The illustrations below are featured in a book by David and Kelly Sopp - after I had an initial chuckle I actually thought the illustrations are a bit naff. I know, I know it's supposed to be funny and all - and certainly not meant as serious parenting advice (I hope). But the humour is based on "the old world" beliefs of fathers (I think it's mostly dads in the illustrations) and their approach to handling babies. Time to move on ... bring on the humour with 21st century dads and babies!
I literally have NO FUCKING IDEA why the schools are closed today. Apparently, the school superintendant looked out her window this morning and proclaimed, "OH MY FUCK! IT'S A BIT BRISK AND THERE'S SOME WIND! CANCEL SCHOOL, IMMEDIATELY!!!" This is Michigan, isn't it? Known as "the wolverine state"? An animal with a special upper molar in its mouth that allows it to tear off meat from prey or carrion that has been FROZEN SOLID and also to crush bones, which enables the wolverine to extract marrow. Apparently, the animal mascot for Okemos is "The Chickenshit."
And, conveniently, the Old Lady has a day full of meetings today, so I've been enjoying a nice, peaceful morning of ten minute work bursts, followed by a distant blood-curdling scream upstairs, followed by me sprinting up two flights of stairs to see who has stepped on who's head, followed by me saying some variation of, "Dudes, I have to get some work done today -- do you think, maybe, you could play for, like, five minutes without murdelizing each other?!," followed by me fighting the urge to just let them just play the Wii all fucking day, followed by me clomping back down to the goddamn basement, only to repeat the whole fucking process every ten minutes.
Wait... was that a scream or a laugh? Make that every five minutes.
EPILOGUE Well, today did suck for the most part. At least work-wise -- I barely got any shit done. I did spend some quality time with the spawnage, though, so it wasn't a total douche. I made up a new game, as a matter of fact. I call it the "lie-on-the-couch- with-my-eyes-closed-and-have-the-spawnage-place-things-in-my- open-hand-and-I-have-to- guess-what-it-is" game. It's a fucking brilliant game. I basically got to nap while they had the time of their lives. I was pretty unstoppable guess-wise, too, but I'd throw in a red herring every now and then to make them crack up. Like, "Ew, what is that?! Is that... a poop?!" Got 'em every time. The game went on for quite a while, but I had to put a stop to it when, at one point, Miss O actually sat on my hand and farted. The game rules clearly state that if, during the course of gameplay, one of the guessees flatulates on the palm of the guesser, said guessee forfeits and the game is over. And rules are rules.
No matter how hard we try, Clare and I are always running late in the morning. I rush her to get dressed, eat her breakfast, brush her teeth, and get her coat on so we can get to the bus stop on time. I've timed it down to the minute. If we're out by 6:58, we're okay. If it's 6:59, we have to run. If it's 7:00, we're risking missing the bus.
At 6:58 this morning, Clare was still in the bathroom brushing her teeth. I hate making her rush through tooth brushing, but sometimes I have to.
"Clare! It's getting late! We have to leave NOW!" I yelled into the bathroom.
"Daddy, I need help!" she yelled back.
Great, I thought, something's gone wrong and it's gonna throw off the whole schedule.
Here is a story from www.parentwonder.com about love making tips for husbands, it is written for new fathers.
- Scott
It is no secret that men can get turned on much quicker than women. Men are also able to climax in less time than most women. This can make for some issues when it comes to love making. Husbands sometimes don't understand why their wife doesn't want to be intimate. It is likely because they aren't getting the same thing out of the event. Men need to understand that love making is more mental for a woman while it is mainly a physical event for a man.
Nature has some new ammunition in its battle against nurture. Clara and Kate are showing clear signs of coming from that (ig)noble and (in)famous stock, the Bittles. Let me start by saying this is not something I am completely comfortable with. You see, we Bittles are a kooky lot, as anyone who has spent an extended period of time with us has discovered. Because I want Megan to continue to spend extended periods of time with me, I reign my kookiness in. That leaves my dad as their primary source of Bittle-ness, and unless he's holding Bittle lessons while I'm out of the room, I just don't see him influencing him in that way either. Which means that their Bittle behavior is inate! That is perhaps the most disconcerting sentence I've written on this blog.
Evidence #1: This may seem like something small, but it strikes me every time. Kate pronounces "sandwich," "sammich." I know, I know, most toddlers pronounce it "sammich" but you have to understand that my entire life I have heard it pronounced that way by only one person: my dad. Go with him to Subway. The 64 year old man will order a sammich. Sit him next to Kate and ask them what they want for lunch and my dad and his mini-mini-me will both say "sammich."
Evidence #2: The girls both got doll houses for Christmas, which are set up in the office/toy room. Kate was also given a big yellow dump truck. For the first two weeks after Christmas when they played with their doll houses, they took all the furniture from each house and threw it in the back of the dump truck, then proceeded to drive the dump truck around the house. They didn't want to play house - they wanted to play move houses. Every time they did this I shook my head and thought of my family.
Bittles are a nomadic, wandering people, prone to pick up and head out on long trips at a moments notice. Most of us can tell stories of long, adventure-filled trips that no sane person would take so much pride in. Often this wanderlust causes us Bittles to change houses, and the "B"section of many a friend's address book has suffered accordingly. Dmitri had to buy a new address book mainly because of us. I probably had a dozen different addresses in the 90s. Kate's not yet two years old and already she's thinking about moving.
I'm bracing for what Bittle trait next manifests itself in my girls, but as I write this I'm thinking of the kindness and the loyalty and the love that is so strong in the Bittle family. I'm thinking of my parents, of my brother and sister and their kids, of my Aunts Mary and Billie and Carol, of my Uncle Lyndon and Aunt Jane, of my cousins Dale and David and their kids, of my cousins Shauna and Nick and Danille and Steven, and of so many Bittles gone much, much too soon and I realize how lucky Clara and Kate both are to be counted among such people.
Surprise, surprise - a few days after our son got sick, my wife came down with the cold as well. It's a bit of a worst case scenario to get sick when you are breastfeeding, as "mum" is still needed for the feeds no matter how she is feeling. So how can dads help their partners while they are not well?
When my wife got sick I briefly wondered whether I should focus my extra attention on our baby or her? (like when you are on the plane and they go through the emergency procedure ... "make sure your mask is fitted before helping infants"). I concluded that both of them needed extra attention.
First things first - I made sure we had all the remedies in the house that she is allowed to take while breast feeding. The main one being Paracetamol ... apparently you are not supposed to take vitamin supplements etc. while breast feeding. Other standard cold remedy drugs are not suitable either so we mainly used Paracetamol and a lot of hot lemons with honey. ... read more >>
The spoof Meet the Spartans edged the return of Sylvester Stallone's aggrieved vet in the singularly named Rambo for the top spot at the weekend box office, per studio estimates compiled Sunday by Exhibitor Relations.
Meet the Spartans grossed $18.7 million; Rambo, $18.2 million.
"Lost?"
I don't get how movie-making became a competitive sport in the mind of the press. But more than that, someone made "Meet the Spartans?" Really? There were actual humans with money who said, "Let's hire a writer to do a 'spoof' film of a really popular film from this year, and we'll 'spoof' 300 by basing the 'spoof' on Meet the Fockers, because, well, that was a 'funny' film and will serve as a useful model for the 'spoof.'"
I didn't even know the film existed. But then:
1. Meet the Spartans, $18.7 million (never heard of it, will never see it)
2. Rambo, $18.2 million (heard about it, will never see it)
3. 27 Dresses, $13.6 million (kinda think I heard about it, will never see it)
4. Cloverfield, $12.7 million (heard about it, probably will never see it)
5. Untraceable, $11.2 million (heard about it, will never see it)
6. Juno, $10.3 million (never heard of it, don't know about seeing it)
7. The Bucket List, $10.278 million (heard of it, will never see it)
8. There Will Be Blood, $4.9 million (heard of it, waiting for it to come to Netflix)
9. National Treasure: Book of Secrets, $4.7 million (heard of it, waiting for Netflix)
10. Mad Money, $4.6 million (never heard of it, don't know about seeing it)
I'm guessing that's typical for me for most weeks: never heard of many of the movies and will never see most of them. Does that tell you anything about the state of story-telling in Hollywood?
The Barista: Had she been born in Russia in 1906, she would have become the muse of Constructivists and Bolshevik poster-artists. Slim and angular and dark, she never loses her knowing smile; you imagine her in vivid red and black on the walls of St. Petersburg and Moscow, beckoning the masses toward revolution. After the revolution, she would have been arrested, tried, and sent to Siberia, where she would have died of malnutrition and consumption. We'd see her name in biographies of Dziga Vertov and Vladimir Mayakovsky. Instead, she was born in the 1980s in the United States and now she sits near the espresso machine, reading a battered copy of "Gravity's Rainbow." Both my wife and I have a crush on her, but we have no posters on which to put her.
The Wealthy, World-Famous Writer: He's my age, the bastard, and his son is the same age as my son and the boys go to the same preschool. I see him enter every morning holding his boy's hand, and his arrogant swagger seems to offer contrast to his little boy's lopsided gallop. He nods a cool greeting to me; there's a peculiar confidence in his eyes and he always sports a different T-shirt, usually advertising obscure bands or hardware stores in places like Omaha. His life has unfolded as he has always imagined it would, a succession of book and movie deals, famous friends, ironic evenings. His life so far has curved ever upward. He knows that the line will terminate one day, abruptly or slowly in a downward slope, but that does not trouble him. He knows, better than most people, that everything must come to an end. His wealth and name will pass down his son, who will never have to struggle to survive. He imagines his son as an old man, dying without having accomplished anything. It is this prospect that keeps him up at night.
The Story-Telling Codger: He was at the coffee shop every morning and he always gave Liko dollar coins, and he told the stories of the different faces on the coins, repeating the same ones over and over, and each time Liko would listen as if hearing it all for the first time, eyes wide and staring at the coin, and I would make polite noises. "Put that in your piggy bank!" said the story-telling codger. "Save up for college!" After I dropped Liko off at school, I used the coins for bus money. A month ago, the story-telling codger stopped coming to the coffee shop. I asked after him. "He's sick," his friend, who once played violin in the Davis symphony, whispered to me. Then he raised his voice and said to Liko, "He's just resting. He'll be back." Liko nods and waits.
The Little Boy: In his room superheroes and robots come alive and in their melodramas the fate of the world is at stake, and his private world is destroyed and renewed, destroyed and renewed, and each time it is born a little bit larger than it was before. Outside on the street everything is alive and everything has something to say to him: the clouds and trees, the rain puddles and shadows, street signs and manhole covers, all of them whispering stories and shouting praise and muttering ridicule. As he enters school the walls glow and vibrate and his teachers loom as large as giants. If all goes well and he survives and keeps growing, one day the clouds and streets will fall silent and his teachers will seem small and superheroes will not exist. Jeremy Adam Smith Source: http://daddy-dialectic.blogspot.com/2008/01/three-characters-i-encountered-this.html -- To unsubscribe from this feed, click here To manage other subscriptions, click here ~ Powered by RssFwd, a service of Blue Sky Factory, Inc
Dudelet loves sushi and it's easier to make than it looks. Or should that be the other way around? This lot is made with carrot, I think. I should do it more often - sushi is perfect children's finger food. Dudelet likes fairly mainstream nigri - salmon, tuna, omelette, miniature vegetable rolls.
Three rules for homemade sushi
use a very sharp knife to cut it
you can't wash and rinse the rice too much before cooking
My creativity has returned. Or perhaps my productivity, who knows. And really that's only true at the present moment but I have to take full advantage of it when it happens. I could spend this post analyzing reasons for why this disappeared in some post-holiday haze, but instead I want to write about our neighborhood's new child care cooperative.
Background. Last fall I began attending a Mom's group. For some reason I was never totally settled with the group, though I went to meetings for much of the fall term. I don't know if I wasn't settled because the buzz of tokenism wore off*, or if in fact this particular group was just not my scene. Might be the latter. Yet my stated goal of attending was to gain resources as a parent and meet new people. That, I did.
The meeting. At November's meeting I met two new Moms, both with daughters around Edie's age, both neighbors across and down the street from me, both parents about my age. The meeting itself was so-so, a thorough presentation with not much time for discussion, but on the street following the session the three of us parents got to talking.
We were all new parents, all presently stayed at home (if part time), and all wanted to get back to some form of work provided we could find affordable child care. One Mom suggested a child care cooperative, where we exchange points or possibly fake money with neighbors for free babysitting. The other Mom and I thought this sounded great, and we all went home to check our Internets.
Organizing a cooperative. Turns out there are lots of child care and babysitting co-ops across the country, which operate in various ways that work locally for that group**. The three of us became four, adding a coordinator to our local parents network***. We advertised an organizing meeting, which drew about 15 families, and just yesterday we held our kick-off event, where maybe ten different families attended beyond those at the first organizing meeting. That's perhaps 20-25 families to start. Really amazing.
Our system for babysitting exchange started out simple, got complicated, and then returned to simple again. We contact other parents in the co-op, make arrangements to sit for each other's children, and then report transactions to a secretary who manages accrued points on a spreadsheet. Once a month we all meet as a group to socialize, meet new members, perhaps troubleshoot some network issues. When we're not in person, we communicate and store our family profiles on a Google Group.
Cooperative euphoria. This is brand new, but the idea that so many families - all practically in walking distance - are already involved is truly powerful. And the best part is that it's a good mix of both Moms and Dads. In some cases, both parents came with their children. In others, a parent came alone while the other stayed home with the child. In still others, Dad or Mom came along with a child. Not all families are dual parent, I've yet to tell much about sexuality, and not all of us are white non-Hispanic. Word of the group spread very quickly, and many of us are way excited that something like this is happening in our neighborhood.
This is all just to say that thanks to getting out there and not caring about identity (or better gender) politics, I've accidentally tapped into an entire other network of parents looking for the exact things we are. I'll still pop in at the Mom's group from time to time. That combined with this new cooperative makes for a very rich parenting community.
*I mean really, once you get over the novelty of a guy being at a Mom's group, then what? Most of my conversations ended up being with people that hadn't met me yet, starting with something like, "Oh, I've heard about you!" **In fact, there's even an online social networking tool if you so choose. ***Who knew! About the same time I started attending the Mom's group, a meetup group started in our neighborhood, now over 140 families strong. marc Source: http://feministdad.blogspot.com/2008/01/cooperative-euphoria.html -- To unsubscribe from this feed, click here To manage other subscriptions, click here ~ Powered by RssFwd, a service of Blue Sky Factory, Inc
Writing Maternity had a narrow escape from dealing with an even trickier explanation than why boys probably shouldn't wear pink trainers to rugby practice.
The Meat Question.
I actually stumbled headlong into that one myself the other week when watching "Charlotte's Web" (Charlotte, I'm so sorry). I can't believe I actually mumbled "Mmmm! Sausages!" (Look, I'm sure the original book is marvelous but really…), forgetting that dudelet has the ears of a bat for anything he shouldn't be hearing.
"Sausages? Why did you say sausages?" That's when someone shot me with the Stupid Gun.
"Well, you know what sausages are made of?"
"No." Questioning look.
Long pause.
"Where's your GameBoy?"
I got away with it. He isn't ready yet to know the truth about pigs and sheep. Or cows. Or rabbits. Or buffalo (note - buffalo burgers - low in saturated fats and absolutely delicious). Or deer, rabbits, ducks, chickens…I think he's put two and two together about fish (though the consequences for Nemo have probably escaped him) but heaven only knows what he thinks about the rest.
But when will he be ready? And how do I tell him? And is there ever any end to these awkward conversations lining up ominously into the future?
Conversely, how do the vegetarians out there cope when their darling turns into red-handed carnivore? Actually, if you're a vegetarian, there's plenty of advice out there but the rest of us are on our own.
So what am I going to tell him when he finally asks me where sausages come from? The truth. What happens then is up to him.
Meanwhile, following on from the Thursday's post, my cousin just sent dudelette a gorgeous brown party dress for a three to six month old. One of the most elegantly tasteful pieces of baby clothing we've been given yet. Supermum held it up and we both looked at it and chorused "Cute!" What's happening to us? How can I even be considering the idea of dresses? And why did no-one tell me how complicated girls are?
Today is a waiting day. I'm not an impatient person so waiting is no problem for me, and it's never been a problem in the past either. It does however become a problem when it pertains to my son. And more so when it has something to do with his health and well being. You can't help but think the worse, even when everyone around you is telling you to hope for the best. And I do, I always hope for the best, and I know the best will happen. But when you're stuck playing the waiting game, it feels more like… purgatory.
We went to our regular obstetrician yesterday (not the ultrasound guy), and asked him about our concern with the ultrasound findings. He told us that out of all the thousands of pregnancies he has done, he's only seen an echogenicities alone with no other indicators, less than 3-4 times. He also told us that single indicators alone on an ultrasound turn out to be nothing 99% of the time. And considering her blood test results and healthy status, there isn't a need for an amniocentesis. Now this is the information we would have loved to hear during our last ultrasound visit. Needless to say, we went home yesterday as content parents, and not terrified out-of-our mind parents.
We are still in the same status as we have been, but at least we have more assurance now that it's not something we should have been fretting over so much because of what the last doctor said. So we wait, until the 31st of this month, when we return to the ultrasound doctor and hope to see Avin's small intestines again, only not so bright this time.
I know, I know, I was Army. A soldier. But, intitially, I wanted to be a Marine. It was just that there wasn't any Navy ROTC in Pittsburgh back when I joined up, and the Army wouldn't let me switch services once there was a Navy program in town. Effin' cold war BS is what it was.
Yeah, I wanted to be a Marine fighter pilot. I ended up an Army attack helicopter pilot. Fine by me, in retrospect, since it turned out me and the military weren't a match made in heaven (too many rules, too many rules nazis). Still glad I did it, though, and would do it over, again, in a heartbeat (given the proper time travel scenarios, that is).
"Be all you can be." ? "An Army of one." ? I dunno, "The Few, the Proud, the Marines" always makes me swell with pride we have such a force. And, on occasion, regret that I couldnt' get out of my Army commitment and into the Marines.
The other night my wife and I were shooting the shit and somehow we dredged up an old memory.
And its one that we've brought up a few times before that needs to finally be put to paper.
Er, virtual paper.
As the story goes... it's the early '90s and we're a broke but very much in love couple living in Los Angeles with a few friends in a house nestled in a canyon in the Verdugo Hills (somewhere between Glendale and Pasadena). You could ride your bike op Glenoaks Blvd. and come up on a ridge that overlooked the Rose Bowl.
When the Bills played the Cowboys in the Super Bowl we climbed that ridge with flour and tried to write "Go Bills" but clearly our letters weren't big enough because we never saw them on television.
Being broke and young in LA at the time, we decided that we would take up camping as a way to see the world around us - we weren't budding naturalists as much as card-carrying Frugalists. So we got a two-person tent, some 20 degree sleeping bags, borrowed our roommates' camping stove and off we went to camp for the first time.
We ended up somewhere in the Angeles National Forest and names like JPL, Altadena and Wilderness Park circulate up in that windtunnel that is my head but I can't pinpoint the exact place. I know it was close (but also about 2,500 feet higher in elevation; the word topography would permenantly entire my vocabulary then) and that the road to the campsite prove to be very windy, full of curves and one that made us slightly dizzy by the end.
I remember the campground being bare,almost empty, and I remember waking up to ice on the tent and my digital watch on the fritz from the condensation. It was winter but winter in LA and my knowledge of altitudes was limited.
So our night "roughing it" basically consisted of driving to a campsite in the dead of winter, setting up our tent, getting wasted and then going to bed only to wake up at God know's what time to bitter cold.
We packed up and out and scratch our heads; it was camping L.A. style and we chuckled how quickly we succumbed to the elements.
As we left the campground parking lot, we spotted a guy on a beach cruiser just approaching the road that would lead down the "mountain" if you will and then we watched - in total amazement - the dude ride down the entire winding mountain road with no hands.
After each turn, when you'd expect him to grab the handlebars and steady the beast, he'd not do it, and then we would erupt into Dude!/Sweet! laughter. At one point I think we even hit the travel odometer to track the mileage because surely we were witnessing something of Guinness Book Of World Records proportions.
When we all arrived at the bottom of the hill (see now it's a hill!) he finally put his hands on the bars. We cruised past him as my wife leaned her head out the car window and gave her best Ozzy Osborne-like-a-dog-out-a-car-window impersanation throwing the devil horns and screamin' "Heeeellllll YYYeeeaaaaahhhhh!"
Okay, so I won't say that the EMG I got today was as horrendous as everyone on the innernecks made it out to be, but shit man, what demented fuckhole thought that primitive torture-fest up?
So, I'm lying there on the table, once again wearing nothing but the 95-year-old Polish cleaning lady's housecoat, and the doc starts taping some electrodes to my wrist. I'm thinking, "Okay, how bad can this be? He's just gonna send a little current down my nerve and the electrodes are gonna measure the intensity of the signal. No problem." He says, "Okay, there's going to be a little jolt," and then, well, there was a little jolt. Not too heinous -- kinda like what it feels like if you lick a fully charged 9-volt battery... with your anus.
So, I'm thinking, "Okay, that wasn't too bad. I can handl--NYYAAAARRRRGHHNNGGG!" The second jolt was a mofo. I looked like Daffy Duck when he gets electrocuted -- my whole body turned black but you could see my skeleton all lit up. Then my beak fell off. And then he just kept repositioning the electrodes and zapping different parts of my body -- bicep, forearm, thigh, calf, ankle, foot, scrotum. (He told me that one was just "a gimme.")
After that was finished, he said, "Okay, now for the second part of the test." The second part consisted of him taking a fucking needle, jabbing it into different muscles, and then kinda wiggling it around until he found a position he liked. Then he'd hold it there and listen to the crackling noise it was producing through the metal box in front of him (the metal box, mind you, that had duct tape wrapped around part of it. Hi-tech shit). When he felt satisfied with whatever the fuck he was listening to, he'd remove the needle and then jab it somewhere else. It really wasn't as horrible as it sounds -- except for when he poked it into the back of my hand, the back of my thigh, my elbow and my eye. Okay, he didn't poke it into my eye, but I was definitely ready to poke it into his if he didn't wrap things up pretty fucking quick.
When it was all over, we chatted. He said that I definitely have pinched nerves in both elbows (which I already fucking knew). He did say that a coupla spots in my leg were "a little slow," and didn't necessarily know why. He's sending me to a hematologist for a follow-up blood test. Excellent! Another doctor! What a fucking racket these doctors have.
The good news is that he said that all this shit is due to some peripheral nervous system problem, so he's basically ruling out any central nervous system causes (MS, brain cloud, etc.). So he basically told me something I already knew, and he has no explanation for the other shit. Hey thanks, doc!
The kids are on the mend, so of course I'm sick now. Here's something for you to chew on in the meantime: Discovery Major Step Forward In Treating Leukemia ScienceDaily (2008-01-20) -- Researchers have discovered for the first time a pathway that makes cancerous leukemia cells resistant to treatment. The discovery is the first stage in the development of new drugs that could significantly improve survival rates for leukemia sufferers.
Lack Of Training For Children's Medicines Prescribing May Increase Risk Of Error ScienceDaily (2008-01-20) -- Researchers have discovered for the first time a pathway that makes cancerous leukemia cells resistant to treatment. The discovery is the first stage in the development of new drugs that could significantly improve survival rates for leukemia sufferers.
Enough time has passed in my life where I can look back and (mostly) understand the things my parents had taught me, or at least tried to teach me, or maybe forgot to teach me as I was growing up. I wish now that I had paid attention and listened to the importance of knowing these things and how they will ultimately shape the person that I have become, or have yet to become. I plan and hope that I will be able to teach these things to my son, so he truly understands the importance of each lesson as he begins his life. ... read more >>
This post concludes our series of activities with kids by SPARC.
What are some of the important things for parents to know about getting children active? Getting children active is incredibly important for brain development. Activity is not only beneficial physically for children, but is also helps them to develop intellectually, emotionally and socially. For children, getting active helps them to become healthy, happy and confident people.
Our modern lifestyle means we are less likely to be active. For example children are carried more often and spend much more time in cars, backpacks, pushchairs and supermarket trolleys. So we need to encourage our children to be more active – right from the start. ... read more >>
It's a new year and we've decisively entered a new phase in the twins' childhood. Both Libby and Henry have started their five day a week morning preschool. Henry, to quote his teacher, had a "rocky start." He was crying when we dropped him off and he was crying when I picked him up. Libby was all smiles and hilarity. She's taken to this experience just as we thought she would at Tot Time in September. ... read more >>
It's a new year and we've decisively entered a new phase in the twins' childhood. Both Libby and Henry have started their five day a week morning preschool. Henry, to quote his teacher, had a "rocky start." He was crying when we dropped him off and he was crying when I picked him up. Libby was all smiles and hilarity. She's taken to this experience just as we thought she would at Tot Time in September. ... read more >>
Does family research stigmatize single mothers and their children?
Before we finish talking about singles, it seems appropriate to consider the particular challenges of single parents. If I revert to using the term "single mothers" more often than not, it's only because single parents tend to be mothers more often than not.
The most common accusations made against "family restorationists" have to do with political and economic concerns. For instance, in an essay titled "Politics of Family Structure," author and family scholar Arlene Skolnik says that—although there are some "family restorationists" who aren't trying to introduce drastic legislation—most of them: ... read more >>
It is no secret that men can get turned on much quicker than women. Men are also able to climax in less time than most women. This can make for some issues when it comes to love making. Husbands sometimes don't understand why their wife doesn't want to be intimate. It is likely because they aren't getting the same thing out of the event. Men need to understand that love making is more mental for a woman while it is mainly a physical event for a man.
Surprise, surprise - a few days after our son got sick, my wife came down with the cold as well. It's a bit of a worst case scenario to get sick when you are breastfeeding, as "mum" is still needed for the feeds no matter how she is feeling. So how can dads help their partners while they are not well?
The other night my wife and I were shooting the shit and somehow we dredged up an old memory.
Okay, so I won't say that the EMG I got today was as horrendous as everyone on the innernecks made it out to be, but shit man, what demented fuckhole thought that primitive torture-fest up? 
The kids are on the mend, so of course I'm sick now. Here's something for you to chew on in the meantime:
It's a new year and we've decisively entered a new phase in the twins' childhood. Both Libby and Henry have started their five day a week morning preschool. Henry, to quote his teacher, had a "rocky start." He was crying when we dropped him off and he was crying when I picked him up. Libby was all smiles and hilarity. She's taken to this experience just as we thought she would at Tot Time in September. 
It's a new year and we've decisively entered a new phase in the twins' childhood. Both Libby and Henry have started their five day a week morning preschool. Henry, to quote his teacher, had a "rocky start." He was crying when we dropped him off and he was crying when I picked him up. Libby was all smiles and hilarity. She's taken to this experience just as we thought she would at Tot Time in September. 
Before we finish talking about singles, it seems appropriate to consider the particular challenges of single parents. If I revert to using the term "single mothers" more often than not, it's only because single parents tend to be mothers more often than not.