DADWAGON

Nothing really critical to say about this Times article on the Waldorf School “Forest Kindergarten” (“For Forest Kindergartners, Class Is Back to Nature, Rain or Shine”) in Sarasota Springs, New York, other than that’s exactly the life I want for my son, but one that for many reasons (my job, my divorce, my lack of money) he won’t get.

For city-fathers incapable of teaching their children how to fish, hunt, fix cars, fix lights, fix toilets, fix anything other than a souffle–read it and weep:

The children’s “classroom” is 325 acres of state parkland known as the Hemlock Trail, and a long-empty farmhouse, which the state has licensed Waldorf to use for the year. The school also has regular indoor classes at its main building.

On this day in the fledgling program, whose tuition is about $7,000, the rain did not taper off, yet the kindergartners remained outside until lunch. Circle time — songs and dancing — took place in the center of a field, behind a farmhouse, followed by a snack of apples and pineapple chunks at picnic tables. The children cut bittersweet vine to make wreaths, splashed in puddles, and, in the sandbox, did some imaginary cooking.

Here in Saratoga Springs, the children crossed into the forest at midmorning, greeted by the rich smell of earth and leaves. A fallen branch had created an arch to climb through as if they were entering a hidden place straight out of a storybook.

Note the seven grand above. That would buy a cup of coffee at most elite prep schools in the city. Don’t believe me? Check, here, here, and oh yeah, here (my alma mater, Columbia Prep, home of the $33,000 motherfucking pre-k ).

It started with an innocent enough question, from me to another parent at Dalia’s pre-school: what are you doing for Christmas? “First of all,” she said, “we’re Jewish, so we’re not doing anything for Christmas.”

Ah, right. Oops. Me too.

In the fine tradition of Walter Benjamin and, I suppose, the 12 Apostles, I am a Christmas Jew. That is, I consider myself Jewish (a view not shared by the Lubavitchers, alas), but my family has only ever celebrated Christmas: big fir tree, popcorn garlands, egg nog, and so forth.

Of course, Jews are actually pretty good at Christmas, when they try. Irving Berlin wrote White Christmas. (There’s a deeper list of the Jews behind your favorite Christmas songs here). There’s a reason why New York is both really Christmas-y and really Jew-y.

But the confusion for our kids may be doubled. They are equal parts Jewish, Catholic, Protestant and Buddhist. And while religion doesn’t do much for me, I do like traditions enough to be tempted to try to draw a little from each. But just the idea makes me think of some pained middle school multicultural events from my own childhood. Blech.

So far, I’ve bought some Chanukah Gelt and a German Advent calendar. That’s mainly because I know that if Dalia has a religion, it is chocolate. I hope she won’t notice too early in life that Gelt is usually made from cheap, dusty chocolate. The Germans have the good stuff.

Apparently, her Japanese family doesn’t have to feel left out. Thanks to a quick Google search, I found a Chocolate Buddha for sale, with this exhortation: “RUB his belly! FILL yours!”

That’s my kind of G-d.

Sit the kid down, and he promptly starts to bawl. Pick the kid up, he quiets down and starts examining everything around him. Put him down again, he cries. Pick him up, and he stops.

This I understand. Attention and contact are soothing–there’s nothing hard to understand about that. But here’s what I will never figure out: You’re standing up and holding a baby, and he’s fine. You sit down, shifting his position not one bit, and he starts to howl. Stand up, and he’s fine; sit, even in a rocker or on a tall stool, and he knows.

HOW DOES HE KNOW, I ask you? He’s still on your shoulder. Your upper body is still upright, as is he. Yet somehow, he’ll only stay quiet when you, Mom or Dad, are on your feet. And it happens most often around two in the morning, when you, Mom or Dad, would really rather not be standing up.

Apparently it’s all about mimicking the motion he felt in the womb, says Dr. Barry Sears, and I guess I believe that. Maybe I should’ve encouraged my wife to spend more of her pregnancy reclining on the sofa.

Baby’s first Christmas is coming! Yay!

Except… he’s too young to know it. So we’ll be joining in a silly tradition: picking out presents for him that are just things we’d buy anyway. Believe me, I’m not grousing about gifts–in fact, Christmas seems more meaningful this year, with a new baby in the house, than it has in a long time–but you have to admit that the first holiday season’s a little odd. At least gifts from outside the household are intended for us, the parents, and are welcome. The ones we pick up ourselves are just flat-out gestures, toward each other and to him.

And I, for one, am turning all gooey and mushy at the thought of it. A year from now, everything will be different, and Santa may even have entered the picture. This one Christmas is going to be unique, and I’ll miss it a little next time around.