By Mark Hebert

Yesterday, while watching the DoodleBops with my daughter, I came to the realization that I’m no longer cool and the things that I used to think are cool are definitely lame.

Every father realizes, that at a certain age, your daughter will no longer look at you as a superhero but rather a dweeb-nut, but at the age of 34, I didn’t think it would happen to “me” so soon.

As the DoodleBops ended with their signature tune, a song so catchy and annoying that once it’s running through my head it makes my scalp bleed and the wax in my ears bubble, and after the credits rolled, on came a commercial pushing a Tigger doll.

Sophia, my nearly-three-year-old daughter, loves Pooh and his posse, and out of the entire group she LOVES Tigger more than the rest.

The speed, at which Sofia shot off the couch to directly in front of the Television was alarming and made me wish mankind, could harness that energy. She started dancing a jig reminiscent of Sammy Davis Jr., if Sammy wore shoes three sizes too small and on the wrong feet.

Her arms shot into the air, her hands balled into tiny little fists, and as she shucked and jived the song coming from the television knocked the wind out of me.

dahhhh nana nut, nah nut, nah nut…

The song washed over me along with the image of a singer in tight leather pants, gaudy black hair extensions and knee-high boots doing the Electric Slide through my mind.

Tigger, the lovable little orange and black-striped ball of energy that my daughter adores was doing cartwheels…

Shaking his furry little rump….

Grinding to music coming from the speaker lodged somewhere in his-made-in-China body, which was clearly…

Super Freak! By Rick James.

Oh mama, say it ain’t so.

She’s a very freaky girrrrlllllll…nah nut nah nut…the kind you don’t take home to muthaaa!!!!

Rick’s voice came to me like the Ghost of Hipness Passed,

…and she’ll never let your spirits daaooowwwwn….when you get ‘er off the street oww!

PISS THE BED.

Anyone who knows of Rick James, or the song by the 80’s madman, knows that the self proclaimed “King of Funk” was (he died August 6, of 2005 of a heart attack) about as far from Walt Disney – or anything wholesome – as you can get.

He served prison time, was known to try to live-up to his bad boy reputation by forcing tons of depressants and stimulants into his body and he once sang a song so eloquently about a little green girl named Mary Jane.

In two words – when I knew I was cool – my hero.

This is the end…my only friend….the end…

Shut up Morrison….I thought to myself, ‘don’t need you chimin’ in on this one’.

If Rick James’ songs can be bought by Disney, have those songs used to sell cute little toys… and I have no problem with the institution that is Disney, in fact I am always open to the idea of comp tickets to sway my particular opinion…

What’s next?

Jerry Falwell endorsing Hustler magazine as a good bathroom read?

Cosby and Snoop Dogg in a Puddin’ Pop commercial with a stack hill of empty containers behind them as they both giggle their way through their lines?

On a personal front I was crushed.

Sophia continued to rumba as I became one with my sofa and watched as Disney’s Tumble Time Tigger was making a mockery of my past.

“Dance it up little girl,” I told her. “Soon you’ll be so embarrassed by me that you may never know joy again.”

I fought the urge to go to my closet, grab every pair of jeans I own and iron them.

I could hear the black socks calling me from my sock drawer begging me to wear them covered only by sandals….

As I prepared a glass of warm milk to calm myself down, I could imagine the tattoo on my chest washed away by the never ending streams of “World’s Greatest Dad” t-shirts that would soon be part of my wardrobe.

Could Florida be far off?

Should I end my subscription to Esquire and sign up for Readers Digest?

Change the info on my TiVo so that it records ‘Matlock’ instead of ‘Jon Daily’?

Out with Metallica! In with Medleys!

When the songs of a drug abusing, womanizing, foul-mouthed P-Funk god are used in the creation of toys that makes my daughter scream like Louey Anderson is standing on her hand every time we pass it in Target, I’m doomed!

No longer cool as I thought I was…now it’s time to grow up.

I would write more but I think my arthritis is kicking in and 20/20 is starting soon.

It’s nearly 7:58 p.m., way past the early-bird special and my bedtime…

In fact, it’s the official time of death, of cool.

Here is something a bit serious. 

Several artists (Billy Joel, Goo Goo Dolls, Montgomery Gentry, etc.) have gotten together and recorded a CD honoring the troops.  It can be downloaded by following the link below.

Thank you for your service and sacrifice for our country! 

We salute you!

By Mark Hebert

One of the most beautiful things my daughter has said to me in the first five years of her life is:

“Daddy, I’ve got to go poop on the potty.”

Up until the point of that declaration my adorable little girl would let me know she had to drop a duce by tightening up her face and making a few grunts before taking a dump … her face contorting so that she looked like a little old Irish man, sort of like Mickey in Rocky, before scampering away from me and down the hall.

“You’re gonna eat lightnin’ and you’re gonna crap thunder,” I’d tell her as she skittered away with a pant-load of wet bacon bits.

There are a lot of fathers out there who refuse to change their kid’s diapers, who think it is beneath them to wipe their child’s ass and feel that doodie-duty should fall strictly to the their wife. I brought this up to my wife, she considered the idea and then told me something along the lines of “you don’t have to do it” and “I’ll just put these little extra clumps of flavor in your Frosted Flakes in the morning.”

It didn’t take me long to become a diaper-changing master, but there is at least one thing that fathers of daughters should know that aren’t common sense when it comes to cleaning that daughter of yours.

First, in medical terms, when wiping your daughter, do so from the top of the who-ha back towards the corn-hole. This is because it is much easier for a girl to suffer from bladder problems than a boy because of fecal matter getting into their privates. Front to back, always Front to back.

A good trick to keep in mind with the disposal of diapers is to have a good cache of plastic bags – the kind you get you groceries in at the store – on hand. Place a towel under your daughter before changing her, put both of her feet in your left hand, hold them up in the air so you get a good view of the area, clean her up – front to back – slipping the diaper out from under her buns like you’re pulling a cloth off of a table. Once she is free of the crap-bag, bind it into a tight little ball, secure it with the tape that’s already provided and then plunge it into the plastic bag. Tie the bag off at the top – making sure there is not air inside – and viola, the kid is clean and all areas are secure.

Keep the bag out of the house, but in a spot you can quickly locate. Wait until that annoying neighbor starts loudly playing his Michael Jackson Thriller album at 2 a.m., retrieve your dirty bomb and chuck it at the windshield of his car.

“The kid might not be yours,” I howl, Billie Jean style, “but the kid’s shit is going to be hell on your windshield wipers.”

See that, two asses taken care of with one stone.

When your daughter is dry, make sure to have some baby powder on hand for her little tookas. A light dusting with the powder gives your baby that new-infant smell (like buying a new car) and the comfort that the powder provides will be apparent as you look down at your little girl face and she grins back up at you … maybe if the world’s leader would powder each other’s butts once in awhile, there would be less war and suffering in the world.

Inset the new diaper under the kiddo, place the butt dead center and then fold her nether regions up like a burrito on Cinco de Mayo. Make sure that the tape on the diaper is not too tight, but at the same time not too loose … fresh baby poop shooting through your bare toes is no fun, so keep the perimeter secure, but don’t cut off circulation.

Dads, just remember that changing your daughter’s diapers will someday be repaid. Someday we will be crotchety old farts that don’t have the ability to drop the kids off at the pool and that we will be the ones wearing diapers. Someone is going to have to wipe our ass and who better to repay the favor then the little girl who crapped thunder all those years ago?

Diaper spelled backwards is “repaid,” keep that in mind daughter-o-mine, and daddy will be eating lots of bran in his diapered years.

Here is a little video that makes you appreciate all those crazy days we have.

Enjoy every moment…

Here is a fascinating little product that you can try out with your little girl and which should make for some fun bonding time:

The Plantarium Garden Lab (http://www.countdowncreations.com/eduplantarlab.htm)

Using a nutritive and non-toxic gel created by Globus International in collaboration with NASA scientists, Plantariums are life-giving ecosystems in which seeds germinate. The colorful gel’s transparency makes the seedling and its roots visible throughout the entire germination and plant-growth process!
Plantariums work as a mini-greenhouse after the seeds are germinated in a dark room. Once a seed has grown to the top of the gel, the Plantarium is moved to a bright spot so the seedlings can thrive. When the seedlings reach the top of the vial or container, the plant can be transplanted into soil to complete its growth. The kits are recommended for ages 6 and up. Complete instructions are enclosed.

The whole kit is only about $26 and includes three different plants, peat and pots…

Have Fun!

by Bruce Reinhardt

When a guy is going to be a dad, he usually longs for a boy, and he dreams of them playing football together, and of teaching the kid all about cars, and fishing, and all that cool stuff that only males get into. For a lot of guys, the thought of having a little girl is downright frightening…but I was totally up for it. Not that I had much choice in the matter…but when my baby girl, Erica, arrived, I was full of pride. And besides, it didn’t take me very long to figure out that a guy carrying around a little girl was just about as good a chick magnet as any puppy could ever be. Since I had crossed the threshold from dude-with-a-wife to the tired, haggard, has-been, worn out, bottle-brained new dad that I was, it gave me a boost to get attention from total strangers, and so, I took Erica everywhere with me.

One day, on yet another daddy-daughter outing (as in ANY excuse to get out of the house!), I took Erica to a supermarket. There we were, 9-month-old Erica and I, in the local supermarket on a Saturday morning ready to do a bit of shopping. Since Erica was still at the crawling stage, I carried her in my arms from the parking lot, and on into the store. As I’m making my way to the shopping carts, there is a woman – a RED head – who, typical for just about any member of the female persuasion, can’t hide her drooly craziness at the sight of a man cuddling a cute baby girl. Upon noticing her, notice me, I fumble single-handedly with a tangled up empty shopping cart just to make sure that this pretty, red-headed gal continues to pour her attention all over me…I mean, all over my cute daughter.

By this time “Red” starts feeling sorry for my one-armed fight with the cart so she comes over to assist me, the helpless, super-sensitive man. She takes one melty look at my blue-eyed Erica, clutched protectively to her daddy’s strong chest, and then Red takes another melty look, this time up at me. My ego soars, and to milk the situation for all it was worth, I flirt with the Red by introducing my daughter to her. Right on cue, as Red looks adoringly at my daughter, Erica greets her with an approving spit bubble. The not-so-bad lookin’ lady laughs aloud, that kind of intimate-wanna-be-a-mother sort of laugh, and my ego continues to inflate like a weather balloon.

The shopping cart is finally free and in a low Barry White voice I ask the Red, “Would you happen to know where the formula is?” As I’m taking in the panting spaniel qualities of Red, who must have been delighted that I would ask for her instinctual help in locating the formula, I move Erica into a two-handed-under-the-armpits-grip, in order to place her into the seat of the shopping cart. While my face looks to the right, and is fully distracted by the Red’s precise aisle directions, Erica is poised over the front of the cart which is to my left. I automatically lower my baby girl down into the seat of the cart, though just as I am letting go, I suddenly realize that the cart isn’t actually there. The cart had silently rolled, unnoticed, away from my side, and I dropped my little girl right onto the floor!

In a span of a few seconds, which felt like a lifetime, several things happened:

1. Red’s pouty-perfect ruby lips turned into a grotesque grimace.

2. Erica’s diaper-padded baby butt makes floor contact with an enormous “Whack!”.

3. The only silent, non-squeaking shopping cart in the entire store manages to also hit an old man in a walker.

4. My ego deflates like the crash of the Hindenberg.

5. And Erica’s scream nearly shatters the supermarket windows.

My attention, of course, for the next minutes, hours, and days, went to the tender, over-protective care of my poor, sweet, little Erica. As time went on, I did make a few more trips to that same grocery store, but never again did I see the adoring, and interested, red-headed lady. It pretty much seemed as though she vanished from the face of the planet. I always held Erica a little closer from then on, and to this day, I make sure to grab only the noisy shopping carts, with stiff wheels, whenever I go to the grocery store.

by Mark Hebert

I suppose it’s every father’s worst nightmare. Some little punk, sporting a head full of greasy hair, wearing a leather jacket and driving a slick little motorcycle comes knocking on the front door asking for my daughter’s hand.

Back-up Fonzi, I’ll stomp a mudhole in your ass.

Last week my wife was required to chaperone a dance at the elementary school she works at and since she had to be there – and because she carries my nuts in her purse – my nearly five-year-old daughter and I decided to attend with her.

My daughter – who knew she was going to the dance for a week prior to the shindig – thought that she was Cinderella going to her first ball and she couldn’t wait to get there. Me, well I would have rather taking a cheese grater and swiped it across a forehead a couple thousand times, but being that I’m a loving husband and father (and a glutton for punishment) I washed my ass, combed my hair and put on a clean shirt for the event.

When we arrived the party was already underway. About 60 pre-teen hoofers were cutting a rug to WE Will Rock You and my daughter – being a Queen fan – hooked-up with a couple of my wife’s female students and proceeded to twist and shout without a care in the world for the next half-hour. Everything was going fine, my daughter was having a good time, my wife was happy and I left the cheese grater in my back pocket.

Then, tragedy struck.

A little eight-year-old rodent – who I’ll call “Soon to be pulling my foot out of his ass” or, Johnny Rotten for short – was dancing with my princess, both of my little girl’s hands resting in his slimly little paws.

“Ah, that’s so cute,” my wife said to one of her fellow female chaperones, before turning to look at me. “Mark, why is there steam shooting out of your ears?”
I watched as my daughter and J. Rotten grooved to some God awful county twang and remembered back to the first little thug that had courted my daughter.

The event took place last summer as the wife, daughter and I went swimming at a nearby lake when the temperatures in the area had hit 100. We were tooling around, having a great time, until a five-word sentence ended the bliss.

“I’m going to kiss you,” a four-year-old monster shouted as he ran toward my daughter.

“The hell you are, Satan’s little Spawn,” I shouted back (the gasps from others at the beach were deafening, but a few fathers that were there with their daughters shook their heads in support as I glanced across their faces.)

“Tucker, don’t kiss anyone,” the little boy’s father shouted, looking at me with an expression on his mug that said “face it, pops, sooner or later the boys are going to come calling.”

“Not on my watch, Mister,” my expression countered. “Unless you want to go home wearing your son’s tail as a hat, you’d better corral your little monster.”

Spawn chased my little girl around for awhile, the two giggling like, well, children, and no kiss was ever planted (and no ass-hat was ever given.)

It was with this memory in mind that I strolled across the floor as my daughter’s first dance ended, patted her on the head, asked if she was having fun and then shooed her away from her little Prince Charming before grabbing the Prince by the collar of his shirt.

“You treat her good or I’ll carve your ears from your head with a rusty butter knife,” I informed him.

He shook his head “yes” and ran from the dance as if his carriage would soon be turning into a pumpkin.

Though the crisis was averted, the reality is that sometime soon my daughter will be a teenager and that she will start to like boys more than she likes her father. It’s a reality that I have to deal with – unless, God willing, she decides that she likes girls better – and I remembered what a horny little cuss I’d been in my adolescent days (the thought still sends shivers up my spine.)

My daughter is the most important thing in my life, but the fact is that someday some little Casanova is going to sweep her off her feet and I won’t be the most important man in her life anymore. It’s going to be tough to deal with, and I’m not sure how I will do so, but until that day comes, I’ll be sitting here polishing my 12-gauge Mossberg.

“Bring it on, Chachi. Daddy’s got lots of buckshot.”

We all should recognize that mom’s with sons have a difficult time relating to them as well.

So here is a very informative video about motherhood.

Purely for informational purposes of course!

An article from Christopher Noxon

Click here to read more articles from him on his site!

Latest Reuters column, this one a dinner party anecdote about a hot babysitter wrapped up in depressing ruminations about the basic savagery and superficiality of human nature. Fun!

Often in the course of family life, a parent must face inconvenient or downright disturbing truths about children that fly in the face of what we believe about our influence as parents and human nature itself.

Before becoming a parent, for instance, I genuinely believed I could convince my offspring that Barney the Dinosaur is in fact evil and does not actually love them.

I was also convinced that my children would be the first toddlers in history to possess, thanks to their kindly father, impeccable table manners and a keen appreciation of historical documentaries, late-90s acoustic mope rock and Alaskan scenery.

On all these counts, I was forced to face facts. News flash: kids love Barney, do not generally appreciate the genius of Ken Burns or Elliot Smith and will never, ever, even if you shell out many thousands of dollars on a pleasure cruise of Glacier Bay, give a damn about the majesty of the wild when there’s a buffet table piled with cookies behind them.

Still, hope dies hard. Throughout my first years of fatherhood, I clung to some ridiculously starry-eyed and politically correct notions about children.I believed they are born virtuous and free-thinking, that meanness, superficiality and arbitrary gender norms are learned via reality TV and unlicensed child care providers. Left to their own devices, I imagined children would establish a just, happy society filled with toys and cake.

REALITY BITES

I managed to maintain this cheery outlook despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Qualities I’d assumed would come naturally to my kids—fairness, patience, civility - seemed entirely absent in my young charges. Often, they could be just plain mean.

My three-year-old son, for instance, appeared to enjoy nothing more than batting his infant sister on the head with a Lincoln Log.

Even as I disciplined him, I found a way to justify - or at least reconcile - the occasional outburst of savagery. He was, I mused, simply expressing the innate impulses of his primate forefathers.

Which also helped explain the kids’ stubborn refusal to conform to the carefully constructed gender-neutral world my wife and I had assembled for them, painting their nursery a neutral shade of avocado and providing each with unisex playthings.

We cringed when a relative, usually a grandparent, did something so gauche as give our daughter a baby doll or our son a toy steam locomotive.

But wouldn’t you know it: our firstborn son came out of the womb crazy for trains and our daughter instantly gravitated to ballerinas and princesses and to this day gripes about putting on any garment that isn’t sufficiently pink and sparkly. One militantly gender-neutral friend who had withheld dolls from her daughter says she once walked in on her daughter cooing to a toy truck she’d swaddled in a pink blankie.

OK, so children are born barbarians, boys like boy stuff and girls often fall prey to the tyranny of pink.

But none of that quite compared to the hard lesson in human nature I learned from the hot babysitter.

Allow me to explain. A few years ago my wife and I took the kids for a weekend to a fancy hotel. We planned to have a grown-up dinner and arranged a babysitter look after the kids.

When informed of our plans, the kids expressed terror at the prospect of spending the entire evening with a stranger; they whined and worried the entire day. Then the door opened and in stepped a 19-year-old yoga instructor with impossibly long limbs and the bone structure of Sophia Loren in “The Black Orchid.”

Both kids latched on to the sitter’s pantleg and looked up at her adoringly. For the two of us, they had just one word: “Bye!”

All their fears and insecurities had evaporated in an instant. I’ve since heard similar stories from other parents - even naturally nervous and clingy kids, it seems, often display an eerily natural level of comfort and security when left with comely caretakers.

None of this should be so surprising. Scientists have proven that aesthetics are hard-wired into the brain, that even infants stare longer at pictures of lovelier faces, that otherwise unconditionally loving parents lavish more attention and praise on prettier kids than goony ones.

In other words, kids are just as superficial and shallow as we adults are. Hard lesson in human nature indeed.

Published on Retuers, Feb. 26, 2008