So, you were thinking we at Dadwagon were shirking because we’d ignored all the father-son stories floating around the news the past few days? Not quite. We just outsourced the blogging to a minor subsidiary known as the New York Times Motherlode blog, which—after a few prods from here at HQ—got on the case today, taking on the Madoff suicide, the alleged Columbia drug dealers and the Soho House murder. Check it out, and let us know if you think we should spin this Motherlode off in a massive IPO. We’d be up for it.
The Tantrum: Should you pull your kid out of school for vacation?
(This is the Tantrum, in which Dadwagon’s writers debate one question over the course of a week. For previous Tantrums, click here.)
Damn right! ‘Cause it’s not about their education, or mental or personal development—it’s about me, getting out of town, beating the airport snafus, and saving a few bucks on tickets. Who cares if junior ends up in JuCo?
Seriously, though. Having read Nathan’s post on his nihilistic travel-babies, I started wondering about the issue. His children and my oldest, JP, are approaching ages where the school doesn’t approve of them missing class so I can have a good time, and this will only increase as the years go on. Basically, all of us DadWagoners are on the clock in this regard: if we’re going to take off-peak vacations, now is the time to do it.
Only I can’t. Ever. Another fun part of my divorce is that it rigidly defines when and under what circumstances a vacation can be taken. There is, in fact, a specific clause stating that holidays cannot be planned if they interfere with the educational schedule of the child. Nicely enough, this prohibition essentially holds true for my newest addition, Ellie, as in all likelihood we’ll be taking vacation together. My ex, I should point out, hates vacation in all its forms and guises. She hates leaving the city, hates traveling, hates spending money, hates the woods, the beach, the mountains, the prairie, hates the expense, the unpredictability, and the weak slothfulness implied by even the shortest stretches spent away from one’s labors.
I disagree. Not only do I enjoy not working, but my main goal in life is to avoid work as much as possible, much like a Buddhist avoiding pain, only with festive cocktails and a sunburn. I also think that giving children an opportunity to see other parts of the world—and visit out-of-town family—is a social and developmental plus, one that, particularly with young children, is at least as valuable as what is being learned in school.
So I’m all for Nathan ditching work to hit the slopes. So what if his kids have to sleep on the floor of the airport and subsist on Cinnabon and handouts from strangers? So what if his wife gets canned and they have to move in with her parents? It’ll never impact me, because I’ll be stuck here in this urban cesspool, sweating out the days until I die, or retire, whichever comes later.
Nihilists at the Ticket Counter
This weekend, the Northeast drowned in precipitate and a Midwestern whiteout killed the Metrodome (although seriously, we all know that the Vikings’ owner spent the last week up under the roof cutting a hole so he can force the prog voters of Minneapolis to become the next group of taxpayers to pay for a new luxury NFL stadium).
I, however, was west of all the calamities and the billion cancelled flights, in Colorado on this year’s big indulgence: a snowboarding/skiing week (more about vacation during this week’s Tantrums). It was actually all right in Colorado: just enough snow to stay on top of it and not be buried or snowed out of anything.
Why, then, am I still here with my family when my wife and I are supposed to be back at work in New York?
Because of a spam filter and horrid, horrid customer service from our friends at United Airlines.
We showed up yesterday, with kids and lunches packed, plane toys readied, 90 minutes before our flight at Eagle Airport. Nico excitedly watched as a small jet took off down the runway and up over the mountain as we drove up. We were all in a fine mood. Except that the counter was dark. There was no plane. After many minutes on hold with United, my wife’s glare literally melting the phone in my hand, I was informed that the flight we had been booked on (since February—these were frequent flier tickets) no longer existed. It was like a unicorn, a Dodo bird. UA6368 will be remembered only in song.
I was also told that I had been rebooked on a flight 90 minutes earlier, and that they had notified me in October, by email, of this change. That plane that Nico clapped at taking off? That was our plane.
Having done a thorough electronic autopsy: there was no email. At least, if it was sent, I never received it. My guess—because despite my fair amount of disgruntlement toward UniCon or whatever the new United-Continental behemoth will be called, I tend to believe that they did send an email—is that it got caught in the maw of Yahoo’s super-aggressive spam filter. They did not try to call me, though, despite the fact that they’ve got my number for notifications, and that the Right to Notification is second on their (clearly discredited) Customer Commitment list.
None of which helps me. Because with all of the disinterest that a Bangalore call-center script could summon, I was told in no uncertain terms that regardless of whose fault it was, because I had missed my flight from Eagle, I would not even be allowed to drive down the mountain to Denver (there was still time) to catch the next flight on our itinerary. Very sorry, sir, your entire reservation has been canceled.
My wife had to miss a day of work, which was the worst of it, because though she hasn’t missed a single day of work in the 1.5 years she’s had her job, not for sickness or any other reason, her bosses were hugely displeased. She’s having to prepare a dossier for them explaining what happened. I got to spend an epic four hours on the phone with United (I got hung up on once; lost the call three times; and was once transfered to Hertz, which had absolutely nothing to do with this at all) before she was booked on a flight today. I’m taking both kids by myself tomorrow.
It would all be a fiasco (and to my wife’s bosses, it still is), except for two things: we were not stranded overnight at some airport (inshallah we won’t be), and these children of mine could freaking care less about what happened: There is nothing as soothing and reassuring, when you are an adult caught in a customer service death-spiral, than kids who just want to play with Legos and fight with each other in the airport. As much as their kid-anarchy can knock us off our various daily schedules, it’s a pleasure walking this earth with two people who seriously do not give a shit about any of it: school, work, schedules. They are nihilists, and I love them for it.
What Almost Made Me Cry Today: Birthday Edition
When Jean and I finally gave in and decided to throw a party for Sasha’s second birthday, I was expecting doom. Disaster. An armageddon of tears, bonked heads, cupcake-frosting stains, and parents so offended we’d have to change schools.
Luckily, things went okay. We rolled up the carpets in the living room, bought a bunch of drinks and snacks (some suitable for kids, others for grown-ups), and fired up the “Children’s” playlist on my iPod. Five kids came over, along with most of their parents, and while some were shy and others were in their own world, they generally got along.
But at one point, something unusual happened. Katerina—Sasha’s classmate and best friend—took Sasha’s toy stroller and started racing around the house, circling through the kitchen and living room, followed close behind by Sasha herself. The kids were… playing together! Amusing each other! It was shocking, exciting, enthralling, and terribly, terribly cute, especially when they spotted me with a camera, paused in their face to smile at the lens, and shouted “Cheese!” The parallel-play era, in which kids do the same things next to each other but rarely interact except to gain the notice of their parents or teachers, was showing cracks, hinting at a day, perhaps not far off in the future, when we won’t have to supervise their every move.
Eventually, our downstairs neighbor, Earle, joined in the circular race (he’s 2, in case you’re wondering), and we adults just stood back and watched in wonder as our babies grew up before our eyes. Sniff, sniff.
[In case you’re wondering, no, Dadwagon has not been hijacked by sensitive people. We’ll soon return to our foul-mouthed cynicism, so don’t worry. Just bear with us for a few more moments while the holidays work their mawkish magic.]