DADWAGON

(This is the second post in our new series, “The Tantrum,” in which each of our four regulars will address one subject over the course of a week. Read the first one here.)

See this freighter here? That’s what I would guess the imaginary container ship—the one I lied to my 3-year-old about—would look like. At some point this spring, despairing of my ability to keep her from watching gobs of television when I was at work, I told her that our flatscreen was broken, and that since it came from Korea, we had to ship it by freighter—a very slow freighter—back to Asia for repairs.

Actually, I had taken it off the wall and driven it over to a friend’s place in Brooklyn, so they could watch NetFlix or “Twin Peaks,” or whatever the hell they watch out there, in 42-inch Megasplendor.

It was my first big, consistent lie to my daughter (not including, I suppose, Santa), and it’s not surprising that TV was involved. It’s been perhaps our biggest point of conflict, between me and my daughter, between me and my mother-in-law who looked after her most of the time, between me and the world. I had a visceral disgust at what TV did to my daughter: it turned a curious, mousy little preschooler into a drooling pixelzombie. When it was on, she wouldn’t turn her head or answer anyone. When, as threatened, we turned it off, she cried, pleaded, cajoled like she was looking for her next rock. It was pitiful.

But now that we’ve been without a TV for the better part of a year, I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. First, I am bit skeptical of the purported links between TV watching and obesity, violence, truancy, shingles and whatever else they try to pin on it (after all, can they really control for other factors? Kids who are parked all dad in front of a TV because Dad is out front selling meth might be obese because they eat Cocoa Puffs for dinner, not because of the TV).

Second, on a more emotional level: my entire generation was raised on TV, and I think we’re more or less fine. Everyone I knew was like us: being raised by single parents in broken homes. Or their parents worked and went drinking from sunup to sundown. We all had keys to let ourselves into our homes, and we all watched TV. At various points, like when I went to live with my dad, there were tighter restrictions on television. But for the most part, it was part of our lives, it coexisted with homework and sports. I can still remember the desire to keep watching to the exclusion of all else (as an adult, I would have the same feeling about cigarettes). It’s an addiction. But a manageable one.

As the University of Michigan health system says in their somewhat exhaustive list of studies and tips and resources, TV can even be prosocial, if parents and caregivers take the time to treat it right.

So, I’m headed back to Brooklyn to pick up my TV sometime soon. Hopefully before the Super Bowl. I think my prohibition era was, instead of being righteous, a symptom of something that might be even more deleterious to me and my kids: overparenting.

(Next up: The benefits of neutrality.)

Before I get into this post, I’d like to write a bit about how we come up with ideas for the blog here at Dadwagon. Many of our posts are derived individually, from things that happen to us in our daily fathering lives. Others come from our wasting time reading. And a few are referred by the other contributors to  the blog.

This morning, for example, Matt sent around a lead for a post that was based on this NY Times article: “New York Ranks Last in Happiness Rating.” Here’s the obvious bad news, folks:

A study by two economics professors, newly published in Science magazine … examined piles of data, tossed them into a research Cuisinart and came up with a guide to American happiness, ranked by state. On the smiley scale, New York landed on the bottom.

Fine, a nice little snippet of misery for the boys here at Dadwagon to examine, poke a bit with a stick, complain about in a journalistic sense, then miraculously bring back to something to do with our puppies.

Generally with this kind of lead, whoever is interested in the idea claims it and then files. What was interesting here, however, was that Chris announced that while he found the topic of merit, “frankly, it sounds like material for Theodore.”

There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: unhappiness is my beat. I’m on the prowl for the bummer, apparently. I pour my vitriol out on this little blog so that JP (and my boss) don’t have to witness it.

Call me Grumpy Dad. Makes sense, don’t it? I live in New York, after all.

All right, I’m exaggerating. He’s got two teeth, not one. But we’ve just learned that we should be brushing them, and even bought a tiny silicone-rubberfingertip toothbrush. (And, by the way, it took some doing to find one that didn’t bear the sponsored image of SpongeBob, or a Little Mermaid, or Elmo, or anyone else.)

It takes maybe six seconds to brush them, because, well, there are two teeth. I find this process hilarious, and probably pointless until he’s got a few more. But all the books say we should brush, so we’re brushing away.

Dear Sasha,

Please watch this movie. If you grow up to be like this young lady, I will be very happy.

Love,

Daddy