DADWAGON

We didn’t really get a chance last week to address the Facebook campaign in which users are asked to change their avatars to cartoon characters, a move that will somehow supposedly fight child abuse. Luckily, we have a small subsidiary Website known as Gawker that takes care of the little bits and pieces we just don’t have time for. On Friday, they did a good job pointing out how idiotic the campaign is with this little imaginary conversation:

• GAWKER: So, abuse any kids today?
• CHILD ABUSER: Nope.
• GAWKER: Why not?
• CHILD ABUSER: It’s this cartoon thing. I guess I never realized people cared so much about child abuse that they would go to the trouble of changing their Facebook avatar for a day.
• GAWKER: Actually they’re changing their profile pictures for the whole weekend.
• CHILD ABUSER: Dear God…

And today they took the subject up again, now that rumors are spreading about who was behind the whole thing to begin with:

“Pedophiles” are not “behind” this campaign, which is just a moronic way to make everyone feel better about themselves while also participating in the kind of sickening nostalgia for art-murdering pop culture ephemera that represents the nauseating, decadent end of western “civilization.” Really! Just… take my word for it, okay? (Know Your Meme says it began as a joke in Greece and Cyprus.)

Anyway, we just wanted to let you know that we do have people working on this important issue, even if they don’t actually, you know, “work” for “us.” But at least they’re channeling our feelings on the matter.

We flew out to Colorado over the weekend, because 40 degree weather in New York just isn’t cold enough for us.

This was our first family trip in the post don’t-touch-my-junk era of family travel, and we had visions of our children screaming during invasive pat-downs. But there was no such fiasco. Early morning at LaGuardia, before all the planes have a chance to pile up in the sky, was actually pleasant. Few lines, no rush. With my children bleary and whining, we had the pleasure of being the worst thing about the airport.

In fact, we successfully smuggled two large bottles of liquid and–most dangerous if Irgun were still an active terrorist organization–a giant dish of pastrami wrapped in tin foil. No extra search, no secondary bag scan.

But the best part about the whole experience was that my toddler literally shot his way through the whole security checkpoint. He is, of course, in his belltower-sniper stage of development, where every item is a weapon and every person a potential victim. So he held onto this cluster of legos that he had made vaguely gun-shaped, and he pointed it at every TSA worker he passed (and at me, if you must know). Bum, bum, bum, he said, mowing them all down.

He then politely put his gun in a bin, passed it through the xray machine, then retrieved it and began shooting some more. The TSA agents, clearly not trained well enough to recognize either a firearm or a massacre in progress, just laughed and waved.

Security theater, indeed.

At the end of last week, there was an extremely minor disagreement here, between myself and Theodore. It was based on what appeared to be a very cute video of a girl aging from, well, pretty much 0 to 10 years old. But the long and the short of it is that while he found it innocuous, I found it a reminder of my own mortality.

Or really, another reminder of my own mortality. Which is to say, everything to do with my daughter reminds me that I’m going to die. This involves a bit of mental calculation: Okay, so I was 34 when Sasha was born, which means I can probably expect to spend at least the same amount of time with her before I kick it. Maybe a little more, hopefully no less. But that’s the baseline for my calculations.

What that also means is that every achievement I make in my life now—every post-34 achievement—is one that I might not get to see Sasha achieve. Any success, any momentous occasion related to my ever-increasing age, is something Sasha could very well achieve without me there to witness it. On top of that, everything Sasha achieves now is something that, if she has kids at the age I did, I might not get to see her children do.

And we haven’t even gotten into all the other things, like about how I’ll be 50 when she’s just 16, and how generally I’m going to keep declining and being unable to keep up with her. Whee!

Of course, things could go well. My ancestors were all fairly long-lived, so I guess I’ve got good genes. And I eat well, exercise, and don’t take too many risks other than constant overseas low-budget travel to weird places where I meet strange people and do whatever they suggest for fun. So, yeah, why should I worry? Indeed, why should you?

The DadWagon Tantrum had a decidedly Judaic cast this week, with all three of us weighing in on the unfair treatment that Hanukkah receives at the hands of Christmas. And yet we have fought back! With a mighty vengeance not seen … since our last Tantrum on some other insignificant topic! At the very least, old Santa knows he was in a fight. Nathan contributed, too, with something about fat Germans. We like that sort of stuff around here.

Speaking of fat, Matt weighed (!) in on whether too much snacking was bad for our children. He also copped to his inner rapist (about time), and called bullshit on the SIDS lobby.

I would have written something in response to that, but I was too busy fantasizing about entering my domestic goddess (come on—that’s pretty good) and playing with someone else’s dreidel.

Nathan, too, was preoccuppied, by the paltriness of his sword and shield. That’s fine, as his shortcomings in that realm drew attention from the fact that he was abusing the help.

Lalaloopsy, folks! (And have a nice weekend.)