DADWAGON

I know that DadWagon has a certain maleness built into its name and its mission. And, to be honest, we’re rarely sophisticated enough about the fair sex to get past the virgin/whore dichotomy in our writing.

But for some reason–can we blame this, too, on the heat wave?–women have had many roles on the ‘Wagon this week. It started with Matt’s discovery that women have conquered beer, or at least the art (if not joy) of tasting it. Theodore found a study purporting to show that moms don’t know how to put their kids to bed, and as a sort of single mom himself (when he has custody), he took umbrage. Nathan’s daughter, apparently, needs no one to defend her anymore, since she is now riding a bike in the concrete jungle and also learning to love kicking ass. Matt’s daughter is just sorry. For everything.

We also had a DadWagon Q&A this week, an excellent conversation between Christopher and his colleague Jennifer Senior, a very smart woman who wrote the New York Magazine cover on why she loves her children but hates her life. The article and the interview are both worth a read.

Not that women were entirely good to us this week. In Japan, men had to fight for their right for a little facetime with their kids, and in Korea, mombloggers are hogging all the advertiser swag. At home, Matt faced down the dreaded Hypothetical Relationship Question from his wife and lived to tell about it. But then, suspiciously, he hopped on a plane for someplace very far away, so perhaps he didn’t answer correctly the second time after all.

When boys did appear, they struggled. Nathan’s son had an acute and highly annoying case of pediatric repetitis. Theodore’s son made an appearance in the NY Times’ City Room blog as the gentrifier kid mortified by a playground water fight. At least JP won’t be going to school anywhere ever, so he won’t have to worry about schoolyard bullying. Matt, incidentally, called cyber-bullied parents pussies (which is itself a form of cyber-bullying, no?). Nathan scored an equally large, umm, buzzkill of them all, panning Toy Story 3 out of the perverse notion that it encourages pathological hoarding (when what he really wants, apparently, is to hoard children).

Oh, and Theodore wrote about the psychology of shitting. He promises to deliver more along those lines next week. Try to enjoy your weekend anyway. See you Monday.

The latest thing we’re (purportedly) screwing up? We should’ve been toilet-training our son at six months. So says Salon’s Heather Turgeon, who reminds us that much of the world wraps up the diaper phase by then. Fear of Freud has Americans all screwed-up, apparently: We have been told that early toilet training leads to personality problems later on. (“Anal-retentive” is the key word.)

What’s interesting (and by “interesting” I mean “notably slipshod”) is that Turgeon doesn’t actually attempt to refute Freud, or cite the slightest bit of medical or scientific research, or do anything except ask a couple of friends what their families do overseas. The only science cited here involves whether a six-month-old can hold it in, and the results are semi-conclusive. Essentially, she just says “well, we Americans are silly about this.” To which I say, well, maybe we’re not. Clean up all the poo you want, ma’am. I’m waiting awhile before the diapers come off.

Scene 1: It is July 5, and Jean and I have brought Sasha to our trendy neighborhood pediatrician for her 18-month checkup. The kid is in fine shape: 89th percentile for height, 49th for weight, and also screaming and crying with terror at the prospect of being examined. Then the nurse practitioner walks in, and since she’s an Asian woman, Sasha instantly calms down. The N.P. asks if Sasha’s speaking, and we tell her all the words our little genius would say if she wasn’t too freaked out to open her mouth. Then the N.P. asks, “Where’s Daddy?” Shyly, Sasha raises a quivering finger and points it… at Mommy. Thanks, kid.

Scene 2: A few days later, I’m in Austria for work, and convinced that Sasha, who probably only considers me the boyfriend who occasionally sleeps over, has already forgotten who I am. But then I call home and Jean tells me this story: That morning, the first without me around, Jean was getting ready for work, and Sasha, as usual, was wandering the apartment, saying “Daddy… Daddy…” Meaning, of course, Mommy. Except that when Jean tries to correct her by saying, “Daddy’s not here,” Sasha actually seems to understand! “Where?” she asks, making the ASL sign. “Where?” Progress!

Although now this brings up another worry. Before, Sasha didn’t realize I was gone, and the resulting sadness was now mine. Now, if she knows I’m gone, Sasha may very well be the one who’s sad—which is even worse for me. But I guess this is what I wanted…

Scene 3: Last night I called my mother, who’s helping take care of Sasha while I’m away. It was almost Sasha’s bedtime, so I asked to speak to her. My mother held the phone to Sasha, who was sucking away on a bottle, and I did that thing that parents of young kids do on the phone—ask a lot of questions, say Sasha’s name, never really expect a response of any kind. And I didn’t get one—Sasha had a bottle in her mouth, and wasn’t about to take it out—until the very end, as my mother retrieved the phone, and I heard, in the background, a very, very faint “Da-dee?” Now, if only I can make her cry via Skype, I’ll really have succeeded as an absentee parent. Wish me luck and cross your fingers—I’ve got two weeks left on this trip!

As you can see here, Dalia is learning to ride a bike, training wheels and all. This is her second day out on the sidewalk with her new bike–part of a concerted effort we’re making to take a walk with both kids after dinner as a way of warding off the cabin fever and peevishness that comes from staying indoors all day after nap.

It’s a sort of lovely moment–one of those things you knew you would do with your kid when you thought about parenting. You can’t take any of these milestones for granted, really, so it’s fulfilling to get there and be there over these next weeks.

The only problem with learning to ride a bike in New York is that I’m a little worried that she might get run over. Not by cars, but by people. Dalia is pokey on her bike; it’s a labor for her to get momentum up, especially if the pedals are in the wrong position. But New York waits for no man, and the stockbrokers and hairdressers and doormen and joggers and security guards and securities lawyers all steamed past, half of them with their heads bowed to their smartphones. Dalia herself kept letting her eyes wander to her feet, instead of looking ahead of her, so even on the wider parts of the sidewalk, there were several near-collisions.

But seeing all that bustle, too, was strangely satisfying. Because it looked so absurd, all these people hustling like they were late for a train, on a perfectly fine summer evening miles from Penn Station. I say this as someone who is constantly rushing around while checking email on my phone. I’m just as absurd. But this little rite of passage, watching my daughter drift down the block on her tiny bike, just slows it all down for me. There isn’t much to do but watch and live somewhat fully in the moment.

And that is a better gift to me than that bike was to her.