Let Her Rip Boys

Real men don't cry. I thought about my son being hurt and I cried. I thought about how helpless I felt and I cried, I thought about his little body lying on that big girney and I cried. But somewhere deep down, I felt it was kinda wrong, kinda silly, kinda unmanly.

On a recent episode of the Sopranos, Tony had to bail his son AJ out of jail. In the parking lot Tony slammed AJ up against the car and told him what a disappoint he was, AJ started to cry. Tony got even madder "don't you fuckin cry, don't you dare fuckin cry." If a fictitious mob bosses son can't cry - who can?

So it's OK to steal, but don't cry.

Sell drugs, but don't cry.

Kill, whack, bump off, eliminate, shoot, stab, decapitate, poison, burn, bury, drown - but don't cry.

Why don't men value the tear?

I think it's women!!

Some women say they want a man who will cry, but I've been out there in the jungle and I know a well placed tear can get you very far, but too many is a turn off.

It can be the difference between getting some pussy or just being called one.

What's the big deal, it's just tears, just an involuntary bodily reaction, like laughing or farting.

If left up to men, I think farting would be a more acceptable display of emotion.

If your puppy gets runover by a bus, fart.

At your grandmothers funeral, lift up that right leg and let em go till you feel better.

Men need to find some kind of release. Hezbolah is bombing Israel, Israel is bombing Lebannon. Soon the Syrians and the Iranians will join in bombing Israel. We'll have to help Israel - while still bombing Iraq and with our foot on the neck of Afghanistan. North Korea is throwing bombs into the sea. China will have to respond sooner or later. I can't even think about whats going on in Darfur - apparently neither can the rest of the world.

All this war stems from the evil that men do. Not women.

I want my boy to retain his compassion, I don't want it dared out of him or scared out of him or beat out of him.

Let's teach our boys to fart their way through conflict. No more wars. The next generation will be able to sit down in a room and break wind together.

Holding my breath

I remember stuff
I just don’t remember stuff
OK how’s this?
Coleman’s birth
In the operating room
Roz is having a C-section
It’s been a scary few hours
The room is bright
Really, really bright
Not like on ER
That’s mood lighting
Surgeons have to be able to see
Duh
Smells?
Can’t smell anything
Sounds?
The sounds of doctors babbling
As they cut Roz open.
I’m listening AND
Trying to talk over them
So Roz doesn’t hear what they’re saying
“I’ve never seen anything like this…”
“Move your hand…”
“Don’t touch that…”
“Do it like this…”
“He’s out…”

We listen
The cry
I exhale

Now I know why I couldn’t smell anything
I’d stopped breathing
Holding my breath
Waiting
Waiting for the little boy
Who will call me
Daddy

Spank Me Daddy

Just read a article that says 94 percent of 3-4 years olds have been spanked in the last year. 74 percent of parents beleive it's OK to spank 1-3 year olds.

The article continued to say: Clearly, the majority of parents say they spank their kids. Various factors increase the likelihood, including geographic location (children in the South are spanked the most), family income (less money means more spanking), race (African-American mothers spank their children more than other ethnic groups), and religion (parents more fundamentalist in their religious beliefs spank more than those who are less so).

So in the age of the public "time out," privately, secretly parents are still smacking those behinds, like their parents did and their parents before them.

Coleman's not 2 yet, but he's at that kicking and screaming phase, mostly out of frustration because he can't tell us what he wants. So we cut him some slack, but there are days when I want to pluck those fingers or slap that leg. So far I'm holding back. Finding other ways. Distraction still works best, but he's beginning to figure that out.

We have not ruled out spanking yet. We're smart enough, educated enough, to know we have options, but ultimately I want to get my childs attention, and I'll do whatever I have to do to get it, social stigma be damned.

Beautiful is temporary

The world is open to him. He laughs, he jumps, he makes unintelligible noises, he is applauded, wherever he is, whatever he's doing, whomever is watching. It's an amazing thing to witness. Every age, every color, they just want to stop and take him in. Does this happen with all children? I only have one, so I have nothing to compare it to.

He demands that you acknowledge him. "Hi', hi, hi," he'll keep saying it until you respond, lately he's added a miss America hand wave to his greeting. It's unbelievably adorable. I love the back handed compliments we get - "He looks just like both of you, but he's beautiful."

Our friend Nadine asks us if we know how beautiful he is? I don't think about it, until somebody else mentions it. I think about other things, like -
is he eating enough,
is he eating too much,
when will the rest of his teeth come in,
will they come in straight,
how young is too young to get braces,
is he learning enough,
is he playing enough,
do I play with him enough,
shouldn't he learn to play alone,
do we read to him enough,
should he be able to count by now,
should he be in preschool like some of his other friends,
he seems smart,
but how smart,
what are the other smarter kids doing at his age,
how can I make him smarter without turning him into a geek,
but a geek owns Microsoft,
so shouldn't that be OK.

Mostly I want him to be treated the way he's treated right now, every day for the rest of his life. But that's just not a realistic thought. He'll change, of course he'll change, but say by some miracle, he remains as open and as loving and as accepting as he is right now, how do I protect him from the way the world will respond to him. It'll be difficult enough to be 16, and smelly and awkward. Or 22 and less smelly, totally unsure of what you want to do with your life but positive that you know the answers to everything. It's a hard time for everyone, black white boy or girl. But if you're fair skinned, people don't cower when you get into an elevator, they don't fear that you'll rob them or violate them or marry their daughter.

It's something you learn to live with, I live with it every day. I get mad at myself sometimes, because I think I've overcompensated, I'm too accommodating, too willing to make people feel at ease. I try too hard to be the exception to what we've all been told is the rule. But If I get into an elevator and make small talk and make every effort to let this person know that they are in no danger, will their attitude change a little or will she consider herself lucky because she turned her rings around in time.

We've been taught to fear. Roz and I always say we live in the age of fear and consumption. Be fearful of the terrorists, they can come and kill you at any moment, but in the meantime go shopping. When the terrorist strike, we have to prove to them they haven't won, so - go see Spamalot. Many of the people who ran to the suburbs out of fear are running back to the cities. Why? Cause there's land to be bought. People will move to the depths of hell for cheap rent and an exposed brick wall. I don't want to pass this on to my kid, how do I teach him to not let the world define who he is? I have a little time before I have to start dealing with that - or do I? He's not even 2 years old yet.

Right now, he's beautiful.

Man Child

I love Wednesday nights, it's my writing class. All those warm beautiful women in our cozy loft. It’s no accident. I’m supposed to be here - to learn something. They all have boys, I have a boy. Yes I know Susan has a daughter, but for the purposes of my writing I’ll ignore that. All boys. Men-children. Man-child. Raising a boy into a man. I’m supposed to learn something, what is it? It feels familiar, listening to their stories. There is traditional, the untraditional, then the traditional that became untraditional. Yet we all have the same tasks; to raise a man. Raise a man who won’t end up on Dr. Phil or worse Oprah - because he won’t wash a dish or wipe a child’s behind or wipe his own behind or say I love you I need you I want you.

Roz, I love you I need you I want you I feel you I learn from you I see you I cherish you I hear you I thank you I believe in you - in your dreams for yourself for me for Coleman for us. You/me, we gotta raise a man.

It’s not gonna be easy for me. I feel like I just got here. My entry into manhood is very recent, very, very recent. Like in the last couple of minutes.

I gotta show him how to be a man. I wasn’t shown by a man how to be a man I had my mom. No it’s not one of those sad stories you hear on the 6 o’clock news. It’s a great story - I’m here and I’m a man. So good job mom. Yes my mom is a pill. She’s long on unsolicited advice and short on patience for any opinions that don’t agree with hers, but I’m here and I’m a man. I could drag my mother to therapy and make her admit all the things she did wrong, but she would probably look at me like I was a fucking moron. So I’ll just let it go because I’m here and I’m a man. I’m a man and I have to raise a man, with Roz.

I can remember that September day. It was warm, the kinda warm that made you think summer was gonna last till December. I sat with my friend Nicole in her car waiting for Roz to show up. There she is: black wedge sandals, denim skirt, pink top. I can’t remember if the top was tube or halter, but I remember the shrug. Not really a sweater or a shawl, you just put you arms through it and it covers your shoulders. One of those bizarre pieces of clothing women wear, like the skort. Our first date, in a small Italian eatery in Chelsea. Sitting across from each other, dipping our bread in the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My big smile, her big smile, our actor/waiter’s big smile. Scientists say subconsciously I was making sure her hips were big enough to birth my babies. Subconsciously she’s making sure I can provide for her and our babies, so our actor/waiter is gonna get a big tip.

The night is easy.

I feel at ease.

This is her, the woman who is going to help me raise Coleman.