They bounced from tire to tire Saturday at the Radiator Springs play area during the Flower and Garden Festival at Epcot.

I’m trying to remember how I thought about things when I was seven. I carry a few foggy memories from that age of an awakening awareness of gonads, girls and God. I was on the verge of knowing a few things, but I was still working out the details.

For instance: I knew older boys were terrified of being hit in the ‘nads. That’s what we called them: ‘nads. Or, I suppose I should say that’s what the older boys called them, and we first graders followed suit.

Because that’s what first graders do. They emulate. They’re mostly undifferentiated human templates, absorbing and assimilating the qualities of those around them. What they hear, see, smell, touch, do and dream at that age combines with nature to give them form and substance for life.

At seven, I don’t recall if I had the slightest idea that ‘nads were properly called testicles (and even more properly called testes, but we’re not really sticklers for propriety). I do remember that I didn’t know what purpose testicles served. I only knew they were my constant companions, and that it hurt like the dickens when I they got hit or kicked or smashed by the pointy tip of my bicycle seat, and older boys wore a cup during baseball practice and games, and I wanted to get a cup, too, because it would mean I was a big boy.

So, now, I’m the father of a seven-year-old first grader. In preparation for this piece about testicular cancer awareness, I thought it would be good to start with a lesson for my older son. I thought I’d begin with the generalities then move on to the specifics.

They really got into Agent P’s World Showcase Adventure Saturday. We never did catch Doofenshmirtz, but we’ll try again soon.

During the drive from Tampa to Walt Disney World Saturday, I asked the back seat the general question, “Hey. You guys know what testicles are?”

Silence. Then …

“They’re, like, well … um, no, not really.”

Turns out my older son knows approximately what I knew almost 40 years ago at that age. Only, instead of ‘nads, he and his buddies call them balls.

(A quick aside here. I envy the years of rich discovery ahead for my sons. The lessons they’ll learn. The colorful vocabulary they’ll acquire. Oh, to relive each and every moment when life served up a new testicular euphemism. It’s all ahead for them: nuts, eggs, huevos, danglers, scrotes, cojones, rocks, stones, the family jewels. And oh, so many more. Use them well, boys. Use them well.)

After our brief chat Saturday, my older son knows now that the proper name is testicles, but I’m still not sure he’s ready to process the concept of testicular cancer. I’ll save the specifics for later.

Shooooot! It’s Topiary Mater at Epcot’s Flower and Garden Festival.

Not much later, though. One day soon, I’ll explain to my sons that testicular cancer is the most common form of cancer among boys and young men aged 15-35. I’ll explain that catching it early is vital, because 99 percent of those diagnosed with testicular cancer respond well to treatment and can lead normal, active lives. My wife and I will talk to their pediatrician about teaching self-examination, and then we’ll reinforce the importance of vigilance. We won’t be shy, because it’s too important for awkwardness.

All of those details are a bit much for a seven-year-old, I think. But what we can do now is instill the zest for life that will convince him that it’s well worth the few seconds it takes to check for signs of testicular cancer.

So we savor the moments. Saturday, with MomScribe laid out by a nasty head cold, I piled the boys into the car for the hour-long drive over to Epcot. The annual Flower and Garden Festival has begun, and that means topiary! You might be surprised at how fascinated young boys can be with wired shrubbery shaped like Mater and Lightning McQueen, or like a family of pandas.

We spent a couple of hours Saturday wandering the pavilions, chasing the evil Dr. Doofenshmirtz, enjoying the mild weather, relishing each other’s company. It’s the Year of Disney for our family, and this was the first time it was just me and the boys. They’ll remember these days of Disney, I’m sure. I know I will. Perhaps one day they’ll look forward to days like these with their own kids.

With that hopeful thought in mind, we’ll remind them occasionally when they’re older to self-check for signs of testicular cancer. And then, if necessary, we’ll remind them of why. Hopefully, they’ll already know. Hopefully, they won’t need to be reminded that we check because those few seconds could buy them and everyone who loves them years, decades, a lifetime of moments to savor.

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It’s Man UP Monday!

I’m proud to be a member of the Single Jingles Man UP Monday BLOGGING TEAM!

Today, I’m doing my part to spread an important message about Testicular Cancer.

Did you know that Testicular Cancer is the #1 cancer in young men ages 15 to 35?

Did you know that Testicular Cancer is highly survivable if detected early?

Did you know that young men should be doing a monthly self-exam?

What can you do?

Stop by the Single Jingles website for more information on Testicular Cancer.

Request a FREE shower card with self-exam instructions — it just might save a young man in your life!

And if you’re feeling just a little AWKWARD about this conversation, check out this video from some parents who feel the exact same way!

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Thank you to Jim Higley of Bobblehead Dad for inviting me to participate in this great series. Here is the first installment, written by Whit Honea and published last Monday at his personal blog, Honea Express.

Topiary panda family at the China pavilion, Epcot.

My brother’s beautiful family: Erin, Kelin, Carly, J.D. and Jamie. Please consider helping them reach their goal of $500 as they walk for the March of Dimes. (Photo by Sarah Crowe)

 

The Gaddis Family will be participating in the Southern Maryland March for Babies on May 5th to benefit the March of Dimes.  Our daughter, Brooke was born on November 24, 2007 at 24 weeks gestation and earned her angel wings that night.  In memory of Brooke (her due date was March 20) and the hope & joy she brought us, we are making March a month for mad fundraising.  All funds donated go to March of Dimes through the March for Babies event.

• Join our team and march on Sunday, May 5 at the Blue Crabs stadium.  Registration starts at 7:30am or you can sign up online.  March for Brooke and Mason, March for all babies born too soon-the ones you know and the ones you don’t and March for the babies you love.  Each one is a gift.
• March in your local March for Babies event, most take place in April & May.
• Donate online at www.marchforbabies.org/For_Brooke.  Donations made through this link and checks made out to March for Babies are tax deductible.
• I will be hosting a few online and Facebook parties from now until March 30.  You can purchase Tastefully Simple through a current Facebook event and it will be mailed directly to your address when you place an order.   For Thirty-One products, I have an online party set up.  Those items will be shipped to you when the party closes on March 30.  A portion of your total will go to March of Dimes.  If you love their products or need a gift, please check them out or email me for more information.  In April, I will be hosting an Origami Owl custom jewelry fundraiser.  If you have not seen their Living Lockets, you are missing out.  The personalized charm holders make unique & fabulous gifts.
• There will be a Tastefully Simple Tasting at my house Sunday, March 17.  Yes, it’s St. Patrick’s Day and we will have a little party at 4:30pm.  If you are near by, come and sample the new items before you place your order.  Information about Thirty-One and Origami Owl will be available.
• Free gifts earned from the sales will be raffled off.  Each order will get you one raffle ticket and more chances can be purchased for $1 each.  All raffle money goes directly towards our March for Babies goal.

Here’s my first guest post, from none other than my 7-year-old son, Jay:

The same weekend I got my review copy of Wreck-It Ralph, we got to meet these guys at Disney’s Hollywood Studios.

Wreck-It Ralph didn’t win the Oscar for Best Animated Film, but you know how we know a movie’s a winner in our house? The boys ask to watch it again the instant the closing credits begin to roll.

That actually happens a lot around here, a fact that might have as much to do with our discerning tastes as parents (ahem) as it does our sons’ inherent ability to appreciate a well-made film. We only show them the good stuff, so naturally they can’t get enough.

This was a bit different, though. For the first time, I agreed to write a product review. I did not agree to this lightly, and only the reputation of the products involved swayed me. Knowing how much our 7- and 4-year-old sons thoroughly enjoy everything made by Pixar and all the old Disney flicks (the Aristocats and Peter Pan are particular favorites), I said yes when I was asked to join a list of reviewers by the firm that handles publicity for Walt Disney Studios Blu-Ray and DVD releases.

Continue reading →

This is why we have kids. To pressure wash the Bat signal onto our driveways.

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I’m writing, bud. It’s a blog post.”

“What’s a blob post?”

“A blog post, Jay Bird. It’s short for web log. Blog, with a G at the end.”

Silence. He studies the back of the upraised laptop screen. I type a couple of sentences while he stands there, fidgeting absent-mindedly with a Hot Wheels car, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like 7 year olds do.

He’s messing with me. He knows it’s blog, not blob, and he knows I know he knows that.  I stop typing and look up at him looking at me. I know what he wants, but I want to hear him ask.

Or maybe it’s not what I think it is. Maybe he’s about to say something about the profundity of 21^st century childhood, something so revelatory that it will change the face of parent blogging forever. A quote that will justify the otherwise baffling existence of Twitter for 24th century digital anthropologists. A nugget of insight that will redefine what it means to be a viral meme. Something so deep and funny and achingly cute that it will make the sneezing baby panda video seem embarrassingly grotesque.

Just as I’m calculating the monthly cost for upgrading to WordPress pro; wondering about converting the blog to self-hosted; contemplating whether Federated Media would be too small of an outfit to handle the ads for my newly gargantuan traffic … he said exactly what I originally thought he’d say.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I play Lego Batman on PlayStation?”

“Sure, bud. Need some help?”

“Yes, please.”

I save the draft, power down the laptop. The Joker has no chance today.

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The good folks at Dad 2.0 Summit invited me to read at this year’s event, and it was the highlight of my writing career.

Well, it’s been a year. For a dad blog, that’s like eight gajillion people years. On Feb. 21, 2012, I officially “launched” DadScribe without a clue why I was doing it. I wanted a creative outlet, sure. I wanted a presence, something that proved to the world – or the infinitesimal portion of the world that would stumble across this site – that I was a writer. As a writer, I am compelled to tell stories. My stories are the stories of my family, as well as the stories of my time as a professional sportswriter. I said as much in the comments of a recent post by parenting blogger extraordinaire and new acquaintance Liz of Mom 101. Her post crystalized and debunked all the existential angstiness I’ve been feeling as the one-year anniversary approached.

Why did I do this? I could’ve journaled and not published and simply kept it as a record for my sons and their families to enjoy (or loath) one day. I could’ve done that.

We began the Year of Disney this month, and it’s going to be amazing. Cheesy? Yes, absolutely. But amazing.

But writing is art as much as it is craft. I’m not saying my writing is art. I’m saying writing, in general, is an art form, and therefore demands consideration. Those of us who like to pretend we know what we’re doing with words like to be read. Or maybe that’s just me and my ego. I guess I shouldn’t speak for all writers, many of whom – like Emily Dickinson – simply write thousands of words about their lives and store them in the 21^st century equivalent of a dusty old shoe box in the back of a digital closet on their laptops. Sure, but that’s not for me.

I tell stories, and without an audience, those stories don’t exist. Where are the readers? They’re here. They’re nowhere. They’re everywhere.

The digital age, with all of this amazing social media, has allowed me to explore my range as a writer as I never could during a 24-year journalism career. The skill set (writing, editing, critical thinking) I honed as a sportswriter has translated well, I think. My approach to parent blogging also is informed by the journalism ethos I lived by for nearly a quarter of a century. What does that mean? For me, it means I don’t voice opinions without first researching the topic thoroughly. It means spelling and grammar count, and typos are to be quickly and emphatically stamped out, like a stray spark that leaps clear of the campfire and into the dry pine needles. It means writing with a fierce authenticity, including the (for me) difficult decision to use the actual names of my children. It also means writing with compassion, and once it even meant re-writing a portion of a post that unintentionally wounded someone I admire. (But only that once, and only after long, considered thought and advice from my best friend and most avid reader, Beth Gaddis.)

I’ve already written more words here than I intended. I wanted to thank all the people I’ve met through the blog, either in person or virtually, and tell more about the experience at Dad 2.0 Summit, and write something funny about things I learned about myself and my sons during the past year because I started to publish. I wanted to go inside the numbers, break down the analytics, express dismay about some of the disturbing search phrases that inexplicably helped my blog be found by some unbelievably sick bastards. I wanted to marvel at all the different countries where my blog has been read, either by an actual human being or a spam bot (Hello, Kyrgyzstan!). I wanted to tell you that I wrote 51,502 words in 72 blog posts, and there were 364 comments (131 by me in answers). I wanted to mention the fact that my Twitter followers grew by 1,050 percent (from about 50 a year ago to 525 as of Wednesday), and I wanted to write that I have no idea why that matters (if it does).

Me and the boys at Tropicana Field on Father’s Day. Such a great day.

I wanted to write that there is so muc