Rahna Reiko Rizzuto Is a Fake

Here at DadWagon, we often tend to ignore the debates and bitchy arguments that embroil the rest of the parenting blogosphere. Mostly, that’s because we are barely literate, and reading through the inanity on “Mommies on Mommies (Mommies)” and “Dude! I’m an Effing Dad!” give us headaches.

But sometimes an issue is so perplexing that we—or at least I—can’t help but weigh in. Today that issue is novelist Rahna Reiko Rizzuto, whose memoir, “Hiroshima in the Morning,” apparently tries to explain why, after a research trip to Japan in 2001, she left her husband and, more important, gave up primary custody of her kids, ages 3 and 5.

I say “apparently” not just because I haven’t read the book (that whole barely literate thing) but also because I’m not entirely sure why this has stirred such violent debate. For one thing, the book came out way back in September, although I understand that her recent appearance on the Today show and her condensed essay version of the book, “Why I Left My Children,” which showed up last week on Salon, might have something to do with the renewed interest. Oh, also, it’s been nominated for a National Book Critics Circle award. Okay, fine.

In any case, I hope her book is better than her Salon essay, which is about as sloppily written as anything you’ll find on the Internet. For one thing, she never actually says, in concrete terms, what she didn’t like about being a mother, except that she never wanted to be one. (She only had kids because their father, whom she’d been with for 20 years, since she was 17, had begged.) Rather, her opposition to kids is entirely abstract:

I was afraid of being swallowed up, of being exhausted, of opening my eyes one day, 20 (or 30!) years after they were born, and realizing I had lost myself and my life was over.

My problem was not with my children, but with how we think about motherhood. About how a male full-time caretaker is a “saint,” and how a female full-time caretaker is a “mother.” It is an equation we do not question; in fact we insist on it. And we punish the very idea that there are other ways to be a mother.

The validity of this is all very debatable, but I’ll let the guys over at FathersandFamilies.org handle this one:

It’s true that people often take for granted a mother who stays at home with the kids and see as special a father who does. That’s the side of the issue that Rizzuto likes to look at; the side she wants to ignore is that those same fathers are often looked down on as poor providers and less than men by many people including the ones they’re married to. They’re the ones who are shunned as pariahs by the mothers at the park with their children.

And Rizzuto’s notion that ”we insist on” full-time mothers is pure nonsense. In fact, the vast majority of mothers do paid work and therefore aren’t full-time moms. Surely Rizzuto is aware of this well-known fact.

But again, this is a woman who wants us to believe that she either didn’t have a choice or didn’t know she had a choice about having children or not. This was in the mid-to-late 90s. Where’d she been for the previous 25 years or so?

The point being that Rizzuto sees herself as more passive, more at the mercy of certain social winds than most women. Stated another way, my guess is that most women in this country have a firmer grasp of the need to strike a sensible work/family balance than Rizzuto did.

Well said, Fathers. Now, what’s my beef with Rizzuto?

Rahna Reiko Rizzuto is a fake.

That is, she’s marketing herself as a Mother Who Left Her Children. The reality, as she explains in the essay and presumably the book, is that when she left her family, she moved down the street from them and, while she gave up primary custody, continued to be a regular presence in their lives.

In my part-time motherhood, I get concentrated blocks of time when I can be that 1950s mother we idealize who was waiting in an apron with fresh cookies when we got off the school bus and wasn’t too busy for anything we needed until we went to bed. I go to every parent-teacher conference; I am there for performances and baseball games. My former husband is there too. Though it was not easy for him, he has made it possible for me to define my own motherhood, and for our sons to have a life of additions, rather than subtraction, of a relative peace, rather than constant accusation.

In other words, she hasn’t really left her kids at all. But, had she titled her Salon piece “Why I Left My Husband” or marketed herself as the woman who left her “family” (rather than her kids) to find herself and craft an independent identity, she wouldn’t be anywhere near as newsworthy. Of course, she wants it both ways, which is why we get the incendiary title followed by the not-very-incendiary fact that she remained extremely close to them.

(Hey, Rahna, if you really want to abandon your kids, take a page from this dad’s playbook. Or this one. Or this one.)

Rizzuto’s fakery reminds me a lot of All-Star Mommy Marketer Amy Chua—yes, the Tiger Mom. Like Rizzuto, Chua wants to have it both ways, to lure you in with sensationalism and then backtrack to say it’s not all that bad, maybe even satire, and then once again insist on the sensationalism. The reality of life, for both women, is probably too tawdry and dull to admit (or for a publisher to print). And so they play on our gullibility, and our hunger to either approve or condemn the parenting choices of other people. Is Rahna Reiko Rizzuto an evil bitch for leaving her kids? Or a feminist saint? It doesn’t really matter to me either way. But I will tell you one thing: She’s a brilliant self-publicist.

Or maybe it’s her agent.

Expensive Haircuts for Your Little Shit

Just FlowBee the little fuckers

As our little buddies over at Gawker pointed out–is this the kind of scoop that Nick Denton redesigned for?–some children get very expensive haircuts. They quote a particularly odious example in Los Feliz called La La Ling Salon, which advertises “trendy designer haircuts, hair styling (think spray-on hair color and hair tinsel) and kiddo-friendly beauty services, including funky nail design and glitter tattoos.” From La La Ling’s website:

Getting a haircut is a momentous experience for any child… and it doesn’t have to be mayhem and tears. Rest assured, crying is sparse, and mullets and bowl-cuts forbidden at La La Ling, a salon that is happy, bright, modern, and most of all… fun!

These businesses aren’t necessarily news to me, as I live in occupied Cozys Cuts for Kids territory. There are three of these $50-a-pop cutcutters on the Upper East and Upper West side. I’ll say this for them: they manage to look enough like a toy store from the outside that my kids actually beg to be let in when we walk past.

But we do not go in. My children may be on the path to yuppie ruin for a thousand other reasons, but at least they get their hair cut where a kid should: in the fucking living room.

I mean, seriously. Have our relationships with our kids become so distant, so mediated by commerce, that we can’t even groom them ourselves? That’s what a haircut is for any kid who’s not actively trying to get laid: grooming. It’s like cutting fingernails, making sure they wash behind the ears. Should we say fuck it and start looking for a baby-bathing salon?

I can see the ads now: “Does your child fidget in the tub? Are you tired of all the tears and screaming when you wash their hair? Well, now you can just bring them down to BabyBath salon, where bright, modern stylists will bathe your child–no tears!–while they watch all the latest Nickelodeon hits on Hulu!”

I know there are some of you out there who think that children need nice haircuts. And my wife, who does the cutting, spends a fair amount of time making sure her work is at least symmetrical.  But in general, the nicer your kid’s hair, the bigger an ass they look like. Because no matter how spiky/glittery/Biebery your little kid’s hair, they’re still going to stick their fingers in their nose, and run around in public places shouting MY BUTT ITCHES. Your dreams of creating a perma-chic kid are doomed from the outset.

Besides, in your vanity and foppishness, you’re really no better than the parents of those kids with the permed mullets–the sorry kids whose pictures go viral every once in a while. Sure, those kid-mullet photos are funny in a hey-lets-laugh-at-poor-people way, but they’re also funny because you know that the parents really cared about how their kid’s hair looked, because you know, that mullet and perm takes time. Just like little Declan’s faux-hawk.

The part that I find most odious about all of it is that it tries to push up the age where kids start being valued for aesthetic reasons. I mean, I am no fan of the awkward teen. They should be shunned and mocked. I was an awkward teen, and I accepted my ostracism like a man. But the awkward four-year-old with the shitty haircut? That’s different. They’re worthy of love. I mean, four years is not that far removed from those amazing newborn months where you love this incredibly weird looking pupae based at least 50% on its musty little newborn smell.

That’s my big problem with beauty salon for kids. Children are beautiful as they are. Leave ’em alone.

A Week on the Wagon: Milking It Edition

It does a blog good

I don’t want to imply that there was a lack of new and interesting material intended to delight and enrapture DadWagon readers this week: there was. We’re that good.

But, from our perspective, the highlight of the week was not the new stuff but Nathan’s genius ability to continue to derive readership from that old DadWagon chestnut: baby yoga. Holy cow people like that stuff! As one reader, the terrifyingly named John Cave Osborne, put it: “This thing has more legs than a spider on acid.” Which it does! Because I’ve done acid and the spiders, in my mind at least, had lots of legs. Like Nathan’s blog post. I think.

Either way, my fellow DadWagoneers would all like to offer a personal thank you to a loyal employee at our corporate subsidiary, Gawker: Maureen O’Connor, keep up the good work. We can’t give you a raise, but gee whiz, you have our heartfelt appreciation.

I think we can find a few other instances of milking it on the DadWagon this week. First, one of mine, in which I wrote about the current political attacks on teachers. Do I care about teachers? Not really. What about politics? Only when it’s someone else’s. But I know a good trend story when I see one. Meme, anyone?

And Matt, well, sweet, misguided, giving-beer-to his daughter Matt. He’s decided to throw in his lot, pathetic as it might be, with me. Yes, it’s true, I’ve referenced him in not one but two NY Times articles in the past month (my editor removed his name in both cases, but I’m sure you can figure it out), but still—are you so creatively bankrupt that you need me for inspiration for posts?

That’s almost as bad as if I asked you to come up with an ending for my first travel piece, and you did, and I used it, and didn’t give you credit, anywhere, ever, and I even denied that you’d done it. That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? Totally hypothetical situation, of course, but still.

Have a fun weekend, folks.

From the My Life Is Pathetic Files: Grease Monkey

Never let it be said that I lead a gratifying and rewarding life, and never let it be said I’ve tried to hide it. To wit: the highlight of my day yesterday came in the morning. Tomoko and I were driving to Ellie’s four-month pediatrician’s visit when we realized the heater in our 4000-year-old BMW wasn’t working.

I did what I normally do in these circumstances–I called my stepfather, who is a mechanic. He offered a very high-tech solution. He thought perhaps the heat sensor was going bad on the car and that a valve inside of it, I think, was stuck. So, per his instructions, I took a wrench from the tool kit in the trunk, located the heat sensor (with my stepfather directing me from the phone) and banged the hell out of the heat sensor.

The heat started working again. I got grease on my pants. Nothing got better the rest of the day.