DADWAGON

A few days ago, Slate reported that post-partum depression in dads is more common than you might think: 10 percent of new dads showed signs of moderate to severe depression, nearly as much as the 14 percent of new moms who did. Says Slate:

Still, PPD for dads remains understudied, under-recognized, and controversial. Even among scientists who research the baby blues in new fathers, there’s debate about whether “postpartum depression” is the right term. One researcher told me that when talking about men, he prefers “depression during the postnatal period.” Whatever you call it, distress after a baby is born is much easier to explain among moms. Pregnancy and childbirth, of course, are hugely taxing and exhausting for women. And, of course, these processes can wreak havoc with a woman’s hormones and, thereby, her psychological wellbeing.

I get it. Scientists are still trying to pinpoint exactly what causes post-partum depression. A clear explanation might help dispel some of the unfair stigma attached to the condition.

Well, here’s an explanation: having a newborn is just depressing. They are leathery, mewling sacks of meconium that savage your nipples and wake you at 2, 3, 5, and 6 in the morning. They only smile when they have gas, they never make eye contact, and though your aunt insists it has your eyes, all you can see is a voracious space creature who has landed from Planet Nosleep to destroy civilization.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my children now. And I thought I loved them then. But I must have been mistaken.

DadWagon does have someone with a newborn–Theodore’s daughter was born last week–but I don’t care what he has to say about it. He is probably that 90% who have either been hormonally altered or socialized to ignore the reality of just how awful newborns are. I have a lot more respect for that brave minority who understand, with clear vision, the depth of the letdown. They are depressed, and I salute them.

There was a magical moment of communication between my wife and me a few weeks ago, the kind of deep unspoken negotiation that would make an empath weep. With nothing more than three looks back and forth–mine increasingly wavering, hers increasingly sharp–it was decided that I should be the one to clean the dogshit off our toddler’s shoe.

The aftermath–which involved an old toothbrush, twenty wipes, and language saltier than Satan’s cock–is what makes me so interested in today’s NY Post report on “mutt minefields” in New York City. They apparently parsed, by neighborhood, the number of Sanitation Department summonses given out for not picking up your poochpoop, and came up with a top violator:

I took JP to yet another birthday party this past weekend. Must say that I enjoyed this one a great deal, not least because the parents were considerate enough to have the football games on a giant screen in the living room, and even better, they were apparently fancy liquor aficionados—I had a top-shelf brown liquor drink in my hand within five minutes of entering their apartment. And they served pizza pockets!

Unfortunately, I screwed the whole thing up. At some point during the party, conversation among a gaggle of parents turned to neat things various children can do. I mentioned a young girl I met recently with Asperger’s  Syndrome. I recounted how I gave the girl JP’s date and year of birth and that she was able to tell me what day of the week he was born. I think I said something like, “Pretty useful savant, eh?”

One thing I noticed at the party was how excited the birthday boy’s parents were that he and JP had become friends. They apologized for only having JP over for the party and not for a one-on-one playdate, and their friends all seemed to know who JP was; his friendship with the birthday boy had been discussed in advance. I thought this was a little unusual, but not noteworthy.

What I found out later that day from the birthday boy’s father is that the son has Asperger’s. He was telling me how much their son had thrived in his new school, how he had come out of his shell, and how Asperger’s complicated things. I felt this sinking feeling. Eventually I would go home, the friend would relate what I had said, and then… what?

Had I really done anything wrong? Or was discussing Asperger’s at all sin enough, particularly as I did so from a position of ignorance, and with a posture of slight amusement? I don’t really know, but I hope I didn’t come across as flip as I felt while telling the story. JP really likes this kid, and I’d hate to think I messed it up for him.

Oh well, just being me: dumb.

[Note: I wrote this post one-handed, with Ellie in my arms. I got mad skillz.]

Ain’t that how it always goes? You have a couple of girls, shoot uncomfortable videos of them teenage and topless in the 1970s, and then, when you’re dead, they make their hatred of you well known.

So it goes, at least, with the late art-world star Larry Rivers, whose daughters, according to a lengthy Vanity Fair profile, have been frustrating his estate’s efforts to donate “Growing,” a documentary in which he behaved… questionably:

Like Andy Warhol, Rivers saw video as a new art form. Unlike Warhol, he used it mainly to explore sexual taboos. In 1976 he had Gwynne, then 11, participate in a film called Growing by baring her breasts before the camera and discussing how she felt about them. He also filmed Gwynne nude in his shower and had her slip topless between the black satin sheets of his bed. A year and a half later, Emma was conscripted, too.

Twice a year for four more years, the daughters submitted to filming sessions, sometimes just with their breasts exposed, sometimes naked, as their father asked them questions about their bodies and budding sexuality. In the early 1980s, Growing was edited, and screen credits were added; Rivers planned to play it in a continuous loop at a show of his paintings. Dissuaded by Clarice, the girls’ mother, from doing that, he put the film and its outtakes on a shelf, to be forgotten by almost everyone—except Emma and Gwynne.

The article explores this conflict from almost every angle, but it’s hard (for me) to know how to make up my mind. Did Rivers exhibit bad judgment? Uh, yes. Was he a child pornographer? Hm, depends who you ask. Should “Growing” itself be destroyed? Uh…

What does emerge from the story is a portrait of an extremely messy family: ex-wives and girlfriends, gay lovers and enemas with the in-laws, sibling rivalries and gender dynamics. Is Emma, who married her dad’s physical trainer, a man 20 years older than her, righteously angry, or neurotic? Are Rivers’s sons, who also featured in his nude portraits, oblivious to how it’s maybe different for girls?

Within the family, I imagine, this all makes a lot more sense. There are shared histories, alliances forged at the breakfast table and hostilities vented in the backyards and expansive Central Park West apartments. The Vanity Fair article may go into great depth about the Rivers clan’s current squabbles, but it inevitably simplifies: Seen from the outside, the family just isn’t—can’t be—what it seems to be from the inside.

Which is perhaps a good lesson for all of us. The light of day, the eyes of our neighbors, and the cold probing hands of the courts have a way of turning in-jokes into assault and subtle dynamics into digestibly binary oppositions. Don’t trust anyone—least of all your own kids.