DADWAGON

(This is the Tantrum, in which DadWagon’s editors debate one question over the course of a week. For previous Tantrums, click here.)

Let’s be clear about this right from the start: No, and not because I don’t want to (I’ll get to my feelings on that later). It’s because I can’t. For those of you who don’t know it, divorce can be slightly expensive. Finances in my household aren’t so good right now, and I don’t really see them improving any time soon. Private school ain’t happening.

Yet as I write this, I have actually applied on JP’s behalf at a private school in Brooklyn. How, you ask? Well, mostly due to that whole Denial-being-a-River type thing, but also because the public school system doesn’t really leave me any choice.

Here’s how it works: on March 1, I submit JPs preschool application to the NYC Board of Education. On it, I list up to twelve public schools that I would be willing to have him attend. First choice is typically either a really good school or the one that I’m “zoned” for (more on this, too). The zone school, logically enough, is the closest school to my house. That’s about where the logic ends.

Let me back up. The full name for pre-K is actually “Universal Pre-k,” which, one might expect, implies a certain, well, universality of its existence and access. A better term for it, however, might be “Unfunded mandate,” as that is really what it is. Pre-K is a federal program that is “administered” through the local Board of Ed. This means that the schools have to offer it, but that there is no guidance as to how much of it they have to offer. What you find, at least in Brooklyn, is that the schools usually have only one or two pre-K classes, which are required, by federal law, to be no larger than 18 students.

In the fancy-pants neighborhoods of Brooklyn, the result of this is that many children will not be able to attend lovely, well-educated, FUCKING FREE pre-K at the yuppie public school around the corner. There’s simply no room for them. Yes, that’s right — you can be denied a place in the public school on the corner. The one that is funded by your taxes. That is part of a public education system that is intended to be open and free to all.

This doesn’t mean you have to immediately go to private school. The Board of Ed does have to make a space available to you within in your “district.” The only problem is that the district can be quite large, and can also include schools that are the educational equivalent of 1980s Beirut.

Let me also add in another wrinkle in the game of New York City academic triage. As I noted, there often aren’t enough spaces to go around in certain zones; therefore, you are free to apply to other schools in the district. There are, however, hierarchies of preference for entrance into those schools.

Someone get a calculator:

• first preference: in zone with siblings already in the school
• second preference: out of zone, with siblings in the school
• third preference: in zone, no siblings
• fourth preference: out of zone, no siblings (also known as “shit out of luck”)

Oh, by the way, you won’t know if you got a spot in these schools until AUGUST. Thus, despite my penury, I am forced paid to apply to a private school, and may even pay more to put down a deposit (several thousand dollars) just to make sure JP has a backup plan for school next year.

This, then, is the Tantrum, for the week: Should you send your child to private school? My answer is WHO THE FUCK KNOWS? I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to get him into school anywhere without having to look like this guy:

I’m assuming my colleagues on this blog will have something to say on the ethical components of how their little ones get educated. Stay tuned.

I know all of you have been wondering about this for the past several months. It’s been bandied about on blogs, alluded to on Page Six, even discussed by Billy Bush on Entertainment Tonight. I wanted to keep this under wraps a bit longer, but events this past weekend have forced my hand. Today I must come clean:

I am Padma Lakshmi’s baby-daddy.

Yes, it’s true, although you may have heard otherwise. Krishna Thea Lakshmi is the fruit of my loins, and no one else’s. (Well, Padma’s, I guess.)

You may be asking: How did this happen? And I would answer: In the traditional way—this was no in vitro deal, nor was I merely the donor. Padma and I, as they said back in my day, bumped uglies, her being the bumper, me being the ugly.

No, no, you may be saying: How did you and Padma get together? Now, that’s a more difficult one to answer, but as I remember, it was just before she left Saddam Rushdie, the famous novelist. She Facebooked me late one night, telling me with deeply felt emoticons just how sadface she was, and could she spend the night. At the time, Jean, my wife, was temporarily living in Columbus, Ohio, working for Abercrombie & Fitch, which is not only how we were able to hook up unnoticed but also how Padma came to be wearing A&F pants—Jean’s prototypes—in various TV appearances months later.

In any event, our affair continued in secret for years, throughout her stint on Top Chef, until one day nine or ten months ago, when she asked me to put a bun in her oven. Happy to oblige, I loaded a brioche into her Viking. Later, as we were eating the brioche with butter and honey, she told me she wanted a child—she was no longer young, she said, and since our travels kept us apart so often, she wanted to have at her side a constant reminder of me.

“What?” I said. “You can’t just read my blog?”

“Nope,” she said in that flat, emotionless, uninflected voice that drives men wild from Chandigarh to Chambers Street. “I’m not into that kinky shit.”

Sadly, not long after I frugaled Padma’s traveler, she left me. Something about how we’d grown apart, or maybe about how my drooping eyelids needed a blepharoplasty. Honestly, I drank so many raspberry champagne spritzers and ate so many Hardees bacon cheeseburgers that I really can’t remember. All I know is pretty soon I was reading that my dear Padma was preggers, and since she said nothing, I said nothing.

Today, however, I’m breaking my silence. Krishna—my darling Krishna!—should know whence she came. Also, frankly, I felt a wacky celebrity twist would give new urgency to this dadblog. From now on, look for stories about not going to red carpets, not influencing competitive cooking shows, and not paying attention to restraining orders.

Finally, though, I must make some apologies—to Jean, of course, but also to Uma Thurman and Zooey Deschanel, who I know were hoping I would save myself for them. Sorry, girls.

It happened today: Dalia’s first bad hair day. Or at least, the first day where she was self-conscious about how her hair looks.

It’s cold in New York, yet again, so I put a knit hat on her head, and when I took it off her head at school, her hair was its usual fly-away, static-charged Einstein mess. “Agh,” she said, “my hair. It looks funny.” She started batting at it, to little avail.

She just turned 4, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Shame and guilt, apparently, are normal in kids as young as 3, so it was just a matter of time. And at least one study showed that preschool girls have a better understanding of complex emotions — particularly pride — than boys do.

This is a problem, not least because I am the one who gets Dalia up and dressed in the morning. Pride is not going to serve her well if she’s getting dressed and styled by me. I am terrified of barrettes. I can’t give her pigtails without making her squeal in pain.

Vanity is a cruel mistress. How do I know? Because even I, a father of two shrugging into middle age, experience self-consciousness from time to time. It is, for me and my ilk, a completely useless emotion. Yet it never quite goes away. An example: Joel Stein, who is a funny man but not exactly Tim Gunn, has twice mocked my Twitter picture, and twice I have changed it, like a little bitch.

Dalia is going to be an adult in years that sound like science fiction to me: 2028, 2053. Let’s hope they will have invented, along with the death ray and robot harems, a cure for insecurity. Because if she grows up dressing like me, she’s gonna need it.

Ha! That’s a trick question—they’re equally difficult!

At least, that’s according to attorney general Eric Holder, who recently told the Alliance of Concerned Men:

Each day, I’m reminded of the threats we face, and I’m charged with protecting both the safety of the American people and the strength of our justice system. As solemn and imperative as these duties are, they often seem manageable in comparison to the awesome responsibilities that I feel as the father of three children. Being a good father is every bit as demanding, and every bit as important, as being the Attorney General of the United States.

Now, I’m willing to admit being a father is pretty tricky. And being a good father is quite tough. There’ve been times when I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through the day—or even through the next couple of minutes.

But you know, I’m pretty sure that my struggles with my daughter to, say, change her blown-out diaper or, one day, to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid like, um, join a gang (do they still have those?) or get pregnant—those things pale in comparison to Holder’s job. Which, as I understand it, involves issues such as: How to balance civil rights and security in an age of international terrorism? How to restore Americans’ faith in law enforcement after revelations of (pick one) incompetence, abuse of power, corruption, and politicized prosecution?

Frankly, if Holder is going to equate fatherhood and running the law-enforcement wing of the world’s last remaining superpower, then I’m not sure he understands what his job actually entails. Maybe our headline should’ve been asked during his confirmation hearings?

Or maybe I’m wrong. After all, I’ve never met his kids. They could make Khalid Sheikh Mohammed look like Tinky-Winky.