WONDER FREAKING MOM

We've talked about Superdad and Incredikids, but now it's Wondermom's turn. 

Thanks to the 1970's and 80's we have lost Ms. Cleaver forever.  No, we haven't really lost her, we've downsized her lazy-ass, and coordinated multiple job descriptions for efficiency and economy for the betterment of the family unit.  In other words, we gave her more work, less play, and she was rewarded by keeping her job and doing five others.  Wondermom's, like the modern employees, must do the work of many, but all for the same damn pay.  The unrealistic expectations come in the many roles for Wondermoms.  I'm sure I've missed some, so either comment and tell me what I missed or live with it.  Here are just a few:

Moneymaker:  I'm not talking about the moneymaker June Cleaver used to shake in that dress for Ward after a hard day with the Beav.  I'm talking about getting out there and bringing home the dough like Claire Huxtable. We can thank our parents for solving the nations 70's and 80's money problems by introducing the US to the two-income family (welcome to latch-keys, daycare, and Zoloft).  Today, Wondermoms do it just like Superdads, and that ain't easy.  Juggle job, doctor's appointments, getting Incredikids breakfast and off to school, and God forbid Incredikids gets sick on the day of the big presentation.  Oh yeah, and Incredikids will make you sicker than hell at least twice a year, but you'll slough your way off to work to save the "sick-days" for days when you're not really sick.  If Wondermom is lucky enough to stay home to take care of the kids, it's probably because she put up with Superdad's long road to making that possible, so reap that reward if you can moms (we'll just expect more out of you anyway with all that free time).

Household Technician:  I hate that damn Frontgate Family.  You know that catalog that comes out in the Spring with the pretty rich people on the cover looking perfect.  Who lives like that?  Everything is monogrammed, brand new, and perfectly decorated.  The catalog shows Skip, Buffy, their kids and the shaggy dog in front of their mansion or around their pool sipping mint juleps from plastic crystal.  Yeah, that whole thing is bullshit.  As soon as the camera left, the kids started kicking the crap out of each other, the dog dropped a deuce on the patio, Dad went into his office to "do a little work" sneaking a cigar like a 14-year old smoking one of granny's cigs in the garage, and Mom "ran to the store for a few things" but really stopped in for a few Mother's Little Helpers at the local pub.  No one really lives like that, and while it makes for a good crapper-backer mag, it's not reality and we don't need to try and live like that.

Real families live in their houses, make messes, and sometimes just try to keep the floor visible.  Wondermom has to follow her family of heroes around picking up shoes, clothes, and toys (Superdad too, that lazy slob).  As fast as she picks up, another mess is made, but she'll make sure the house is ready in case house guests happen to show up out of the blue (even then she'll apologize for some reason for the mess).  Superdads, yeah, we help "maintain the house" by putting on the tool-belt here and there and working on "projects." In reality we hide out in a room with the game on super-low hammering here and there to keep the illusion going.  Yard work takes hours, but we make it seem that way to make up for our lack of overall effort  I guarantee you that damn mower takes a long time to start doesn't it?  Your Superdad might just have to drink two to four ice-cold beers from the garage fridge to properly pre-hydrate before getting down to work on such a hot day...(nothing like bud-light and power tools).  Wondermom holds the house together, and for that we salute you.  The thing is it's okay for the house to look lived in, I'm not talking frat-house filth, but who needs freaking pillows on the couch you can't lay on?  What we really want is a little more time with you, and if it means the dishes wait until tomorrow, let em' be baby!

Hells Kitchen:  I stayed home sick last fall and watched afternoon television for the first time in a long time.  Who the hell are these people, and what freaking world do they live in?  They were making this amazing dinner from scratch with presentation like a four-start restaurant.  Organic, hell yeah, and the Wondermom had hit the Farmer's Market to handpick the bok choy or some other exotic veggie I've never heard of.  So between the house, childcare, Superdad care, and Wondermom keeping her moneymaker tight, she's expected to run a healthy, organic, low-fat, yet amazingly tasty kitchen.  The truth is Wondermom is doing great if she gets everyone fed, and it's unrealistic to put that kind of burden on her.  Superdads will each just about anything as long as it tastes decent and the kids will eat it without a fight.  So take a night or two off each week, have dad make "breakfast for dinner"  one night and make sure to have left-overs at least one day during the week.  We'll live.  If you like to cook, let it rock, and thanks to my family's Wondermom and her expertise in with the "eat clean" menu, we have our chef who keeps the Supergut in check. It's no easy task to have dinner ready at night, but believe me it feels awesome to walk into a hot dinner after a long day to make us feel like the king of the castle...even if its only once and a while.

Cougar-Time:  In addition to everything else, Wondermoms are getting crazy about fitness and looks.  I have the benefit of being married to a hardcore triathlete, and yes, that's very good for me.  However, I think it total crap that the media through women's magazines and TV, have portrayed Wondermoms as bony-thin models 12 weeks post-baby who dress like they're going to the Kentucky Derby everyday. First of all, models don't look like that without makeup and air-brushes, so F the media for portraying moms like that.  Second, those aren't real moms, they're women who have the benefit of trainers, dieticians, and their inherent ability to puke on demand like 98 pound jockeys.  Those bitches don't take care of anything, get divorced more than they change the oil in the Range Rover, and have the IQs of a well-developed meth addict.   Sure, workout, take care of yourself, stay healthy, and while you're at it make sure Superdad keeps that gut down to a minimum too, but don't freak out that you can't fit in your wedding dress 20 years later.  I'm sure  Superdad's waist is a little more seasoned than it was when you got hitched, and that's just what happens when we get older.  So quit watching Real Housewives of Wherever, and recognize that we love it that you look hot in sweats and one of our tee-shirts while playing catch in the front yard with Incredikid...that's smoking hot for sure. 

The Calling.  Take it from one Superdad, what we love most is to look at the Incredikids and how much they love you moms.  In the end, we're all going to look like the California Raisins watching Robot Vanna turn the letters on "the Wheel" as we tell Incredikids on speakerphone how to raise their kids.  You'll tell Superdad to turn up his hearing aid, and help him get up from the couch.  We'll share meals that wouldn't have fed one of us 25 years earlier, and our kids will tell us the waistline doesn't start just below your nipples so pull down the damn pants.  I truly hope we all live long enough for those days because this journey is the hardest, most rewarding trip we can ever take, and while it seems tough at times juggling all this other crap, it's damn fine when it all comes together.

Sometimes we just have to remember to enjoy being.  It's okay to pull the hair into a pony, wear the sweats, and forgo the makeup.  Don't worry, we get it.  There are going to be crazy days that require workouts at dawn, multiple stops at the gas station, and even the dreaded Micky-D's dinner concession.  The bottom line is it's great to bring home some cash, look great, cook like Rachel Ray, and keep a beautiful clean home, but in the end it won't matter much if all that comes at the cost of your relationships with the family.  Know that while Superdads don't say it enough, probably because we're too busy with our Fantasy Draft research, playing Words with Friends, or yelling at our favorite team for blowing it in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, we love and appreciate what you do for us. Sure, us Superdads may change a few diapers, go on a few field-trips, and read bedtime stories, but we aren't you and will never be...we get it.  So with Mom's Day soon approaching, please accept this sincere thank you from Superdads everywhere.  

Oh, and thank God you don't have an invisible jet...the Cheerios, apple cores, juice box stains, and papers jammed in the console would look like shit.  

Helmets, Hamster Balls, and Bubble Wrap

I recently read an article about a helmet designed for kids to wear full-time until they are two-years old.  No, this brain-bucket is not for bikes.  This $85 helmet is for crawling and walking inside and out to prevent "serious" head injuries.   This isn't a helmet for those unfortunate kids that suffer from some skull condition that requires protection (like my favorite Ricky Henderson teammate John Olerud).   The helmet, which shall not be endorsed by reference in this blog, claims to protect kids from the life-altering falls, which according to one article, are "closely related to learning disabilities."  Are you shitting me?  Our society is officially FUBAR. 

If your kid is an Indredi-kid, read on  and I hope you enjoy some fun. If not, Google this invention of wussitude, and please consider purchasing my newly developed Kids Hamster Ball for safe outside play (it comes complete with padlock to prevent abduction), and my line of bubble-wrap clothing (coming this fall at Sears).

Let's start with us, the "old people" in the eyes of our kids.  I always love the emails that make their way around about being a child of the 70's, and how dangerous it was...how could we survive?  No car seats, seat belts, lead-free toys, hand sanitizer, bike helmets, or Velcro shoes.  We rode our BMX bikes in tough-skins, with no shirt, rocking untied Zips doing Evel Kneivel jumps in Piedmont Park. Helmets, yeah, we actually had one (for the group), but only if you were going really big, and it was a replica Dallas Cowboys football helmet that read "NOT FOR PROTECTION" on the inside.  We got dirty, fell down, and were generally bruised and/or slightly broken most of the time.  My sister almost always had a black-eye in our Christmas pictures from crashing into something or catching an elbow in a wrestling match...man, she was/is one tough chica.  We played hard all day outside and unsupervised, and didn't come home until dark or we heard Mom call "dinner" from the kitchen window.  If some dude drove up in a "molester van" we met him as a group of OP short wearing tough kids (not really tough, but we sure thought so), and he better have a good excuse for being in the neighborhood in that white Econovan with no windows.  If he seemed shady, someone would say they were going to get their big brother or dad who would "beat him up."  Somehow we didn't get kidnapped or get punched out by those poor guys just doing their job selling encyclopedias.

Every Fall day after elementary school we met at the high school field and played full contact football without pads in the back of the end-zone during the Varsity's practice.  It was actually a "football like" game in which the ball carrier ran round until he had taken enough pounding and threw it up in the air for the next courageous warrior to takeover...it was epic.  We had dirt clod wars, played with firecrackers, and jumped off the two-story Witter Field equipment shed into the high jump mats like the Fall Guy.  On summer days, we rode modified big wheels (no one will forget J'ader's green machine) down 3/4's of a mile of concrete death with one big left hand turn known as PE Hill hitting at frightening speeds, and then dragging them back up to do it again.  A crash on PE Hill meant a raspberry the size of a grapefruit, and possibly a trip to Merritt Hospital for x-rays, stitches, and some yelling from dad. Once were were done tempting fate, we stashed our rides in the bushes by the Tot Lot, and walked to Convenient Food Mart for a pizza bread, Pepsi in a glass bottle (returned immediately afterwards for a piece of Bazooka for the road), and some Lick-em-Sticks.   We dined on things like tuna casserole, Hungry Man dinners (in the aluminum tray), burgers and dogs (off the Weber grill with coals started with jet fuel), meatloaf, Double Stuffed Oreos, and drank whole milk.  We never had soy anything, took fluoride tablets, or drank juice smoothies.  How in the world did we make it?


Today's kids must be perfect, and perfectly protected from all things physical and emotional.  However, in that process, some kids are being raised just to be.  Kids have hours of homework (even in 3rd grade) so they can be smarter than us, but are given little opportunity to use their imagination to build forts and invent games.  Where are our architects and contractors going to come from?  Bill Gates, that no-degree having loser, did alright following his passion which was not jammed down his throat at school.  Yeah, school is great, important and all that BS, but it just doesn't directly correlate to intelligence, success, or happiness.  In addition to school, we need to exercise those mush skulls by playing, imagining, and dreaming.  People think having little "Chardonnay" read by 3 is going to make her rich and happy, but in reality, she is destined for a pole with that name...just let her play outside.

Speaking of outside, today's kids generally only play outside when supervised by at least one adult.  Almost 20% of the kids are obese turds from sitting in the house playing hours of video games all day.  We don't even keep score anymore since someone might feel crappy about losing.  There is a reason you feel crappy about losing, it sucks, and you don't want to do it much if you can help it.  We are raising generations of entitlement sissies, who can't catch a ball, run without inhalers, and grow out of their shoes long before they wear them out.  Trophies don't mean a thing anymore since we order them before the season so every kid to feels super-duper.  After all, "winning is trying, and there are no losers if you play."  Really?  Everyone wins?  Not in any world I've seen...if there is a winner, there is a loser, and teaching the kids this lesson is important for their future.  Competition makes one work, practice, study, and most of all learn how good it feels to reap the rewards that come from working harder than your competition. This doesn't just go for sports, good Lord, watch American Idol and all those pimple-faced morons whose mommies tell them they "sing great" only to hear them sing like a cat getting screwed by an elephant.  Just once would I love to see that mom in her Coleman Muumuu say, "see Johnny, I told you you suck, time to move out and get a job."

Incredi-kids need to play outside, imagine they are their favorite athlete in a game on the street, run till their cheeks glow red, and learn to play "kick the can" until dark.  They need to yell "car" to pause the game mid-play instead of hitting a button on a remote control. Incredi-kids need to start a garage band...in the garage...playing actual instruments.  They need to play street-everything and argue about the rules until someone takes the ball and goes home (ugh, the future lawyers).  Incredi-kids need to fall down, get a few stitches, and learn that mom and dad just ain't going to be there to brush off your boo-boos all the time.  Incredi-kids get that way from getting bonked in the head, learn that falling sucks and that you just have to get up and do it better next time.  Skin and bones heal, and every scar is a story worth telling.

  

Some Superdad Basics

Like many of you, I've been juggling the duties of spouse, parent, business owner, family member, and friend and I thought it would be interesting to write down my thoughts during my journey to be a Superdad.  Not to be outdone, Wondermom and Incredi-kids will have a certain presence in this blog.  I hope you enjoy a mostly fun experience, and I also hope to share anonymous stories (with your permission of course) that you provide me as we all strive to achieve global domination (or at least make sure the kids get to school on time with the required homework completed).  If you don't like occasional light-profanity, potentially offensive honesty, or laughing at ourselves, you might want to forgo my blog.  Otherwise, I hope you enjoy.  Comment freely, and message me anytime if you have a story or topic you would like to see here!

Some Superdad basics:

The Hall of In-Justice.  Every group of super-heroes needs their secret lair.  It's clean, organized, and has cool stuff hidden behind secret panels.   The Lair has a massive TV screen, computer, and a Mr. Rogers-esque place to neatly hang their clothes behind glass.  There is always a bad-ass sports car sitting in polished/pristine condition waiting to roar out of the garage.  The lair is secret, private, and a place to wind down after a long day of saving the world.

For the modern Superdads our secret lairs are a bit different.  First, our secret lairs are not at all secret.  The address of our secret lair is in at least 7 directories for school, church, sports, and whatever other organization forces us to divulge our private information to insure Incredi-kids participation.  Most of us have decent TV, but it's stuck on the Cartoon Network instead of ESPN, and the "mute" button is only a touch away for those times when the kids come down from their beds and we're watching "Eddie Murphy-Raw" on Encore.  The computer...well that's for logging into some toy website that sells $18 stuffed animals, getting emails from school telling us that strep throat or lice are going around, or getting one of the many Incredi-kid scheduling commitments. The car has four doors, and was purchased for its functionality and not sexuality.  Superdads never have privacy in the secret lair, and we always come home to a house full of kids (often times not just ours).  Wondermom, with that slight look of desperation that screams "help me", greets us with a hello and an air-kiss, but is mostly glad to have someone here to get some showers started.  At least one Incredi-kid comes down from upstairs after getting a lesson on respect, and in a showing of further disrespect blames Wondermom or the other Incredi-kid.  I'm sure Superman gets some solitude in the Fortress of Solitude, but the Superdad gets no such relief.


Secret Identities.  By my count each Superdad has at least four secret identities.

First, there is "Dad."  In my case it's "Baba", but it could be "Papa", "Pop", or "Father" if you're born in Brittan.  Dad is not a secret identity, but rather the baseline.  In this life of wearing too many hats, Dad doesn't wear one.  He tells it like it is, is stern but fair, and goes to the coffee shop or Home Depot on Saturday in sweats, flip flops, and without even running a comb through his hair.  Showers and shaving on weekends are only done if you have to go to a wedding.  Dad will play catch, build legos, or cuddle on the couch with Incredi-daughter upon demand (she owns us).  Dad thinks he can fix anything, and generally costs the family a few extra hundred by taking a shot before he spends any money.  Dad burps, farts, and believes he is the master of his universe (at least inside the walls of his house).  Incredi-kids think Dad is pretty cool...for now.  Dad is pretty damn happy most of the time.

The second identify is "Parent" with the other families. Parent Dad holds back most honest thoughts like, "man that kid is a little shit" or "that baby looks like Chuckie."   Sorry they're not all perfect, but Parent Dad generally keeps his opinions in check to protect the fragile public.  Parent Dad never curses, laughs too hard, or drinks "one too many" at any function. Parent Dad is boring.

Third, is "Worker-Dad."  Worker-dad generally sucks.  He's happy (or financially dependent) enough to pry himself from bed each day to go to the sweatshop and grind out a living, but is never at his happiest.  He goes on ESPN.com at work because he can't watch it at home anymore, and keeps in touch with the other Superdads through a series of vulgar texts and emails (on gmail of course).  Sometimes Worker-Dad is cool, but mostly he puts on his suit, chinos, scrubs, or dockers and takes on the world in a pair of comfortable shoes.

Lastly, there is "Party-Dad."  Party-Dad rarely goes out, but then he does it's on.  Party-Dad is FUN in all caps baby.  Party-Dad and Party-Mom will go wild when they get the chance, but they'll be home by 10pm since they have to get up to go to something the next morning...and 10 is pretty late (of course, they will check for texts from the sitter every 20 minutes). When multiple Party-Dads get together there is usually a serious effort to sound like we are still capable of holding our own in a fight, but it mostly sounds pathetic as the conversations that usually follow are discussions about hair loss, colonoscopy (gotta be careful), or how getting your nuts cut off isn't that bad if you do it during March Madness.  Party-Dad is super happy, until the next morning when he swears he will never come out again.

 These Superdads were channeling their inner Thomas Magnums during a Party-Dad moment!


Until Next time...same Dad time...same Dad channel!