DADWAGON

Our friend DaddyTypes had a very good week last week. Not only did he bring forth this hilarious Goodnight Moon Star Wars edition by Noah Dziobecki (titled “Goodnight Forest Moon”, of course), but he also reminded us of the awesome that is mid-century New York street photographer Helen Levitt. She’s got an exhibit at the Lawrence Miller Gallery through March 27, but all you need is the Tubes to get a sense of what a mind-blowing documentarian she was. Below is a German-dubbed version of In the Street, a 1947 short film she made with James Agee and Janice Loeb.

After all the handwringing we do about babies in bars, or in car seats, or in preschools, we have clearly neglected the pressing post-war debate: should we let our babies play all day in the gutter?

I doubt that Levitt would have wanted to romanticize poverty, but I’ll ask this anyway: Are our children really that much happier than these kids? We spend a lot of time and money removing our children from the streets, segregating them from the dirt and noise and rhythms of adult life, shuttling them from one overly age-appropriate activity to another, arranging playdates instead of flashmobs, because the literature claims their delicate minds do better in one-on-one interactions. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t want my babies to have scabies either. But to see Levitt’s children is to realize that for all our enlightenment, we might not know everything.

JP, cover your ears (or your eyes; this is a blog; oh wait, you’re three–you can’t read; continue with your business): New York HATES you. And let’s not even get into how they feel about Matt’s darling child Sasha. Don’t feel too bad, though, kids: they really hate me.

We’ve been running a lot of hate-as-love about parenting on this site of late, but this article in last week’s Times delved so deeply into the antipathy against city parents that I thought it merited attention.

What’s the new crime? Hyperactivity in restaurants? Nope. Fucked-up kid names? Uh-huh. No, the newest grip is none other than: TOO LOUD PARENTING. A crime so awful I’ve put it in ALL CAPS WITH MULTIPLE EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!!!!! That means it’s really bad. Here’s a taste:

“We see them everywhere. And if we’re being honest, we have all had the same frightening and ignoble urge to smash their heads in with a brick. I am speaking about those smug and uber-informative moms and dads who do their parenting in public places — aggressively and at the top of their highly educated lungs. They are easy to recognize, decked out in natural fabrics and larded up with the self-importance that comes from foisting “teachable moments” on an unsuspecting public.”

First: I do this. Second: it has nothing to do with wanting other people to notice how good a parent I am. Third: It’s because I’m usually so frustrated with my child that my “aggressive parenting” is a substitute for not yelling at my son in public. Cause people don’t like that much either.

To her credit the fucking moron journalist who penned this screed is a parent and she admits to having done very same thing:

While I may desperately wish that they would shut up, or at the very least use their “inside voice,” it is not because I am morally opposed to displaying one’s parenting skills for the approval of strangers. I myself was a young mother once, and I remember quite clearly the thrill of maternal showboating. What bothers me about this generation of parental windbags is their painful lack of subtlety; when they speak to little Cassidy or Aidan, it is at an almost nuclear volume.

Not that she’s taking any real blame. The difference between me and her? Style:

I may have been a showoff, but I like to think that I did it with panache. I spoke softly and intimately to my children, as if my words were intended only for them, as if I were indifferent to the gentle Madonna-in-blue-jeans image I presented.

And for this she wants to smash my brains in with a brick? Wow! That’s the kind of passion I can really get behind. I would like to say one thing, though, to all those Jew New Yorkers so upset about the behavior of urban children and their satanic parents: deep breath, friends. Can we really be such a bother?

Let’s have a look at Brooklyn, aka, Land of Obnoxious Babies. According to the Census, only about 11 percent of households have children under 6. That’s not a lot of screaming, menu-chucking, badly-named little miscreants. Surely there have to be other things we can all bitch about.

That said, I do love the hate. So, to all our DadWagon readers (and wayward journalists)–keep spewing. Makes me happy.

The first time your baby says “Daddy” can be confusing: Did she really just say that, or was it an accidental babble? Did she actually know what she was saying? Does she know I’m Daddy, or is that what she’s calling everyone? Eventually, you know, the kid will figure it out, but if you’re a neurotic idiot like me, it can be hard to bask in the initial glow.

But the first time your kid says “Daddy” in a Skype video chat, well, that’s something else. And that’s what happened Sunday night: I’m here in Rome this week on assignment, and during a Skype call home Sasha, who’s got a fever and her first-ever green-snot runny nose, pointed at the screen—at me!—and said, “Baba.” Then she said it again—very cool.

Still, I’m left with a feeling of disappointment—not because of Sasha but because of how we’re communicating. Skype has emerged as the long-distance parenting tool of choice, recommended by mainstream-media columnists and hundreds of Websites. According to Motherlode, it’s even making inroads in the legal world, where states are enacting “virtual visitation” laws, “authorizing judges to include e-mail, instant messaging, Web cams and other evolving tools of the internet to keep non-custodial parents in touch with their children.”

But it’s still a cold medium, especially since Sasha’s just 15 months old. There’s not for her to do besides point and say “Baba!” And there’s not much for me to do besides say her name and play peekaboo. I can’t wipe her face, feed her dinner, or change her diaper. In fact, our conversation ended when Jean wrinkled her nose, checked Sasha’s pants and yelled, “Poop!”

Of course, at 15 months old, Sasha’s not a very sophisticated conversation partner anyway. But I’m looking at the future—these trips of mine are not likely to stop anytime soon. What am I going to do?

DistanceParent.org has some pretty good ideas: read a book, play a game, share pictures. And later this week I’ll be testing a new Website, Readeo.com, whose pitch is awful—”Take one part video chat, add the best children’s books, throw in a pinch of pixie dust”—but which may actually be useful. But what else am I missing? Are there other things Sasha and I can do via Skype that are, well, more satisfying? (Oh, man, that sounds bad, doesn’t it?)

Just catching up with this tidbit from last week.

I don’t call this a mistake. I call it a trade.