But what happens when that fight leaves the living room or the bedroom via Twitter or Facebook? How are that couple’s followers and friends supposed to take it? How do they react? And does it leave behind any lasting effect?

This is something I have thought about in the past. I have turned to both Facebook and Twitter to express my feelings about my wife. It usually is mild gripe stuff, but once in a while I post something a little more visceral than I should. Usually, those get ignored. Occasionally, a friend leaves somthing pithy like, “My wife also loves it when I question her parenting on Facebook.” My wife will also post her feelings about our little spats, too. And we leave the big stuff off our walls. It’s sort of an unwritten rule in our house.

That’s not the case for everyone. Aaron Gouveia, a guy I admire very much, and someone I shared a newsroom with briefly, recently tweeted his feelings about his wife in the heat of an argument. I won’t repeat his tweet here without his permission, but it is in his Twitter stream on @Daddyfiles. He made a very strong statement. I read it in real time, and was shocked. And knowing Aaron, I knew something was really wrong. He loves his wife more than life itself. He’s her biggest cheerleader, and he has supported her through some extremely difficult experiences, which he chronicled on his blog, Daddyfiles. A few minutes later, he tweeted that the argument was resolved and he apologized to his wife.

In the days that passed, Aaron came under attack by several people who were furious with him and his tweet. Many decided to unfollow him, and they attacked him on their way out. In the midst of the furor, came Audrey Binkowski, known as @laughmom, who said It was important for Aaron to consider his audience when tweeting because negative tweets could hurt his brand. She was talking specifically about a situation with another blogger whose idea was stolen by a brand. Audrey has a point. Aaron agreed with her in principle, but won’t change a thing.He will continue to chronicle his life on Twitter – happy or sad.

Audrey is right. Aaron is right. I wouldn’t censor myself for fear of losing sponsorships or paid gigs. I don’t get any anyway. But that could change, and if it did, I would have to consider my posts to all social networks and blogs very carefully. The ranting looney doesn’t usually take home the gravy.

If you take the balance of Aaron’s tweets together, he usually is only looney about hating New York teams. He loves his wife. He idolizes his son. He worships his dad. He admires his brother. He is grateful to his mother. He makes friends easily, and he is influential. So, the occasional visceral tweet can be forgiven.The haters will hate. The people who want to live in a world of sunshine and lollipops will chastise anyone who infringes on that. The senators of the Nanny State will always be out there policing what people say and do.

He owes nobody on Twitter an apology. He still has thousands of followers; thousands of supporters. His tweets carry weight, and clearly the response to his tweet about his wife is a example of that influence. But there is a lesson in this for Aaron and all dad bloggers: Your tweets do matter. They do get read. When you’ve built an audience of followers – sympathizers and admirers – you do have to remember that people will get pissed off at you for what you write wherever it is printed. How you handle it is what matters. Aaron doesn’t apologize, except to his wife. That’s all that matters to him. That’s all that should matter to anybody.

That doesn’t mean this arrangement isn’t without trouble. When we are on familiar local roads, everything is mostly hunky-dory. With the exception of a few reminders for her to slow down, I rarely have a problem with how she drives. It’s a different story we get out of town.

Susan isn’t very good with her sense of position. That’s different than a sense of direction. She is very god with directions. She knows east from west, etc. But position is knowing whether places are east or west of your current location. That’s where I come in. I have to give directions, and this is where it all falls apart for us.

I say something that seems very clear and logical to me. My wife hears something different. She does what she hears and that sets the trouble in motion. We get along well except when we argue, and this is one of those things we argue about.

Usually by about the third direction, I shut up and let her problem solve on her own. This usually works.

I’m sure a lot of you are thinking I’m a jerk. But this is what works for us. It would be a lot worse if I drove because my wife is a terrible passenger. Her appraisal of my driving is that I’m a poke who drives like Mr. Magoo. I will admit to driving the speed limit pretty much wherever I go. I use my turn signals and I stop for yellow lights. I take full advantage of the more deliberate effort of driving now that we live in North Carolina after growing up and earning my chops on the crazy streets of Boston and surrounding suburbs. But this drives my wife bonkers and she doesn’t fail to let me know this.

It’s just better this way. We disagree. Sometimes we strenuously object. But mostly we have a difference of opinion and move on. It works. It’s not great. But it works.

“OMG!OMG!OMG!

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

What could elicit such a response? As I scrolled down to the body of the email I noticed that it’s a promotion for a Hall & Oates show at the Beacon theater in New York. My response:

“Didn’t we see them last year in Brooklyn for free?”

“Yes, but we weren’t up close,” she replies with.

Later that evening, I brought it up as to show what a caring, considerate, thoughtful husband I am.

Me: “Do you really want to go see Hall & Oates again?”

Her: “Nope.”

Me: “What? What changed?”

Her: “I like Hall & Oates but i’m not paying $44-$150 to see them.”

Me: Smile.

Sorry, Oates. No can do-ah.

He loved me, this I know, but distance and ill-feelings between adults kept him away. Years later, I made my piece with it. To this day, though, it bothers me still to see fathers – whether married or not – who refuse to be present in their children’s lives.

Now comes a new reality “drama” aimed at getting a few of these potential Darwin Award-winners to sack-up and be dads. VH1 Dad Camp airs its first episode on May 31 at 10:30 p.m. EDT. VH1, formerly known as the “adult contemporary” version of MTV, has teamed with the National Fatherhood Leaders Group to bring in psychologist Jeff Gadere to work with six fathers and their pregnant girlfriends to attempt to get them to be “dads” by the series’ end.

Whether this show has the mettle to bring other real-life sperm donors to “fatherhood” is a question that will only be answered with time. But what it will most likely achieve is shining a light on the reality that being a dad means something more than showing up when it’s convenient – you know after late-night feedings and diaper changes, after the umpteenth illness punctuated by projectile vomiting, and after potty training. Being a dad means being there for those times, and for the times in between and later. It means seeing your children every day. It means telling them you love them. It means disciplining them and teaching them to learn from their own mistakes.

Just as important, and not to be overlooked, it means being there for the mom. Not every relationship that involves a child is going to work out. I lived this reality. But responsibility for your children doesn’t end when the love fades. It never ends. Share the burden of raising the child, and make it easy on the moms, because no matter what, every single-mom is doing the work of two parents at all times. Be kind, and be respectful of her time and priorities.

It takes work, but every father can earn the title “dad”.

The recurrent Master’s leitmotifs of Jim Crowe racism and mysogyny do little to dull the appeal of the event — hell, they burnish it. 13 years after Tiger Woods became the youngest person  to winthe Master’s and the first african american man to win it, and seven years after the issue of gender discrimination at the club caused headlines, not much has changed at Augusta, while the rest of us have just moved on. These days, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.

Of course, our country’s centuries-long obsession with race took a back seat this year to our other main obsession: sex. This was, perhaps, unavoidable, with mega-star Tiger Woods using the tournament to make his comeback from a all too brief respite from the game. It was a tumultuous five months in which the greatest golfer of his generation was revealed to be one of the great womanizers of his generation, too. Treated for a “sex addiction” in the world renowned medical hub of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, Woods made numerous, heart-felt apologies to his fans and his family only to see the content of some raunchy text message exchanges with a mistress aired in public.

The question coming into the tournament was whether Tiger could put the controversy behind him and “own the grass” (to *ahem* coin a phrase) of Augusta. True to form, Woods played with the kind of robotic consistency that’s won him four Master’s and fourteen majors titles. Still, Going into Sunday Woods trailed some able competitors with considerably more wholesome stories. Notably, Phil Mickelson, a two time Master’s winner, husband and father who’s wife, Amy is battling breast cancer. Mickelson put together a masterful round on Saturday, catapulting himself into contention with an eagle-eagle-birdie combination, then played strong on Sunday, while Woods was went +3 over the fist five holes.

While Mickelson was touchingly saluting his wife from the winner’s circle — “It’s been an emotional year and I’m very proud of my wife and the struggle she has been through,” he told CBS– Woods was rueing the anti-climax to his choking, slapping and f***king world tour. “”I only enter events to win, I didn’t get it done,” he was quoted as saying, before announcing that he’d be taking still more time off before rejoining the tour. You half expected him to don some Ray Bans and an declare “I’ll be back” in his best Austrian accent.

But does anyone really care? The mainstream sports media, of course, smeared some Vaseline over the moral lense and declared that, win or not,  Tiger’s ability to play his way into the top five at the tournament was nothing short of a miracle and a sign that Tiger had put his personal travails behind him and was indisputably “back.” As if a man that could march to the victor’s circle in 14 majors while carrying on simultaneous affairs with his secretary, strippers, porn stars and a dozen or more other women was likely to be sidetracked by bad press or, god forbid, a conscience. If nothing else, the past few months have exposed for all of us how thin was the man’s veneer of focus, discipline and control. No monument to our human potential, the Ambien-guzzling, womanizing Tiger of the last few months seems more a throwback to our reptilian past – a creature designed to do little more than sleep, eat, golf and make little Tigers. Forget about having the man represent a sports drink. I’m not sure I want him representing my species!

If Tiger was the right figure for bubble America — hyped up, super human and – yes- deceptively rotten, then maybe Mickelson is a superstar for our times: humble, hard working, and reliable (if sometimes boring) in his greatness. Here’s wishing him many more!

During today’s thievery, I posted a quick rant to Twitter and got some pretty good insights as to why women love our hoodies:

#1 reason: they’re big enough so they don’t have to wear a bra.

#2, bigger hood provides fast hairdo coverage to avoid judgment when running into your CEO at the gas station.

#3, Because they’re warm, soft, and smell like you. It’s like wearing a hug from you all the time. With a hood.

#4, BIG pockets~for phone, lipstick, ipod, biz cards, xanax, car keys, Flip Cam, ‘germ-X’, travel pk tissues, driver’s license+. When you pack lots into a pocket…it binds together, creating a snug lump of necessities. Object removal is another matter, according to sources — Problem: when removing a single item from cached pocket…two hands are necessary, facilitating an awkward Pilates type movement.

So there you have it. Why women steal men’s hoodies. Guys, you have been educated. Women, we are on to your game.

To other women out there. Why do you steal your man’s hoodie?

Here goes:

• Gross amounts of food that requires a transition to sweatpants after the third sitting
• Wall to wall, uninterrupted, sports
• Left-overs
• Kids that can occupy themselves
• Wives, mother-in-laws, step-mothers, aunts, girlfriends, sisters and step-sisters that slave in the kitchen and clean up after us.
• Wives, mother-in-laws, step-mothers, aunts, girlfriends, sisters and step-sisters that keep themselves occupied because honestly, we don’t care about the chit chatter. We want to eat, watch sports, take a nap and eat some more.
• Did I mention left overs?
• Being around other guys so you’re protected by the pack, i.e. your wife/girlfriend can’t jump down your throat for having a third plate of food or drinking a cooler full of beer because all the other guys are doing the same thing.
• Deep fried anything — turkey, of course, but anything that’s deep fried is for the win!
• Minimal travel time because it equals to less cranky kids, more food and sports time with the guys.
• Oh, did I mention left overs?
• WARNING ITEM — For the most gender slanted holiday on the planet, i.e. men eat all day and watch sports while women cook and clean. Now, I know it’s not the 1950s any more, but for guys like me who grew up in a society where men are expected to pull their weight around the house (which is fine with me), this is as close to “old school” as we’ll ever get. Enjoy it because you know it’s not going to last and that you’ll be paying for your over indulgence, butt scratching, burping, beer-drinking behavior for 364 more days, until next Thanksgiving.
• And oh yea, left overs.

That is all gents. Enjoy your naps because a cold splash of reality hits you in the face the next day as you start to untangle those stupid Christmas lights.

(sighs)

What difference does one more make?

Recently a friend of mine revealed that he and his wife had liquidated their baby supplies. He has two children just like me, and while he might have considered adding on to the family his wife had declared “No mas!”. As any dad would expect, that was the end of the discussion. So they lugged all their furniture, linens, toys, unused diapers, and miscellaneous items out of storage and turned them over to friend of a friend who was in need. That was that.

On the other hand, my wife Katie & I remain squarely in baby limbo. A corner of our basement contains the high chair, car seat, bassinet, clothing,and approximately 12,000 baby toys that we’ve accumulated over the lifetimes of our two girls. Being the obsessive compulsive neat freak that I am, I’ll often prod Katie that it’s time to sort through all that stuff and re-claim some storage space. Each time she issues the same half-amused/half-annoyed response: “Are you ready to say we’re done?”. It’s the perfect counter and she knows it. End of discussion.

The truth is that neither of us is willing to make the first move and leap away from the safety of that fence. Right now life is pretty darn good. Our girls (ages 5 & 3) are happy and healthy, out of diapers and sleeping through the night. We’re free to roam around as we please without the limitations of the trunk-full of baby items required to care for a newborn. We can go to restaurants knowing we won’t have to ask the staff to heat baby meals in the microwave for us. We don’t hesitate to hop on a plane in the winter time to take a trip down to the Florida sunshine, and we no longer need to bring a stroller along if we don’t want to. Katie is able to balance her hectic work schedule without bringing a breast pump along for the ride. With the school season started, she even gets two whole mornings per week to herself! I’m starting to get more serious about running and hope to expand into longer races in the future. Slowly but surely, the parts of our lives we gave up to have the kids are returning. Meanwhile, we’re secure in the knowledge that we haven’t officially called it quits. There are no guarantees, but in theory we could have #3 on the way at any point if we wanted to.So while we take the time to think things through, the clock continues ticking. Katie is in her mid-30′s early 20′s, and we understand that the risks of another pregnancy will continue to climb as she gets older. We’re also sensitive to the fact that if we wait too long, a baby #3 might have issues relating to sisters who are much older. I’ve done the math and (shocker) I’m not getting any younger either.

An outsider might think this should be an easy decision. “You’ve had a good run! Just call it quits and enjoy what you have!”. Still, there’s a lingering fear that years from now the girls will be wrapped up in their rapidly expanding social lives and Katie & I will look over at an empty dining room chair wondering “why didn’t we just go for it??”. Having another child means extending our parenting years and buying additional time before the dreaded empty nest. It means another chance to sing lullabies, to snuggle up in a rocking chair on those cold winter nights until the cries turn to soft breathing. It’s a shot at re-living all those moments we cherished the first two times around. But like most good things in life, there are tradeoffs and uncertainties. Sleepless nights with quick turnarounds. The fear of stealing time and attention away from the first two kids. Worries about how in the world we would juggle time, family and friends to make this work. As much as our minds allow us to romanticize the experience, we parents know it’s not easy.

So where does this leave us? The exact same place we were when we started. In the coming weeks there will be times the girls are melting down when Katie & I will make eye contact as if to say “Yeah right, you want another one of these??”. And then there will be moments when we notice just how big the girls are getting, or how much fun we’re having during what we know will be the greatest years of our lives. The little flame that was flickering will start to burn again, and for a split second we’ll think “Yes! Having a third makes so much sense!”.

Baby limbo. We know we’re in it… now how do we get out??

You: “Hello.”

Wife: “Hey hon, how’s your day going?”

You: “Good. You?”

Wife:  “Good. What time are you coming home?”

You: “Ah, not sure. The usual I’m guess.”

Wife: “Ok. What do you want for dinner?”

You: “Not sure. Whatever is fine. Doesn’t matter.”

Wife: “Ok, I’ll whip something up. Call me when you’re leaving.”

You: “Ah, ok. Will do.”

Now, here’s what’s really being said.

You: “Jesus. How many frickin’ times is she going to call me today?”

Wife: “Hey I know you’re in the middle of something important, but I’ve been at home all day with this crazy ass kids. Can you give me a little adult phone time?”

You: “Great timing honey. Seriously. I don’t have time for this chit chat crap.”

Wife:  “I’m really calling to find out when you’re coming home. I’m starting to go batty and need adult interaction.”

You: “I’m coming home at the same time I come home every night. Why are you bothering me with the question, yet again.”

Wife: “Because I can, that’s why. What the hell do you want for dinner?”

You: “I’d really like to have a fillet, but we’ll settle for some of that nasty chicken you mother taught you to make because god forbid we try something from MY mother’s cook book.”

Wife: “Ok, I’ll make that chicken I know you love so much and you’ll thank me for it with each bite. You better call me before you leave because you’re not allowed to go out boozing with the guys at work.”

You: “Looking forward to getting some couch time because I know all you’ll be doing is playing Farmville.”

We fall for the silly things: No matter how tired or late for work you are, the line “Daddy, wanna play catch?” will always stop us in our tracks; We won’t turn off “Field of Dreams” at the end; We’ll always choose pizza over making pretty much any meal, except maybe grilling some large piece of meat.

But, really, do you think we’re suckers? I’m not one to ascribe improper motives among women but, without a single solitary shred of research into this alleged research, I’m calling this propaganda from some new consortium of mothers – let’s call them the Mothers United to Bring Down Fathers, LLC.

I saw the study in the elevator first, actually, one of those Wall Street Journal scrolls as I rode up to my car in the garage at work. It said something like, “More housework leads to more sex, according to new study.” I was suddenly bleeding from my eyes.

Not me

Naturally, I looked the thing up and, sure enough, the Journal reported a study – published by something called the Journal of Family Issues (surely a front for women married to suckers).

This “study” claims to have surveyed more than 6,800 married couples. Those couples allegedly said, or a majority of them did anyway, that the more housework they did, the more sex they had.

The theory is that apparently those who work hard, play hard.

This, of course, is total crap apparently published by collegiate types who think that work is office hours or sitting in the lab and playing hard involves a cocktail party where they have to break into the really old Merlot. Anyone who actually works for a living and manage kids and chores is going to laugh themselves into Depends at the mere thought of this study.

For most working folks, the day looks something like this: Up, shower, kids up, kids dressed, shove breakfast down some throats, rush to make the bus on time, rush to get to work, work all day (worrying about the kids and watching the clock to make sure you get home in time), get home, clean up the toys, take the dog for a walk, fight the kids into choking down some reasonably healthy dinner, get them into their pajamas, read a couple stories, try to pause for some “quality time,” get them to bed, make tomorrow’s lunches, do some laundry, dishes and the rest of it before collapsing on the couch to look at the pretty colors. Sex? Well, sure. Maybe, if you’re lucky – pun fully intended.

Do I think doing the dishes is going to get me lucky? Not a prayer. Chores have one basic purpose: To get them done. And they have one basic result: They make you tired.

I know I might build up some goodwill with the wife, I know she might like me a little more if I fold laundry, but she’s not thinking of sexing me up as I yank the diaper bag out of the pail, she just isn’t. I know when I finish the lawn, she’s not thinking let’s run to the bedroom, she’s wondering if I’ll shower or at least put on a new shirt before I touch her.

This is proof there are profs with too much time on their hands, that a study will truly attract attention as long as it promotes some novel theory and, well, what Mr. Barnum may or may not have said long, long ago.

Of course, as my wife just walked in to the house I asked her what she thought. She smiled and said, “I think you should go vacuum.”

Come to think of it, I might just do that.

Hey, I may be a sucker, but I’m not stupid.