Steely Dad

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.

That is the question.

Perhaps someone else has written about this topic but I wouldn’t know; I don’t read much. I realize this might be a bit high-brow for many a Steely Dad reader but it’s important to expand one’s mind and horizons. After all, Steely Dad is nothing if not a place of culture and refinement.

Case in point.

This evening after consuming two massive triangles of a mushroom/black olive/spinach stuffed pizza that I personally garnished with sautéed pancetta and several whole cloves of RAW garlic, the following thoughts suddenly occurred to me when my digestive tract started to sound like an overactive aquarium: With whom is it appropriate to expel flatus? How long before you do so, say, in front of your significant other? Is it ever OK to blow butt breath in front of your kids and, if so, what words do you use to describe the expulsion of gas? Most of all, is it appropriate to laugh when someone rips a stinky poop cloud in your general direction?

These are all very important and legitimate ponderings and I would like to get to the bottom of one of life’s great mysteries: To fart or not to fart?

Passing gas has been a part of our common human heritage since the dawn of man and it’s been a source of comic “relief” ever since a caveman farted on his buddy and thought the entire episode worthy of a cave painting. In fact, Aristotle and Plato were known to have engaged in rather noisy debate about this very topic.

But what is the proper protocol for farting in various situations?

I’d like to do my part and conduct a poll of the Steely Dad Nation. It is highly scientific, of course. Please be sure to leave your answers in the comment section. Your participation is much appreciated and will help to construct a veritable guide on the etiquette of the fart.

Before we begin, I have a hypothesis about farting in front of others that I’d like to share with you. Through your responses, I will be able to prove or disprove my theory.

I believe there is a direct and irrefutable correlation between the appropriateness of farting in front of a certain person and the time either knowing and/or spending with that person. For example, you presumably spend a significant amount of time with your SO. Therefore, it is appropriate to fart in front of him or her. You probably don’t spend a large portion of your time with, say, your insurance agent therefore it is NOT appropriate to fart in front of him or her.

Let us proceed, shall we?

1. Do you fart in front of your significant other? (If your answer is “YES” please proceed to question #2. If your answer is “NO” please kindly go fuck yourself because we all know you’re, quite literally, full of shit!)

2. If so, how long before you actually expelled ass gas in front of your significant other (SO)?

3. Who was the first one to break the smell barrier: you or your SO?

4. Do you and your SO fart in front of your kids?

5. Even if you do fart in front of your kids, do you think it is appropriate to do so?

6. If so, what word or phrase do you use to describe the act of expelling flatus (i.e. fart, gas, cutting the cheese, etc.)?

7. Who has the more noxious/pungent farts: men or women?

8. Is it acceptable to laugh if a member of the family rips a really good one?

9. Do you and your family members participate in farting contests that test such things as the smell, duration and frequency of the farting episode? If so, who holds the record?

10. When girls get together, do they fart out loud and do they laugh about it? Guys never do this that’s why we’re so curious.

11. Has anyone in your family successfully attempted the “Blue Flame”? If so, who?

12. I’m a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) which provides me a lot of time with my kids. As such, I have developed an odd Darwinian olfactory adaptation that enables me to distinguish the farts of my daughter from those of my son by nothing more than their distinctive aromas. Does the parent who spends a majority of the time with your kids possess this same ability?

13. Are there specific situations in which it is permissible to fart in public? If your answer is “NO” would you reconsider your position if there was no way the fart could be linked to you? I’ve heard of a specialized technique called “dusting the crops.” It’s employed by people in certain industries, such as flight attendants, who sometimes have no choice but to expel their ass pollution on a crowded plane (another reason I hate to fly). It works by walking briskly down the aisle while simultaneously letting the noisome air escape. When done successfully, it is virtually impossible to identify the offender leaving everyone on the plane to speculate and guess. You will notice that many times people will pull their shirt up over their mouth and nose as a signal that they were not the offending party that floated the air biscuit. It’s diabolical if you think about it.

The results will be carefully tallied and reported in a future posting.

I just returned from an orientation for parents whose kids are signed up for summer camp. Yup, that’s right, my son is going off to summer camp. OK, it’s not like a camping camp; it’s a day camp. Nevertheless, whereas many of the parents look forward to summer camp with greater anticipation than the kids, I’m counting down the minutes like a Dead Man Walking.

Yes, I know he will only be away for four hours a day. Yes, I am aware that the camp is only three days a week. Um, yes, I can do the math (with the help of a calculator): that’s only 12 hours a week.

But I’m REALLY sad.

I mean, REALLY melancholic.

My son, my little buckaroo, is taking his first real giant step toward independence. I seriously can’t believe it. Even as a stay-at-home dad (SAHD), a role which provides me the opportunity to enjoy a majority of my son’s time, I’m still bummed. Of course I’m happy for him and I know he’s going to have a blast but a selfish part of me still wants to spend the entire day with him. There’s a part of me that now feels guilty for all the times I brushed him aside so I could do really important things like write blogs, Twitter, Facebook and the lame list goes on. I took for granted that I had all the time in the world with my son. Even though I became a SAHD for the sole purpose of spending the most amount of time possible with my kids, I still fell into the trap I so adroitly tried to avoid.

And it’s a total cliché: the time goes by so fast.

And it’s so very true.

He can’t be ready for summer camp. I just brought him home from the hospital yesterday.

I’m aware it’s not cool for dads to feel like moms but what can I say? I’m just one of the girls.

I worry about my son. I don’t know. Maybe it’s me I worry about. As parents, we’ve already experienced the agony and the ecstasy of growing up. The break ups, the heartaches, the rejection. We thought most of the volatility that goes along with the maturing process was well in the past but guess what? Once kids enter the picture, you have the distinct privilege to relive these special memories all over again only this time in a vicarious manner. It’s difficult and even more frustrating because you know your power to soften the blows will be futile.

My son is very sensitive. He really cares about other people. Whenever there is a new kid who joins his class at the drop-in center, he is the first to befriend the child. Parents have come up to me saying, “Your son was so nice to my boy. Thanks!” Comments like these are not unusual and each time I hear them I feel awesome. Just yesterday, for participating in a reading program, my son earned the privilege to choose a toy out of a treasure chest at the library. There were all sorts of cool little figurines that I thought for sure he’d snatch up. He ended up choosing a dinosaur straw. Later that evening I asked him why he had chosen the straw instead of the astronaut figurine or the little pirate dude. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and said, “Daddy, I thought those little figurines were too small for Ivie (his sister) and she could choke on them.” My eyes welled up with tears. You’ll recall the recent trauma we experienced when my daughter choked on a piece of food and had surgery to remove the obstruction. In any case, how does a boy this small have such a big heart? It’s a biological anomaly, especially if one considers his parents. I don’t know the kid’s IQ but I can tell you his EQ (emotional quotient) is off the charts and to me I’ll take that over “brains” any day of the week. Think of all the serial killers out there. Most of them have/had above-average intelligence. Let’s face it. Our basic job as parents is to make sure our kids don’t turn into sadistic criminals. If you see a story about your kids on America’s Most Wanted, you’ve probably goofed it somewhere along the way.

Most kids are cool but there are some mean little fuckers out there. My son has shared with me that some kids are not nice to him. They say mean things, exclude him and sometimes even hit or kick him. I’m not sure why that is; perhaps they mistake his kindness for weakness. Nevertheless, it breaks my heart when I hear these stories from him. I know he’s not making them up because I’ve personally witnessed several instances of this behavior. I don’t usually intervene unless the behavior is egregious. I think it’s important for kids to learn how to work things out on their own. I’ve tried to teach him how to handle tough situations, including how to defend and protect himself should things get physical. Although the kid loves to play rough and wrestle, he doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. Teaching him to fight back is like teaching the Dalai Lama to become a shit kicker. I don’t want kids to take advantage of my son’s peaceful nature but I also want to respect and encourage his unique personality. And therein lies the dilemma. The world is not always kind and is not always just and sometimes it swallows the innocent.

Summer camp will really be the first test, as much for him as for me. For the first time ever, we’ll be apart. His personality and genteel temperament will be challenged without Daddy’s occasional intervention. For the first time, the principles I’ve tried to teach him will undergo the stress and rigors of real-life application. Will they stand up to the test? Gulp. I just took my first huge swig of blind faith.

Hey, don’t forget we only have two more days for our fundraiser to help fight childhood cancer. Please consider making a contribution. Just click on the Alex’s Lemonade Stand button above. Thanks!