Coming Soon: DadWagon Presents: Loinfruit, Meltdowns, and Weeknight Drinking

If you follow us on Facebook, you may have noticed that we’ve been promoting “DadWagon Presents,” our new monthly reading series featuring some of New York’s most entertaining dads. But for some reason (probably sheer laziness), we’ve neglected to, you know, discuss it here on the site. Well, we’re lazy no longer! Here’s what’s up:

Every month starting at 7 p.m. on Wednesday, June 13, DadWagon Presents will bring three procreative writers to Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn, 718-858-1951; pacificstandardbrooklyn.com) to tell parenting tales that may make you laugh, will probably make you cringe with self-recognition, and will almost definitely send you to the bar for another pint. So, leave the kids at home (please!) and come see our inaugural speakers:

Peter Meehan, author of the Momofuku and Frankies cookbooks, former NYT “$25 & Under” columnist, and founder (with David Chang) of Lucky Peach magazine. He lives in Manhattan with his wife and their daughter, Hazel.
Jeff Yang, “Tao Jones” columnist at the Wall Street Journal, regular contributor to WNYC and PRI’s “The Takeaway,” and author of Secret Identities: The Asian American Superhero Anthology (volume 2 to be released this fall). He lives four blocks away in Park Slope with his wife, Heather, and their awesome sons, Hudson and Skyler.
Paul Ford, ftrain.com founder, former Harper’s Magazine editor, writer for New York, Slate, The Morning News, as well as the author of the novel Gary Benchley, Rock Star, and an all-around Internet-fame guru. He is lives in Ditmas Park (which he claims is much nicer than Park Slope) with his wife and twin babies.

Again, the details:

Where: Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn, 718-858-1951; pacificstandardbrooklyn.com)
When:  Wednesday, June 13, at 7 p.m.
Cost: Free!

Bike Accidents Could Be Contagious

I’ve moved beyond the morbid depression phase of my bike accident, thankfully, and am now ready to consider with detachment similar misfortune that hasn’t touched me.

Not long after I returned home from the hospital I took JP to a birthday party. One of the other fathers there asked what had happened to me (my face was still pretty badly bruised and my arm–my elbow was dislocated–was in a splint and sling). When I told him he mentioned that not only was he too a bike commuter (or in my case, possibly former bike commuter) but he rides the same route from Brooklyn into Manhattan that I do. He expressed his sympathies and then made some sort of statement about how biking in the city wasn’t truly dangerous and you could get hurt doing anything and watch out for those cracks in the sidewalk. I don’t mean to imply that this bothered me, largely because it was the stuff I said about biking all the time myself, prior to a taxicab knocking me into next week. It was only noteworthy in retrospect.

About two weeks later, I saw this father walking his son to school while I was dropping off JP. His arm was in an awful looking cast, broken in many locations. We stopped and talked, and he told me that he’d been hit by a car on his way to work. Again, no implication of schadenfreude, please. In fact, the only thought that went through my head, other than feeling bad for him, was “Holy shit, I’m contagious.”

And while I have before been told I’m like a disease, it’s never been catching. My condolences.

The Tantrum: Should Young Men Even Be Allowed to Breed? Part III

(This is the Tantrum, in which Dadwagon’s writers debate one question over the course of a week. For previous Tantrums, click here.)

Do you ever get the feeling that everything we think we know about parenting is wrong? Especially all the stuff that is new to parenting, things that our parents didn’t do and their parents didn’t do and nobody’s parents did stretching back to the misty dawn of history when we were all just monkey parents first climbing out of the trees and trudging with our children, who did not have Razr scooters or 50-point shock-resistant child helmets, onto the alluvial plain?

Well, I feel that way all the time. I second-guess a lot of my decisions, especially the bigger ones I’ve made: raising the kids in the middle of the city, choosing a career that often takes me far from home for too long at a time. And this is doubly true of one of the most elemental decisions any family can make: when to have kids.

Our decision, unequivocally, was this: we waited.

You see, I met my wife in the heart of the Fugazi era, the In on the Kill Taker years, also known as the early 1990’s. She spotted me smoking cigarettes on breaks behind the coffee shop where I worked: something about me must have screamed, now there’s a man who is going to have a multi-decade problem with nicotine. I want in on that action, because she finagled an introduction through a mutual friend. And we went from there.

I was 18 years old, and she wasn’t much older than me. That is sort of shocking every time I think about it, not just because I feel incredibly lucky (and anachronistic) to have someone who is, as much as is possible, a life partner. Like, if we don’t mess this up moving forward, we have the opportunity to have been together for nearly a complete human lifespan. It’s also shocking to me because that means that if we had wanted to, or if we had lived in a post-GOP world where there is no birth control for teenagers, we could have had kids in 1994. My child would be 18, about to make some terrible decisions the night of her prom and hopefully still going to college. Instead of DadWagon, I’d be blogging now on EmptyNesters.com. Instead of writing this post while waiting for yet another load of sheets that my preschooler peed on to finish washing, I’d probably have an amazing roast in oven, be decanting some nice red, about to have a group of fabulous creative unencumbered friends over for a dinner party with my wife that will end with some great stories and then—why not?—a few elegant lines of coke and a trip to a rooftop electronica party in SoHo for well-heeled people who don’t need to wake up at 6am tomorrow to get their tiny fucking children to Kindergarten the next morning.

This is the fantasy that I torment myself with. And mind you, I’m not even as old as my fellow-bloggers. I had my first kid at 30. But that means that right around the time that my youngest is set to go to college (inshallah), I will be hit in the forehead with the 2×4 that is Turning 50 Years Old and then soon enough it’ll be time for apply for an AARP card and get ready for eternity in a mouldering grave.

The thing about waiting, though, was that it was technically the right decision. As my fantasy of life-after-children might indicate, I have maturity issues. My teenaged/20-year-old self was a fair bit worse, and I would have had a hard time making good decisions for a child. And then there’s the question of education, and career, and the sacrifices one makes for mammon throughout the 20s. In agrarian or hunter-gatherer societies, I would have had to kill a bear at the age of 18 and eat its gall bladder* then basically my education and transformation into manhood would have been complete. In the information economy, however, I needed to finish my four (okay, five) year degree, follow my wife around the country as she got advanced professional degrees, all the while hanging around on the fringes of a major media organization waiting for my big shot. In short, I was broke and professionally unstable, and now that I’m a highly-paid dadblogger, I’m a better parent.

That’s what I think, at least. The truth is—and here, finally, is where we get to the actual topic of this tantrum—that young parents can be amazing parents. I know that from my middle-aged vantage point, it’s tempting paint younger parents as chronically unfit, the kind of people who make the evening news, who smoke weed and drive off with their baby in its carrier still on the roof of their car. There are those types of idiots, sure, but I’ve seen young parents who also do a great job. and all that chaos and instability that goes with being young can make the bond between parent and child even more elemental. They can be tough for each other, bond more deeply, become a more integral part of a joint life because, at 22 or whatnot, your life isn’t really formed at all yet.

And that gets to the heart of this question of old vs young parenting: Do you want your children to arrive onto a stage that has already been set (older parents)? Or do you want them to arrive early into a life that is still being assembled (younger parents)? I think there are benefits and drawbacks to each, but kids don’t need nice cars or stable incomes nearly as much as they need parents who put them at the center of existence. If a child arrives and is just intruding on what was otherwise a very trim and organized existence, as it seems with some older parents I know, then whom does that help?

Mainly, I long for a touch of anarchism to all of this, and that there’s a powerful case for having them young. Screw conventional wisdom. Be a teen parent. Just to prove Ted and Matt wrong.

*Note: I have no idea what I’m talking about.

The Tantrum: Are Older Dads OK? Should Young Men Even Be Allowed to Breed?

(This is the Tantrum, in which Dadwagon’s writers debate one question over the course of a week. For previous Tantrums, click here.)

I feel old. That’s the long and short of it. Ever since Sasha came into my life, three and a half years ago, I’ve felt creaky and tired, increasingly inflexible in both body and mind. I am cranky and irritable. I’m curmudgeonly. I fart more. I am embarrassing. I am old.

Of course, I’m not really all that old. In two months, I’ll turn 38, which is neither particularly old nor particularly young (though I’m older than my parents were at this stage of child-having). I have friends who started earlier, and friends who started much later: One of Sasha’s preschool classmates has a dad who’s probably a dozen years my elder. And while he seems spry, I can’t quite imagine myself doing what he’s doing. As it is, I’m already looking ahead to landmarks in Sasha’s life—high-school graduation, college graduation, marriage, kids—and trying to calculate my age: 53, 57, 60-something, 70-something?!?

Mostly, it’s not a physical thing. I’m in good shape, and relatively energetic, and barring surprise injury or sickness I’ll stay that way for a couple more decades. It’s just the creeping inevitability of death that gets me. That is, I like Sasha (and presumably will also feel kindly toward her coming baby sister), and I want to be around for as much of her life as possible. Every year that I delayed having kids is a year I didn’t get to see them grow up, and that knowledge is like a knife in my guts: What will I miss? How will I be unable to help? Without me around, who will teach the kids (and grandkids) to mix cocktails?

Not that I could’ve started any earlier. From age 29 to 34, I was peripatetic to a fault, and before that unhappy and unstable (financially) enough that fatherhood would’ve been a miserable hardship. Could I have done it? Yes, probably. Although I am (I hope) a different person than I was a decade ago, I don’t think my fundamental approach to life and parenting have changed significantly. Sasha could be hitting 13 this year, and I’m reasonably sure I’d have done just as bad a job bringing her up as I’m doing right now. If there’s one thing that you take away from DadWagon, it’s this: we all suck. Also, Bill Murray was right in Meatballs:

Anyway, to get back to the fundamental issues of this Tantrum, are older dads OK? Yeah, but they won’t be around long, so be nice to them. And should younger men be allowed to breed? Sure, as long as we’re not talking about my colleague Theodore—that dude would’ve been a terrible dad if he’d started in his twenties, when he was a selfish prick. As it is, he’s graduated to being merely ridiculous, which is about the best any of us can hope for.