DADWAGON

This is not something I’ve talked about much with anyone over the past week, but what’s the point of having a blog if you can’t overshare?

Last Tuesday I rolled out of bed (and yes, I roll, apparently, instead of the perhaps more correct sit-up-put-feet-on-the-floor-and-stand). And when I did, the entire room inverted itself–the heaviest dizziness I’d ever felt. I had to grab onto the dresser to keep from falling over. It was strange, but not nearly as strange as when it happened later that morning, when I tilted my head upwards in the middle of checking out a neighborhood apartment’s ventilation shaft (we are flirting once again with relocating to a building with a working boiler). The broker showing me the apartment was somewhat stunned to see me, a sorta healthy-looking 30-something, swoon from a standing position like I’d just staggered off a flight simulator.

But we can’t guarantee to keep ourselves safe either, with or without vertigo, and that’s another unexpected level of responsibility we have toward our children. Last week, I also had to mull over whether to take an assignment to a war zone. The story would’ve be a good one, but I never could quite shake the fact that it might’ve been a selfish thing to do, something that would have put my kid’s futures and certainly their mental wellbeing at risk, should anything happen to me. In the end, the story was called off–instead I’m headed to the only-sometimes-war-zone that is Moscow. But it was yet another reminder, from the gods of medicine and journalism, that as badly as I want to guarantee that I can keep my kids safe and always be here for them myself, I can’t make any promises. The world, apparently, can just invert at any moment.

We love our friends and readers, not least because they give us the ideas that grease the ‘Wagon wheels. This week was no different.

Among those we need to thank:

To our friend Stormsweeper, who gave us a great caption by pointing out that Peter Krause needs a slap on the face.

To Dr. Robi, for being such a buffoonish foil for DadWagoner Matt on TV.

To our Jewish forefathers, for making this a festive time of year.

To Jeff Wise for helping us seem smart about baby psychology.

To circus folk, for being quite unappealing.

To Hollywood, for their bottomless depravity.

To New York magazine, for making Christopher feel irreplaceable.

To young JP, for making his father sad and mad in the same week.

To Uki Goni, for educating Nathan, over coffee in Buenos Aires, on the terrifying moral choices facing survivors of the Dirty War.

To Matt G., for writing that Tantrum about tax deductions, only to have us not offer our own tantrums after he bugged off for Mitteleuropa.

To the white cow, for having black leather.

To donuts, for being donuts.

If we left you off the list, please accept our apologies. Free Dadwagon merch is coming your way, if we ever get around to making some.

See you next week.

We sent in our United States Census forms this week, like most of you. (And if you haven’t, get on it, mister.) I take a geeky pleasure in this decennial bit of Americana: There’s something pleasing about a government action that remains so pure–counting–and a process that goes back to 1790, without a single break for war or strife or anything else.

This past year, as you probably know, my household grew, from two to three. Person three, age 1, will of course be counted, same as us. But the instructions on the form leapt out at me:

Count all people, including babies, who live and sleep here most of the time.

Clearly, people forget to include their babies. I understand it, sort of: It takes awhile to think of a newborn as a fully established person, because he doesn’t walk or talk. Apparently, though, for some people, a baby is somewhere in between: More than a pet, less than a drinking buddy.

Part of my ongoing divorce includes a custody agreement, which spells out vacation times with my son. Right now it’s spring break at the pre-school, and this year my ex gets JP all to herself (next year he’s MINE!). That means they are going on vacation together, and I’m feeling lonely.

To make matters both better and worse, I’m going to be heading out on my own vacation, a quick tropical escape to Puerto Rico, where my girlfriend has generously agreed to teach me to surf (videos will not be made available to the public). This should be a wonderful trip, but there is a part of me that will only feel worse feeling happy when my son isn’t around.

Many parents, including the the married ones, contend with feelings of guilt surrounding their children, and I don’t claim to be a special case. Just suck in times like this when I can see it coming, spelled out in black and white in a legal document.

Either way, I’m going to be offline for the next week folks. Hope you can do without me.