two. (By the way, if you ever find yourself in this situation it’s recommended that you feed mice from the sides of the mouth. If you do it from the front the food can clog their nose and suffocate them. You can thank me later.)

Turns out simply feeding baby mice isn’t enough. No, you have to help them digest the food too. This is accomplished by gently rolling a Q-tip back and forth across their tiny bellies until they poop which made them squeal with glee to the delight of sons and stepdaughters. Yes, you read that right. I was massaging the tummies of the very rodents I had reluctantly consented to get a cat in order to kill. Talk about irony.

This done, I then placed the two survivors back in the shoe box, put on the lid, and placed it under my desk lamp to keep them warm for the night.

Incidentally, later, in the wee morning hours I was again woken by the cat. This time she was on top of my desk. Several items, including my phone had been knocked to the ground, this as a result of her genius plan to push the shoe box onto the floor and gobble down the contents therein. The look on her face said, “What? I thought you were keeping dinner warm for me?” Tonight must have been a murder night.

Sadly, by the morning a second mouse had gone on to meet St. Peter’s mouse counterpart at the pearly gates. I was now down to one mouse, and as my worried children left for school I promised I would do my best to take care of it. Throughout the day I fed it formula and rubbed its belly, but it was for not.

In the evening after the children were in bed I pulled out the mouse for another feeding. Everything seemed to be proceeding as before until I noticed the little fella was no longer making that petite sucking sound. In fact it wasn’t wiggling anymore either.

No. It can’t be. I did everything right. It was just fine earlier.

I thought about my children and their hopeful eyes staring at me. Even though I made them no guarantees there was an unspoken expectation that I would save the day because I was their dad. A feeling of determination swept over me. I wasn’t about to let a dying mouse dispel the faith they placed in me.

Fueled by this thought I did the only thing I could think to do—I started pressing on the mouse’s chest with my index finger.

One. Two. Three… Hey, I didn’t get certified as an EMT for nothing you know. One. Two. Three…

It was then that my wife looked over and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Not now, hon. I’m trying to save this thing.”

Then I saw it. The mouse jerked and let out a barely audible cough.

Yes! I saved it!

Then the mouse exhaled and went limp.

I wasn’t enough. The lone surviving mouse was now with his mouse family in mouse heaven.

And a single though ran through my mind: The things we do for our children.

In Memory Of

- The Last Little Mouse -

November ? 2013 - November 12, 2013

13 Things My Kids Seem Incapable Of [Slide Presentation]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 28 Oct 2013 14:39:00 +0000

Are there certain minor, little things that your kids keep doing even though you've tried time and again to get them to change? Do you wonder if your children will ever get it? I'll wager to say we've all been there. Here is my list of things that cause me to ask that very question. Are some of these on your list, or are there others in your household?

Dreams of Failure [GMP]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 24 Oct 2013 19:03:00 +0000

A while back I had two dreams that were so vivid I will never forget them. In the first I was a boy, roughly 10 or 11, standing before a white farm house with three gabled windows protruding from the roof and a wide, covered porch spanning the entire front exterior. Yellow daffodils filled the flower beds at the porch’s base, and the surrounding yard was neat and trimmed. Facing the left side of the house stood a traditional-looking barn with two large doors that were swung open revealing its insides.

A path to the left of the barn cut through a spacious field that was bordered on three sides by a wall of maple and oak trees. Something compelled me to follow the path, and as I walked my feet could feel the cool clover growing in the raised strip running between the shallow ruts that were worn into the damp dirt by some wheeled vehicle.

Continue reading...

Daddy Blogger Mad Lib

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 17 Oct 2013 20:40:00 +0000

The other day I walked into the (ROOM) where I found my (NUMBER) year-old child, (CHILD’S NICKNAME) playing with a (NOUN) in the toilet. This frustrated me because I’ve tried over and over to teach him/her the message that (CLICHÉ MAXIM). Unfortunately it seems like it’s going in one (BODY PART) and out the other. It makes me want to pull out my (BODY PART) sometimes. Not only that, you’d think at this age they would be potty trained and I wouldn’t have to clean the (BODILY SECRETION) out of his/her diaper anymore. The other day he/she dropped a man-size (BODILY SECRETION) that they proceeded to wipe on the walls. I supposed this is just part of being a full-time parent.

I love being a dad, but if I was being honest, I would have to admit that I like my (FAMILY MEMBER) more than my son/daughter. Hey, I’m just saying is all. I know some might find this controversial, but it’s simply the truth, and I’m not going to hide it.

Of course I’m no stranger to controversy after revealing last month in a highly circulated press release I put out that I am a (SEXUAL ORIENTATION). That was followed by a viral blog post which received (NUMBER) page views, and prompted at least (NUMBER) of emails thanking me for my beautiful and courageous words. That’s why I blog—to help others and because I love my child/children more than anything.

I have to say, it’s so humbling when moms at the (AN OUTDOOR LOCATION) come up to me as I’m playing with (SAME CHILD’S NICKNAME) and tell me what a good dad I am. It’s almost embarrassing, but I am grateful hearing this from the mom community which I hold up on a pedestal.

It’s good to be appreciated as a dad no thanks to TV shows like (TV SHOW) which portrays dads as a bunch of (ADJECTIVE), (ADJECTIVE) (ANIMAL PLURAL). This is not who we are as fathers, and I for one refuse to stand for it.

Did anyone see that TV commercial by (COMPANY)? When I saw it, it made me feel so (FEELING), and that’s what prompted me to write a (DESCRIPTIVE FEELING) blog post, “We Dads Are Not Dumb (TV or MOVIE DAD CHARACTER),” in response. Not that I’m bragging, but the (NUMBER) page-views and (NUMBER) comments that post got, I think proves how many people felt the same way.

I mentioned this same post in my panel with (ADJECTIVE) Dad, (VERB and ADVERB) Dad, and (MOVIE TITLE) Dad at the (ADJECTIVE), (FAMILY AFFILIATION/TITLE) 2.0 Conference in (CITY) last month. There was a lot of discussion surrounding this topic, but it was encouraging to see brands such as (COMPANY), (COMPANY), and (COMPANY) present so we could have a real discussion.

I have to say the conference overall was a positive experience, and even though I didn’t think I could be taught anything new about blogging I ended up learning that (CLICHÉ PARENT BLOGGER PHRASE). Also, it was a real treat getting to meet a couple of mom bloggers I really respect, (ACTION VERB) Mom, and (DOUBLE ENTENTRE FOR SEX) Mom at the (A QUIRKY ADJECTIVE) (RANDOM/BIZARRE NOUN) Party.

Still, despite all the fun, I felt sooooo guilty being away from my little (SAME CHILD’S NICKNAME AS BEFORE). After all I am a father first and he/she is why I blog no matter how long it takes to potty-train them.

Disclosure: My conference trip was sponsored by (CONSUMER GOODS COMPANY) and their new (PRODUCT) for (ACTION VERB ENDING IN “ING”) your kid’s (BODY PART). Also, don’t forget about the Twitter party giveaway they are sponsoring tonight. Use the Hashtag #(ADJECTIVE or NOUN)DadsBSing and you’ll be entered in a drawing to receive one of their products for free.

The Perfect Life

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 14 Oct 2013 16:38:00 +0000

I don’t know if it’s because I’m wading into the deep end of my mid-life crisis or if it’s simple escapism, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about when my life seemed perfect. When precisely was this this? It was soon after working through the issues of my recent divorce. I was in my 30’s and making a comfortable living which afforded me a trendy downtown loft and a hot car, the kind the valets like to park out front for others to see.

Physically fit, I weighed 25 pounds less than I do now, and had a closet full of designer suits that made me feel sharp as I walked out the door each morning. Professionally, I was at the top of my game, and I knew it which gave me a supreme confidence and healthy sort of cockiness that fueled my continued success.

At the same time I had a solid group of friends and an active social calendar. There were trips to places like Vegas and Tahoe where we stayed in high-roller suites and partied with celebrities. That calendar also included dates with a number of attractive young women—one competed in state beauty pageants, another just missed the final cut for joining the Pussy Cat Dolls.

As one of my co-workers put it, my life appeared “Clooney-esque.”

Lest you picture me as some sort of douche (I know I kinda sound that way), keep in mind I also attended church regularly, painted, and spent as much quality time with my sons as possible. My sons and I, in fact, shared some of our happiest memories during that time, and even after their mother moved away, we still talked to each other on the phone every night until I eventually moved to nearby Chicago. So, at the very least, I wasn’t a total douche. I’m merely trying to build context here, so don’t judge me too harshly yet.

In short, this was exactly the kind of life I wanted. When I was a teenager I recall drawing a picture of myself in which I had long curly hair (it was the 80’s) and wore fancy did while leaning against the hood of a Lamborghini (like I said, the 80’s) with an attractive woman in the passenger seat. I literally could visualize how I planned to live one day, but once I achieved it a reoccurring thought ran through my head each morning as I zoomed away from Starbucks with my Venti hazelnut latte: This wouldn’t last forever. Deep inside I knew change was inevitable, yet at the time, though, I couldn’t exactly conceive how.

But it did, and seven years later I now live in a rundown rental house, drive an uninspiring minivan, own no more suits because I gave them all away to a thrift store which is okay because I don’t have a regular job either. And that’s not to mention my waning confidence and ensuing struggles to manage my depression.

By the standards I had set for myself as a teen, life isn’t quite so perfect anymore, something I’m reminded each afternoon I open the mailbox and find another looming bill waiting for me. Even though I couldn’t have predicted the circumstances, things did change for me, and in dramatic fashion.

It’s funny then that, with all this going through my head, my 11 year-old son would ask me what my idea of a perfect day would be. He sat there expectantly, kicking the front of the kitchen bar with his swinging legs. The question made me pause as I was about to load a sauce pan into the dishwasher.

What would be the perfect day?

I had to think about this for a moment. I recalled all the things I once used to do, but they felt off. Even if I did have the means to take a trip with friends or shop for a new suit, the idea seemed out of place and unfulfilling.

“I guess the perfect day for me would be doing something as a family, where we all got along, and we have lots of fun,” I finally answered.

My son’s face lit up. “You mean like the Johnny Appleseed Festival last week? We did something as a family. No one was fighting, and we had lots of fun.”

I shook my head and smiled to myself. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that was a perfect day.”

What my son didn’t realize was that he had reminded me of a simple truth: A perfect life can only be interpreted within the context of what stage of life you are in now, not the place you used to be or even want to be. It's that whole living in the moment thing.

If I tried to live the life I once did in my 30’s I wouldn’t be as happy as I might believe. I’m different now (and old), and as I take stock of things so too is my definition of “perfect.” I have a loving wife who supports what I want to do in life. I have five amazing children. I’ve published a book (another dream of mine from those teen years), and, crazy as this sounds, I have a moderately successful blog that has opened up opportunities for me and my family that we might not otherwise have had the chance to enjoy.

Yes there are hardships to overcome, but there were hardships when I thought my life was perfect in my 20’s as a soldier, just as there were in my 30’s when I was a swinging bachelor. It’s easy to dismiss this fact when present hardships are staring you right in the face, but it’s foolish to deny they ever existed.

The ironic part to all of this is that when I’d frequent the clubs during my “perfect” 30’s, I would often see guys in their 40’s out dancing and hitting on girls, and my first thought was always, “How sad is their life. I sure hope I don’t end up like that.” Thankfully, it didn’t. Life may not be perfect per se, but I am in the perfect spot in life and it’s right where I should be.

J.J. Abrams, Dad 2.0, and The Life of Dad [Podcast]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 10 Oct 2013 14:23:00 +0000

Earlier this week I had the opportunity to be a guest on the Life of Dad After Show where I chatted with hosts Art Eddy and Ryan Hamilton about Star Wars, J.J. Abrams, the origin of Clark Kent's Lunchbox, how to make Sugar Milk, attending the Dad 2.0 conference, and the evolution of dad blogging. I did my best to sound interesting, but who knows--I say "uh" a lot. Anyway. It was at least nice to have a real conversation with a couple of great guys which is a big deal for me considering I only have a cat to talk with all day.

If you're not familiar with The Life of Dad bunch and all the stuff they are doing, then I highly encourage checking them out and joining the community they've put together over there.

Many thanks to Art and Ryan for having me.

You can listen to the program here: The Life of Dad After Show

Type-A Takeaways for Dad Bloggers

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 04 Oct 2013 16:58:00 +0000

Type-A Dad Panel: Myself, Fred Goodall, Eric Payne, and Trey Burley

Over the past weekend I attended the Type-A Parent Conference in Atlanta, Georgia. This was my third appearance as a speaker covering the topic of daddy blogging, and as in years past, it was a wholly positive experience. Founder Kelby Carr and her staff did a marvelous job putting together an event that was both informative and fun.

Admittedly I was apprehensive about the conference after my experience earlier at BlogHer. Granted I probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind while in Chicago, but regardless, the event felt a little bit… flat—like everything was a matter of going through the motions. The strength, though, of BlogHer is that it’s a celebration of women—their creativity, their accomplishments, their business savvy, and ultimately their voice. And rightfully so. It’s not that I felt uncomfortable, this despite being “interviewed” by a curious mom blogger who, using a tampon as a microphone, wanted to know what a dad was doing at a blog conference geared to women. Even so, as the male minority at BlogHer, I knew my place, and that was okay with me.

Type-A Parent was different. Kelby and her team have always gone to great lengths to make dads feel welcome, even going so far as changing the name from Type-A Mom to Type-A Parent in 2011 while also ensuring a dad panel was included among the sessions.

My underlying concern, however, wasn’t so much about fitting in as it was a matter of the actual value of the conference itself. What I mean to say is that, given I’ve been blogging since 2007 and have attended a number of blog conferences in that time, at a certain point you begin to wonder what more you can learn from a conference that experience hasn’t already taught you.

In my opinion this is a prime challenge blogging conferences face today. In order for a conference to be of value it has to offer more than just staple sessions on monetizing your blog and a few meet-and-greets with brands eager to hock their wares. After you go to enough of these events it’s easy to cynically categorize them as the same old song and dance.

Type-A Parent, however, once again managed to beat that rep, and while I could point out many examples of why this was the case, there are three main takeaways from the conference that I think may be beneficial for dad bloggers.

1. Dad bloggers are a viable entity in the space. This is a point that most of us would already agree on, and this has certainly been evident in the wake of Dad 2.0 which promises to be an even bigger affair in 2014. Type-A Parent only reinforced this. The dad blogging session was well attended by not just moms and dads, but also by brands and agencies that recognize the importance of including the voice of fathers. I’ll interject here that Fred Goodall (Mocha Dad), Eric Payne (Makes Me Wanna Holler), and Trey Burley (Daddy Mojo) did an outstanding job in representing dad bloggers as they discussed their reasons for blogging, how brands can best work with us, and the impacts blogging has had on them as fathers, husbands, and men. Their passion and sincerity was evident as they spoke (as the moderator I had it easy just asking the questions), and it sparked some excellent dialogue with the audience.

2. There is money in blogging. No, really there is and it’s not from ads and reviews either. This was something I started to figure out a few years ago when I was blogging full time (an endeavor I have recently returned to after working as a content strategist for a web marketing agency for the past few years). What I didn’t realize, though, was how much money can be made through blogging. Several of the panelists disclosed making between $20,000 to $40,000-plus from in some cases, a single client! (Sorry, they didn’t say from whom.) Such opportunities came in a variety of forms to include copywriting, brand relationships, and freelance articles all of which came about because of their own personal blogs. And the keys to such success? –being persistent in what you do, demanding compensation for your work (and we’re not talking about a few measly gift cards and free products here), building relationships within your social network, and takeaway number three...

3. Publishing content that’s worth reading. This point could not be emphasized enough throughout the sessions. Good content, both in terms of quality and basic mechanics, is in high demand today, and brands are looking for people who can write well and produce content that readers will engage with. The caveat, though, is that like with all good writing, the content has to be unique and valuable. Right now there’s an ocean of bland rubbish out there (see this presentation from Velocity Partners), but if you can stick out in some way then you’re in a good position for takeaway number two. The good news for dad bloggers is that we already have a unique voice in that we talk about parenting from our perspective as father. Add to this the fact that, with a few exceptions, the majority of us have readerships that are largely women, and we as dad bloggers have a solid argument in selling ourselves to brands and the media.

Ultimately I will end by saying that, as the relationship between bloggers and brands continues to evolve, the Type-A Parent conference has continued to keep pace with the trends in the space while also helping to shape the dialogue in that relationship. In doing so, the conference has maintained its relevance by offering practical, informative sessions along with the opportunity to strengthen one’s network in a professional, yet fun setting. Everyone should have walked away with something valuable.

What's the Deal with Me and Richard Marx? [DadCentric]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 26 Sep 2013 12:30:00 +0000

Inevitably, if a conversation turns toward musical tastes, I always end up the laughing stock of the group. Why? No one has ever deemed my choice of bands and singers as being cool. I’ll bring up names like Matchbox 20 or The Fray—and of course there’s that whole thing with Coldplay—and everyone starts doubling over. It’s fine. I’m used to it by now. Sometimes I’ll even join in. Admittedly I deserve ridicule for my brief flirtation with Nickelback.

My wife, Ashley, is undoubtedly my harshest critic. A song from Snow Patrol will come on the radio, and she’ll roll her eyes so hard I can hear it over the music. “How did I ever marry you,” she will sigh.

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Not My Kid

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 23 Sep 2013 20:25:00 +0000

Not my kid. That’s what we as parents wish we could think on a continual basis. We see another child doing something outrageous, or we hear about it from a fellow parent and we naturally imagine our own children in the same situation, believing that our parenting skills have made enough of an impact so as to prevent them from doing anything stupid and embarrassing.

Hey, I’m no different… I’m no different until I overhear someone commenting on the kid plundering the bowl of mints offered in the church’s coffee café, only to learn later that it was both my 11 year-old and my nine year-old sons who were grabbing fistfuls of peppermint candy like greedy pirates stuffing their pockets with gold doubloons. I would’ve been none the wiser had it not been for the indiscriminate trail of cellophane wrappers laying in the hallway and the sibling who snitched on them. (With five kids it’s hard to get away with anything, especially when you don’t share the loot.)

Not only had the boys jacked the trove of candy, but they had also scarfed up enough cookies to wait out the apocalypse and still have plenty to spare. In hindsight, though, I probably should’ve been tipped off by their cumbersome sort of waddle as they crossed the church parking lot to leave.

“Yeah, those are not my kids.” (No really, I've never seen them before in my life.)

They were my kids (plural), and to say that I was mortified would be putting it mildly. A stern conversation about self-control and new rules for conducting ourselves like gentlemen—not little piggies—followed. (Sheesh! They acted like they’ve never had sweets before.)

Age, of course, is a big factor here. There’s an expectation we have of our child’s ability to reason as they progress in years. Often, though, we have to make judgment calls as to how much we can trust our kids with certain things. Sometimes they prove us right, and sometimes they go into sugar shock after OD’ing on free mint candies and chocolate chip cookies.

One of these moments of decision comes when determining whether your child is ready to mass communicate with the known outside world via social media and an electronic device. We all are well aware of how social media can turn a village idiot into a global one within a matter of minutes; plus, when it comes to our sons and daughters there’s also the concerns over privacy and potential for cyber-bullying. Bottom line: there’s a great deal of responsibility and maturity involved.

This was the message my wife conveyed to my 11 year-old stepdaughter, Allie, after she received a whatever-the-latest-model iPod Touch from her father. My wife drew up an ironclad contract governing Allie’s use of the gizmo along with corresponding consequences for any violations.

“No texting after lights out.”

“No posting personal information like your school or home address.”

“No stalking boys.” (We wouldn’t want this lady’s sons being tempted or anything)

“No more than two duck-face selfies per week.”

…And the list went on. Basically, my wife’s intent was to keep Allie from being “that” girl. With these parameters clearly outlined for Allie, it was easy for her mother and me to assume, “Not my kid,” which held true …for about a week.

At first things were fine. Allie was allowed an Instagram account and DM privileges, and early on it was all pics of the cat (she may have gone over the limit on the selfies, but no harm done), and goofy texts with friends.

“Yep, not my kid.”

Shortly thereafter things began to spiral, however. Apparently there’s a game you can play on Instagram with your friends where you each take a shot of yourself and then you solicit “likes” and the one with the most wins. It’s essentially a shallow popularity contest where someone’s feelings inevitably get hurt if they’re the low vote getter. (Allie often won and so she was quick to instigate new rounds daily.) Once we realized what was going on (she hasn’t yet figured out we can follow her profile), a heavy warning was issued with an explanation concerning the larger ramifications of potentially hurtful games. Allie said she understood, and we were back to, “Not my kid.”

Yeah, not so much.

The silliness on Instagram continued—playing more insensitive popularity games, posting her fall class schedule, asking boys over and over if they liked her, and worst of all, being downright bitchy and mean to other girls.

Say goodbye to the iPod.

There was so much wrong with the whole situation I don’t know where to begin, but it was addressed, I can assure you of that. What bothered us, though, is that despite all the teaching, all the guidance, all the rules, Allie still became “that” kid. Subsequently, her mother, her father, and I were both surprised and disappointed.

As a parent you know in the back of your mind your child is going to screw up at some point in life, but it doesn’t stop you from believing the best in them. When this happens, though, it’s normal for us as parents to ask ourselves, “Where? Where did I go wrong?” as you visualize your adult child sucking on a crack pipe in the middle of some squalid trailer house.

But there’s a bright side. At least these events act as a barometer for gauging where a child’s heads is at. (Incidentally, Allie’s younger sister, Avery, now has the iPod and, thus far, she has proven to be rather responsible with it.) This in turn means teachable moments, and make no mistake, Allie is currently learning her lesson. If she wants to communicate with her friends, she can now go outside and bang two rocks together.

The Life of Bi [Huffington Post]

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Tue, 10 Sep 2013 13:03:00 +0000

There's an implied danger that goes with being greeted by a metal detector the instant you enter a door. After all, why would it be there if someone didn't want to prevent a deranged lunatic from attempting to sneak a weapon into a school or an airport? Or a behavioral health facility.

That's where I found myself -- a behavioral health facility assuring a hulking, six-foot-five guard that I had left my cell phone in the car as the sign in the parking lot instructed. The guard politely pointed me towards the door on the right of the nurse's station as opposed to the thick metal one on the left, which I noticed had a lock requiring the nurse to buzz someone in or out.

Peering through the small glass portal I could see a sterile hall lined with closed rooms. For a moment the option between doors made me feel like Neo choosing between the red pill or the blue pill, and I wondered which would take me down the rabbit hole. ...continue reading.

Swim Test

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 13:23:00 +0000

Unlike me, my kids are a bunch of water bugs when it comes to swimming. Swimming is one of those things that never really stuck with me after I grew up. Perhaps this is because my sisters and I never went that often. Once each summer our mother would take us for a day at the Lake Erie peninsula where the lake’s docile waves would toss our bony little bodies back onto the gravely shore. Sometimes, if we were lucky, a well-off friend would invite us over to their pool, but mostly we just damned up the small creek behind our house and sat in muddy, knee-deep water.

My kids also have a good size creek running through our backyard, but they would much rather prefer the new outdoor pool at our local YMCA. It’s not that they are averse to playing in the creek (and then tracking mud through the house); it’s just that the pool has a thirty-foot water slide, a playground, a whirlpool, fountains, and a zip line. Needless to say we spent more than a few weekends there over the summer.

However, there was a stipulation attached to using some of the pool’s features—children under 15 must pass a swim test. It’s not a bad rule to have, and I wasn’t worried about my kids making the grade. They’ve had classes in the past, and true to form they all passed, earning a green wrist band that allowed them to enjoy everything the pool had to offer.

Now, the way the system is supposed to work is, once you pass the swim test the lifeguard takes down your name and date of birth and then enters this info into the computer so you don’t have to retake the test every time you come to the pool. For some unknown reason, however, this did not happen for my 11 and nine year-old sons which meant they would have to take the swim test once more. Again, I didn’t anticipate any problems as they swam the length of the pool, tread water, and floated on their backs according to the lifeguard’s instructions.

But something was wrong. As they talked with the lifeguard I noticed twinges of disappointment growing on their faces, and by the time the boys reached me tears mixed with the water dripping from their bodies.

“He said we didn’t pass,” they both sobbed as they hugged me.

I was empathetic at first, as well as a little surprised.

Watching their reaction, the lifeguard came over to offer his reasoning. My middle son, he explained, hadn’t entered the pool properly (he slid in rather than jumping and submerging his whole body), while my other son started to get tired towards the end.

Ticky tacky? Sure, but if I’ve learned one thing during my time in the Army it’s that the standard is the standard. I must have taken hundreds of hands-on tests for various certifications where an instructor evaluated my performance as either a “go” or a “no go.” I can’t say I was always a “go” on every task, and it lead to some big disappointments, but even so, I couldn’t argue with the instructors. It was their job to uphold the standards, and even if they were wrong it still would’ve be a losing battle. The only recourse, then, was to redo the task at hand until I met the qualifications. That’s life.

I looked at the failed swim test in the same light. Arguing with the lifeguard wouldn’t have done any good, and I would’ve looked like a jerk anyway getting up in the face of a seventeen year-old kid. In fact, before walking off, the lifeguard actually thanked me for understanding. He had apparently already heard an earful from more than a few moms and dads.

Returning to my sons I let them know that they could try again in an hour. Hearing this, my youngest son dried his eyes and went straight to the starting point of the test so he could be the first in line. I smiled, rubbed his head and told him he still had some time to play yet.

My middle son’s reaction was different.

“I don’t want to swim anymore,” he pouted, curling up is his towel.

Call me a hard-ass but this attitude didn’t sit well with me. My son is naturally athletic and excels at whatever sport he’s playing unless he does poorly and then he wants to suddenly quit. Sorry, but that’s now how things work, pal. You don’t get to just quit because you failed at something. There was a mild sternness in my voice. “You’re going to retake that test.”

“No. I don’t want to,” he repeated.

This annoyed me. If there’s one thing I want my kids to learn about life it’s that you don’t quit.

“Okay,” I said. “Then you sit there and don’t even think about playing in the pool until you change your attitude.”

And he sat there for an hour at which time the lifeguard announced they would be doing another swim test which my youngest son was already in line for and soon passed. I high-fived him as he took off for the zip line. Then I turned to his brother. “Are you ready?” I asked.

“I’m not doing it,” he sulked.

His stubbornness got my ire as I believe my next words were something to the effect of, “You get your skinny little ass up off that chair and retake that test now.”

Finding motivation he didn’t know he had, my son promptly went straight to the pool, hopped in, and aced it.

As he got out of the water I was there to greet him. He was all smiles, and I gave him a big hug along with a short pep talk. “There are things you’re going to fail at in life. Things are not going to happen the way you want them, and it might not even be your fault, but you can’t give up. Understand?”

He nodded and I told him how proud I was before he left to join his brother.

Last week my company laid me off. It wasn’t because of anything I had done wrong. The company had lost some major accounts; it was hurting their profitability, and they wanted to get away from people working remotely. The owner couldn’t even say they were letting me go; I had to do it for him. But I understood. This is how business works. I’ve been here before five years ago, and here I am again. Now I have to jump back into the pool.

That’s life.

After passing the swim test my middle son takes on the zip line

Gone Kitties

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 13:00:00 +0000

Have I mentioned that we have kittens—well, had, but I’ll get to that later. Perhaps you saw something about this my Facebook photos or Instagram feed. That I haven’t written about them already is, I suppose, some travesty on the part of someone who claims to be a blogger (something that I will have much more time for in the immediate future, but let’s save that for a separate post unto itelf). Getting back to the subject at hand—kittens.

When we got our cat, Tallulah, awhile back (something I have already written about) we were told she was “fixed.” She was not, a fact soon deduced by her swelling belly which in the late stages of her pregnancy would move revealing the squirming life forms lurking below the surface.

One evening as my wife sat reading in bed the cat leapt onto the covers searching for a soft spot to rest her heavy frame.

“Look at the size of her vag!” my wife exclaimed. The gleeful excitement in her voice told me she had been Googling “cat pregnancy” again, and armed with such knowledge my wife was all too eager to share what she had learned. “The larger her vagina gets the closer she is to giving birth,” she went on without me soliciting an explanation.

Under other circumstances I might have responded with an ambivalent grunt just to be polite, but at the moment worry mixed with disgust as I stared down the business end of the cat’s distended vagina now being flaunted only inches from my face. It was as if Tallulah knew we were talking about her and, on cue, she thought it best to provide a 3-D illustration for me. The thought of some slimy blob dropping onto my chest compelled me to shove the cat away immediately.

“Be nice,” my wife said. “She’s pregnant.”

But I had been nice. In the weeks after discovering she was with kittens, I had shown the cat a great deal of leeway and affection. No longer did I chase her with a rolled up magazine for clawing up furniture or ripping down the curtains. I even scratched her chin once in a while. And the attention seemed to be appreciated as Tallulah no longer passive-aggressively pissed on my favorite rug.

Finally the time came for the kittens to arrive, an event announced at bedtime by, “Mom, there’s something coming out of the cat’s butt.” And indeed there was. Over the course of an hour mama cat delivered five kittens each of which came packaged like sausages in a thin membrane that she then licked off.

“Just like Google said!” my wife squealed.

By early the next morning these palm-sized balls of fur had new names: Schrödinger, Coco, Maisey, Bruce, and DESTROYER.

“I wonder where their dad is at?” one of my kids asked as they crowded around mama who was now nursing her litter.

“Well, dad cats are called ‘tomcats’ and they don’t tend to stick around after they get the mamas pregnant,” I answered. And recognizing this as a teachable moment I pointed out to my stepdaughters that if they ever hear a boy being referred to as a “tomcat” then that means he’s a lady’s man who will just love them and leave them.

This was met by a quizzical expression from my oldest stepdaughter who is in middle school. “You’re weird, Ron.”

After a moment focus was restored to the kittens but thoughts about their father were still on my other stepdaughter’s mind. “Well one thing’s for sure,” she said dryly noting the common color of their fur. “Tallulah must’ve f&%ked a black cat.” Once the shock wore off from realizing what had come out of my stepdaughter’s mouth (and hysterical laughter suppressed), a stern reprimand was issued for the use of language.

In the weeks that followed the kittens grew exponentially while I counted the days until they could be given away. I wanted them gone as soon as possible before anyone grew too attached to them which deep down I knew was an impossibility gauging by the number of cat toys and accessories my wife had been buying, nearly bankrupting us in the process. The ideal time for this would have been while the girls were away visiting their father for the summer.

Strategically thinking, I didn’t want the girls being upset over leaving their father only to come home and relive heartache all over again watching the kittens being given away. However, you know what they say about the best laid plans, and the kittens, who had somehow managed to win me over with their cuteness, remained for another month.

The problem, of course, was that the kittens were becoming a fixture around the house. Everyone knew they couldn’t stay but no one was willing to draw the line as to when would be the time for them to leave. I broached the subject several times but never followed through because I wasn’t ready to witness the inevitable shower of tears that would ensue. No parent likes to see their children sad, and so when we found a wonderful home for Schrödinger, I quickly offered to take everyone for ice cream as soon as their eyes dried.

Now we were left with four kittens that appeared not to notice the departure of their sibling. For Tallulah, though, it was a different matter. One of her babies was nowhere to be found, and I felt sad watching her search the house for little Schrödinger calling for him with long, sorrowful meows.

At some point, Tallulah’s despair turned to an animosity she directly attributed to me. I say this because each morning after would reveal a fresh pile of cat shit on our living room carpet. Understand, this was no mere relapse in housecat protocol; it was a clear message from Tallulah that if I messed with her family she would mess on my carpets. I dreaded the thought of what would be in store for me once the remaining four kittens were gone, and I envisioned a gift, most foul, heaped atop my bedroom pillows.

My wife, knowing my strong feelings about animal fecal matter in the house, attempted to intercede by getting to the living room before me to erase the evidence, but the bleachy smell of spot remover and mine field of paper towels on the floor told me that not only was Tallulah crapping on the floor but that the kittens (who I will point out were litter-trained) were as well.

Despite great restraint on my part, I finally lost it after happening upon DESTROYER crouched down in that unmistakable stance, his backend hovering purposefully just above the rug. Beaning the kitten in the head with a volume of Hemingway’s short stories only delayed things long enough for him to run under a table and finish his business.

I’d like to think that the other kittens in whatever cat language they speak had a long, heartfelt talk with DESTROYER over what he had done because the free reign they all enjoyed over the house was no more. I turned into a raving lunatic overturning couch sectionals and arm chairs in a mad hunt for surprised scurrying kittens as I ranted about not tolerating animal crap in my house, a pet peeve rooted in some grotesque childhood experiences.

“That’s it!” I seethed. “These cats are gone by the end the week. All of them.”

My wife, who had grown weary of her new morning routine, agreed, and for the remainder of the week Tallulah and her brood were incarcerated in the garage like inmates awaiting extradition to a penitentiary—in this case the local animal shelter.

The days that followed passed without incident. In fact, the cats seemed to be doing fine in this new arrangement. However, this did nothing to change their fate, and when Saturday afternoon came the kittens were rounded up and loaded into the van.

Tallulah, though, was allowed to remain in a last minute reprieve. The reason: She was the girls’ first real pet, and I couldn’t take her away. Not like this anyway, regardless of how I felt. I would just have to weather the impending and literal “shit” storm that was about to come from her.

But it never came.

The kittens have been gone for almost a week, given to the care of the animal shelter via a dropbox similar to those used to return library books, and Tallulah has reverted to her old self. She’s affectionate, playful even. And I can’t help from thinking that maybe those kittens were actually driving her crazy too.

If God Was A Daddy Blogger

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 24 Jun 2013 15:39:00 +0000

Today I'd like to introduce a very special guest blogger: God. Many people don't know God has a dad blog. No, I'm serious. He doesn't post as frequently as He used to, but He still tries to keep up with things. In today's post God offers a few thoughts on daddy blogging itself. Very glad to have Him today.

* * *

I guess it’s been quite a while since my last post. Things in my world have been just crazy. One day you’re trying to keep Satan from getting Obama re-elected, and the next thing you know months have gone by and you haven’t written a damn thing. As a blogger this is like the angel of death for your site—stop posting on a regular basis and people pretty much forget you even existed. Oh well. It is what it is, and if you’re one of those loyal readers still following me then this is pleasing, in my eyes.

To be honest though (and I always am), another reason I backed off from posting is I find myself wondering what to even blog about anymore. Keep in mind I started this site like an eternity ago; I’ve been blogging since before daddy blogging was even a thing. After a while you tend to run out of things to say. Read More...

Man of Steel Review: It’s Superman And Yet It’s Not

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 20:14:00 +0000

If you’re a Superman purist I can guarantee you won’t enjoy Man of Steel. If on the other hand you go, forgetting all that you know about the world’s greatest superhero then you’ll likely be entertained. For years now, fans and critics alike have been calling for a believable Superman, one relevant to today. Director Zach Snyder and screenwriter David S. Goyet accomplish exactly that with this dark, reimagined version which bares producer and Dark Knight director, Chris Nolan’s imprint. However, some of the liberties taken by these three to update Superman’s story have fans up in arms and understandably so. (Spoilers to follow)

Man of Steel does incorporate a number of the elements many would recognize from the Superman of before—the destruction of Krypton, the Kents raising young Clark, the return of General Zod from the Phantom Zone—and for the most part the movie does a good job portraying these backstory events in the setup. Beyond this things start to get dicey.

The movie begins with Lara, Superman’s mother, giving birth to her son, an act of treason on Krypton where children are artificially conceived and genetically engineered for predetermined roles within society. This is pivotal in setting up the themes of hope and choice echoed though Kal-El’s journey to becoming a superhero. Soon after the planet’s doomed fate is revealed, baby Kal-El is launched into space, and General Zod (superbly played by Michael Shannon) is banished for leading a failed coup. The rest, of course, we know.

Next we see a grown up version of the now, Clark Kent (Henry Cavill), working a series of odd jobs in his search to discovering his origins while trying to keep his abilities under wraps despite circumstances forcing him to do otherwise. These scenes are intertwined with flashbacks to Clark’s past as the strange boy who never fit it and the lessons from his adoptive father (Kevin Costner) and mother (Diane Lane). Both actors made for the perfect Jonathan and Martha Kent, and Costner does a particularly good job as he expresses his deep concerns that the world isn’t ready to accept what it can’t understand in Clark’s powers.

Along the way we are introduced to intrepid reporter, Lois Lane (Amy Adams) who is covering a story about a strange object discovered in the ice somewhere in the nether regions of the arctic. After an encounter with Clark, Lois goes on the hunt to learn of her rescuer’s origins, eventually tracking him down to Smallville. Meanwhile, Clark discovers the frozen object is actually the key to discovering who he really is (although has to wonder how a centuries old Kryptonian scouting ship could contain the famous blue suit made specifically for Kal-El).

And then, after a solid hour or so, our story begins.

General Zod, who managed to escape the Phantom Zone with a squad of co-conspirators, shows up in search of Clark and an object containing the genetic coding necessary for preserving the Krytonian race which Zod, naturally wants to resurrect on earth. With the earth’s fate in the balance, Clark reveals himself to the world as the alien Zod is looking for, and he willingly surrenders, first to the U.S. government and then to the Krytonian invaders. So far so good.

Zod’s plan is eventually revealed and thus begins all the fighting and destruction—oh, the destruction. First Clark’s hometown of Smallville is ripped to shreds in a main street showdown, showcasing a host of corporate logos including Sears, 7 Eleven, and IHop. (Hey, they said they wanted to make it believable--what's more believable than IHop?) Next, the center of Metropolis is pulverized into dust as Zod tries to alter Earth’s composition into something a little more Krytonian. It’s like Michael Bay’s wet dream to the tenth power making the Avengers battle scene look like a fender bender on 5^th and Wabash. And just when you think it’s safe to come out from under the rubble, Superman and Zod take turns wailing on one another as they topple about a dozen more skyscrapers for another ten minutes as a build up to a shocking climatic scene. (I’m not saying what.)

Given my blogging persona, I’ve been getting pegged with questions asking for my opinion of the movie almost from the minute I left the theater. Honestly, I’ve been debating how to answer this. Driving home at 3 AM, I really, really wanted to like Man of Steel. I mean I’ve been waiting for over two years to watch this movie, and yet after seeing it, I couldn't tell if it was worth the hype. This made me think that maybe my expectations were too high, that, like many fans, nothing could please me. However, by the second trip to see it, this time with the family, I felt a bit more comfortable with the movie—but not all of it.

The storyline, the acting, and the overall feel of Man of Steel were all headed in the right direction, certainly more so than Superman Returns, which, by comparison, even made the fight scenes and collateral damage justifiable. Execution, however, was another matter. I could nitpick the movie's flaults, but I’m not a critic, only a fan. And so, it’s from that perspective that I will point out the biggest flaw of the movie—they changed Superman.

I realize that changes were inevitable—needed even, but in Man of Steel there’s very little that makes the Big Blue Boy Scout just that, a boy scout. Sure, there are a few scenes of him saving a school bus full of children and a handful of trapped oil rig workers, but beyond this Superman, by omission, demonstrates an uncharacteristic lack of concern for human life (or Kyptonian for that matter since he wipes out his own race's last chance of survival--so much being a symbol of hope).

When Smallville is turned into a literal war zone, Superman does nothing to move the fight away from the terrified citizens. (You'd think he’d be more sentimental about his hometown.) The same is true when the Zod hits the fan in Metropolis as the two wreck everything and anything in their path. And then there’s that final scene which caused everyone’s jaw to drop. Even my youngest son turned to me and said, “Superman doesn’t do that.”

Granted, I didn’t want to see a campy, sappy version of my favorite superhero, but in attempting to create a believable character Snyder and Goyer stripped Superman of the very essence of what makes him Superman, ultimately bringing him down to our level rather than giving us something to aspire to.

Throughout the movie I kept waiting for that one dramatic moment when I'd be overcome by goosebumps after Superman did something amazing like rescuing a scared child from a meteor shower (Tom Welling in Smallville) or gently dropping a doomed airliner in a stadium as the crowd goes wild (*sad sigh* Brandon Routh in Superman Returns), but, to my great disappointment, that moment never came. It never came because the real Superman, the one that inspires us never showed up. Oh well, maybe next time.

* * *

Do I recommend you see Man of Steel? Yes. It is a Superman movie and still entertaining (and better than Iron Man 3). For parents, keep in mind that Man of Steel does depict some dark imagery and a lot of violence; so, if you’re wondering whether or not to take the kids I would consult Common Sense Media for objective insights.

A Letter To Batman From His Son

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 07 Jun 2013 16:08:00 +0000

Yesterday, my esteemed and highly talented daddy blogger colleagues, Charlie Capen and Andy Herald of How to Be a Dad published a post entitled, 5 Reasons Batman Would Be a Better Dad Than Superman. The post naturally elicited a massive response from the fan-boy dads, which I, of course, could not refrain. Charlie and Andy wrote their piece specifically ignoring the canon of both superheroes, and so I have done the same with this letter written in a completely re-imagined world of the Dark Knight and the Man of Steel.

Dear ~~Father~~ Bruce,

I am writing this letter to you as part of my anger management treatment which, of course, you know the court mandated. Dr. Friskin, my therapist, thought this would be a good way to constructively work through my feelings. Honestly, though, I don't even know where to begin. I guess my biggest question are all why. Why did you want me? Why did you fight my mother for full custody in the divorce? And why did you think you could ever be a father to me given your dual identity?

I want to believe that as a baby our family was happy one, but over the years I've realized that it couldn't have been if Mother left you so soon after I was born. Did you even love one another? I guess it all didn't matter after one of those freaks--what's his name, Penguin--killed her. Listen to myself; a bird man murdered my mom with a stupid trick umbrella, and that's not even the most bizarre part! That would be that my dad dresses up as a bat to fight other such loonies around Gotham City, in alternate dimensions, and God only knows where else!

Okay, I get it. Your parents were shot right in front of you, and it made you angry--so angry you vowed never to let it happen to you again, and ever since you've been busting your ass selfishly trying to get the world to bend to your vision of how it should be whatever that is. What it all comes down to, though, is that you've been holding the world's biggest pity party for yourself because your dad wasn't around. Guess what? I'm angry too and for the same reason. At least Grandpa Wayne had a good excuse. What's yours? Answer me that.

When have you been there for me? How many birthdays did I celebrate alone? Sure there were tons of people, massive cakes, and expensive presents, but that didn't make up for you being gone. Did you know I threw bar mitzvah and confirmation parties for myself even though I'm neither religion just to see if the absurdity of it would force you to show up. But, no, you were off in deep space fighting alien creatures along with your little group of "super" friends while I'm still getting hit up by the local synagogue and archdiocese for donations.

Yes, there were a few events in my life that you showed to, but, god, what a spectacle you made driving up late in another Bugatti and getting out with another woman--sometimes two--on your arm. Then you'd make some half-assed toast about how great fatherhood was before unveiling your latest lavish gift to me, most of which made no sense. A marble statue of myself put up in the Wayne Manor topiary maze? Was that meant to represent how perpetually lost I looked? My favorite, though, was the pony. What kid doesn't want a pony? Yeah, when they're eight, not fifteen!

Fifteen. That was the same age when you finally told me your dirty secret. Was it because you realized I wan't a little boy any more? Bet that was a real surprise. One day you're sending me to Switzerland to attend prep school and ten years later you can't figure out why I'm punching that damn pony in the face in front of god and everyone.

Or was the real reason you told me because I was becoming a liability to you with all the drunken parties, and drugs, and girls back at school. I guess that abortion for Lex Luthor's daughter was a real wake up call. What did you expect, dad? I was only mimicking you. Did you think that revealing your true self to me would change how I saw the world? Actually for once you were right; it did.

You showed me how f*#ked up life was, and the way you went on and on about it made me cynical. I kept wondering why if the world was so hopeless did you kept sneaking out at night with your fancy bat-gadgets to save it. I learned to hate you for it and everyone around me. It's only taken me until recently that I realized you weren't trying to save the world, you were trying to save yourself from the guilt of Grandma and Grandpa's deaths. And the courts said I'm the one who needs therapy!

My mistake was thinking I could somehow fix you, and suddenly we could be a real father and son. That's why I went after the Joker. I thought if I got rid of your biggest arch-villain, you'd see me differently and let me into your dark, twisted world. Well, I guess we all know how that worked out--me taking a hammer to the Joker's face. I didn't quite kill him but I sure as hell bashed that silly-ass grin off his pale face. It's kind of hard to smile without a jaw. Ha!

What's sad is that Dr. Friskin eventually helped me to realize that all that anger I released on that whack-job's face was actually meant for you, Bruce. I feel terrible admitting to you how good that handle felt in the palm of my hand as I swung it over and over, but after twenty one and a half years of you never being there, of having to carry around your secret, of seeing the world and everyone in it as so inherently evil, I needed a release. And now here I am in Arkham Correctional Facility writing you this letter ...and only a week before Father's Day no less!

You know what's funny? Do you know who's the only person to visit me on a regular basis (not you, that's for sure)? Clark Kent Jr, that's who.

I remember how you used to talk about his dad, that he was some sort of overly-optimistic chump, pulling his punches because he believed in humanity. I used to think that of Clark Jr. too; he seemed like some goody-two-shoes little prick. But now that I've gotten to know him he's made me realize there is a lot of good in the world, and this has given me hope that despite everything, there's also good in me.

Guess your buddy, Superman, rubbed off on his kid too. Why couldn't you have been more like him?

Sincerely,

Your Son

* * * Read more on the debate from others * * *

Andy & Charlie - HowToBeADad: "5 Reasons Batman Be A Dad Than Superman"

Sam Christensen - DorkDaddy.com: "Why Superman is a Better Dad Than Batman"

Alan Kercinik - Always Jacked: "6 Reasons Superman Would Be A Better Dad Than Batman"

Stephanie Reidy - Escaping Elegance: "Boys, Boys... Must We Bicker?"

Eric Bolton - Boltonshire: "Why Green Lantern is a Better Dad Than Batman AND Superman"

...and more to come I'm sure.

Superman's Two Dads In Man of Steel

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Fri, 31 May 2013 13:26:00 +0000

Last week Entertainment Weekly published an interesting (well, interesting to me) article in their Summer Must List edition. The article centered on Superman's two dads in the highly anticipated Man of Steel movie coming out in a few weeks. (I've already bought tickets and put in for a vacation day.) According to interviews with both Director Zach Snyder and screenwriter David S. Goyer, the role of fathers will be a central issue critically affecting Clark Kent's choices in becoming Superman.

EW correspondent Anthony Breznican writes that Clark is "in a tug-of-war between his Kryptonian biological father, Jor-El (Russell Crowe), and his adoptive earthling dad, Jonathan Kent (Kevin Coster)." Goyer continues the thought stating, "It's about Clark trying to decide whose son he is," while adding that Clark's decision will determine the the fate of the earth.

As I've mentioned before, the conflict, of course, stems from Jor-El sending Kal-El to Earth with a message to his son that he is to become a savior to his new home world, while Kent, on the other hand urges Clark to conceal his powers out of a fear for the worst from humanity.

What I liked best about the article, mainly because it's something I readily identify with, is that both Snyder and Goyer's experiences as fathers influenced this particular aspect of the movie. With eight kids, Snyder has had much to draw from, while Goyer goes on to recount a particularly poignant moment as a parent.

"One day [my stepson] was mad at me and said, 'You're not my real dad! I don't have to listen to you!'" Goyer recalls. "[Jonathan] Kent says a version of what I said to my stepson, which is, 'You're right. I'm not your real dad, but I love you and chose you. And I didn't have to choose you. And that's a big deal.'"

Being both a dad and a stepdad this article really hit home with me. In one sense I am both Jor-El and Jonathan Kent which often makes me question the consistency of the messages I pass along to my three sons and two stepdaughters. Sometimes I get it right; sometimes I don't. Mistakes are part of the story, but so too are triumphs.

In any case, I am thrilled that Man of Steel is going to explore this aspect of Superman's journey. In fact, Snyder tells Movie.com that a lot of emphasis will be place on Clark's years as a child growing up and the character development that molds the superhero he will eventually become.

For a guy with a blog named Clark Kent's Lunchbox, this is exciting to hear. It's exactly the part of the Superman story that made me a fan to begin with, and it's what helped make me a better father.

Man Up Monday: If You See Me Wearing A Blue Wristband

noreply@blogger.com (Ron) — Mon, 20 May 2013 14:50:00 +0000

It's Man UP Monday! I'm proud to be a member of the Team Single Jingles Man UP Monday PARENT BLOGGING TEAM! Today, I'm doing my part to spread an important message about Testicular Cancer. This post is in support of the Testicular Cancer Foundation (Team Single Jingles) which provides education and support to young men in order to raise awareness about testicular cancer, the #1 cancer among men ages 15 – 35. It's important to know this ahead of time because I rarely talk about my genitalia.

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Every guy has a good story about testicles, either theirs or someone else’s, and usually they elicit some amount of sympathy. Whenever someone mentions they were whacked in the nuts by a baseball bat-wielding toddler, or shares how some guy they know had his genitals squashed against the steering wheel during a car crash, every male, young and old, within earshot will wince as sympathy pains suddenly coursing through their groin and a wave of peculiar nausea rises up in their stomach.

I, of course, am no exception to the above, and could, in fact, recount a number of stories—mostly of others—that would make even a eunuch cringe. Of these, the one that stands out from among the rest occurred while I attended the Army’s Airborne School, a three-week meant to teach willing participants how to get sucked out the door of a perfectly good airplane as you kiss your ass goodbye.

On the day after our first a fellow student, who I never talked with before approached me in the latrine.

“Can I show you something?” he asked. There was a worried look in his eyes, and I didn’t know what to expect, which is why there was so much trepidation in my voice when I said, “Sure.”

That’s when he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his privates. “Do you think I should get this looked at?”

At first I thought this would turn out to be some sort of crude joke or perhaps worse until I saw the one inch tear the base of his testicles. I winced and nearly threw up as he explained how when he jumped from the plane earlier that day, the jarring yank that occurs once your parachute pops open caused one of the loose harness straps running between his legs to slice into his—well, you get the picture.

Under normal circumstances the answer to his question would be obvious; however, to do so meant being recycled into another class to repeat training. So demoralizing is this possibility that given the choice between this and having your balls ripped off, one is faced with a legitimate conundrum.

“Oh man, that’s a tough call,” I replied. “Could you tape it maybe?”

He nodded his head. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said. Then he pulled a wad of Army-grade toilet paper from his pocket and stuffed it against the wound before buttoning back up and heading to the harness shed to suite up for another 800-foot jump.

I’m not sure if this chap ever graduated, of if he ever had children, but you can be damn sure I cinched down my leg harness tight enough to cut off the circulation to my feet. I didn’t need any further motivation for keeping what’s naturally mine, which is why I recently went to see the doctor after my right testicle started hurting. My lone hesitation in this, however, came at the thought of my doctor, Dr. Zhu, a middle-aged Chinese woman who stood no taller than the average 4^th grader.

The idea of Dr. Zhu inspecting my package with her tiny child-like hands was enough to make me rethink my concern over the dull ache I had been experiencing over the last few days. Fear of the unknown won out, though, that and the impossibility of finding a make physician on such short notice.

What if it’s cancer? The thought both scared me and gave me a slight thrill over the attention I would receive. Ignoring the fact that my symptoms failed to coincide with testicular cancer, I started picking out colors for awareness wristbands I would give to friends and sell through an Etsy store.

Whatever the case I needed to know the answer sooner rather than later which is how I found myself with a miniature Chinese woman fondling my testicles which at this point looked like two overly ripe, fleshy grapes sporting the long, scraggly beard of a homeless Vietnam vet working the intersection of MLK and JFK. In the vet’s defense, he probably smelled better.

Dr. Zhu did not go about her work quietly as she pinched and squeezed the way people check for fresh produce at the grocery store.

“This hurt?” she asked.

“No.” The hesitancy in my voice more than conveyed my embarrassment over the present circumstance.

“How this?”

“It’s okay.”

“How ‘bout now?”

I jerked away wincing.

“Ah, I see,” she said rolling a few feet back in her stool.

By her tone I knew something was wrong. It was only a matter of how serious, and I braced myself for the worst while settling on blue for the awareness wrist bands.

Tossing her extra small latex gloves in the trash, Dr. Zhu took a deep breath. “You have more than one par-ten-ner?” she wanted to know.

More than one partner? The question was so absurd it hardly registered until I noticed she was waiting for an answer.

“Whaaa? No. I’m married!” As I said this, it occurred to me that being married could be taken as a flimsy excuse for why I shouldn’t have more than one partner, but it did not rule out the likelihood.

Of the three possible diagnoses for my discomfort, two were STDs including gonorrhea while the third meant I should be doubled over in extreme pain. By simple process of elimination I started to doubt myself. What if I did have an STD? How would I explain this to my wife? I visualized her setting me on fire as I slept in our bed.

It seemed my doctor had her doubts too. “We order more test,” she said, scribbling on a note pad. “You need urine test and ultrasound.” Then she added patronizingly, “Just ah to make sure.”

During the car ride to the hospital my wife asked what Dr. Zhu thought.

“Well, uh, she isn’t sure and won’t know until after the tests.” I tried to disguise my nervousness which I hope would be interpreted as trepidation over the inconclusive diagnosis. This same nervous feeling stayed with me as I explained to the hospital admin checking me in that I was here for a sonogram.

The admin quickly glanced at the doctor’s orders. “You mean ultrasound.”

“Ultrasound, sonogram. It’s all just semantics. Am I right?” I tried to joke, but the admin didn’t laugh. Instead she gave me a disapproving eye as she read through what Dr. Zhu wanted to confirm or rule out.

After a two hour wait, a radiology technician lead me back an exam room and told me to take off my cloths. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Seth Rogen, and I wondered how often he got the lucky job of pouring a thick, oozing goo onto another man’s genitalia in order to rub some plastic device over every hairy inch. By the confident manner in which he instructed me on the strategic placement of several hand towels meant to prop things up, I figured it was pretty often.

Moments later Seth Rogen returned to find my unkempt homeless vet setting prominently in a way that made me think it was holding a sign promising work in exchange for a good shave. What followed were the most awkward and intrusive twenty minutes of my life thus far. Thankfully, the technician made no attempt at small talk. For dentists, a little conversation is fine, but when it comes to touching another man’s balls, outside of a consenting relationship, there are rules about such things, rules each of us was not about to violate.

With the procedure done and after nearly another hour in the waiting room, the test results were in. Seth Rogen’s doppelganger put me on the phone with Dr. Zhu who explained everything had come back negative, and the source of my aching pain was nothing more than a fluid buildup that should go away in a few days.

Although a part of me was relieved to learn I wouldn’t have to tell my wife about a mysterious STD, another part of me felt slightly disappointed over the blue wrist bands. My emotions, however, shifted to both panic and hope. I forgot that I had scheduled a full physical with Dr. Zhu which included a peek at my prostate. Maybe the wrist bands would be a possibility after all.

* * *

Did you know that Testicular Cancer is the #1 cancer in young men ages 15 to 35?

Did you know that Testicular Cancer is highly survivable is detected early?

Did you know that young men should be doing a monthly self-exam?

What can you do?

Stop by the Testicular Cancer Foundation website for more information on Testicular Cancer

Request a FREE shower card with self-exam instructions - it just might save a young man in your life!

And if you're feeling just a little AWKWARD about this conversation, check out this video from some parents who feel the exact same way!