DADWAGON – Page 43

My Kid’s First Movie-Theater Movie: What Should It Be?

At a July 4th picnic in Prospect Park, our good friends John and Mai told us they’d recently brought their kid, Leo, to see Cars 2: Electric Boogaloo at a real, honest-to-gosh movie theater. He liked it, of course; he was already a fan of Cars 1: The Merchandising Begins. But for a moment I had one of those twinges of parental jealousy that strike even the most indifferent New York dads. Their kid has seen a movie, I thought, and mine hasn’t!

But it’s about time to remedy that. Sasha is now 2 and a half years old, which is about the age I was when my dad first took me to the movies. I don’t remember which came first, The Rescuers or Winnie the Pooh, but I didn’t make it all the way through either one without asking Dad to take me into the hallway. I was scared.

In fact, it was only on movie no. 3 that I managed to sit in my seat the whole two hours without getting frightened. That movie was, of course, Star Wars. I still remember how small I felt as that Star Destroyer cruised over my head and across the screen—this was the movie for me. I probably don’t have to tell you much more than that for you to know it changed my life.

So, what will be the movie I bring Sasha to that changes her life? Is there anything on the horizon this summer that’s worth risking the dirty looks of fellow matinee-goers? Something that’s not just totally horrible and cynical and functioning as a mega-commercial? Or should we wait another year or three?

I do have to add one thing: While Mai, John, and Leo were enjoying Cars 2, Sasha and I were sitting at home, in my air-conditioned bedroom, watching a somewhat similar movie on TV: The Road Warrior, starring a terrifyingly young Mel Gibson as Mad Max. At one point, a bad guy manages to set off the booby trap on Max’s car, and the thing explodes in a glorious fireball. And that’s when Sasha turned to me and we said, at exactly the same time, “爆炸! (Bàozhà!)” Which in Chinese means, “Explode!” And that made it the best cinematic explosion I’d seen in a very long time. I hope Sasha remembers it that way, too.

Vacation: The Return, the Malaise

As some few of you may have noticed, I have been absent from the site for about a week, during which time I traveled to Minnesota, where my brother lives with his wife and two daughters. We didn’t do much during that week other than relax, at their swimming club, at a lake outside of St. Paul, on their porch sipping shandys and watching the Midwesterners drift by in their well-mannered, distantly cheery haze. My brother’s kids, both girls, are close enough to JP in age for them to be playmates, and Ellie, who is now crawling, enjoyed the extra space in the house, as well as the sunshine, and the way that everyone made a big deal over her.

People tell me that my brother Jason and I are remarkably similar, and they may be right: we look alike, have the same speech patterns and mannerisms, both work in the under-compensated middle of the Creative Class (I’m a writer; he’s a chef). As such, we function as a sort of control group with our children: we bring comparable influences to them, so it is interesting to note the ways in which they differ (yes, they do have mothers, these kids, and yes, they are influenced by their mothers, but come on, I’m making a rhetorical point here; it’s not a science project).

Perhaps the most striking difference between the kids demonstrates itself in the things they are willing or unwilling to do. My brother’s youngest, Georgia, is a classic daredevil younger child. Utterly without fear, she jumps, she climbs, she swims, she dismisses all attempts to be controlled. JP, for his part, does none of these things. He hates water, carefully looks (over and over) before he leaps, detests new things on principle, and, while not entirely obedient, shows more respect for authority than Georgia.

One thing Georgia isn’t much good at is walking. A two- or three-block jaunt is enough to prompt requests for a stroller. JP, meanwhile, stopped being carted around a good two years ago. He likes to make his own way, enjoys running out ahead of me, knows to stop for traffic at every corner, and holds my hand from choice, not necessity. He is a city boy: terrified of water but not headlong traffic.

There are more, and better, examples of how childhood in a big city like New York and a smaller one like St. Paul differ. But what I’m thinking of is the way that visits to the pleasant, cheap, reasonable, seemingly happy smaller cities of this country tend, on returning home, to provoke questions about why I choose to live here. Of course, I don’t really choose it: my ex-wife, JP’s mother, lives here, a mere three blocks from my apartment, we share custody, and there’s no leaving for us.

Not that I haven’t thought about it. My only family in New York is my father, who, while undoubtedly a loving grandfather, is a rather absent one. My mother, for example, who lives in Mississippi, sees her grandchildren as much or more than my father, who lives crosstown. Tomoko’s family is small and mostly in Japan. I left my job at Harper’s Magazine this past winter, and Tomoko, who works in advertising, is employable just about anywhere she would like to be. The baby is young, our ties to this place, but one, are minimal, and we are not so far gone in years as to be reluctant to strike out anew.

Who knows what the coming years will bring? I am 38. Ten years ago, I was living in State College, Pennsylvania, with my ex-wife, who was then my girlfriend. She was completing her doctorate, and I was busy writing a dreadful novel. I had just returned from three years abroad, in Asia, had no designs at working in journalism, or living in New York, or having children. Since then, I’ve lived in Los Angeles, gone to graduate school, worked in and then left journalism, returned, moved to New York, divorced, had two children. The distance between me then and now great enough to suggest that my future self might also be a radically re-imagined version of the present one. Or not. One definition of growing old would be standing by as things slow, opportunities dwindle, and then you, finally and perhaps without even noticing, just stop.

Boy, I need to go back on vacation.

America the Beautiful: The Weird Lost Verses

Happy Fourth to all of our stateside friends. For those babyswingers and other foreigners here, let’s just say that the Fourth of July is a very special day in which we blow shit up, char meat, and demand to see the president’s birth certificate.

DadWagon is on vacation today, but we did want to leave you with a handy copy of the parts of America the Beautiful we had never heard. These verses are actually real, cribbed from our favorite site on all the American Internet, Scout Songs. There are lots of exclamation marks, and some demonstrably untrue statements (I doubt there are any American cities undimmed by tears). Also, some discrepancies (is it “stern impassioned stress” or “stem impassioned stress”?!) and some spooky parts (Does “whiter jubilee” mean what I think it does?). But who cares: happy birthday, USA.

O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife.
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life!
America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness
And every gain divine!

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for halcyon skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the enameled plain!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till souls wax fair as earth and air
And music-hearted sea!

O beautiful for pilgrims feet,
Whose stem impassioned stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till paths be wrought through
wilds of thought
By pilgrim foot and knee!

O beautiful for glory-tale
Of liberating strife
When once and twice,
for man’s avail
Men lavished precious life!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till selfish gain no longer stain
The banner of the free!

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears!
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till nobler men keep once again
Thy whiter jubilee!

My Daughter, the Borg

A week or two ago, Sasha would not go to bed. For most 2.5-year-olds, this would be pretty normal. But Sasha had always actually been pretty compliant. Sure, she’d fight us on brushing her teeth and insist on being read five different books (including an Elmo coloring book with no discernable story), but eventually she’d assent to being put in her bed, tucked in, and kissed goodnight.

Now, though, she was fighting absolutely everything, from the toothbrushing to the pj’s to the overnight diaper to the final tucking-in. Even if everything else went well, she’d wind up in tears, on the floor, when it came time to actually get into bed. This would go on for 30 minutes sometimes.

Then I had an idea: lie down together. We’d turn off the lights, I’d put her in bed, then lie down next to her. Easy—and Sasha loved it! Even if she wasn’t actually asleep when I sneaked away five minutes later, she wouldn’t complain.

Well, no longer. “Lie down together” no longer works. She knows that game. In fact, she’s figured out every game, strategy, and attack Jean and I have managed to come up with over the last couple of years. She is the Borg—the semi-robotic Star Trek: TNG enemy that would succumb to, and then adapt to and overcome, each new weapon devised by the Federation. (The Borg were also totally awesome.)

Resistance is futile, the Borg liked to say, and I often feel the same way when faced with Sasha’s intransigence. Fine, let her stay up. I don’t care! But no, of course I can’t do that. Kid’s gotta go to sleep. And I know that this battle of wills is destined to make me a better, more creative parent: What will I come up with next?

No, seriously, what next? I’m actually feeling kind of tapped out at the moment. What new trick can I try? Is there a searchable database of “go the fuck to sleep” strategies I can hit up? Cuz “Go the Fuck to Sleep” most certainly does not work.