Savvy Daddy Blog

by Andy Van Horn

Sure I can handle it

My wife asked me take care of our daughter so she could be a volunteer advisor at a drug prevention camp for a week in July.  What was I going to say?  "No."   I am 37.  I have multiple degrees in education and I taught school for 9 years.  I now work from home with an incredibly flexible schedule.  Most people would kill for the situation I have in order to be a single parent for a week.  I can handle this.  She asked in February.  You would think that this would give me enough time to be ready.  Oh silly daddy, that meant I had only 5 months to get ready.  Here is what I learned.

Zone D is the way to go.

While I am a musician by training, I understand sports and I live in LA where the main sports team is the Lakers (sorry Orlando).  Man to man is a valid defense in sports but when your opposition gets naps, seems to draw on an endless supply of energy, does not need to earn money and gets to sleep for 12 hours-while you do everything you could not do when she was awake (like relax, clean, cook, think)-then man to man will not work.  She can wear you down, even at 3 feet 6 inches tall. 

This is what I learned.  Make sure to take advantage of support, any support. By the end of the week, I had to take a 2 hour break to get rid of a headache.  If I had not then I would have been a horrible dad when my daughter got home from pre-school. I had the advantage of working from home so I made up the work at night.  So I also learned to use the resources you got.  Friends, family, educational TV (or any TV), flexible work schedule, whatever will give you some time to yourself to reenergize.  Let someone else carry the load for a little while.

2 minus 1 is not 1 but 0 in parent math

That is the amount of time that is now your own.  As soon as my wife left to go to "drug camp" (I got more sarcastic about her trip as the week progressed), I realized that the big things were not the issue.  It was the little stuff.  I give my daughter baths on a regular basis, I make lunch, I got breakfast and dinner covered, I put her to bed, I get her dressed but I never do all of them in one day, much less 5 days in a row.  While my wife would do some of the things listed above I would check email, look at a sports score, or think about going for a run (or actually go for one).  This week my personal time was gone.  It was not watching the super bowl or a night out with friends that I missed but rather the 15-30 minutes spread over a day that gets your brain in a different place. 

New Respect for Single Parents

My mom was a single parent and I know she had it tough.  She raised two boys on less than $30,000 a year, with no such things as video games, food delivery or summer camps that would take us for weeks at time.  But she was smart.  She got my brother and I involved in sports (both of us were horrible at it but we had fun) so we were at practice and games a couple of days the week.  This gave her time to reenergize.  I realize that this is what everyone needs.

The Return of the Mommy

She came back.  Child and father were thrilled but mommy was not feeling well and slept for 14 hours and then needed the next day to recover.  So daddy was not yet off duty but a weight was lifted.  She would read a book to our daughter while I could see what was happening around the world.  Just knowing that there was back up was a great feeling.

By Jim Denny

Jackson, my 10-year-old son, has taught me many things about the world around me. A shower - no matter how long - is never long enough. It is never too late in the day, nor too close to bedtime, to enjoy a good snack.  And it is not against the laws of physics to project toothpaste from the sink of the bathroom to the ceiling of the bedroom around the corner. The world is a mysterious place, and I am immeasurably grateful to have him around to unveil these wonders, along with countless others, every single day. 

Perhaps more meaningful, however, is what Jackson has taught me about myself.

This was the first Christmas where Jackson was in on the "Santa secret." So, he knew it was his mom and dad who forked over the cash for his new iPod Touch, rather than some kindly bearded man up at the North Pole cobbling things together with the help of a few elves. And he appreciated it. He truly did. But realizing I had a child who is reaching that point where the realities of life start to creep over the bulkhead of childhood wonder gave me pause. And watching how he took to the iPod Touch without hesitation, fluently navigating his way to the app store and downloading more free apps than I could ever imagine needing in my lifetime, convinced me that the years between us are actually quite tangible.

"Why do you need all of those?" I asked. "You'll never get to all of them.

"You're going to download some sort of virus," I warned.

I knew exactly what I sounded like. I sounded like my parents. The echoes of mom and dad saying "I don't understand why you kids even want that Atari thing" or "Computers? Ha! Why would I care about computers? They can't do the dishes, can they?" haunted me from the dark corners of my mind. I have become the old person who "just doesn't understand."

So, Jackson taught me what I thought was a very simple lesson about myself - I am old.  But in reality, his lesson for me didn't actually end there.

Jackson's birthday is on Christmas Eve. His uncle gave him a Ripstick. A Ripstick, for those of you who don't know, is to a skateboard what roller blades are to roller skates, yet decidedly more unstable. It has a single castor at the front and one at the back. It looks something like two oblong ping pong paddles fused handle to handle. The front and back move independently, just to make things exciting, I guess. According to the instructional DVD that comes with it, it is actually possible to propel yourself uphill by shimmying back and forth and somehow maintaining your balance as you try to forget that the only things separating you from the unforgiving pavement below are two wobbly, gyrating wheels. Jackson was very excited to have his very own Ripstick. And for some strange reason, I was excited to learn how to ride it.

And so there we stood in the driveway, staring at it. We bantered theories back and forth on how one might get onto it without planting his face into the concrete. We talked about which foot should go where, or if it even mattered. Eventually, the talking had to end. Jackson stepped up and, almost immediately, tilted himself off. Again. And again.

"Dad, can you do it?" he said with the slightest bit of frustration in his voice. In fact, I was almost stunned by how his sincerity drowned out the frustration. Did he actually think I could do this? I was never into skateboarding. I've only tried to snowboard once. As excited as I was by this new toy, I was equally sure it was something I would never lay a single foot upon. For an old guy like me, this thing was a deathtrap. And yet, there Jackson stood asking for me to show him the way. 

"We'll take turns. How ‘bout that? We'll teach each other," I said.

And so it began. We stutter-stepped. We wobbled. We watched the instructional video a second time. And then, we started to roll. I even managed to catch a wheel in one of the driveway cracks and take a tumble without breaking a bone. I don't even think I bruised my ego. In the epitome of role reversal, Jackson ran to my side to see if I was ok. And on his very next try, Jackson started cutting turns back and forth. We were far from experts, but we were balanced and moving.

A couple of more times that day, we headed down to the neighborhood clubhouse to take turns riding around the empty parking lot. We were sharing an experience neither one of us had ever had before. For that moment, we were both free to experience the wonder of life, unfettered by the conformity of experience. We had found a new frontier together. There was no young, no old. Only the thrill of the new.

It is true. I may be old and only getting older. But Jackson has taught me that I am most assuredly not dead. Life, according to Jackson, is not yet finished revealing itself to me.

Fatherhood requires that I pass the benefit of my experience on to Jackson, in hopes that he will use the knowledge and understanding from it to reach heights far beyond my own grasp. But at the same time, Fatherhood begs me to rely not solely on the experience of my past but also to share in the sense of wonder that can only come from doing something you have never done before. Fatherhood, in short, is as much an adventure as it is a responsibility.

The other day, Jackson offered to buy me a Ripstick of my own with some of his leftover birthday cash. I just might have to take him up on it.

by Phil Stott

About a month ago, my brother-in-law sent me a video of his four-year-old son's first touchdown in a flag football game. It's remarkable in several ways: first, that my nephew seems to understand the purpose of the game at such a young age-when he gets the ball in his own half of the field his first instinct is to head for the opposition end zone. Second: he understood that once he crossed the end zone line, he could stop running. And, third, he threw a proper football pass to the referee when returning the ball. A couple of weeks later, as if to prove it was no fluke, he did it again, and my brother-in-law again captured the evidence on video. Clearly he's a boy who's going to grow up loving his sport, and perhaps even has a natural aptitude for it.

All well and good, I thought. As someone who loves sport myself (albeit the other kind of "football"), I can remember the point in my childhood where I became infatuated with it-and it's lasted to this day. Becoming obsessed by a sport is a pleasure that, while not unique to boys, certainly seems to be more common among them-at least in my experience. Seeing that bloom in my nephew is a heart-warming thing, and I was happy both for him and his Dad, who is perhaps the quintessential jock-one that, to be honest, I don't know would have been able to relate to a son that didn't play sports.

My happiness for them both lasted approximately a week-right up until I read this disturbing piece on pro football in the New Yorker. While the premise of the piece is to present a parallel between football and dogfighting-a case that rests on a link between "gameness" in fighting dogs that keep coming back for more to please their owners and the culture in football of playing through pain, even to the detriment of your long-term wellbeing-the most disturbing evidence it offers is on the prevalence of serious brain injuries among ex football players.

Sure, the piece mainly details autopsy results of guys who have made the pros, therefore subjecting themselves to many more hits to the head-and at greater speeds from bigger guys-than someone who only plays through high school, but the evidence is frightening nonetheless. Guys in their forties showing symptoms of Alzheimer's disease normally seen only in the very elderly-the likely cause: brain damage from too many hits. The brain of an eighteen year-old who had "been playing football for a couple of years" with the kind of damage not normally seen in someone at 50, much less his own age.

There's obviously a long way between a fledgling love affair with flag football and taking recurring hits with the force of a car crash, but nonetheless the article left me concerned about my nephew. After all, I became obsessed with soccer at a very young age, and am still playing the game over a quarter of a century later (and, yes, typing that does make me feel very, very old)-who's to say he's not going to do the same with football? Even if he doesn't, even if he only plays until the end of high school, the evidence in the New Yorker piece suggests he's still got a better than average chance of sustaining some sort of damage to his brain from all the collisions.

Given all of that, then, it makes me wonder: is there anyone out there who's happy that their kid's playing football? And if so, why?

by Brian McGovern

Searching for a fascinating hobby that you can share with your child? Looking for a hobby that can help your child develop social skills and may promote a strong desire to read?

The hobby of magic can do wonders to promote an outgoing personality even among the shyest children. When a child learns how to impress other kids with amazing magic it gives them more self-confidence.

As your child's desire to master magic grows you'll be happy to find that he or she will be eager to read books and magazines about the topic. There's always more to learn.

The art of magic is a perfect hobby to share with kids.   Children are fascinated by magic and any father who can do a few cool tricks is one cool dad indeed. Here's a stunt that will amaze and amuse that doesn't take a lot of practice.

The French Drop

Here's an easy bit of sleight of hand that you can use to vanish coins, balls or other small items. Give this a little practice and you'll be able to make things disappear and reappear like magic.

Hold the object between your thumb and index finger of your palm up left hand. Move your palm down right hand towards the object. You're going to move your right thumb right underneath the object. (see youtube video here)

You're going to pretend to take the object into your right hand. What really happens is you let the object fall into the palm of your left hand. Let the object fall into your hand just as you pretend to take it away. Practice doing this in a mirror to make sure that no one can see the object in your palm.

Hold your right hand as if it really contains the object. If you're pretending to hold a ping-pong ball make sure your hand is not held flat. Let your fingers bulge as if they   really held the ball. Stare at the right hand with intensity. All your focus must be on the hand that allegedly contains an object. Your audience will naturally look in the same direction as you do so don't peek at your left hand.

Move your right hands up and down as you wiggle your thumb and fingers. While your audience is distracted by this motion let your left hand drop to your side. Make a slow tossing motion with your right hand and pretend to follow the object as it vanishes in mid air.

Pause for a beat and reproduce the object from your pocket or from behind someone's ear or even your nose. Practice this stunt in the mirror for a few minutes and you've got a trick you can use when ever you want to create a bit of fun.

Magic kits make a great birthday gift. Be sure the tricks it contains are appropriate for the age of your child. Encourage your child to practice and rehearse before they try to trick their friends.

Give it a try! You may really enjoy taking your child to magic shows, visiting magic shops and even attending conventions and lectures sponsored by local magic clubs.

Hijinx is a professional magician in New York.

by Phil Stott

So last Friday saw one of the best things I've read about parenting recently come to a close: Slate's Freaky Fortnight feature. The basic premise of the feature was that a Slate editor, Michael Agger, would switch roles with his wife, Susan Burton, for two weeks. In short, she would do his job while he stayed home in Brooklyn and took care of the kids. Both then blogged about the experience, and also put regular updates on Twitter.

Of the two, it's perhaps not surprising that I enjoyed Agger's posts more-mostly because I found them informative in many ways on the whole question of being a Dad who works. Over the course of the two weeks, he covered a whole range of issues, but I was hooked when he began his first post with the following quote: "My oldest son is 4, so it's a little early to tell how much fatherhood has changed me, but I have noticed two things. I stopped moping. (There's not enough time.) And I really, really love the office." It's hard not to get hooked, I suppose, when someone is willing to be so honest about their experiences-and doubly so when the words he's writing put my own thoughts into words.

Actually, that's what I most enjoyed about the two weeks of blog postings: the fact that both writers-but Agger in particular-seemed to keep putting my thoughts on the parenting thing into words. As a writer, I'll put my hand up and say that it's kind of humiliating to be beaten to so many punches, but I've always believed that the best thing to do when you find someone who does something better than you is to pass it on to others. (Plus, I'm consoling myself with the thought that because they only had a two-week assignment-and a fairly intense experience to base their writing on-they're mining a rich vein that gets harder to sustain the longer you write about it.)

Anyway, in that spirit, here are a couple of my favorite observations from Agger's posts over the two weeks. Each of them struck me as having distilled a basic truth about the art of being a Dad in this day and age.

• When considering how his priorities have changed since becoming a parent, Agger commented on how his attitude towards work has shifted. Gone are the concerns over fulfillment, or ladder climbing. Instead, he comments that "now the job thing has simplified: gotta feed the family." As someone who only began looking for a regular 9 to 5 job when my wife got pregnant, I can well understand the truth in that statement. (And, on an inter-generational, universal sort of note, my own father also claims that he went to work every day with the attitude that he could quit any time he liked: something that lasted until my brother was born. At that point, he says, "I realized that it wasn't only me who would suffer if I lost a job.")

• As the experiment wore on, Agger came to realize that he didn't really know his youngest child. Not in terms of personality, but in the rhythms of his days, the simple things you miss out on when you spend between 8 and 12 hours a day outside of the home. Thus, when he took his kids to a park, he found himself over-parenting to compensation, prompting the following observation: The "stay-at-home thing requires a different pace. I had to remind myself that I did not have to pay attention to Will all the time. I would have to slow down and be less of a spaz." What mostly-weekends-through-necessity Dad can't resonate with that?

• For brutal honesty (and because I felt more than a pang of guilty recognition), I also love the following quote: "I do my share of dealing with the kids in the morning, but I don't have that internal monitor that Susan has. The kids aren't always on my mind. They are always on Susan's mind."

• And, just because I've read reams of advice on being a writer-none of which is much use when it comes to facing a blank screen-I loved the following quote: "Giving parenting advice is a lot like giving writing advice. You can say a lot of things that sound very intelligent and thoughtful, but when it comes down to the actual act, it's mostly intuition and the inescapable fact of who you are." In fact, I like that so much that I may just write it down and keep it somewhere.

Apologies to both Slate and Michael Agger for basically stealing your work for this post, but as I said before, I'm a big believer in giving credit where it's due. (Burton is also due a whole bunch, but my appreciation for her has to be limited to silent applause given her lack of dad-ness!) And, just to prove that I'm not some mere plagiarist, here's the link one more time. Click it-I promise you'll find something you like.

(Image: Slate.com)