DADWAGON

Apparently, the Huffington Post is starting a divorce blog, which is kinda interesting, and if it consistently includes stuff like this from Nora Ephron—”The premise … is that marriage is for some time but divorce is forever”—then it might actually be fun.

But I’m not sure I’m on board with Ariana Huffington’s motivation for starting the blog:

Huffington says part of her inspiration for the section was the feedback she got after writing a blog post on vacationing with her ex-husband. In the story, she talked about co-parenting after divorce and focusing on what’s best for the kids, which in this case was taking a family vacation with just that — the whole family. The kids really benefited from seeing mom and dad getting along and being part of the same family trip.

Now, JP’s mother and I are getting along pretty well these days, and that’s a good thing, for everyone. But I’m not taking her on vacation any time soon.

Sorry, JP. There’s a reason (or perhaps a million of them) why I got divorced.

With (deep) apologies to the great John McPhee for ripping off his title and slapping it on something far less ambitious, I am revisiting my earlier life for a few days. For the first time, my wife and son are out of town without me, and will be for nearly five days. They’re taking a brief vacation with my wife’s family; I’m using the long weekend to catch up on the book project. It’s a win-win, though I wish I could join them.

They left early this morning, and within moments, I found myself dropping into my old, well-trod, pre-fatherhood morning routine. I got dressed slowly, and read my e-mail in silence. Left the house nearly an hour later than usual, alone. Instead of taking the walk to day care, I used my old, pre-baby commuting route, across town by bus and then down. Paused for coffee at the place I used to go, by the bus stop. Got to work with everyone else, feeling like I was just getting warmed up, instead of arriving way early and already a little stressed. It occurred to me that I could meet an old friend for dinner on Monday.

Did I really live like this? I guess I did. It’s so much easier. Not better, mind you—I’ll miss my family by the end of the day, and we are planning nightly Skype sessions to keep up. Mostly I can’t believe how much time I used to waste on… oh, god, what’s it called again? Doing nothing. Yeah, I remember that.

I can’t figure it out: When it comes to parents of young children, is sleep the number one topic of conversation, or is it food? We have these discussions all the time, with friends, family, strangers, the Internet, and they’re all the same:

Parent: My baby sleeps poorly.

Other parent: My baby sleeps well. You should try what I do.

Parent: Maybe I will. [Exits, never tries it.]

Anyway, here’s my issue, and while I don’t expect there to be any simple solution, I do expect you all to come up with clever, wise ideas for me to ignore. The problem is this: Sasha’s naptime is cutting into her social life.

That is, she sleeps, and sleeps well, every day from about 12:30 or 1 to 3. Really, that’s pretty fantastic, and on many days it gives us a welcome respite from “Yo Gabba Gabba!” and marathon drawing sessions. But on weekends, we keep wanting to go out, do playdates with other kids, explore the world, and yet Sasha will, more often than not, conk out during the most popular visiting hours. I’m happy she’s well-rested, but there’s more to toddler life than a good nap.

Speaking of which, it’s time for my midmorning snooze.

Mail comes to our house. Bills and postcards and renewal notices with some Chinese takeout menus for good measure. These things do not draw any interest from our children, except if they can be scribbled on.

Neither has the wave of kid-gear catalogs that come in the mail as well. We’ve been getting at least one catalog a day for the entire life of our children, ever since we foolishly made a baby registry at Babies R’ Us and they sold our information to a hundred different prolific direct mail marketers. Caveat emptor, registry users—they’ll be making money off your address until your kid is in college, and you’ll be recycling landfills full of catalogs you never asked for.

Yesterday, for the first time, our 4-year-old daughter noticed one of those catalogs—maybe it was Mini Boden—and immediately clutched it to her chest. “This is mine,” she said, and ran inside with it.

She then sat with it on the couch for a good 30 minutes and read it like a children’s book. Then she took a marker and starting circling things. The things she circled, she said, were things that she wanted to buy.

This has been building queasily for a little while. She’s been into money lately, putting coins in a piggy bank painted psychedelic colors. When it was time to buy her winter shoes that fit, she was incredibly engaged in the process, arguing for which shoes she wanted, then prancing around when we got home with her purchase (she didn’t get to make all the decisions, but it was definitely her idea to get the pink boots with a decal of different princesses on them).

I don’t know why this makes me sad. It certainly shouldn’t surprise me. This is the life she is growing into, a life of piggy banks and catalog shopping. My flirtations with anarchist communal living were short-lived and ill-conceived, and I am now a consumer in the American model as much as anyone. But I hate that my daughter, who like all kids seems to have infinite possibility within her, has to grow into and adopt the ways of a fallen world. Our ways diminish her.

There’s also something about shopping, about the oddly transactional nature of trying to find happiness in the purchase of a material thing, that is so… futile. I see her feeling good about her shoes and I think about how she’s going to learn that it’s not enough, that it’s a quick and false high, whether it’s shoes or a car or a house, that we get from acquiring things. These are difficult lessons in disappointment, particularly for people who are truly trapped in the maw of the earn-and-spend lifestyle. I don’t like to think about her having to feel that same kind of disappointment and confusion.

I am prattling, of course. Just because she has perfect skin and an overactive sense of wonder now doesn’t mean that I can prevent her from becoming a flawed adult.

But still: Mini-Boden?!