DADWAGON

The British press loves to make fun of American prudishness–presumably because our papers decline to put topless gals on Page 3–and this story, spotted and Tweeted by Bloggerdad,  is no exception. The Guardian is reporting that a California school district is banning Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, tenth edition, because its definition of “oral sex” actually tells readers what the words mean. (They seem a little late to the party: M-W moved on to its eleventh edition in 2003.)

Of course, dictionaries can be useful in these matters—particularly if, in matters of oral sex, it depends what the definition of “is” is. But all the same, I can see why they’re upset. A situation like this just begins with a little sensation, and gradually grows until it’s throbbing and huge and everyone’s raring to go. Mostly they’re mouthing off, blowing off steam, but eventually they really get into the back-and-forth.  Everyone gets really overheated, and just when you think it can’t get any more intense it does. Then the TV cameras show up, and that’s when everything erupts.

Proven: Listening to Mozart has been proven to slightly improve spatial intelligence among college students.

Proven: Babies are known to respond to music heard in the womb–that is, they can hear, and they swim around a bit.

Not proven: Babies gain anything from listening to music.

Also not proven: Classical music does more than any other genre.

Really, truly, not proven: Pointing a speaker at your gravid belly is going to do a damn thing for your child’s future.

Really, truly, just plain silly: Spending $127 to jack your iPod output directly into the contents of your blossoming uterus.

This product is called the Nuvo Ritmo [rhymes with Gitmo] Pregnancy Sound System, and consists of four tiny flat speakers snugly encased in elastic. Wrap it around the oven encasing one’s bun, switch on the Jupiter Symphony, and start putting cash in that 529 account.

Proven: The insane desire to give a child any microscopic edge on the road to Harvard–however illusory, however likely to produce an over-programmed and hyper-achieving and anxious teenager, however flat-out pretentious–can be exploited in ways you’d never think of.

At just over a year old, my daughter, Sasha, is on her way to becoming, one day, a human being—or at least understanding human language. In the last month or two, she will, if you tell her, clap her hands, point at your nose (and maybe her ear), lift her foot, and go find her ball. She is also a professional-level peekaboo athlete. It’s all pretty neat—especially since she only responds to requests made in Chinese. Now, the potential problem:

We (okay, I) refer to all these demonstrations of her growing intellect as her “tricks.” You know, like a dog. Or sounding like a dog. I don’t know. These things aren’t exactly useful skills, the kinds of things a sentient adult might use to secure gainful employment, but well, she’s a kid. Usually when parents say “tricks,” it’s to talk about clever ways to get kids to go to sleep or eat their vegetables. This, however, feels sort of demeaning, but I can’t think of another word out there that conveys the collection of behaviors she’s learned.

Plus, she is definitely smarter than a dog. When you point at something in the distance with your finger, a dog will look at your finger. Sasha, meanwhile, will look at what you’re pointing at, and point her own finger in its direction. Then she’ll put the finger up her nose.

Which, speaking of gainful employment, means she’s overqualified for this job.

I’ve written before about trying to keep our household from being swamped with little plastic kid-related objects. (Yes, I am rapidly becoming Dadwagon’s chief domestic-order correspondent. So be it.) And then I run across a story like this in the Times.

Joseph Epstein once wrote about a fellow critic–a man he found personally cruel and repellent–that, when he found himself agreeing with the man’s point of view, he immediately reconsidered his position. Suddenly I see his point.

Never mind that this writer chose the world’s least interesting places to shop, chain stores familiar to every American who leaves the house. Never mind, also, that the subject’s comments are straight-down-the-middle commonsensical. Everyone gets a color-coded folder! Enough space on the calendar for everyone in the family to write in his or her soccer games! So useful! (And if Junior doesn’t log in every event, in the right color marker, well—we just won’t have that. Kid gets donated to Goodwill. )

The real problem is that her suggestions address … nothing at all, really. I can just about guarantee that setting up shelving and putting all your stuff into translucent plastic tubs from the Container Store will cost you hundreds, maybe thousands, of dollars, and in six months you’ll have half-empty shelves filled with half-empty plastic tubs with crap piled all around them, all of it twice as inaccessible as before.

A little tip to everyone: You can’t buy your way out of disorder, any more than we can consume our way out of global warming. Either you put your stuff away, or don’t. Caveat organizer.