DADWAGON

As long as we’re all piling on Matt for his extremely casual attitude about temporary childcare, I will (as usual) reveal that I’m the tightass in this debate. Not only have we never left our kid with some random potentially insane/inebriated/berserk stranger; we have never hired a baby-sitter at all. (Unless you count our daily day care, which is hardly the same thing. It’s operated by the same caregivers every day, people we came to like very quickly, who are further watched by administrators whom we also like.) We are fortunate enough to have grandparents not too far away, all four of whom are healthy and enthusiastic about giving us a couple of hours’ relief now and then. But that’s it. We’ve never left him with a friend, a college-age neighbor, or a hired gun from a nanny service. My wife’s job is slightly more flexible than mine, so unfortunately she’s taken most of the days off when he’s sick, but we have been lucky there so far. In terms of evenings out… well, we’ve just stopped having those, pretty much.

I just can’t see calling in anyone else until he’s able to articulate what he needs, and real language is quite a few months away. Are we being merely careful, or overcareful? Eager to hear comments (and experiences) in the comments thread.

Add this to the ever-expanding file of Things I Can’t Possibly Keep Up With: Last night my wife, who’s increasingly fascinated with ultra-hip kids’ clothing, forwarded me a link to this behind-the-scenes video of a “Daddy Cool” fashion shoot at Milk, “le magazine de mode enfantaine”:

Shooting Milk – Série Daddy cool
Uploaded by milk_magazine. – Arts and animation videos.

It’s enough to make you cry, isn’t it? I mean, I guess those dads are chosen because they’re pretty much models, and the clothes they’re wearing are provided by the magazine, but still: I will never look like that, and neither will you.

Which is probably a good thing. Next time someone slags any of us (i.e., me) as a crotchfruit-spawning, fixie-riding, creatively bearded, gentrifying yuppie-hipster scum, I can simply point them to this video and say, hey, it could be worse.

As I mentioned in my other post, Sasha’s face is now a lot rounder than it used to be. She’s got a full-on double-chin, and even, almost, jowls. She is, it seems to me now, bursting with brown fat.

Brown fat? Yes, brown fat. According to the Wall Street Journal, this is some awesome fat, since it doesn’t store so much energy (as white fat cells do) as keep Sasha warm by actually burning calories. Or something:

Brown fat is able to burn calories because of the cells’ abundance of mitochondria, the engines of the cellular world. White fat cells, by contrast, are like fat-filled balloons that store energy and help insulate the body.

The Journal‘s point here is that scientists are using this knowledge to develop drugs that will help us adiposally blessed adults convert our white fat to brown fat and thus get skinnier. (Or something.)

But for me, it’s a useful tool in a long-running argument with my wife about what to feed Sasha: whole milk or 2 percent? It’s been going on since just after Sasha switched out of breast milk, and it shows no signs of stopping, especially now that Sasha’s face is rounding out. (Even though she’s only 50th percentile in terms of weight, far below her rank for height.) And, of course, it extends to all dairy products, especially yogurt, which is actually occasionally difficult to find in whole-milk varieties. Plus, also, Sasha appears to prefer the strained Greek-style yogurt, which is richer and probably fattier (and which I make from regular yogurt at home rather than buying the expensive shit).

All of which is to say, when it comes to babies, where’s the line between cute-fat and just plain fat? I, the food and travel writer, prefer the former. Jean, the fashion designer, is leaning toward the latter. Are we being too New Yorky in concerning ourselves with Sasha’s size? Shouldn’t we just be happy that Sasha eats almost everything we feed her, instead of turning her nose up at strange dishes?

See here’s the thing about Matt that most of you don’t know — he’s fucking crazy. And no, I’m not talking about his drinking-with-child proclivities, or the fact when you say to him “Asian Market,” he sees “a romance … a festive, rainbow spirit” and not salmonella. No, I’m talking about the danger he’s willing to put his child in in the hopes of a “Frugal Experience.”

Me, when I travel with my son, I’m thinking, well, who knows what I’m thinking, but I definitely am not thinking: hmm, let me find a cheap babysitter who may have a lengthy history of sex crimes. That’s just Matt.

Here’s from Matt’s latest column in the Times:

Finding a sitter while traveling is difficult enough, but finding an affordable one? It seems nearly impossible. And even if it were easy, frugal travelers might ask themselves, wouldn’t stinting on payment pretty much guarantee that the sitter would be a serial killer? Please. Finding a safe sitter you can afford in a strange land is eminently doable, if you think creatively. (And besides, serial killers seek you out — they don’t wait for you to come to them. Right?)

Fair enough, although doesn’t it worry anyone that Matt so clearly understands the psychology of mass murderers? Family Services, what?

It gets worse, folks. Matt’s solution to avoiding the serial killer baby-sitter is to — wait for it — hire a pedophiliac religious person:

Wherever you’re going, simply contact the local branch of your religion and explain the situation, and they can often put you in touch with someone who can help. Who knows — maybe you’ll even find someone whose sense of faith is strong enough that they’ll do it free?

“Put you in touch?” In touch! Matt, you sick fucking bastard. I’m telling Jean. No more daddy trips for you.