Father Inc

Yes, Superdad Can.

August 1, 2009

Hi there, I’m Superdad.

This post is going to be rambly and somewhat lacking in humility because I am in the midst of manifesting the full awesomeness of my powers – the Wife has just gone out to do her hair and eyebrows and potentially some shopping, leaving me alone with Truett & Kirsten.

I have successfully cleaned, bathed, fed, and put to sleep a three week old baby and a year old toddler all by myself, without the use of tranquilizers.

More reasons why I am super? Well..

1) I am faster than a speeding bullet in preparing the milk, changing the diaper and attending to the Wife’s every whim and fancy,

2) I am more powerful than a locomotive in opening stubborn bottle caps of baby food jars and,

3) I can carry a month’s worth of groceries from the car all the way to my house (up a flight of steps) in a single bound.

I have been hailed as the sexiest man alive and am known as an extremely , ahem, fruitful individual, thanks in no small part to an overenthusiastic colleague who yelled “ WOW! YOU ARE DAMN FERTILE” at the top of her lungs -the entire office was shaken – when she found out we were expecting Kirsten barely 5 months after Truett was born.

A bit of background here on my powers. I am an ordinary 28 year old dude but in my quest for extraordinariness, I turned to equipment for that little bit of extra. I guess I’m kinda more in the Batman vein of superness with all that gear (except that I won’t call myself BatDad, if I’m not wrong it sounds this place in the middle east or something. Ok, I’m actually trying to be witty here – I do know where that is, alright? You think I don’t know my South African geography?)

While I haven’t actually gotten down to using a Man-Boob like Greg Gaylord Focker , I do need my Brest Friend’s help in feeding Kirsten – somehow the ergonomics of a man’s arms just doesn’t do it for babies and the avoidance of milk spittle on me is great incentive for me to not mind looking somewhat ridiculous wearing it.

I do need the Miracle Blanket to induce Kirsten into a deep sleep or at least bind her like she’s some psychiatric patient so she doesn’t claw my eyes out.

I need my idiotic laundry dryer that has just died on me to save me the pain of hang-drying indoors so much so that my house now looks like a quaint shop selling antiquated undies.

But with the powers combined (and the equipment in place), I AM Superdad.

Question is, does the “super” even matter?

I’ve been talking to the Wife about how as Asians we tend to be brutally raised in a typically dysfunctional family with Dads that are aloof and at times outright violent in their parenting methods – and yet we turned out quite alright, pretty normal except for the occasional violent scream at an unwary stranger. Does it matter whether we are super or not? Perhaps Hitler’s Dad was a super dad for all we know.

Yet looking at the Wife and the two angels, it really doesn’t matter whether it matters or not, because I’m not quite raising baby Jesus himself. It doesn’t matter if they don’t invent the cure for Aids or the real iPhone killer or even appear in the local newspaper with half their body cropped out of a file photo.

I’m just enjoying the journey and trying to make it as easy for the Wife and as memorable for the kids as possible. And if they do turn become Stalinist one day at least they’ll look back and wonder “Boy, with the kind of childhood I had, how did I become this messed up?”

Kirsten is crying- Excuse me while I go put on my Brest Friend.

P.S Next week’s post is going to be so awesome it’s going to change your life.

P.P.S No, I mean it, it really is awesome.

P.P.P.S Tomorrow’s Super Sunday Giveaway is awesome too.

by Daphne

Father Inc

Superdad Returns

April 8, 2009

Let’s talk about dads. In particular, SUPERDADS. It’s tough for dudes to navigate their way around this whole having babies thing. For women, the maternal instinct comes rather naturally. After all, we are the ones that carry the child for nine months and have to push them out of you-know-where. So it’s only fair that we pride ourselves in being the ultimate authority on what they need.

But as far as dads go, all they do is contribute some fine specimens of their little fellas, which let’s face it, hardly constitutes as a chore. Besides, guys are just not wired to go all goo-goo ga-ga on babies. Most guys carry babies like they’re lifting a sack of rice for all of two minutes, then promptly hand them back, citing reasons like “I don’t know how”, or “See, the baby is not comfortable”.

So after the little squirts are born, what’s a dude to do?

In the world of fathers, there are three main archetypes.

1. The sperm donors. These days, you can get them off Ebay for $29.95. All they do is contribute the DNA (hey, DNA is very important, too) and take credit for anything good the child does. Once in a while, they provide very insightful comments like “Honey, the baby is crying” before resuming their oh-so-important quest of fighting the baddies on Resident Evil 5.

2. The functional father. From my observation, most dads fall neatly into this category. To avoid being nagged at by the wife, they do their share of baby chores like making the milk and running the bath. But they’re smart enough to make a hasty exit once there’s poop or puke involved.

3. The Superdads. They form a league of superheroes that can singlehandedly take care of all of the babies’ needs. For all intents and purposes, they’re practically women. They can tell the difference between a fontanel and a fingernail, whip up a pot of baby food, and change a diaper with their eyes closed. And in order to attain the status of a true Superdad, they have to pass through the initiation rite of being pooped on at least once.

I dare say, I’ve had the good fortune of snagging for myself one of those Superdads, which is the sole reason I haven’t completely lost my marbles. Of course, it wasn’t always the case. They did get off to a somewhat rocky start, which led to a rather embarrassing 3-hour screaming fit during a wedding dinner. But they’ve come a long way, and truth be told, I sometimes have to bribe Tru with snacks to make him like me more.

I’m not complaining, though. We’ve got a spiffy little system down pat. Mommy does the weekdays from 9-6, and Superdad takes over in the mornings, evenings and weekends. And that’s just fine by me. Plus, now I’ve got the handy little excuse that I’m preggers and can’t overexert myself. It’s good to be pregnant.

by Daphne