The hoodie equality gap

On the eve of Women’s Equality Day — the anniversary of the 19th Amendment — I accidentally bought my son a girls’ sweatshirt.

Does this sweatshirt look girly?

Well, my mother-in-law bought it. I helped pick it out. It has fitted sleeves and a contrasting zipper for a look that I would describe as hipster rather than girly. It adheres to my “no cutesy crap” rule for college-sports apparel.

But when I saw the receipt — “NCAA YOUTH GIRL FAUST BRNOT FZ HOOD” (cool name, actually) — my gut told me I had to take it back. Because GIRL.

Forget for a moment that my 1-year-old daughter wears brother’s hand-me-downs all the time. I grew up in an age when dudes dressed like dudes, before the later-millennial boys got all emo and started buying pants in the juniors section. And thank God, because I never had the body to pull off girls’ jeans. Not that it matters. I’m a man, damn it.

A man who just admitted to spending an afternoon clothes shopping with his mother-in-law. A man who stays at home with his kids, changing diapers and cutting sandwiches into Batman shapes while his wife goes out and wins the bread. Moreover, I’m a man trying to raise a baby girl into a smart, empowered, badass woman. And that’s why Women’s Equality Day has me riled up. Continue reading

Dusting off Dad’s glory days of writing

In the fall of 2003, a panel of Arizona State University staff asked me what I wanted my legacy to be at ASU. I told them I wanted future students to read my school-newspaper columns and think, “That guy got it right.”

The panel didn’t appoint me to homecoming court, and I’ve always blamed that dumb answer. My journalism career quickly beat into me the idea that nobody cares about old opinion pieces.

I was wrong! Today, national sports blog SB Nation noticed that ASU’s Sun Devil Stadium expressly prohibits tortillas. Turns out the definitive reporting on fascist anti-tortilla policies comes from a column I wrote in 2002.

Author Bill Hanstock calls me “a brilliant student reporter” and, immediately thereafter, includes a painful reminder about how old I am.

I’m pretty sure tortillas have been on the blacklist since I was in school, and this year ASU is cracking down on kegs and drinking games at tailgates. No “shot gunning,” a tailgating activity so familiar to me that I would have written it as one word.

See, the point of throwing tortillas at football games in 2002 was to carry on a tradition. That’s probably why I shotgun the occasional beer at tailgates. Thinking these activities are misguided doesn’t make you a fascist.

But the fun police need to appreciate that all these little things add up to a legacy of fandom. Fourteen years of these shenanigans have made me a bigger fan of ASU football than any other sport.

I want my kids to be as passionate about ASU football as I am. I realize that my debauched traditions are slowly giving way to more family-friendly activities. In time, though, the kids will come up with their own wild stuff. That’s a legacy.

Look what I'm doing with tortillas now!

Look what I’m doing with tortillas now!

Arizona State needs legacies like these. Already, the university is forcing students to subsidize athletics with a $150-per-student fee. ASU claims the largest student section in the Pac-12, while student attendance is dwindling at traditional football powerhouses.

Keep “The Inferno” rowdy, and my kids will happily pay to build their little legacies there. I’ll be on the other side of the stadium, riling up the alumni. In a good way.

Destroy all technology and your parents will love you again

We babies of the ’80s didn’t have much competition for our parents’ undivided attention. Soap operas. Phil Donahue. Sometimes we had to cry a little louder so adults could hear us over their shoulder pads and through their perms. No problemo, as we used to say.

If my 11-month-old daughter could talk in sentences, she’d tell you kids today have it worse. Parents pull shiny toys out of their pockets and can spend an unlimited amount of time staring and tapping at the glowy part. The big TV plays whatever they tell it to. Sometimes it’s Umizoomi, which is great, but a lot of the time it’s grownups droning on in muted-trombone sounds. Like, gag me with a spoon.

So baby has a plan to win the attention war. She’s methodically testing our tech for weaknesses she can exploit. And she’s finding them.

Clever girl.

Clever girl.

Continue reading

Don’t use the Nap Nanny Chill

Two years ago, I wrote a blog post gushing about a product called the Nap Nanny Chill. The tongue-in-cheek endorsement was part of a larger point about how parents become spokespeople for baby brands.

Now, six children have died while using Nap Nanny infant recliners, many major retailers have recalled the products and the Consumer Product Safety Commission is urging parents not to use them. We took ours back to Babies ‘R’ Us and got a full refund.

In light of all that, I’m downgrading my recommendation from “definite buy” to “potential infant death trap.”

*according to the federal government

*according to the federal government

Continue reading

Parenting: The inverse ninja law

My parents are in town, and we’re loading my two kids into the car after lunch at Food Truck Friday in downtown Phoenix. My dad fumbles with the buckles on two-year-old Champ’s car seat. My mom wrangles the lunch leftovers while cooing over the new baby girl. I break down the fancy stroller — it’s so fancy there’s a song about it — and load it in the back of my beefy crossover.

It’s taking forever, and my mom asks, “How do you do this by yourself?” The truth is that when it’s just me and the kids, I can do all this in half the time.

You see, I’m a ninja.

Ninja dad

This is how I take care of two kids all by myself.

Continue reading

Bowser Jr. and the dangers of ‘grup’ parenting

At my 20-month-old son’s insistence, I’ve been playing a lot of New Super Mario Bros. U (hard life, I know). Champy knows all the characters because their decals adorn his Mario-themed bedroom, and he makes me name them one by one before he will go in his crib (always worth it). I was excited, and he was a little terrified when we reached the game’s final boss, Bowser.

But the Koopa King seemed a little flat. He was lollygagging, puffing a few fireballs and occasionally jumping, but he clearly had no interest in killing Mario. He didn’t even roar until his son, Bowser Jr., supersized him with Magikoopa dust, dragged him out of the pit I put him in and forced him to fight me again.

Son, we're going home.

Son, we’re going home.

My gut reaction was that Bowser is a lousy dad, halfheartedly raging in Peach’s castle while his underage son acts as Mario’s primary antagonist across eight worlds. But a New York Magazine article on ‘grups’ — 30-somethings who shun traditional adulthood and live like 20-somethings  — has me thinking maybe Bowser is just dealing with the consequences of shared-passion parenting.

And it could happen to me! Continue reading

The parenting perils of Instagram

Lazy afternoon sunlight trickles through the dining-room windows and shines steely blue off the stainless appliances. Champ sits there in the kitchen, twisting the head of Big Batman, a “Dark Knight Rises” action figure aimed at adult collectors and probably unsafe for a toddler. I stealth-unlock my iPhone and crawl up next to him for a low-angle photo. This is going to make a great Instagram.

The final product of some dangerous Instagramming.

You should know about Instagram by now. It’s the service all the cool kids are using to square-off, stylize and share their best cameraphone photos.

I taught a journalism class last fall and devoted a large chunk of lecture to Instagram’s role in documenting Superstorm Sandy. Friends of mine interrupted a recent dinner party to make everyone watch an Instagram-themed Nickelback parody. Seriously, it’s everywhere.

Instagram is a big deal to me as a stay-at-home dad. I believe that if I can make my adorbz baby photos look hip enough, my childless friends won’t get sick of them and block me on Facebook. I rely on those friends for updates on things like limited-release beer and new movies, but my head would rainbow sparkle puppy explode if I kept all Champy’s cuteness to myself. Continue reading

Best baby names: A simple formula

I’m about to double my cash value as a stay-at-home dad. My wife and I are expecting our second child — a girl — this August. In the month since we found out the sex of the baby, we hear the same thing every day:

Do you have a name? How about _________ ?

Aryll is Link's little sister from "The Windwaker." You already know the DeLorean.

I’ll answer the second question first. No. Your name suggestion is stupid. As for the first question, we don’t have a name. We have something even better: A formula for coming up with the best possible baby name. Continue reading

The string cheese incident

An open letter to the dad. From the Champ.

File photo; string cheese not pictured.

Dear Dad,

I am writing to express my EXTREME DISSATISFACTION in your handling of the organic string cheese we purchased recently from Trader Joe’s.

I’m just a toddler. “String” is not part of my vocabulary. I vaguely grasp the concept of “cheese.” And yet even I can understand the purpose of this “string cheese.” It is a toy that is crinkly on the outside and rubbery on the inside — perfect for waving around, banging on things and even chewing. Continue reading

The unmanliest thing I’ve done as a stay-at-home dad

Since I’ve become a parent, I’ve done some things I wouldn’t brag about to my bros. I know the name of every Yo Gabba Gabba! character.  I squeal when my son sticks his finger in my belly button. I once went to the mall just to get a limited-edition Yankee Candle, and I bought the matching Illuma-Lid to go with it. That last one I can’t even blame on my kid.

But now my son is getting over a sinus infection, and this forced me to do something unthinkably girly.

The Champ doesn't want to blow his nose.

As a stay-at-home dad, I’m the last person who should be throwing out generalizations based on gender stereotypes. But here goes: If a woman is wearing pants with pockets, she’s got a wadded-up tissue in there. Continue reading