They're Onto Me: Basking in the Final Days of Superdadhood

I've been indulging in excess during this winter break, eating fatty foods and lots of bread, and drinking far too many beers. I wonder if heart fatalities go up as we let ourselves go at the end of the year, in anticipation of those New Year's resolutions. I'm sure I've put on a few extra pounds in the last several weeks. Last night as we were snuggling up in my bed watching The Polar Express, Jackson patted my belly and asked, "Why are you so fat?"

I considered a defensive response, but he was right and I knew it. When I made a face (the face anyone would make upon hearing such a question) he said, "Well, you are."

He then poked the gelatinous mass once more, as if to illustrate his point.

"Yes, but there are nicer ways to ask the question. I'm fat because I eat too much and drink a lot of beer." It wasn't my proudest moment. I know, from my own experience as a boy, that he is comparing me to his male physical heroes. I did the same thing with my dad.

During my childhood the male ideal was personified by a few different figures. The most sought-after men in popular culture at that time were the Fonz, Vinnie Barbarino, Butch and Sundance, and, later, Rocky Balboa. On the extreme side of things, there were the superhero bodybuilders (Lou Ferrigno as the Incredible Hulk, and Arnold Schwarzenegger as Conan the Barbarian). There were the guys from the world of sports too: Joe Namath, O.J. Simpson, and Jim Palmer were known to appear in commercials, often showing off their "attributes" in various stages of undress.

I'd look at them and then at my father who I idolized, then back at the idols. Comparing him against them confused me. He was quite athletic, playing tennis several mornings a week, as well as most weekends, but he had a midsection that, like mine today, hinted at "a life well lived," as someone once euphemistically put it.

For my boys the male physical ideal is embodied by the WWF and WWE stables. Try as we might, my wife and I have been unable to push back the testosterone tide of "professional" wrestling. It's like a drug for them, and every chance they get they are with their friends, playing with John Cena action figures or staging fantasy battles on the Wii between the Rock and Andre the Giant, or Seamus and Hulk Hogan. They giggle when they ask me to make a muscle, saying I look -- in their adoring eyes, anyway -- like Big Show. (Whoever that is.)

The midsection baffles them, just as my father's did me, when I was a svelte boy-child. Let's hope they can avoid going down the same genetic path.