DADWAGON

Well, as you DadWagon loyalists may remember, this was my bachelor weekend. I’m living the life of Don Draper on Waverly Place, except (a) compared with Don, I have minimal disposable income, (b) I don’t have a mistress, and (c) I have no taste for brown liquor.

So, basically, not Don at all, and in fact, the brief thrill of temporary singlehood is gone. I’m two days in, and although I’ve rather enjoyed my weekend of researching and writing, with breaks for snacks and forays into the fine fall weather, I’m getting squirrelly. So I have started doing arcane bits of household maintenance to clear my head: replacing the mildewy caulk around the kitchen sink, calling in the super to deal with a slow drain and a balky lock. (I’ve been meaning to deal with that last one for, oh, two and a half years.) Washed the windows, even.

I vaguely remember that, when I was single and stressed about something, I used to do this–throw myself into chores, attempting to channel that jangly, dislocated energy. Theodore was just saying last week that little projects like this get him down; they have the opposite effect on me, because they are containable, accomplishable, definable. The stories I write and edit often feel as though they’re falling a little short of where I (and my bosses) want them to be, because you can always read them over, catch that last inconsistency, burnish and polish a little further. Whereas, if the tub needs regrouting, and you regrout it, well, it’s done, for a decade, during which you can peer down at it every morning as you shower and say “fixed.” I suppose I could be irritated if said grouting turns out sloppy, because I’d have to look at that every morning, too, but my DIY skills are fairly good, and I can usually do a job that satisfies my own standards

When you’re pondering the philosophy of grout, it’s probably time for your family to come back. Though I will say it’s nice to knock off a chunk of the to-do list.

I don’t really understand why, but any failure I have performing mechanical tasks around the house (building simple items, repairing others) seems to have an extremely negative impact on the rest of my day. I’m not going to go so far as to say depression, but more-than-mildly bummed would be accurate.

Take yesterday, for example. Matt had returned to me JP’s car seat, which I had lent to him when Sasha was born. I need it back now for Ellie (I recycle!), and wanted to get it installed in the car, so I would be ready if the baby came early.

After about fifteen minutes of grunting and seatbelt tugging (the Graco people do insist on a snug ride), I realized I was missing a small but crucial article of safety equipment. Another period of extended internet searching to determine that the piece was in fact missing and could be purchased ensued, and the part is now on the way.

But it meant that I didn’t get the task done, which is no big deal. Yet I found myself inordinately frustrated at not achieving what I set out to do, and I have only a vague idea why.

I think it has something to do with my not being handy. I’ve so thoroughly convinced myself that I can’t complete even the simplest tasks that when things do inevitably go awry, I get flustered and angry because I just knew I’d never get the thing done.

Which isn’t true. I always take care of what needs to be taken care of, but rarely without some helpless huffing and puffing.

Such is life.

Before we get to the round-up of everything said, done, and written here on DadWagon.com, I wanted to announce a bit of housekeeping: We are rebranding! No longer will you see that fine image of four dads and five children splashing across the page. From now on, at the request of our corporate overlords, we are going with the following:

I like it, don’t you? Clean, effective, inoffensive—everything DadWagon stands for.

Now that that’s out of the way, it’s time to let you know that this was, in my view, a very thoughtful week on the ‘Wagon. No furious outbursts, not too much dripping sarcasm, fewer fart jokes than usual. Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures of autumn. Or maybe it’s the sobering fact that our first anniversary as dadbloggers is coming up. Or maybe, you know, we’re just geniussises.

For his part, Matt tried to understand many things: why his daughter can say no but not yes; why (or why not) American males might need a website called “The Art of Manliness”; and the appeal of “Goodnight Moon.” For good measure, though, he suggested he’d like to become a porn star when he’s an old man, once it’s clear this journalism thing hasn’t panned out.

Nathan, meanwhile, fretted over his daughter’s incipient consumerism, all the while trying to lull her to sleep with his fleet-fingered guitar skillz, and hoping he wouldn’t have to explain IVF to anyone under the age of 5. Also, he was afraid of wolves.

Christopher began the week troubled by an incident with a nanny at the playground, then suddenly found himself looking forward to a world where he might somehow retire, or at least spend a few days doing absolutely nothing at all.

The whole cycle of parenthood was Theodore’s theme this week: impending birth, naming conventions, co-parenting, life after divorce, and, of course, Ikea. Let’s hope he—and you, our devoted readers—can make it through the weekend without ODing on Swedish meatballs.

A few weeks ago, Sasha and I started a new bedtime ritual: reading a book before she goes into the crib. Yes, I know: How innovative! How creative! How genius!

Why didn’t we do this before? I don’t know. I guess I was tired or something. But anyway, just about every night now I read her that children’s classic everyone loves to hate: “Goodnight Moon.” We’ve written about it a few times here on DadWagon, and until I developed this new relationship with the material, I agreed with the critics: It’s flat, the rhythms are off, and after a hundred readings, it’s mind-numbingly dull.

But I think I’ve figured out what makes it so great: It’s specifically about preparing for bed. Before I read it, Sasha’s still full of energy, ready to bounce around her bedroom like it’s 8 a.m., not 8 p.m. But as we read the book, and meet and then say good night to all the things in the room, she calms down and when we’ve bid adieu to “noises everywhere,” she’s limp enough to deposit in the crib. I love it.

The other nice thing about “Goodnight Moon” is that its vocabulary level is just right for 22-month-old Sasha. That is, I can leave gaps in each line—à la “And a little toy___”—that she will enthusiastically fill in, pointing at the pictures as she does so. Which makes it a much more interactive experience for us both.

Although, if the local paper is to be believed, it’s an experience we won’t be sharing much longer. Apparently, parents are no longer buying picture books for their children:

The picture book, a mainstay of children’s literature with its lavish illustrations, cheerful colors and large print wrapped in a glossy jacket, has been fading. It is not going away — perennials like the Sendaks and Seusses still sell well — but publishers have scaled back the number of titles they have released in the last several years, and booksellers across the country say sales have been suffering.

The economic downturn is certainly a major factor, but many in the industry see an additional reason for the slump. Parents have begun pressing their kindergartners and first graders to leave the picture book behind and move on to more text-heavy chapter books. Publishers cite pressures from parents who are mindful of increasingly rigorous standardized testing in schools.

How tragic! I mean, I guess I’ve got a couple of years before the “must get Sasha into a good school” instinct kicks in, but I always wanted Sasha to be the one to initiate that shift from picture books to what the kids call “chapter books.” I remember when I did that, on my own, and it felt liberating, a sign of maturity. I think I was 30.

This new “trend” also seems misguided, especially as the last decade has seen the rise of the graphic novel as a real literary form. If kids move away from picture books too early, how will they acquire the visual skills to read, say, “Y: The Last Man” or “Pyongyang”?