DadWagon seems a bit occupied this afternoon with the work of the world. So as an interlude for our Irish readers and the rest of the globe who might have somehow missed this: my interview about the International Baby Yoga Crisis with Dublin’s FM98 afternoon duo, Dermot and Dave. They’re both fathers of young’uns, and funny guys. With luck, we’ll be back to talk about other ludicrous dad-memes as they pop up (and you know they will) in the future.
[interview starts around the 12:15 mark]
Oh, the joys of riding the F train home with my daughter, Sasha! In a not-so-crowded subway car, she points at my eyes: “Daddy’s eyes!” she says.
“Where’s Sasha’s eyes?”
She points.
“Where’s Sasha’s nose?”
She points. Then she points at my nose.
“Daddy’s nose.”
Cute.
“Daddy’s big nose!”
Uh, cute?
“Daddy’s BIG NOSE!” she yells, laughing. “Daddy’s BIG NOSE!”
Thanks, kid. You know what? I hate to tell you, Sasha, but that’s going to be your nose, too, one of these days. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.
Many of the posts related to travel on this site have to do with missing our children, the impact on them of our being absent for periods of time, and the varying degrees of guilt and non-guilt we feel when pulled away by our work. I can offer a simple reason for this: we miss our kids.
Now onto something—hopefully—less painfully obvious.
Beyond just missing them there is the added disappointment that some of the places that I visit would be of great benefit for my children to see (not Ellie yet, but eventually). Israel, whatever your religious and political views (personally I have almost none) must be one of the world’s most fascinating, mysterious, tragic, and invigorating countries. I won’t dip into postcard language—but hell, everything here is a postcard, and whatever isn’t is still worth experiencing from some other perspective, whether it’s a highway checkpoint on a road that largely excludes Palestinians, or the six flavors of odd Christianity (Ethiopian, Maronite, Orthodox, Catholic, Greek Orthodox, and Armenian—am I getting this right?) pushing beards (and habits) against each other in the Old City, or any number of other things I’m too lazy to describe.
Which is why JP should be here! I doubt that any of this will make sense to him from description. He has no context for the imagery and aromas of the Third World (which in so many ways this is). He’s only recently begun to draw distinctions between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Undoubtedly it would be a titanic pain in the ass to have him or the baby here (it would be really nice to share this with Tomoko, who is as eager a traveler as I am, and far more interested in spiritual matters), but part of being a parent is bearing the burden of the constant, unceasing, head-tapping irritation of having your kids around … because it’s good for them, and most certainly, it’s good for you.
So maybe this post isn’t as innovative as I hoped. I seem, in the end, to have worked my way around to the beginning: I miss my boy (and my girl, and my woman).
We are fans of James Griffioen, the former San Francisco corporate litigator who now lives a life of grace and extra vowels with the little Griffioens in Detroit. We link to his hugely popular blog, Sweet Juniper, from time to time because he not only has amazing photographs, he has a pretty vital mission statement: making your own fun.
So we are glad to see that Oprah (and, presumably, her secret half-sister) has gotten on the Sweet Juniper train. She even flew him to Brooklyn, we’ve heard, for a photo shoot for February’s issue of O magazine.
It doesn’t, of course, entirely make up for making a star out of Jenny McCarthy and all the other celebrity shamans and quacks her television show exalts. But, dammit, it’s a start.
