Yesterday’s trip home from preschool was a typical one. Not content to either sit on my lap on the F-train or stand calmly and hold the railing, Sasha goofed around, wrapping her legs about the central pole to let everyone know just what kind of child I was raising. At the same time, I was holding her hands as she dangled and swung, just to make sure she didn’t fall down as the train lurched Brooklyn-ward.

Then, suddenly, she stopped pole-dancing and slowly burst into tears. Her right arm, I noticed, was limp at her side. Ah, crap. I’d somehow dislocated her elbow joint and given her, for the second time in her short life, nursemaid’s elbow. I held her the rest of the way home as she whimpered. Once, she asked, “Hug?” Obviously, I hugged her.

Luckily, we had good timing on our side. Our pediatrician’s office is not far from home or the subway, and though it was just after 6pm, we found the doctor leading a birthing class and willing to help. A couple of quick, practiced jiggles of Sasha’s arm and she was soon holding a lollipop with the formerly limp limb. The day was saved! (Seriously, I love our doctor.) There’ll be a co-pay to deal with, but that’s better than the last time, when the emergency room cost $1,400 $1,200! (Insurance paid all but $100.)

Anyway, now I’m even more terrified about doing this again. I try and try not to pull Sasha by the arm, or to let her swing from my hands, but on the subway, what am I supposed to do? Let her crumple to the floor and writhe around like some filthy urchin? Or just carry her, no matter how much she screams and struggles to be let down? Is there a right answer here, or am I just in the hands of fate?

Nice post here on Andrew Sullivan’s Daily Dish blog, following the tsunami of coverage of that lady in Britain who tossed a stray cat into a trash bin. She was caught on camera and identified, and now she gets death threats.

This sort of thing follows any cruelty-to-animals story, and it does seem to me—as Sullivan’s correspondent notes—that stories about abused kids get less attention than those about abused animals. And I’m trying to understand that. (I’ll admit here that I am not an animal lover, or an animal hater. I am furry-creature-indifferent.) It’s easy to say that kittens, for example, are so cute and helpless that our hearts go out to them—but surely small children are even more cute, and just as helpless. We might suggest that it’s because animal abuse is more accepted by society, and therefore harder to prosecute, requiring more freelance compassion—but that’s barely true anymore, what with the profusion of animal-cruelty laws.

All I can come up with is a pop-psychology explanation. Abusing a baby is so monstrous an act that there’s no glee in the outrage, no joy in the scolding. You just want the parents (or whoever’s doing the abusing) to disappear. Saying “you’re a sick fuck” to a kid who tortures squirrels is appropriate, if simplistic. Saying it to someone who deliberately hurts a 2-year-old is appropriate but also mind-numbingly inadequate. Better to just move on, and take steps to keep it from happening again—which, unfortunately, it always will, because there are a lot of sick fucks out there.

In case you are one of the few remaining holdouts (along with the world’s most isolated man) who haven’t seen this, I present you with a 3-year-old reciting the poem “Litany” by Billy Collins. And then, below it, Billy Collins reading his own poem. I had seen it, but DadWagon double-friend Rebecca M. (who prefers CGI babies) sent it to me this morning and got me interested all over again.

There seems to be quite a bit of discussion about this, most of it flattering to the parents and the boy, but some of it critical. The boy’s mother has been getting into it with commenters on YouTube as well, defending her housekeeping and insisting that they boy wasn’t donkeywhipped into doing any of this rote memorization.

I tend to believe her. The boy does look like he enjoys this, and having two kids around that age, I recognize the look of accomplishment the boy is feeling (even if it is well beyond the passion of my children to do this kind of memorization).

One question, though: why is this so great? This boy’s dilemma is not unlike what faces a lot of child prodigies. His tone is great. The veneer of comprehension is there. But what could this poem mean to him? Even less, I would argue, than Mozart means to a 3-year-old who can play “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” A lot of the commenters on the video were moved to tears by what they heard. I guarantee you he will not be so moved by reciting it, not for a long time.

Not that I understand exquisite poetry—An Berliner Kinder is about all I can handle—nor should this boy (who also did some Lord Tennyson elsewhere) have to understand it. If my kid started memorizing these types of things, I’d probably post a video of it on YouTube as well. But everyone who either 1) gets wildly inspired by this boy or 2) feels horribly depressed that their kids, like mine, are nowhere close to doing this should relax.

I find that toddlers’ natural use of language is far more poetic than anything that adults can dream up. We adults are all fallen creatures, our language tied to the filthy structures and patterns of adult life. That goes for adult poets, too. So if I’m going to watch a 3-year-old on YouTube, I’d rather it be that girl explaining Star Wars in her own language. There’s so much more to see and appreciate there—actual creativity and synthesis and self-expression.

In contrast, what this boy is doing is madrassa learning, the same as young boys reciting the Koran by heart. Does that make them any holier? I don’t believe so. I think a child is at his highest form, if you will, when he’s just being himself. A kid. Being a kid. This ain’t that.

The toddler’s version:

Here is Billy Collins’ version:

My custody arrangement with JP’s mother is hopelessly complicated. Please all, take out your calculators as I explain.

It is divided into a four-week rotating schedule, under which the following rules apply:

On week 1, I spend the first two nights of the week with JP along with the two nights of the weekend. I also have this schedule on week 3. On weeks 2 and 4, it flips, and I have JP for the middle three nights of the week. There are also variations for major holidays (we switch years); school vacations (under certain circumstances we switch off; others we don’t); religious holidays supersede the parenting schedule (except when they don’t); in all circumstances, vacations end at 9 a.m. (!) on the day prior to the alternate parent’s regularly scheduled parenting time. For those who are confused, I can send along my 40-page custody decree, along with the forthcoming divorce stipulation that will implement certain alterations (much needed) to the aforesaid ridiculous legal document that governs most of my life and time.

Most of the stuff goes out the window during August, when we each get to spend two (non-consecutive) weeks of vacation with JP. This is a rather wonderful thing: a full week with my boy, uninterrupted, away from work. I have tried to make the most of my time. I travelled with JP to Florida, Mississippi, and New Orleans; tried, somewhat successfully, to teach him to swim; played soccer with him; discussed the arrival of his sister; let him spend time with my mother, other friends; went to the zoo, an aquarium, the movies, whatever I could think of.

The real question was how good any of this was for him. At this age, it’s debatable that the break from the regular schedule (and the imminent return to the schedule) is a net benefit. I tend to think it is—his mother strenuously thinks otherwise. It should be no surprise that I have a fundamental disagreement about JP’s welfare with his mother. There’s (many) a reason why we’re not together, after all.

This week is one of hers with JP. As is natural for any part-time parent, I’ve spent at least some part of every day beating myself up for my decisions about raising my son. If, as the saying goes, absence makes the heart grow fonder, in the case of divorce absence also makes it grow guilty. Basically, I keep myself sane by reminding myself that JP is a happy boy, surrounded by people who love him, even if at times those people don’t include me.

I also know that it could be worse. We still live in a world in which mothers are the default parents in cases of divorce, and I could have ended up with far less time with JP than I have. So I’m lucky, in many ways.

But still.