1. Safe drinking water.
2. Polio vaccines.
3. Dental care for little mouths.
4. The smell of my daughters’ hair after they run in the sun all day.
5. Lyrics that make me cry.
6. Music that makes me dance.
7. Poorly executed jokes told by four-year olds: What did the lettuce say to the other lettuce? Get off my head you booty-head.
8. A kind, loving spouse.
9. Birth control.
10. Innocence.
11. Joy.
12. Brand new fancy sparkly shoes.
13. Brand new pierced ears.
14. Cheap drinks in plastic cups with old friends.
15. A morning run in the Texas hill country.
16. Spotting a real live deer in the yard when we go to Texas.
17. Pumpkins we grew in our own garden.
18. Children who go to sleep each night feeling safe and warm and loved.
19. Prayer for those who live in fear and pain.
20. My own capacity to realize my many blessings.

totally rad cover

The stereotype of Western parenting is that mothers are the serious, thoughtful parents and fathers the playful, irresponsible ones.  This script for fathering has been played out in films like Mr. Mom and Daddy Day Care and is shown on television in Modern Family and the Simpsons. When fathers are around in movies – they frequently aren’t (Dolphin Tale) –they tend to be violent (This Boy’s Life) or unrealistically demanding (The Great Santini) or drunk (Hoosiers). Alternatively, when mothers fail on the job (Kramer vs. Kramer) we see children suffer and fathers bumble. Likely, there will also be messes in the kitchen!  Such media depictions of fathering do very little to further the collective conversation about men and their relationships with children. Rather, they tend to engage audiences by employing familiar stereotypes that put the audience right into the scene – “I recognize that guy.  Let’s get to the story!” While such stereotypes help engage viewers, they also place limits on our expectations for characters and any deviations from expectation require exposition and explanation for the audience.  The dire need for a new dialogue about fatherhood (and maybe new stereotypes) may be reaching a tipping point with men out of work today at a rate not seen since the Great Depression.

The contributors to the edited book Rad Dad: Dispatches from the Frontier of Fatherhood answer the call to redefine fatherhood by offering voices and perspectives on fatherhood that are about as traditional as a vegetarian cowboy. The thirty-nine essays contained in the tight 197 pages are grouped chronologically in the life cycle of the father into infancy, childhood and teens.  However, the essays offer perspectives and voices that are far from familiar. Readers meet a sperm donor who grapples with his genetic link to a child he does not parent, a transgender parent coming to terms with gender identity and gender socialization, a self-proclaimed “radical queer tranny vegan anarchist commie”, a former self-involved skateboarder socializing his daughter to be cautious of boys like his former self, and a man challenging himself to confront a neighbor’s domestic violence.  These essays provide readers an opportunity to walk a lifetime in the shoes of another person and are tightly written and short enough that the soles don’t wear out before the next essay begins. We also hear from fathers we’ve met before – men grappling with the transition from cool dude to the shlub being yelled at for crackers from a tyrant in a stroller, new fathers who reflect on their own boyhood relationships with their fathers, a fan of the Star Wars trilogy who muses on the deeper questions in the Lucas film (e.g., whether to explain that Han shot Greedo unprovoked at the Mos Eisley Cantina), and numerous feminist men struggling to raise open-minded children whose brains are hard-wired and socialized to embrace gender as the second-easiest category (after ethnicity) to organize social information about others.

In addition to the essays informed by the age of the child are two sections that have lasting impact: one debating the politics of modern fathering and a collection of interviews with “rad dads.” In these sections the reader is forced to wake up to the reality that parents are either acting with awareness that their actions matter to the future of their children or they are asleep on the job.  Two of the most important essays in the book – well worth the price of admission alone – address the issue of ethnic identity and parenting. The first, written by Shawn Taylor, recounts a benign incident on the playground that deteriorates into a hostile racially charged confrontation.  What begins as an earnest quest by a man to defy the negative stereotypes about fathering among his ethnic group demonstrates how the naivety of the majority propagates negative self-image among the minority.  The second essay by Tomas Moniz recounts the story of a young Latina girl wishing she could be white despite years of socialization to take pride in her cultural heritage.  Both of these essays (and others in the book) challenge the reader to question the status quo, to doubt certainty, to the relish questioning, and most of all to share the stories.

In fact, a common theme binding the essays is asking questions that don’t have answers.  Unlike the stereotypical sitcom father who we’ve seen so often, these essayists are creating themselves as they move forward…maybe even as they type out their experiences.  Because they are searching, they don’t offer a lot of explicit answers.  Many are asking questions so new to the conversation that any approximation of an answer would ring false to both reader and author.  Rather, by asking the questions the authors have fulfilled their obligation to themselves and together create an important discussion.

The editors are skilled at addressing the shortcomings of the discourse on fatherhood and such frank consideration of the field emboldens me to share two shortcomings of the book itself.  First, the authors have collected a remarkably diverse group of contributors – sperm donors, stay-at-home dads, multiracial men, transgender individuals – who offer voices typically unheard.  The diversity of the voices is so apparent that I longed for other fathers on the margins of this discourse who are missing from the book: immigrant fathers, divorced fathers, men who are politically conservative. I have worked with fathers from these three groups and know them to also be complicated and soul-searching, and while their narratives may sound similar, the means to that end tend to differ. For example, fundamentalist Christian families tend to co-sleep and breast feed (like their liberal counterparts) but have chosen to do so because of more traditional leanings. In short, the absence of these perspectives leaves Rad Dad leaning a bit too far to the left when redefining is a national priority. My second criticism is more shallow:  I wanted to laugh more. A criticism of the more advanced mother-doubt literature is the harsh and earnest assault such women levy on themselves. While it is illuminating to read a mother describe her anger and frustration at the isolation of parenting an infant and to hear a man adopt a similar voice, there is also a great deal of humor in parenting that goes along with the embarrassment and frustration. Despite the lack of giggles, I applaud the authors for staring into the eyes of the beast without blinking.

In short, Rad Dad raises the bar for fathers – a challenge that men today are ready to assume.  I’ll conclude with a personal story.  When my first daughter was an infant, I was a stay-at-home dad two days per week.  However, I frequently worked from home.  One day, in fact, I had to present to a group of professionals on a project I’d been tasked to lead.  The lawyers, judges, and non-profit educators I presented to were professionals with a no-nonsense approach to their work. I led the 30-minute presentation with my daughter tightly wrapped against my body in a sling, and she intermittently napped and chewed the corner of her book to a rounded nub. It’s eight years later today and the attendees at that presentation still comment what an “amazing dad” I was to have delivered that presentation while also attending to her needs.  While I originally absorbed that praise with aplomb, I’ve more recently come to realize the hypocrisy. A dad who brings his daughter to work is a hero while a mom might have been questioned about her priorities. Because the bar of success for fathers is set so low it’s easy for many men to step right over without much effort.  The Rad Dad authors claim (and I agree) that men today are ready to meet challenges that aren’t being presented.  After reading Rad Dad, you might feel compelled to help raise that bar yourself.

Jeffrey T. Cookston, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Psychology at San Francisco State University and the coordinator of the Developmental Psychology graduate program.  When he’s not researching father involvement, he is husband to one, father to two, son to four, and a barrel of monkeys. Follow him on Twitter @jtcookston.

They are giving us a free piano. A family heirloom. And they say we will be doing them a favor to take it off their hands!

Can't you see the DooDoo-TuTus totally rocking out on this?

As if that’s not enough, I made a deal with my Big Girl that if she keeps practicing her guitar this fall then she can take advantage of their other offer: a hand-me-down hot pink electric guitar. In my house, this is the equivalent of getting a pony. A dream come true for my child, who has planned her rock star career ever since seeing Jack Black on Yo Gabba Gabba at the ripe old age of three.

So naturally, since none of us can really play an instrument (yet) and since we get off more on the conceptual (rather than actual details and hard work) in my house, we got right to work planning the most important part of our impending family band: The Name.

Here are the finalists for our band name. Skills and practice be damned. Next we’ll design the t-shirts. Then maybe we’ll get around to making actual music. Try to guess which members of our household came up with which names:

The Golden Cookstons

The Surly Risers

Cookston Rockers

Mommy Is So Crazy

Hotplay

The James Spaders

DooDoo-TuTu

Money Man

Old Spiller

Bourbon with Silly Staws

The Tupperware with Nothing in it Except a Butterfly

Led Zepplin

one of the least-naked photos I could find that didn't violate copyright.

With the sellout of tickets this year and recent articles in major magazines and newspapers, there is no doubt that Burning Man now receives mainstream attention. Many parents out there would love to go but have the dilemma of whether or not to bring their kids along, perhaps because they are open-minded and want to share their life experiences with the whole family, or simply because they have no one to leave their kids with. After all, there is a family-friendly place called KidsVille, and several positive and encouraging testimonials from parents who have brought their kids to the playa. Last year there was a 14 year-old girl tossing fire at one of the big dance clubs, and her friend said it was her seventh burn!

For those of you who are so inclined or are considering bringing along your evolved teenager, your fun-loving tweener, or even your infant who will just hang in your sling the whole time you are there, we would love to share some dissenting opinions we have gathered from seasoned burners, all of whom are parents themselves. And, in a nutshell, why you may not want to bring your kids to Burning Man.

* You never know what you will see. As adults, we can see crazy, unexplainable, things and parse that through our brains, either making sense of it or not; but either way, we’re not going to be traumatized. Kids can’t do that. At a certain age, things are hard to explain.

* Do they have to have the experience at a young age? Why expose the kids now to the mesmerizing world that is Burning Man when there are still so many other things in their lives that provide that exhilaration? Kids still get excited by school carnivals, trick-or-treating, and even simple displays of fireworks. Burning Man is one of the few environments that can still amaze and cause glee in adults. Why expose the kids to that so early?

* Burning Man can be an escape, a bonding, a reconnecting or recalibrating experience for parents. The playa is a place where parents can feel like they are on a different planet than their kids, they don’t have to talk to them every day, or wish they were there with them. Having a complete break once a year makes for better parents the rest of the time.

* Adults at Burning Man, whether they are parents or not, don’t really want your kids there. Whether you should consider that or even care, it is hard to deny that if everyone started bringing their kids, Burning Man in its current amazing form would no longer exist.

* There is a lot of hard partying, drinking and drugs at Burning Man. While most people are having a normal, hard-charging, maybe not-so-innocent good time, there are many people who are clearly not in good shape and even look a bit disturbing. Do you want your kids to be surrounded by that for a week?

* There are very few kids at Burning Man. That should tell you something. It also means it will be less fun for your kids.

* Do you really want the parental responsibility while you are at Burning Man?

- The vast array of astounding artwork that you see at Burning Man unfortunately does not come with operating instructions and is definitely not childproofed. Therefore, if you interact with any of it, you do it AT YOUR OWN RISK. Do you really want to do this with your children?

- The Playa is not a kid-friendly environment! Kids will be sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and uncomfortable (heat/cold/wind/dust).

- You would have to disrupt your party schedule in order to tuck them in at night and also be moderately functional in the morning.

- It is sometimes hard enough to keep track of each other, much less your little munchkins, especially in a dust storm!

- The portapotties. The dust. The whining because they can’t sleep. Or the recurring thought that you should have brought them somewhere else instead.

* And some just for laughs…

- They don’t play Taylor Swift at Opulent Temple.

- Kids are more flammable

- Kids aren’t allowed to play with fire.

- Shots just aren’t the same with a sippy cup.

- Really? You paid $600 bucks for your kid to go to Burning Man?!?

Neighborhood pride at its finest.

1. Never, ever, ever leave the house without a jacket. I don’t care if it is the one time in five years that the temperature gets above 85 degrees. I don’t care if you’ve been sweating your dreads off while banging a gong at Hippie Hill all day. It WILL be cold in about two hours. And when the lights go down in the city you don’t want to get caught without your hoodie.
2. The regular-ish dad in the fleece hanging out at the playground with you and chatting about farmers markets and organic diapers and bitching about MUNI probably founded Thrasher magazine or played guitar in a band that Coldplay opened for in the 90s. He’s humble and he’s never going to talk about his inner badassness unless you nudge him. So go ahead ask him what he did before starting that software consulting firm.
3. You can never dress too fancy or too weird. Cosby sweater with gaucho pants? Check. White sequined tuxedo? Check. Vintage prom dress (on a man) with KISS boots and a bondage harness and a Bobafet jetpack? Check. All in a day’s walk down any main thoroughfare. And those folks work in banking. If you want to really see the non-conservative dressers hit the sex shops on Folsom Street.
4. People take intense pride in which MUNI line they ride, even as they bitch and moan and create blogs and write pithy Facebook status updates as an outlet for all their bitching and moaning. It’s sort of like rooting for the Dodgers.
5. Speaking of baseball. The Giants. Make. People. Crazy.
6. San Francisco is the most expensive cheap city in the world. You can go out to dinner and spend $1,000 or $10. Rents are cukoo. But groceries are cheaper than in most other parts of the country. Parking is outrageous. But public transportation is accessible. (Sometimes. See #4.)
7. Everyone in the entire city is a creative. Some full time and some on the side. Your best friend does bookkeeping by day and interpretive burlesque dancing by night. That shy DMV employee is actually Banksy. (Just kidding.) (Maybe.) (See also #2)
8. More transportation knowledge: Never cross a bridge on a holiday. Never take a car downtown on a Critical Mass day. Also, never take a car downtown on most other days.
9. People are obsessed with their neighborhoods. (See also #4.) To the point where they (again) write ironic blogs and buy hoodies that say “The Richmond,” and sometimes refuse to go North of Market/South of Market/Anywhere Near Goddam Union Street.  San Francisco is essentially a small city and folks like to make it even smaller by hyper-identifying with a micro part of town. This is actually a nice thing because it results in sort of mini-villages where people know their neighbors, support local vendors, and look after each other.

And to that I say, where’s my Marina hoodie? I’m going out.

(Doesn't my stylist have cool ink?)

Growing up redhead was tough in west Texas, where the standard of beauty was a blond, tan, cheerleader-y white girl. I know my experience was nowhere near that of an ethnic minority but even my subtle status as an outsider influenced me enough to hate my unusual looks until I hit puberty. Then I decided to become New Wave and made peace with the whole thing.

My childhood insecurities influenced me to always tell my little redhead Big Girl that her hair is different and unique. That she’s part of a special group that is actually going extinct. (Seriously. Read about it here.)

And I guess the message sunk in. But in a way that certainly surprised me.

Over the summer Big Girl read a short story in one of her American Girl books about a child with an illness who received a beautiful wig fashioned from donated hair. And a seed was planted.

We had been planning a trim. And once she got in the chair, Big Girl spontaneously decided to chop the whole thing off and donate her hair to one of those wig-making charities. Big Girl said she wanted to help a child who had lost her hair due to illness. And that she wanted a little girl with red hair to have a wig that matched her natural color.

I’ll pause here while you choke up a little. Cause I sure did.

I totally teared up in the middle of the salon while sitting under the dryer getting my own vanity polished. Not because my baby cut her pretty hair but because I was blown away by the poise and thoughtfulness she showed. This from the kid who still plays Barbies with her little sister and who threw a temper tantrum over the choice of TV show she was allowed to watch just hours before the hair appointment.

The super short cut made her look instantly older. And her sweet choice made me see her as wiser, more mature. In the hours following the big cut I held my breath and waited to see if she was still herself or if this crazy new ‘do and lovely decision had suddenly transformed her into a new person.

Who was this child with the short hair and selflessness?

And later that night she hit her sister and sassed back to me, and I actually exhaled in relief. She’s still herself, sweet haircut and all. As nice (or scary) to imagine, growing up doesn’t arrive with the mere snip of the scissors.

My usual well of motherly patience (snort) finally ran the hell dry and I snatched the offending iPad from her hands and (don’t tell my husband) threw it up on a shelf out of reach.

But I’ve been reading about yoga lately (which is like dancing about architecture, I know) and something unusual came over me. Instead of yelling and freaking out at my obstinate child at her like I do on every other day, I said the following:

“You are going to have a punishment. You are going to do yoga with me.”

Cue an immediate tantrum of the temper variety. Big Girl dug in her heels and cried until her face turned as red as her hair. But I got out the mats anyway, and pointed my well-chewed fingernail toward the floor.

“You don’t have to do the poses perfectly,” I said. “But you do have to do yoga without whining and with joy in your heart.” I paused, thinking about how mean she was to her little sister earlier. “And with kindness and good intention toward those people in your life who love you.” A tall order for an 8-year-old, I know.

Whimper. Stomp. Resist. Sulk. Pout. Cross arms. Glare.

“If you can do this with me, I will let you have the iPad back,” I sighed.

She got on the mat.

Seemed like a fine fair trade for a ridiculous multi-tasking mom of 2011, who desperately needs the iPad in her kid’s hands so said mom can get to work at her freelance job of writing social media posts for well-paying corporations.

I needed that kid to get her fracking smile on during her asanas and earn back the app-spewing babysitter almost as much as I needed the yoga time for my own spiritual sanity.

We started the practice and I closed my eyes to breathe, taking in the good, clean air, expelling the dark, negative air. I pretend-smiled through my clenched jaw. Trying hard to be as peaceful and unbothered as Julie, an inspiring yogi (and mother of 3!) who first turned me on to Ashtanga some ten years ago.

I ran my kid through about ten sun salutations. Then a few forward bends. Warrior poses. All the while faking like this was the most fun girl-bonding time we had ever experienced. Inside I was pissed off, resentful, mad at my own daughter, and mad at myself for being mad at my child.

This is so yoga. This is what it’s about. I kept reminding myself. Go gentle. Let the thoughts wander in and out of your mind. Be here. Breathe.

I took the air in and out through my nose. I rooted my feet into the mat and pushed my shoulders back. One leg up. Arms above head. Simple tree pose.

Stay on your own mat, I inwardly screamed. I mean gently coaxed myself.

Next to me my eldest squealed like I was forcing her to work in a factory for 12 hours instead of participate in one of humanity’s most profound spiritual practices.

Then one of those superior parenting moments forced its ugly head through my fake veil of calm. I totally bugged out.

“Goddammit!” I barked. “Can you stop sniveling over there and try to find some joy in this!”

Lovely. Classic. I may as well have said, “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” And, of course, this only made her cry harder.

I ignored her and moved on and inwardly continued to berate myself. Down on the mat for some inversions.

“Let’s do the half wheel first,” I said. “Then we’ll try the full wheel.”

And something lovely suddenly happened.

She stopped crying. She became alert and present. Fully focused and excited about doing half wheel with me. Then full wheel (which I will fully admit I hadn’t done in a lo-ong time and was personally thrilled that I didn’t throw out my shoulder or jack my back up.)

Then came supported headstands. Then full-on headstands. Me too! We actually did headstands together in the middle of my living room! Laughing, excited, proud of ourselves, we did real live headstands!

I kept thinking Holy shit it works! This is so yoga. Yoga is powerful!

Finally, I made her lie on the floor with me and do savasana (aka “corpse pose”) to close the practice. And three Om’s to round it out.

When all was said and done, she was peaceful, smiling, calm. We may be on to something here.

My now relaxed jaw dropped when she said, “I’m sorry Mom.” These words rarely escape the throat of my headstrong girl.

Then we abandoned our ancient practice and went back to 2011.

I gave her the iPad and went to work on writing copy for social media. How yoga of us.

I also look at pictures about writing and drinking.

One of those jobs involves uploading information into an ancient database system and then going off and entertaining myself for five minutes at a stretch while the little wheel spins on the computer.

It’s amazing what you can get done in small 5 minute segments. Things I do:

Go to the bathroom.

Notice bathroom is nasty.

Clean the bathroom. (I work from home. It’s not like I’m cleaning some stall in a high-rise.)

Heat up a burrito in the microwave.

Look at Facebook.

Write pretentious Facebook status update.

Load cute photo of my kids to Facebook.

Watch Justin Timberlake on YouTube.

Get all hot and bothered by Justin Timberlake.

Send sexy texts to my husband.

Yoga poses to get the JT out of my system.

Eat burrito.

Work on non-paying zine project.

Get distracted by inbox.

Write witty emails to friends.

Send my sister scary pictures of sharks.

Open bottle of wine. (Only if it’s after 5, y’all.) (Otherwise it’s beer.)

Fiddle with my Pandora settings.

Write poems.

Sneak chocolate.

Read old stuff I’ve written with a harsh new critical eye of self-loathing for what I’ve yet to accomplish. (Not really.) (Well, maybe a little bit.)

Write notes about things I want to write in the future.

Read book reviews.

Kick myself for not having come up with that idea.

Read blog posts by funny women.

Feel inspired.

Write blog posts.

Total Mom Pants

1. I need to get this out of the way before I go deep here.

Kevin Bacon wears Mom Jeans. He wears them in every scene. Well, except the one where he shimmies into that sexy velvet tuxedo for (spoiler alert!) prom.

Moving on.

2. Why can’t I ever find an abandoned, empty, unlocked factory in which to park my cute but edgy Volkswagen while I gesticulate and dance and kick my legs about and punch the air and practice gymnastics to vent my frustration at the lack of church-sanctioned dancing in my new town?

3. Chris Penn actually can dance. He’s just pretending that he’s awkward so we gasp with astonishment at his “Let’s Hear It for the Boy” learning-to-have-rhythm montage sequence. Good acting, Chris!

4. Violence is normalized in Footloose. Normalized and frequent. And without consequence. So much so that I formulated a sub-list to keep track of the horror.

A few violent acts that would land someone in jail in real life:

• Teenagers steal tractors and race them and crash them.
• Chris Penn (a minor) gets face punched by mustachioed dude (a creepy grown-up man) in bar.
• Lori Singer (Kevin Bacon’s love interest) gets violently beaten by her bully boyfriend and no one cares, including Kevin Bacon. Kevin actually LAUGHS about it as he watches her touch up her makeup.
• Lori Singer crashes up ex-boyfriend’s truck with a pipe.
• Preacher dad slaps Lori Singer.
• Football guy who stands up for Kevin Bacon (the misunderstood misfit) squashes bullies into phone booth, choking one of them into submission.
• Kevin Bacon runs feet-first off the edge of a platform and kicks bully in the face at (spoiler alert!) prom.
• Keven Bacon and Chris Penn beat bullies until they pass out, then high-five while their dates woot and they all go into (spoiler alert!) prom and throw glitter in the air.

5. Kevin Bacon can’t dance. Or even if he can dance in real life he definitely had some kind of rider in his contract requiring a very unconvincing dancing body double.

6. There is full frontal male nudity in a shower scene that’s supposed to be high school boys. I’m not sure how I feel about this.

7. And while we are on the subject of confusing sex, Kevin Bacon and Lori Singer’s first passionate kiss comes on the heels of her boyfriend-with-anger-management-issues giving her a black eye. I think that Footloose would be a much more realistic and believable film if the trauma of that event made her emotionally unavailable for smooching anyone. Even an adorable misfit like Kevin Bacon.

Because otherwise, it’s a very realistic story.

A little sweet and melancholy. With beautiful lyrics. Enjoy with a glass of red wine and someone special by your side.