DADWAGON

The other day, as I was perusing a certain popular social network, a link posted by a friend caught my eye: “A Man’s Guide to Sweaters,” it was called, and being a wearer of such garments, I clicked, eager for an education.

What did I learn? That sweaters can be made of cashmere, wool, cotton, synthetics or—you won’t believe it—blended fabrics. Gadzooks! On I clicked through this website, entitulated The Art of Manliness, growing ever more shocked and offended at the unbearable elementarity of the advice proffered therein: How to take a girl on a dinner date. How to know if you’re in trouble on a hike. How to have a conversation. A conversation!

Really? Are men today so stupid, so poorly educated, so addicted to professional wrestling, and so ridden with Asperger’s that we need Websites to explain such basic components of 19th 20th 21st-century life? I guess when you’ve got no brain, even a no-brainer seems like an insurmountable challenge. And I think the site’s whole schtick might be what my esteemed colleague Theodore Ross, Esq., would dub “link bait.”

At the same time, I’m probably just being a bitch. There are plenty of things that “The Art of Manliness” can teach me to do, like change my nonexistent car’s air filter or… uh… let’s see… start a fire without matches. And hey, why should I assume that everyone out there knows the difference between a sport coat and a blazer? I suppose the site can be useful. Sort of.

But look, AoM, here’s the deal as I see it: If you’re only going to be sort-of-useful, you need to be more clever. You know, funny, inventive, expansive in your notion of what constitutes manliness, ready to puncture the stereotypes that trap us. (I’m thinking in particular of the dull clichés of “Three Moments Every Father Dreads.”) In other words, more like us.

Less than a month and counting until the Second Coming (a.k.a., my precious daughter, Ellie). I’m no amateur at this point, and thus, I haven’t neglected my prep work: sleeping in, watching movies, catching up on television and movies, and obsessive shopping.

But there’s really no way to get ready, is there? Forget all the good stuff—the love, the joy, the gurgling and the giggling, the twinkling and gamboling and goo-goo-ing, and the like. I’m talking about enduring another two years of limited sleep, god only knows how long with the diapers, the screaming, the nap terrorism, cradle cap, booger suction, blender food, tooth drama, milk drama, mama drama, mommy groups, pampers, tummy time, meltdowns, eruptive poop, liquid poop, snack politics (to PBJ or not?), daycare confrontations, nanny ethics, the laws of the playground, gender facts, developmental milestones, educational opportunities—in short, your basic, all purpose, red-blooded, patriotic American domestic malaise.

Ah, I feel better now. Someone pass me a designer diaper. I’m ready to roll.

I like to think that if Jean, Sasha and I were forced into homelessness that I’d dig up some of Sasha’s toys and turn them into such a great performance. Anyway, it’s late afternoon—enjoy:

Man, it would be really cool if I were here to announce that DadWagon.com and Slate.com had inked a deal to share content or be acquired or whatever. But no. Actually, what I have to tell you is that the Dadwagon approach to parent-blogging has become such a cultural force that it has permeated bastions of official journalism like Slate, which today published a piece by Eric Pape (a friend of mine, as it happens) about how his son, Luka, is mistaking his iPhone for his mother:

Luka fixed his gaze on Mathias’ iPhone: “Mama.” Mathias patiently explained that Luka’s mother was right behind him. But Luka was certain. “Mama!” he called to the phone.

From then on, any iPhone would do. Luka would spot her on the table: “Mama!” He would climb on furniture and reach anxiously for her: “Mama!” He spied her on the bookcase: “Mama!” He didn’t just want to play with “Mama”; he needed his iMama.

Meanwhile, Luka’s mother lost her natural maternal title altogether. She became nameless; Luka summoned her with a mere gesture of his hands or a random squeak. Eventually, he gave her a peripheral title: “Mammon,” a sort of extension of his iMama. The only time that Luka directed “Mama” at his mother was when she used my phone.

It’s a very enjoyable and insightful piece—the kind of thing we run all the time over here. So, read it and think of us.