There’s an interesting article in Newsweek about the “new” generation of dads. The author — a member of said new generation — defines them, basically, as fathers who spend more hands-on time with their kids than the previous generation of dads spent with their offspring. The author spent nine months at home with his daughter, a time he calls, “the most rewarding time of my life — and a bonding experience I wouldn’t trade for anything.”
When I went to work after Poppy was born, Rockford was working on writing his thesis. While he didn’t really take any paternity leave, he was able to stay home with her during the day while I was at work. We were fortunate to have a trustworthy Mother’s Morning Out program at our church, too, so Rockford was able to go to the library a few times a week to work.
I’m a little sad for Pete that he isn’t going to get the same bonding experience with his dad that Poppy had. They used to watch “Magnum PI” and “The Rockford Files” together every day. Her taste in music is enough to reveal the impact that had on her. She loves lame ’70s soft rock, like Bread. She also loves Wilco, though, so I can’t complain too much. Except when she insists on listening to “Guitar Man” 17 times in a row. Then I can complain all I want. And I do.
Scene: The family relaxes in the living room after dinner. A gastrointestinal sonic boom disturbs the peace.
Nichole: Ew! We’re going to have to get rid of the futon.
Rockford: It’s a poot-on!
In related news …
Poppy seems to have inherited her father’s gaseous fortitude (fartitude, perhaps?). We’ve been trying to get her to say “pardon me” after she has an indiscretion. It isn’t working very well. Here’s a typical call and response after such an incident:
Nichole: What do we say?
Poppy: Toot!
I don’t feel as enormous this time. And I’ve gained less weight, too (probably because we’re not close enough for daily doses of the world’s best