Hilarious and Horrifying: My Baby Pretends To Smash Beer Cans on His Head

We were all enjoying a wholesome, family dinner. I sat across the table from Beast Wife. R was at the head of the table. And 11-month-old K sat in his high chair, perched slightly behind Beast Wife’s shoulder. As we discussed the issues of the day, something caught the corner of my eye:

via GIPHY

Oh no.

It’s unmistakable. He is crushing a beer can on his head. Again and again and again. And it’s all my fault. He’s crushing a beer can on his head, because that’s what Dad does.

Well, to be clear, that’s what Dad did. Once. On video. And it wasn’t a beer. It was a White Claw. It’s a cautionary tale about what can happen to a new parent when, having spent 18 months putting to death your old, no-kids self, you get a little taste of that former life one more time. If you get that opportunity, tread carefully: you could be at risk of getting too stoked.

The Event

A couple of years ago, I got too stoked. Beast Wife and I scored some last-minute, free tickets for a Friday night concert. One clutch babysitter, two hours of traffic, and three hours of Dierks Bentley’s greatest hits later (naturally, it was a country music concert), we emerged from our new parent cocoon at the FivePoint Amphitheatre in Irvine. The whole world was in front of us again, and I was well on my way to getting stoked. It was the summer of 2019, a time when you were still allowed to get stoked and go to concerts and things like that. It was also the summer of White Claw. A country thirsty for hard seltzer had its King. As we walked the festival-like grounds, we realized just how deep The Claw had dug in. It was everywhere. Claw Cocktails. An endless sea of Daisy Dukes-wearing, White Claw chugging, Orange County cowgirls. And the most surprising sight of all: grown ass men clutching White Claw tall boys, and not ironically! Bros of all ages were out there crushing Claws like they were Bud Lights. What happened while we were in new parent isolation??? This new world looked nothing like how I remembered it. A new normal. But these bros were obviously stoked, and being stoked is contagious. I couldn’t tell, though, whether this mysterious beverage was a symptom, or the cause.

I scanned the beverage tents, tempted to join the masses with a frosty, white can of my own. But as a Supreme Court justice once said, I like beer. So I skipped the White Claw for round one, ordered an IPA, and settled into my seat. The crowd was rowdier than we’d expected. Bros continued to walk by, White Claws in-hand. With each subsequent song (and each subsequent beer), I became more and more stoked. We honed in on this group of bros a few rows in front of us who we dubbed “The UC Irvine Water Polo Team.” They were so stoked and blonde, it was impossible to keep our eyes off of them. Plus, they were finishing an impossible number of White Claws. There was not a beer to be seen. That crew was a microcosm of the crowd I was being sucked into, growing more and more stoked every minute, fueled by low-calorie flavored vodka water. Dierks shotgunned a beer with a fan on stage (should’ve been a White Claw, if he knew his audience). I cheered loudly. My stokedness was reaching a crescendo. Then the band started playing “Living.”

“Some days you just get by, and some days you’re just alive. Some days you’re LIIIIVVVING.”

Damn straight I’m living. Before I knew it, I was sprinting down the bleachers, skipping two steps at a time. My gracious designated driver, Beast Wife, watched in amusement (or horror?) as I spun and juked through the crowd. There was just enough time to get my taste of what these bros were drinking before Dierks called it a night.

Moments later, I was the bro walking up the bleachers, White Claw in-hand. Ruby Grapefruit. Sounded healthy. I took a sip. It was sweet and refreshing. It had booze in it. It only had 100 calories. A deep sense of satisfaction enveloped me as Dierks finished his set. Parenting responsibilities melted away in a grapefruity haze. The show ended. The crowd streamed towards the exits. I floated across a lawn littered with gleaming, empty cans. Man, I was stoked. And I wanted everyone to know it. I told Beast Wife I had a message to send to our friends back home. A message of Hope. For any who felt oppressed or beaten down by the laws of society that govern how parents should act. For those weighed down by a new parent lifestyle where you’re not allowed to have fun anymore. Those rules don’t apply today. Today we’re Livin’. We’re stoked. We’re drinking Claws. And, as everyone knew in the summer of 2019, ain’t no laws when you’re drinking Claws.

Beast Wife hit record.

“How many laws???” I yelled, tilting the empty can towards the camera. “Zero!”

And I crushed it on my head.

The Aftermath

18 months later, R is scrolling through videos of himself on mommy’s phone. Mixed in with footage of him learning how to walk, saying his first words, and totting around our house, is a video of his Dad. Beast Wife invites me outside to see the surprise R has waiting for me.

“How many laws? Zero!” he yells, before smacking himself in the head and running in circles around the yard. Smh.

So there we have it. Thanks to one night of freedom and indiscretion, and one ill-advised video, both my sons now think it’s funny to pretend that they’re crushing White Claw cans on their heads. K, creative as ever, also crushes socks, balls, and most other toys on his head. When he does that, he looks to me for approval. I hang my head. R decided he was stoked enough on New Years’ Eve that he should yell “Happy…. New Year!” before crushing a phantom can on his head. It’s funny. But am I proud of this? I’ve been prouder.

So what’s a bro to do? Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it’s also the quickest way to expose your dad’s most unflattering moments of weakness. Who hasn’t heard or shared a story about a kid parroting a cuss-word? It’s kinda funny until you’re in mixed company, or your kid brings home a pink slip from school that really should have your name on it, Dad. These kids are watching me ALL the time, more so now that I’m a SAHD. Without an office to escape to, the blame for their more unsavory habits are far more likely to fall on me. Smh.

On the other hand, my increased touch points with the boys breeds opportunity for positive influence as well. Sure, they are more likely to mimic my worst behaviors. But they’re also more likely to imitate my positive traits. If they’re watching me all the time, they’ll notice how I deal with my negative emotions, how I treat women, how I interact with my Beast Wife, how I respect my elders, how I deal with strangers and people that don’t look like me, and how much I express my love for them. These are more subtle, but also more consistent, examples for them to follow than that one time I crushed a White Claw on my head, or those couple of times I got frustrated and yelled at R. Here’s hoping that consistent, subtle, positive influences will outweigh the less frequent, yet memorable (and funny, or traumatizing), mistakes.

So what do I say if R asks me, “Daddy, why did you crush that White Claw on your head?” His impressionable mind always seems to want to know “why” these days. And if this is, indeed, behavior I don’t want him to emulate, I should be prepared with an answer. Why did I do that? Starting to feel guilty again, I found this article explaining that modeling bad behavior is only one of TEN top parenting mistakes you will probably make! What great news! I have plenty of mistakes to look forward to that will help to water this one down, like a White Claw on ice. Plus, since I’ll be making all of these mistakes, I’ll need to practice owning them, apologizing for them, and committing to improve upon them. I have to, because that’s what I’d expect my sons to do. I have a critical and challenging responsibility as a parent: to model for my sons how a man should act. And a man should always address his mistakes head-on. I think I have my answer:

“Son, I’m sorry. That was a mistake. I was really stoked that day, and I succumbed to peer pressure. I will do better next time.”

“Next time, it’ll be a beer can.”