Steely Dad

This past week was a busy, but fun, one for the Steely Family. We went to the local carnival (for three days) and to keep the good times a-rollin’ we also threw in a Disney On Ice show for good measure. I realize this might give the false impression that being a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) is all fun and games, but really, being a stay-at-home dad can be tough work. No, really, it can be.  However, to be perfectly honest, when Steely Wife joins us, as she did for these events, I feel more like an unemployed dad than a SAHD.

I was struck with the most intense wave of nostalgia at the carnival. It seemed to me that all of the sparkly-cars-go-in-a-circle rides as well as the spinning-until-you-puke rides that I took my son on were the EXACT same rides that I rode when I was his age. No, I don’t mean similar; I mean the exact SAME! In fact, all of the toothless operators possessed an odd quality of reminiscence about them as well. I was my son’s age, eh hem, more than 30 years ago but could it be that these are, in fact, the same people and the same rides? I thought, perhaps, that dental photographs could corroborate my hypothesis but for some reason the “gentleman” operating the bumper cars took exception when I tried to photograph a close-up of his chompers. These carnival people can be quite testy.

Disney On Ice was, in a word, amazing. This was my second Disney show and it has yet to disappoint. Seriously, if you have not been, you should go. Your kids will think you’re a hero and you’ll find yourself cheering on all the famous characters who are doing stunts like back flips on ice skates and in full costume. The best part? As far as I could see, all of the performers had complete sets of teeth.

Since I’ve regaled you with my stories and rants for all these months, I thought it would be a fun experiment to turn over the Steely Dad Nation to the rightful heir, Steely Son, for his take on the carnival, the Disney On Ice show and anything else that pops into his head.

Here’s the exclusive interview:

Steely Dad: Thank you for agreeing to this interview.

Steely Son: OK

Steely Dad: So, did you like the carnival?

Steely Son: (In robot cadence) Yes-I-did-like-the-carnival.

Steely Dad:  What did you like most about the carnival?

Steely Son: Ummm, the Ferris wheel.

Steely Dad: Why?

Steely Son: Because, um (dramatic pause – unintelligible response).

Steely Dad: What?

Steely Son: (Sounding frustrated) BECAUSE, IT WENT UP AND DOWN!

Steely Dad: OK, chill dude. What other things did you like at the carnival?

Steely Son: Um, um, the MOTORCYCLES!

Steely Dad: Sweet. Anything else?

Steely Son: Um, eh, YEA! I liked the airplanes too!

Steely Dad: Nice. Anything else you want to tell us about the carnival?

Steely Son: Yea, the scary ghost ride!

Steely Dad: That wasn’t that scary.

Steely Son: Yea, it was! (Laughing)

Steely Dad: What was so scary about it?

Steely Son: Because the skeletons were popping out!

Steely Dad: Was Daddy scared?

Steely Son: Yes!

Steely Dad: No I wasn’t!

Steely Son: Yea, you were! Did you like it?

Steely Dad: Hey, I’m conducting the interview here.

Steely Son: No, I’m comucting the interview here.

Steely Dad: OK, moving on. How did you like the Disney On Ice show?

Steely Son: Good!

Steely Dad: What was your favorite part?

Steely Son: I don’t know.

Steely Dad: You did go to the show, right?

Steely Son: Yes.

Steely Dad: Then can’t you tell me your favorite part?

Steely Son: No.

Steely Dad: Why not?

Steely Son: Fine. Finding Nemo was my favorite.

Steely Dad: Hold on. I can’t type that fast.

Steely Son: FIIIINNNNDDDDING NEEEEEEEEEEMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOO.

Steely Dad: What else?

Steely Son: Nothing. I just liked Nemo.

Steely Dad: (Laughing)

Steely Son: What, Daddy, what?!?!

Steely Dad: OK, let’s be professional here.

Steely Son: What’s promessional here? Oy vey!

Steely Dad: So you didn’t like anything else about Disney? Come on. There must have been something else you liked.

Steely Son:  I just liked Finding Nemo.

Steely Dad: You didn’t like anything else?

Steely Son: NOTHING. I liked NOTHING else (waving his hands back and forth like an umpire signalling “Safe!”)

Steely Dad: You didn’t like Goofy?

Steely Son: Yes. I liked Goofy and Mickey Mouse.

Steely Dad: (Typing as fast as he can.)

Steely Son: Did you get that Daddy? I also liked Mickey Mouse.

Steely Dad: Hold on!

Steely Son: Daddy, what are you doing?

Steely Dad: Typing.

Steely Son: Oh, and I also liked the pirates.

Steely Dad: What pirates?

Steely Son: The Pirates ON THE Caribbean.

Steely Dad: When were those in the show?

Steely Son: When in the show? Huh? When in the show?

Steely Dad:  The pirates? When were they in the show? I don’t recall pirates.

Steely Son: Do you like them?

Steely Dad: Sure I do but I don’t remember them in the Disney On Ice show.

Steely Son: I remember.

Steely Dad: When?

Steely Son: Or maybe not.

Steely Dad: OK, final question.

Steely Son: Which final quesiton? What’s a final question?

Steely Dad: This final question. It’s the last question. OK here goes: who do you love more, Mommy or Daddy?

Steely Son: Goofy

Steely Dad: He doesn’t count. So who do you love more? Mommy or Daddy?

Steely Son: Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!!!

Steely Dad: OK, that concludes our interview.

Steely Son: (Big smile) OK!

***

Thanks for reading and have a great weekend!

I love golf. Even though I’ve participated in athletics throughout my life (football, baseball, wrestling, swimming) to me, golf is the purest contest in sports. I took up the game a few years before becoming a stay-at-home dad (SAHD). The first time I played, I sucked but I was seduced by the game’s nuances and intricacies. To improve, I played five days a week. I practiced several hours a day and my scores began to reflect my effort. I went from a 20-plus handicap down to a single digit index. For those who don’t play, this is a pretty good achievement. Once kids entered the picture, I turned my attention from golf to changing diapers. It was a natural poopgression.

There are so many appealing aspects to golf, and I could wax poetic about many of them, but the one characteristic I most admire is how golf provides a perfect metaphor for life.

How so, Steely Dad? What the hell have you been smoking and what sort of transcendental bullshit are you feeding us?

On Sunday at the PGA Championship, in what may be perhaps the greatest upset in golf history, Y.E. Yang, the 110th best golfer in the world, beat Tiger Woods, the world’s perennial number one player. How can #110 ever beat #1?

By most (if not all) accounts, Woods should have beat Yang and done so handily. Yang started playing golf at 19 years of age; Woods started at 19 days old. Ever since Tiger displayed his precocious golf swing on the Mike Douglas show, he has been surrounded by the game’s best talent, professionals who’ve provided him with sound advice and counsel. Today, Tiger has the money and influence that affords him access to the best swing coaches, the best mental coaches, the best facilities, the best equipment, the best caddie, the best nutritionist, the best doctors, the best personal trainers, the best of everything. Yang doesn’t and despite these glaring inequities, this David still beat golf’s Goliath.

So really, how can #110 beat #1? It doesn’t seem possible. Surely the PGA must have redistributed some of Tiger’s talent to make it a fair match, right? Perhaps the PGA took some of Tiger’s winnings, put the money in a pool to be redistributed to other players thereby ensuring fair and equitable access to the best resources? Maybe Tiger had to play with inferior equipment, play from different tees or take extra strokes. How else to explain it?

What? You say that didn’t happen? You say Yang beat Tiger with his own ability, without the PGA manufacturing the circumstances or the outcome? You don’t honestly expect me to believe that Yang beat Tiger with sheer determination, gratuitous guts and singular focus, do you?

Plus, don’t you agree that Tiger doesn’t deserve to enjoy being the world’s number one golfer? He doesn’t deserve to win 50 percent of the tournaments he enters. Tiger doesn’t deserve to win 14 out of 14 majors when he has at least a share of the lead after 54 holes. Obviously Tiger couldn’t achieve his number-one status through talent, sacrifice and hard work, right? He’s the best for one reason: he’s lucky. The only difference between #1 and #110 is luck. It’s the only logical answer, right?

Everyday, we hear this type of argument made about the society in which we live; that the wealthy guy enjoys his status, not as a result of sacrifice and hard work but because he was luckier than the poor guy; that it’s impossible for the poor guy to rise above without handouts and entitlements and redistribution of wealth. So let me ask you. Why do we accept these notions as truths in life but not in sport? Why can it be that in golf we enjoy watching two guys with different backgrounds, different levels of talent, different cultures, different financial resources, different languages, compete in a contest in which one guy clearly has an advantage, and completely accept the outcome whatever it may be? How is it that we accept imperfect circumstances in sport but in life many insist that society has an obligation to manufacture fair results? They corrupt the human compass, an internal mechanism whose needle perpetually points “due persistence,” for they fail to recognize that in life, as in golf, it’s possible for a Yang to beat a Tiger. In their Utopian vision of society, no one would watch a single sporting event (OK, fake wrestling aside) because outcomes would be contrived. And just as sports would lose fans under such conditions, so too would society lose great and fertile minds.

“Oh, but man is inherently evil and the strong will take advantage of the meek,” some make us fear. Well, not in a civil society. Think of the PGA as the government (the USGA is the actual governing body but please afford me some artistic license). It has a set of rules and each player (think of them as members of society) has a right and incentive to do his best. Who enforces the rules? Did you know that in golf each player is expected to penalize himself? In other words, players are largely self-governed. However, should a player neglect to call a penalty on himself, he would be an anathema, shamed and pilloried. He would lose all credibility for he dishonored the game, its values and traditions. Is this expectation of self-governance too much to demand of a great society? If golfers can do it, why can’t the rest of us? Are we not capable of answering to a higher moral standard?

When circumstances are manipulated to achieve a desired result, it crushes the spirit of every Yang out there who dreams of beating a Tiger. If before the final round of the PGA Championship, the commissioner said to Yang, “Dude, there’s no chance you’re going to win this thing. Tiger has all these advantages that, quite frankly, aren’t fair to the other players. The ONLY way you can win is by accepting our help.” Do you know what would happen? It would destroy Yang’s competitive spirit, it would shred his belief in himself and it would enslave Yang’s mind that he cannot now, or ever, do it on his own. Yang would feel as though he is entitled to the victory, that he doesn’t have to earn it, that the world of golf somehow owes him special consideration. If the PGA began to manipulate variables in order to manufacture results, #110 would never have to work as hard as #1, the quality of the competition would dissolve and no one would watch or care because the outcome has been established. We would never be able to dream, “what if,” because the “if” would have already been answered.

If you watched Yang’s victory like I did, you probably said, “Right on!” But if you discovered that Yang was given special accommodation to improve his odds of winning, I bet you’d feel cheated of that beautiful moment when you were able to believe that anything is truly possible.

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE food. I mean I REALLY love food. All types of food, I love. When I’m eating lunch, I’m already planning my dinner. When it comes to food, I’m like a grandmaster chess player, figuring out three, four meals ahead. I could go on and on about how much I love food but hopefully by now you know just how much I really, really love food.

Since getting married and becoming a stay-at-home dad (SAHD), I’ve also grown an appreciation for gourmet cooking. I enjoy coming up with a new edible idea and executing it to my own exacting standards. Recently I developed a sandwich I affectionately named the M.I. Sandwich. Can you guess what the M.I. stands for? Read how I make it, have a look at the photo and then take a guess. The first person who guesses correctly will win some sort of dishonorable mention on my blog.

So here’s how to make the Steely Dad M.I. Sandwich:

1. Toast a bagel to your liking (I like it lightly toasted so it’s not too hard)
2. Fry an egg over sleazy
3. Cook at least 3 pieces of bacon. Now this is the critical part. IT MUST BE Kirkland (Costco) Premium Center Cut Maple Bacon. This is the bacon that G-d himself prepares when he has a hankering for some swine. Don’t try to substitute on this ingredient. Trust me!
4. Once the bagel is done and is still hot, add a light coating of butter to both sides of bagel so that it gets into all the nooks and crannies. Let cool a bit then add an unhealthy (heaping) portion of WHIPPED cream cheese to both sides of the bagel as well. Add the egg, add the bacon and top off with other side of bagel.
5. Voilá! Your M.I. Sandwich is now ready to be devoured.

IMPORTANT STEPS BEFORE TAKING YOUR FIRST BITE:

1. Please sign and date the attached Liability Waiver, which was prepared by Steely Dad’s Legal Counsel.
2. Ensure you have a working defibrillator on hand.
3. Mainline some Red Yeast Rice Extract or statin medication.
4. Make an appointment to see your cardiologist.

Here’s what it should look like: Steely Dad M.I. Sandwich

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I’m sure you could add your own little twists to this culinary masterpiece so feel free to share. Good luck!

A couple of weekends ago, I went on vacation. (In addition to some of my other fringe benefits, my boss gives me a few days a year for vacation.)

But Steely Dad, how does a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) go on vacation? Isn’t your entire life a vacation?

To that I answer, “Well, yes it is,” but that’s not the point. The point is, like anyone else, I too require some time away. How does that happen with kids? Steely Wife simply takes over. Thanks hun!

So on this vacation, we went to stay with my best bud at his lake house in Elkhart Lake, WI. In a word, it was AWESOME!

I went wake boarding for the first time. It took me a few times to get the hang of it (don’t laugh; remember it was my first time) but here’s some video: Steely Dad Wakeboarding

My buddy also has a bunch of dirt bikes and quads so we went out to his track and tore it up. I’ve ridden dirt bikes a few times before (I am, after all, from El Cajon, CA, home of many a Supercross hero) but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Here’s some footage: Steely Dad Riding Dirt Bikes

And just to round off the weekend, we also did some skeet shooting. Again, I’m no expert like my mother-in-law (who is an accomplished competitive trap and skeet shooter) but I do OK: Steely Dad Skeet Shooting

It was just an amazing time and one I hope to relive again soon. You might be thinking with all the dangerous sports in which I partook that injury would be inevitable. Well, funny thing about that. I did actully hurt my knee but it was an injury unrelated to the aforementioned activities and didn’t occur until the following weekend. Want to know how I hurt it? Of course you do. I wish I had some gripping story, like I was wrestling alligators or something, but alas it would not be an honest tale (like the ones above). I hurt my knee jumping up in the air. Yea, just jumping up in the air. Mind you, when I jump I achieve Jordaneque-type air, but nonetheless I was just jumping. My wife and I went to a Yelp party and there was this cool camera, provided by Actionbooth, that takes photos of people jumping, dancing or just plane acting crazy. The dude from Actionbooth and I decided to do a chest bump.

Here’s the photo: Steely Dad’s Mad Hops.

(Note my three-foot tall Guinness hat.)

As you can see, I got up there pretty good but when I landed, I felt a “pop” in my right knee.  I’m sure mere mortals would’ve called it a night. What does Steely Dad do? I fought through the pain, with the assistance of several malt beverages, and kept the party going. That was Friday night. Saturday morning, when I attempted to get out of bed, my knee let me know under no uncertain terms that I’m a complete dumb shit. I couldn’t walk (in fact I still can’t put all my weight on it) so Steely Wife and Steely Kids had to escort me to the ER. Nothing is more demeaning than having to explain to your kids why Daddy has to visit the doctor, why Daddy smells like a distillery and why Daddy woke up wearing only a three-foot tall Guinness hat. Here’s how the conversation with my son went down:

Hungover Steely Dad: Ohhhhhhhh, my knee!

Steely Son: What happened, Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Daddy hurt his knee.

Steely Son: How?

Hungover Steely Dad: By jumping up in the air.

Steely Son: Why’d you do that?

Hungover Steely Dad: Because Daddy isn’t so smart.

Steely Son: I’m smart.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes you are, buddy. You’re much smarter than Daddy.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes son?

Steely Son: Why do you smell like that stinky guy we always see in front of the grocery store?

Hungover Steely Dad: Uh, is that your mother calling you?

Steely Son: I don’t hear Mommy.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yea, I hear Mommy calling you. (Me does his best ventriloquist impression.)

Steely Son: No she isn’t, Daddy. Are you goofin’ me?

Hungover Steely Dad: Here’s $20.

Steely Son: Daddy, this is $5.

Hungover Steely Dad: Consider it a down payment.

Steely Son: OK. Hey Daddy, why are you wearing that hat?

Hungover Steely Dad: It’s a magic hat. Watch, when you put it on you become invisible.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Where are you?

Steely Son: Daddy, I’m right here!

Hungover Steely Dad: Oh, darn, I guess you left.

Moral of the story? If you drink, don’t jump and if you jump, don’t drink. Make sure you assign a designated jumper when you drink. And please jump responsibly.

by Todd Gottlieb

I’m shooting for that fourth-grade “What I did for summer vacation” paper.

I’ve written many stories on my personal experiences as a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) but I’ve  never actually explained why I decided to become a full-time SAHD. I guess just like Star Wars, I started with Chapter 4 so consider this Chapter 1, the prequel.

SAHDs are becoming a force with which to be reckoned. No, we’re not as ubiquitous as our stay-at-home mom (SAHM) counterparts but nonetheless we are growing and expanding (and not just with regard to our waist line). We have blogs and support groups, and yes, we even have our own conventions. The lobby that represents us is in the making and it won’t be long before we have our own talk-show. Watch out, Oprah!

Dudes become SAHDs for a variety of reasons. Some become SAHDs as a result of circumstances (perhaps they lost their job) or because they realize that going to work just to pay for daycare doesn’t make financial sense. Others, and I put myself in this category, make a conscious decision to become SAHDs for no other reason than they wish to have a closer relationship with their children. For me, I wanted to be an integral part of raising my kids.

Being a SAHD doesn’t make me a better dad than the guy who works 60 hours a week in order to provide for his children nor does it make me any less of a dad; it only indicates that our priorities are different. Although my early ideal of what it meant to be a good dad was more consistent with the “traditional” role of financial provider, that philosophy experienced a seismic shift. In order to understand my desire to be a SAHD one must understand my background.

When I was younger, I always envisioned myself as the next Trump. I’m sure most of my classmates and early friends would be surprised to find out that I’m not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and downright shocked to find out I’m a SAHD. To be sure, I was on that professional path but after 9/11, I traded in the suit and tie for frayed jeans and a smock. With my then-girlfriend-now-wife, we opened a ceramics studio and taught kids how to make cool stuff out of clay. That was the beginning of my transformation.

My childhood is a convoluted story that perhaps I’ll share someday but for now understand that my parents separated when I was eight and divorced when I was 12 years old. After remarrying, my mother moved to the East Coast and I lived with a father who was neglectful and essentially absent. He cared about his girlfriend and her kids more than he did his own son. I grew up with very little parental guidance and this painful experience perhaps jaded me as I never envisioned myself a daddy. “Why would I want to put a kid through something like this,” I always asked myself. It was a question whose answer was not conducive to fatherhood.

More than anything, I had an unabated fear that, should I become a dad, I would turn out to be the same type of dad as my father. You know the old saying, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. These powerful demons often haunted me and challenged my paternal instincts. I resolved that I’d rather not be a dad at all than be that kind of dad. I just wasn’t confident that I had what it took to be a good dad, to be selfless, supportive, understanding, unconditionally loving, strong and sensitive. Unfortunately, fatherhood is not a toe-dipping experience: you have to jump in with both feet and I wasn’t sure I was ready to take that leap of faith.

Through therapy and the support of a loving wife and wonderful in-laws, I was able to take control of my fears by acknowledging and accepting my childhood, adolescent and young adult experiences. I began to realize that my unchartered path of fatherhood stood ready for ME to blaze, that the biological influence was only as great as I allowed it to be.

So when my son was born, I wanted to be the absolute best daddy that I could be. It had been a mantra of mine that, should I become a dad, I would want to provide for my kids everything I didn’t have. Early on this meant a big house, fancy cars, new clothes, ski trips, motorcycles, all the things that my friends had growing up. I think most dads feel similarly. However, those “things” I wanted to provide took on a different hue. No longer was I committed to providing material possessions for my kids. It seemed to me I had little control over how much stuff I could provide my kids (a capricious boss could simply decide to fire me one day or the economy could tank, for example) but I did have control over how much support, love, affection, time and stability I provided my kids. I felt that I brought him (and subsequently my daughter) into the world and therefore I had an obligation to guide them through it to the best of my ability. For me, that meant being a SAHD.

So, there you have it, my story of becoming a SAHD. You probably assume I think I’m the best dad in the world, that I’m something special because I’m a SAHD. Far from it. But if my kids think so then that’s all that truly matters.