Rock-A-Bye Dingo Conclusion: “Only Gold Medals Count”

Olympic medalsMost husbands recognize that giving birth to a human being and nurturing that life will reward them with the most sentimental of memories – a sport’s trophy or shiny engraved medallion.

Dear friends of mine gave our newborn daughter a patriotic red, white and blue basketball while we still convalesced on the hospital maternity ward. She was born on the same day the U.S. Olympic Women’s Basketball team won the gold medal in the 1988 Seoul Games. Now that’s an omen!

That prophecy also inspired me to buy my daughter a Baby Bow Flex machine for her first birthday. A year later, I surprised her with a hyperbaric oxygen chamber so she could simulate training at high elevations, like the Swish National Cross Country Ski Team. While other tiny tikes watched The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast while sipping Kool-aid and munching on Gobstoppers and hot-buttered popcorn, we curled up in front of the TV with Gatorade and Power Bars memorizing lines from Hoosiers, Rocky I through IV and The Longest Yard.

Rock-A-Bye Dingo Part Three: Consuming Mass Quantities of Candy

LollipopsBeing an award-winning father is all about mastering the basics. In this post, I cover more of the essentials.

Toys.

My wife and I approached toy buying a little differently. She insisted on purchasing toys without small, breakaway pieces, fearing that our daughter might ingest them or use the jagged parts to poke out an eye. My wife also searched for toys that provided educational value, such as the game that encouraged our toddler to match wildlife sounds to the appropriate animal pictures, like the sound a polar bear makes while ripping apart a baby penguin.

Rock-A-Bye Dingo Part Two: “Yes, I Dare to Discuss Breast-Feeding”

Cute Baby
I'm continuing my post about important stuff related to becoming an award-winning husband and father.

Breast feeding.

This looks easy, yet many women complain that it’s very complicated and technically difficult. I don’t know how to breastfeed an infant, although I do recollect at one point in my life knowing how to be breastfed. I thought about verifying this fact with parents, but that type of question never prompts a simple yes or no answer. Multiple unrelated “stories” always spawn from a son’s inquiry, which in turn prompts too many followups, such as other relatives learning about my quirky potty training habits or the mole on my butt that resembles Mount Rushmore (Hilary Clinton replaces President Lincoln on my version of the national monument, which results in only a subtle difference from the original).

In all honesty, I’m against breastfeeding. God created dairy cows to relieve females of this responsibility. During some point in history, though, a mean-spirited group started an anti-cow movement, which led to the formation of the La Leche League. Don’t waste your time checking my facts on this matter – I conducted extensive research, so that you could use your free time more constructively.

Rock-A-Bye Dingo

“Sweetie Pie, I’ll be gone tonight. Do you mind checking Junior’s ears at bedtime to make sure they’re disgustingly filthy? And make sure that his butt is completely crusted with mud and poop, okay? Some relatives are swinging by tomorrow and Junior should look his best.”

“What?” she shot back. “Another wild evening out with the guys? Parenting is supposed to be a shared responsibility. I resent always having the monkey on my back!”

He spoke calmly. “Now, now, Dear. We both know Junior is a huge handful. Sure, our son is a little different, a little too smooth and maybe a bit too erect. And his speech impediment makes our lives extra challenging. But gosh darn it, we both love the ugly little ape despite his blemishes and abnormal behavior.”  

“You’re right,” she admitted. “You’ve always been the rock of our family. I just wish he didn’t smell so vile, so clean.”

They picked him up and took turns smashing long-horned beetles into each of his ears. As little Tarzan looked into his parents’ eyes, he burst into tears. He cried because he couldn’t understand one single word his mom and dad were speaking, partly because insect guts oozed into his eardrums. Daily life again reminded Tarzan that he wasn’t the brightest firefly in the jungle.


In a single post, I certainly can’t divulge all of my knowledge on child development and successful fatherhood. To suggest otherwise would be presumptuous. I could share everything in two medium-length posts, definitely in three short posts, but not in one.