Bob Saget and the Cowbell Baby

From tipster Uncle Munki comes this Consumerist discussion of a Bob Saget TwitVid (God, I love writing sentences like that!) that the comedian took on a six-hour flight of a screaming baby with a cowbell.

The Consumerist commenters include lots of the kind of kneejerk babyhating we saw in our own Crotchfruit-on-Barstool debate–as if the procreating wasn’t the engine that continues humanity’s survival, but instead just a failure of willpower and birth control. This shouldn’t be so surprising: it’s not Diaperist.com. Earlier this summer Consumerist posed, not so innocently, the question of whether there should be a mandatory baby ghetto on airplanes (something I would welcome, actually, when I’m travelling with my kids, just so I don’t have to fend off the bad vibes and ill stares of Consumerist readers).

And, lastly, there was lots of slagging of Saget, a man who has to work incredibly blue just to wipe the lilac Full House smudge off his career, and whose name makes a pretty good expletive itself.

One thing the commenters could’ve explored more fully is whether the baby, as suggested, is actually in possession of the cowbell. It sure doesn’t seem to be. Maybe the parent was trying to distract the baby with the cowbell, but that’s not visible one way or the other on Saget’s (very timidly shot) video. Regardless of who has it, it’s fucking insane to bring a cowbell on an airplane, whether you’re a baby or the Blue Öyster Cult. So don’t blame the baby (who was fussing, really, not screaming–another distinction that non-parents probably can’t quite grasp). Blame the parents, who are adults, just like you: flawed, desperate, and occasionally dumb as rocks.

The French Paradox

According to our esteemed local paper, it is both awesome and terrible to be a French woman:

Perineal therapy is as ubiquitous in France as free nursery schools, generous family allowances, tax deductions for each child, discounts for large families on high-speed trains, and the expectation that after a paid, four-month maternity leave mothers are back in shape — and back at work.

Courtesy of the state, French women seem to have it all: multiple children, a job and, often, a figure to die for.

What they don’t have is equality: France ranks 46th in the World Economic Forum’s 2010 gender equality report, trailing the United States, most of Europe, but also Kazakhstan and Jamaica. Eighty-two percent of French women aged 25-49 work, many of them full-time, but 82 percent of parliamentary seats are occupied by men. French women earn 26 percent less than men but spend twice as much time on domestic tasks.

The article, by Katrin Bennhold, is a sheer delight, full of vaginal gymnastics, tax breaks and the phrase “fertile Prussia.” But it is, on the whole, pretty downbeat. If you’re a French woman, the expectations placed upon you—to be educated, hard-working, and “le sexy”—are virtually impossible to meet. Sure, the state will put its gloved fingers between your thighs and tell you to “think of the wings of a butterfly,” but that’s cold comfort when your department head is a man.

The thing the story misses, however, is how totally awesome it must be to be a French man! Look at it this way: You don’t have to be as well educated, but you’ll still dominate both the workplace and the government. You don’t have to worry about birth control, because the state will give you money to cover the costs of the kids. Your wife will bow to societal pressure to stay smokin’ hot. And it’s pretty much accepted that you can sleep around (though you have to expect she will, too). Plus: plentiful wine, duck confit, and fresh-baked baguettes. Vive la révolution!

Wrecking Lives, Skipping Town

HONG KONG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT—I’m now 20-something hours into a journey from Brooklyn to Chengdu, China, and I’m sleep-deprived, thirsty, and a good five hours from my final destination. Yes, once again, I’m abandoning my family to go “work” abroad, stuffing my face with spicy Sichuan food and, I think, taking notes.

Still, I did what I could to put in as much family time as possible before I left. Saturday was a playdate with another couple and their child on the other side of Prospect Park, followed by a schmancy wedding. Sunday was a drive upstate to go apple-picking. (Incidentally, was there anyone who didn’t go apple-picking last weekend? At least three of my Facebook friends went, and doubtless many more went but didn’t post. What did people do in October before U Pick It was invented? How else did they get 50 apples for just $12.50?) Oh, and I delivered Theodore a car seat he couldn’t install.

The thing is, it took me a while to figure out how weekends are supposed to function. Not all that long ago, I used to try to write on weekends, to set aside a couple of hours to pound the keyboard. But it was always a hassle, and I always felt guilty for half-neglecting my family and half-neglecting my work. Finally, I had to choose—and, you know, I chose my family. Cuz that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

Anyway, watch this space over the next two weeks for my incisive observations on parenthood in China. How will I say “househusband” in Mandarin? What kind of strollers will I spot? What percentage of Chinese milk is made of melamine these days?

As Jean told me before I left, “Don’t eat anything made of feces.”

Words to live by, folks. Words to live by.