Is this you?

Does your sleeping partner snore, shuffle, roll over, flail limbs wildly, steal the sheets, fall off the bed, sleepwalk, fart loudly, cough, sneeze, hiccup, shake uncontrollably, or any of the above?

Have you removed your sleep partner from your shared bed because you are no longer able to sleep?

If so, I am here to tell you that I have no answers for you, only that I am one of those offending sleepers, and this is my platform for a confession.
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So a long-time buddy of mine just had a baby (well, his wife did), and I had to take him out for a celebratory lunch (in these times, we went to Taco Bell).

I saw him from afar, and then when I got closer, I noticed that he hadn’t shaved in, oh, four to five business days.

“It’s one of those things where I wake up every day and tell myself I’m going to do it, but I never actually get around to it.”

I nod, in understanding.
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Okay, okay, I admit it: in a few short years (well, ten) I have devolved from a Comp. Lit. major with aspirations to joining the ranks of academia to a man who absolutely LOVES fantasy football (for the under-educated, please follow this link for a high-level view of the topic).

Call me names (slacker, Joe Blow, etc.), call me what you will, but I think I may have found my procrastination activity of choice - for the rest of my life. (Sorry, honey.)
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Last winter, the little start-up I had joined two years ago was - astoundingly - acquired by one of the largest Internet companies out there.

We all rejoiced. No more running out of VC money or dealing with crappy benefits or no bonuses; we would finally be rewarded for our years of toil.

But oh how times have changed (as we all know) since the beginning of this year…
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And now for a few questions…

Were you listening, watching, and freaking when this happened?

Does this news make you nervous and unsettled?

Are you just as anxious as I am about the fact that our country is on its way down and no real leader(s) to get it going in the right direction?
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Guess who’s the disciplinarian in the family, Brad or Angelina? That’s right, it’s mommy. Are you surprised that it’s the woman in the house? I’m not.

It seems that if you look back across the landscape of American mass culture of family sitcoms (which obviously perfectly reflected life at the time - Growing Pains, anyone?), you actually see families where the fathers are stern, but the mothers “run” the household. When the kids mis-behave, the threat is always: “Just wait until I tell your father…”

So what’s changed, if anything?
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So, you love your hubby but you’ve never really liked his fashion sense (or as my wife gently asked me yesterday “do you think you actually have taste?”) - I sense you may not be alone.

Putting aside the most important election of our collective lifetimes, the fact that our economy is in shambles, winter is fast approaching here in New England, and Tom Brady is out for the season, I would like to lighten things up here and help you cool-ify your guy.

Okay, where do we start?
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As the father of a four-going-on-twenty-four year-old girl, I am (rightfully) nervous about the fast-approaching day when she tells me that she’s going on a real date with a real boy. In fact, we are already discussing how boys and girls are “different.”

Oh boy.

“Luca has a penis, but I don’t.”

The blood slowly seeps out of my face. Fainting…
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Okay, I’ll come out and say it: are you mothers really the only ones who can run a household, manage a family, and keep it all together?

Are we men that inept, so unnecessary at home that not a word has been mentioned about the time that Obama has to spend at home with his young daughters and all the freakin’ press in the word focuses on Palin and her five offspring?

So be warned: I am offended.
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I brought our daughter to the local playground yesterday, and with beautiful weather it was the perfect antidote to the end of a very hectic summer.

As we walked in the gate, three other couples with younger children were entering as well, and then I noticed that the three men were veering off into the abutting field, one of them with a football tucked under his arm.

And then, almost metaphorically, one of the three took off sprinting into the field…
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