Big Daddy Paul

Meeting Malcolm for the first time was one of the best moments of my life, ranking right up there with getting the game winning hit in the 1982 Little League championship and the first time I ever tried Queso Fundido. The kid was a spitting image of me, and I cried knowing that he was going to be every bit of the hunk that I am today. (I also cried at all the horrible names that Amy called me in front of the nursing staff, but I try not to focus on the negative aspects of Malcolm’s arrival.) Throughout his childhood, both Amy and I have marveled at the little ways Malcolm reminds us of ourselves.

At Malcolm’s tee ball game the other day, I realized that there is a downside to having your kid share your traits. Malcolm was consistently the last kid out of the dugout, unable (every inning apparently) to keep track of his hat and mitt. As his coaches yelled out wondering where he was, I felt responsible. I have the organizational skills of chicken running around without its head, and evidently Malcolm thinks this is a perfectly acceptable way to approach life. Getting us both out of the house at the same time closely resembles the chaos of a meth lab being raided by federal agents. Sometimes I wish the apple fell farther from the tree.

Sadly, this is the same outfit I wore to my prom.

I have also noticed that Malcolm shares my disdain for the fashion rules of polite society. He seems to select his outfits to ensure that every color in the rainbow is represented. Lately he has even compounded his fashion faux pas by attempting to wear as many clothes as possible each day. Today, he came out of his room  with four different sets of pajamas on. I was the same way growing up, looking like I got dressed each day by randomly selecting clothes after a bomb blew up at the clown college.

One of the more interesting ways that Malcolm is showing off my traits is the comments he makes while watching baseball games. I have high expectations for my Giants, and am quick to announce my displeasure whenever they do not meet my lofty standards. Malcolm has picked up on this, and if you watch games with him, you can routinely hear him make comments like, “What are you thinking?” or “Dude, you are killing me!” I have even gone so far as to try and teach him the razz, “Grab some pine, meat!!!” (for when an opposing player strikes out) and am eagerly waiting when he can actually use it properly. Most of the time, he butchers it, saying,”Grab some meat, piney,” or other close derivation.

My heart melts a little bit when I see my good looking little boy, sitting on our messy couch with four pairs of pajamas on, yelling at the baseball players on the TV. Yes, a melting heart, kind of like the cheese on a perfectly executed Queso Fundido.

One thing I absolutely do not miss about the working world is dressing like a grown up. My fashion has regressed to something close to a 16 year-old, usually involving sneakers, a baseball hat, shorts, and my all time favorite article of clothing: the hoodie. The hoodie is my friend, it covers all manner of ills. It is my security blanket and I love it dearly.

I used to be a regular sweatshirt guy. Then, my I started an ambitious expansion program which necessitated finding things to mask my expanding girth. After an unfortunate incident involving a girdle and a brief period of asphyxiation, I decided the best approach was going to be to just cover up my midsection. See, with a hoodie, I can put my hands in the front pocket. That way, the people who look at me will think that the bulge in my midsection is just the result of my hands resting in the pocket, and not the result of an infatuation with cheeseburgers and popcorn. Pretty smart eh? Now, getting ready consists of the following: take off pajama bottoms and replace with shorts. Throw on hoodie. (If day begins with letter T, brush teeth and apply deodorant.) Leave the house. The hoodie, as you can see, is the most versatile piece of fashion since mom jeans were invented.

It is precisely these reasons why the hoodie is the official fashion item for the stay at home dad. I don’t know if I should reveal this, but once you are initiated into the inner sanctum of the stay at home dad world, you are ushered into a small room for initiation. After some “rites of passage” involving two or three dozen hot dogs and a 12-pack of beer, you are presented with your very own hoodie to wear as a badge of honor. You then go forth and save the world, one child at a time. You can tell how experienced a stay at home dad is by the number of stains he has on the front of his hoodie. They are similar to the rings on the inside of an old redwood tree. It doesn’t matter how new the hoodie is, they follow you like the stink of a rental car even after you have returned it. I got a brand new  hoodie a month ago, and it already has four stains on it, one for each year I have been at home with Malcolm.

It’s not all fun and games though. I recently lost one of my favorite hoodies of all time. I was pretty bummed when I lost the skull hoodie, I loved it and the kids that I hang with loved it too. The loss was about as emotional for me as losing our cats or Amy having jinxed the Giants into losing the World Series. I don’t know where you are out there skull hoodie, but know this: you will be missed. And tell the girdle that I am still mad at him.