Sake Bar Yoramu

After reading about this place in a NYTimes article, we had to check
it out our first night in Kyoto. Armed with little more than vague
directions, Jaclyn and I battled pitch dark Kyoto streets on Tuesday,
wind, cold, and a smattering of rain.

I passed by it on the left, and noticed the long interior which was
the photo from the website. A small sign, which we would have passed
by otherwise, said "Yoramu" in Hiragana - and looked non-native
Japanese script at that. This was the place.

We entered into a cozy, small, and modern bar. It was warm. Obscure
Thelonius Monk jazz playing in the background. Yoram was our sake
bartender for that cold, rainy night. at 8PM, we were the only ones
there. He thanked us for braving the elements in coming.

Yoram looked like an Israeli living in Japan for 22 years. We spoke
fluidly between Japanese, Hebrew, and his soft British accented
English. This guy loves sake and music. Both tended to reflect his
personality, a little mysterious, very interesting, and extremely
individualistic.

To prepare for our tasting, he asked us which white wines we had a
preference for, then used that as a template for sake. Our sake
tasting flight was a revelation - some sakes had floral notes, others
had hints of chili or fruit. This is rice wine, nothing more. All of
the sake changed notes as we bit into some small dishes he prepared
for us. Alas, that night did not have his famous home-made falafel or
a Kyoto speciality - yuba, but spring salad and miso marinated fish
complimented all the sakes we tasted.

I asked him how has Japan changed in the last 22 years. "Women are no
longer slaves. Otherwise, it's exactly the same". We told him about
our stay in Beit Shalom - the Christian Zionist guesthouse. "From what
I understand, they're lovely people" - he noted. "I just am very
uncomfortable with people who automatically love me prior to meeting
me just because I happen to be labeled with a certain ethnic or
religious group identity."

That got me thinking about whether anti-Semitism and philo-Semitism
are two sides of the same coin, when two Japanese middle aged men came
in. Very loud for Japanese - a superior and subordinate, with the
superior trying to show how "hip" he was going to a just-enough exotic
place. I'm sure some gaijin sitting at the table added some "street
cred" as well. Quickly yet subtly, the background music changed from
mysterious jazz to neo-Middle East Arabic music. Yoram knows his
customers

That's when another couple came in as well - and then no more room, as
the bar only sat for 6. After half an hour of him taking care of his
new customers, he came back to us. "Sorry about that - the first
people that came in here really are not my regulars. Please accept
something for their rowdy behaviour." He looked at me "what year where
you born in". 1974 - then out came a bottle and a pour of what looked
like and tasted like excellent brandy. Amber gold in color, warm and
sweet. "great brandy". "That's not brandy" - Yoram replied "It's sake
brewed from 1973". I've never had 35 year old sake before, and
probably never again. It was absolutely delicious.

It did end up being one of our favorite nights out in Kyoto. The warm
feeling kept going as we staggered out a few hours later, buzzed from
sake and mysterious conversations in the cold Kyoto night.

Japan's Obsessions

It finally dawned upon me why Japan is often beguiling to the visitor.
Much of Japan's culture takes the ordinary and elevates it to an art
form. Flower arrangement. Wrestling. Hotels - many kinds. Bathing.
Eating. Toilets. Trains.

This takes a certain amount of obsession - in hobbies, and pride in
work. It can turn horribly wrong, of course, as history has shown,
but on a day-to-day level, it's why traveling here is so much fun.
You never wait more than 30 minutes to hop on any train, bus, or other
forms of public transportation in any stretch of the country. Believe
me, I've tried. Merchants are always very friendly and helpful. It's
unheard of to see the scowls one finds back home.

Every time in Japan, I employ the "water" test to see if it's still
applicable. At any restaurant or cafe, the minute I begin to think
that I want a refill of water, a waiter is already there refilling my
glass. I've never, ever had to ask for a glass to be filled. Well,
the water test passed with flying colors on our 2nd day. It goes
without saying that you are always served water at a restaurant as a a
default. Isn't that natural?

Since it's a small country with an even smaller area where most people
are crammed together, everybody is polite. While on the futuristic
Shinkansen, a woman got on board and sat in front of us, then looked
at me, smiled politely, and excused herself with an apology before
tilting the seat back. That's very Japanese. What's even more
Japanese is that the precision design of the seating arrangement
assure that even when the seat in front of you is tilted backwards,
you don't feel it as a passenger.

I can go on for hours about the minute details that make life so much
more pleasant, again, on a day to day level. Hot, damp towels given
to you prior to a meal. Always a small yummy salty snack at a bar to
go "gratis" with your cold beer. Packages that open up logically and
efficiently, with a small slit that doesn't reduce you to tearing at
it like a caveman. Potato chips in a bag coated with an invisible
resin that don't crumble. Small packets of sealed ice packaged with
together with our take-away strawberry shortcake. Food and drink that
manages to be both strong-flavored and subtle at the same time.
Numbered platform on train stations that correspond to your ticket.
Automatic toilets everywhere. HEATED toilet seats - the most
underated technological breakthrough of the last 50 years. a "sound"
button on the toilet to mask the other, natural sounds. Automatic
"Star Trek" doors on the trains with a cool "woosh" sound. Trains
that go through mountains with wide, open windows to enjoy the
scenery. Trains that go to and from the airport that automatically
dim the lights 50% in consideration of the dazed and jet-lagged
passengers. Lack of jarring noises. Quietness. Vending machines
serving cold and HOT drinks. This is such a treat in cold weather,
holding a nice, hot can of "royal milk tea" or "UCC coffee". After a
minute of holding this hot can in your hands, you then get to drink
this hot drink and warm you up inside - only in Japan.

We were both wondering why the public toilets didn't have soap
dispensers, until we realized that the automatic hand dryers all have
a built-in UV ray dispenser to kill the germs. I told Jaclyn that she
would be angry at the level of day-to-day assault on the senses when
she returned to the States after a week in Japan. The only comparable
thing is probably walking into a "pachinko" - Vegas style gambling
places dotting the urban landscape. We walked into one, and Jaclyn
turned around in 2 seconds and walked out - not enough time to even
snap a photo. Sure enough, it was a shock coming back here. You don't
realize how different and better you can make life in an advanced
economy by paying attention to the small things.

Thai Observations

) Thais are transfixed with snakes. Our first night at the
guesthouse bar had a "National Geographic" nature special playing in
the TV background. no one payed attention. Then, the segment turned
to snakes. All the Thais around the bar were instantly intrigued,
looking, pointing, shouting at the screen! As soon as it was over,
and the segment switched to another animal (great white shark), all
the Thais turned away, just as quickly. I'll soon start a 24-hour
snake cable channel in Thailand and make millions.

2) All the food is great in Thailand, except for the stuff cooked for
the "farang" - foreigners. No one believed us when we went to
restaurants and asked for it spicy-Thai style. For the non-touristy
restaurants that we did go to, the food was phenomenal, especially the
roasted eggplant. You could tell the quality of the place by one
slurp of its Tom Yum soup.

3) Thailand used to be overrun by backpacking Israelis straight out of
the army. No more. The country has become too expensive and "safe".

4) Bangkok is a much less seedy city, and is now actually easy to get
around. The vibe's fantastic and the pollution was not so bad.

5) The islands of South Thailand can still be paradise on earth.
True, Koh Phi Phi has lost its soul, though we did find a slice of
paradise on electricity-free Koh Jum. That's going to change by next
year, though, when they build a new electricity cable.

6) I've never managed to pronounce spoken Thai in such a way that
Thais can understand, and that's still the case. They do find it
amusing, though.

7) Thais have loads of personality and are hilarious, especially the
women. Our train attendant / food server helped herself to a bottle
of beer -on our tab - while on the Mekong-Bangkok night train. She
was so funny, though, we gladly paid up. After we took a photo with
her, she grabbed the camera, looked at the digital picture, and said
"sexy, sexy!". I think she was referring to herself. By the way, even
the Tom Yum Soup on the train is better than the average soup you can
find in a US Thai restaurant.

8) We were told that it's better to drink hot liquids and soup when
it's very hot outside as to trick the body to cool down. I think it's
a sadistic joke on the farang. I'll do with an ice-cold Singha beer.

9) Thais in general speak in a much softer, quieter tone than
Westerners do. It took a few days to get used to this and lower our
voices as well. Unfortunately, it's now back to normal.

10) Siamese cats in Thailand are very cute, but the ones in Laos are
even cuter, as you will find out in my next segment.

Zen and the Art of Car Seat Installation

Car seats for infants are mandatory in California. The hospital won’t let you leave with baby until they check to see one is in the car. Unfortunately, more than 80% of them on the road are not properly installed, rendering them almost useless.

To lower these statistics, the California Highway Patrol and Automobile Association offers inspections to make sure that the car seat is properly installed. I have a feeling, however, that many people just bring them uninstalled and sit back while an officer does all the work. Aren’t they supposed to catch drunk drivers?

I can understand the dismal statistics. These seats are non-intuitive, have many parts, hieroglyphic instruction manuals, and yoga contortions and exertions placing these in the backseat. It took me a cumulative five hours of deciphering the manual after searching and downloading it, putting the seat and components together, then wrestling the LATCH system in my car, while figuring out the lame acronym (Lower Anchors and Tethers for Children). And that still doesn’t count the prudent trip to the CHP station for a final check and an OK.

Why go through all of this rigmarole? Machismo initially played a part. Nothing quite saps testosterone like carrying a diaper dude “murse” on one shoulder while sporting an infant sling on the other. Allowing a cop who should be catching bad guys installing this for me just feels weird and humiliating.

But the macho feeling soon melted away, and another feeling entered in as the hours crept by staring at this plastic piece. What I usually feel when mediating – a sense of calmness, curious inspection, and relaxation all rolled into one, began. This reminded me of a Zen teaching – when washing rice, wash the rice, when sweeping floor, sweep the floor. That is, be aware in the present moment, and when thoughts wander off as they tend to (like why is the illustrated baby in the instruction manual so freakishly happy?), guide them back into place by the simple act of doing and being present in the moment.

Not a bad take-away from installing just a car seat. Could be a useful parenting skill as well. And if the CHP officer says it was done all wrong, then it’s time to do it all over again. And then I’ll submit this story to a fortune cookie company.

Obsession, For Parents

I never understood the Calvin Klein Obsession perfume ads, connoting mystery, seduction, and beaches. I think for the most part various obsessions have a limited range, beginning at boring and ending at creepy.

So Jaclyn and I vowed not to be “that” new parent – like sublimating our identity by changing our Facebook profile picture to that of the newborn, or boring non-parent friends to tears with the latest diaper change alerts or news about “tummy time”.

Judging by our behavior with Dalton, our new cat (AKA baby version 0.5), we have failed spectacularly. The first sign of trouble was when both of us broke spontaneously into singing Mozart’s Serenade #13 with they lyrics “meow, meow-meow” to keep the cat entertained on its first night home. The second sign was setting up a new Facebook profile exclusively for Dalton and posting comments on it from the cat’s perspective. That’s healthy, right?

The more we have the cat around the house, the more I see it as a training practice for the real thing – a simulator before sliding into the cockpit. So I’ve made a list about how a cat (or dog), changes one’s life, and realized that this can be interchangeable with a newborn:

5) your schedule irrevocably changes, even at the most intimate times, like sleep – because of the cat. During work and other events, all you want to do is rush back home and be with kitty.

4) wiping poo off the cat’s butt during litter accidents is unbelievably gross, but it doesn’t feel that way because the Oxytocin “cuddle chemical” takes over your brain.

3) you feel that your cat is the smartest, cutest, and most athletic cat of all time, indeed, throughout history. You actively work to make your kitty the next “Maru the Cat” YouTube sensation.

2) photos and video of your cat adorn your real and cyberlife, and you don’t hesitate to show them to friends, co-workers, and strangers, whether solicited or not.

1) you have no idea how a 7-pound furball waltzed into your life and taken over your emotions completely.

Finally, we used to laugh at enforced “date nights” that keep new parents’ relationship balanced and sane. Until we had our first non-cat date in a month. I think we’re ready for that kid already, and for all the obsessions that come along with it. It may not be mysterious, seductive, or “beachy”, but it’s sure a lot of fun.

Spicy Food Workout

“You take out your aggression in the kitchen” Kasma, our Thai cooking instructor yelled at the group of would-be chefs. “Making curry”, she shouted, over the pounding of the heavy stone mortar and pestle, “is very therapeutic!” Pound, pound, thwack thwack. What was a pile of shallots, garlic, ginger, and chilis was soon pulverized into a fragrant, thick paste.

True, this nice suburban Oakland home where we took some courses in Thai cooking turned into a clanging din of pounding. Lots of smashing and pounding, it turns out, goes on in Thai cooking. It’s a socially acceptable way of getting out a little aggressive, historically female, tension. But with more and more men in the kitchen, the dynamics are shifting. Punching a hole in the wall while wearing a spaghetti-stained wife beater is a bit old-school. But smashing a clove of garlic with the flat end of a huge Chinese meat cleaver can feel just as satisfying, minus the broken hand.

Not only that, but the physical sensation of doing an activity releases a little adrenaline as well. OK, it’s not BASE jumping or alligator wrestling, but if we’re stuck as a species eating three times a day, and preparing three times as well, wasn’t this nature’s way of rewarding us for these tasks?

So I get the physical aspect of cooking, but what about the spicy level? It’s not natural – kids hate spicy things unless trained at any early level. Jaclyn remembers kids leaving restaurants in Oaxaca crying after the parents (probably the papá) forced them to eat that habanero chimichanga. We found the answer soon enough. Our cat, Dalton, eats anything we prepare on the kitchen counter – Gruyère cheese, crackers, yogurt, soy sauce, hummus, raw meat, you name it – this cat’s a vacuum cleaner. Everything except our spicy Thai food. He steer clears of that stuff – even though it has his favorite seafood in it, like Tom Yum shrimp soup.

Maybe humans started eating spicy foods because it deterred other animals and critters from helping themselves to the hard-earned calories? Or perhaps the chilis (and before Christopher Columbus, peppercorns) kept bacteria away from food in a hot and humid environment like SE Asia and India? That’s an interesting thought as well while we train our new kid to enjoy that hot n’ spicy soup. Because we can deal with a lot of challenges that new parents face, but bland food is not one of them. We’ll start with 500 Scoville Heat Units and work ourselves up the heat ladder. I just hope toddler doesn’t run out of our favorite taqueria, crying from mouth-on-fire, cause that’s just plain embarrassing.

Discipline, Clicker Style

Our socially extroverted 8-month old kitty, Dalton, follows a red stick wherever I take it – up his kitty condo, through a tunnel, on our laps, and into the kitchen, (though not on the counters!). He also is totally cool with having a kitty harness/leash put on him for outdoor walking, getting his nails clipped, and using a fairly elaborate kitty litter system. All of this on top of spending 8 hours sleeping in our bed, not waking us up.

I’m sure that getting him through a breeder is in one sense an element in a well-behaved cat. But most of these impressive feats were drilled into him over the course of three weeks by me through a combination of kitty treats (Trader Joe’s Omega-3 essentials, tuna for kitties, and freeze-dried wild Alaskan salmon nibbles for cats), a hand-held clicker, and lots of positive encouragement. I’ve yet to hear a decent argument why toddlers can’t be trained the same way.

This is all gleaned from a training manual titled “Clicker Training for Cats”, with a cover picture of a cat wearing a graduation cap and a “first place” ribbon (obviously Dalton). Sample titles include “Come when called”, “Playing the Piano”, “Walking on a leash”, and my favorite,”How to Toilet-Train your cat, clicker style”. Awesome.

Some cat owners keep a bottle of spray water to spritz in kitty’s face if it gets in the way while cooking. Other owners make loud noises to scare kitty away or discourage unwanted behavior. While these aggressive actions may be a short-term solution, kitty will inevitably get revenge at its owners through aggressive behavior of its own. In the end, positive, non-aggressive discipline makes for a calm, well behaved cat.

This training manual says over and over again, that aggressive behavior by the owner simply won’t work. Neither does scolding or shouting. Cats ultimately do what they want to do, but are motivated by selfish incentives (treats, for the most part). And they can be misdirected fairly easily, like “look at this shiny moving object!” – again, much like a toddler.

I’m confident our child will learn to enjoy the taste of omega-3 freeze dried salmon, since that’s least likely to cause early-onset childhood obesity or diabetes. But the new kid will have a lot of catching up to do. At Dalton’s fast rate of discipline has demonstrated, the cat will be using the toilet while our kid’s still in diapers. Thanks clicker!

Raising Stone Age Baby

Being called a “white devil” first thing in the morning can be quite disconcerting. I usually think of myself as a typical Northern Californian tolerant, open minded individual, but sometimes, you’re just a white devil. That’s what we were called by one mother in a remote Hmong village – scaring her son, telling him that if he misbehaves, these devils will kidnap him and take him far, far away from his family. Was it the North Face adventure pants that gave us away? Having people come up and touch your nose was also kind of strange.

That’s what happened when Jaclyn and I spent time last year in Laos. We signed up for a mountain trek among the Hmong hill people. Our first option was the common, easy hike two hours into the mountains. “Any other options?” my intrepid wife wanted to know. Yes – a very long, hard, hot slog through 6 hours into one of the most remote places I’ve ever been to: a village from medieval times: One spout of water as the communal drinking fountain / shower, huts gathered round an open dirt plaza on a windswept hill, chickens, dogs, and pigs cavorting, and kids, lots of them, everywhere. We asked our tour guide about visitors to this village – they get about two Western tourists every three months or so. This place was definitely off the “Lonely Planet” circuit.

Not a single stroller in sight. No “Happiest Baby on the Block” DVD. I didn’t see a car seat, since there were no cars, nor a nasal aspirator. As far as I know, definitely no cribs in the huts. All the kids were basically running around, day and night, making lots of noise. The infants were carried around by the older siblings. The only toys I saw were old-school flashlights carried around at night at this electricity-free village.

This is how most humans have lived communally since the dawn of our species, and most of us in the world still live.

We weren’t jarred awake in the pre-dawn hours by crying babies, but rather, the cry of a rooster strutting around our hut we shared with one of the families.

This got me thinking about all the hysteria surrounding sleep in our modern industrial civilization. What’s the real reason for putting baby in a separate room in its own crib? Why put a baby in a stroller immediately after birth, instead of being carried around close to a body? The Hmong babies slept in the same mat as the parents, and were carried around constantly by either the mother or the siblings, and they seemed contented enough.

It’s culture – we have a notion that to raise a successful person, one must be independent, and the idea of sleeping in the same room, let alone, the same bed, as the parents leads to dependency – something that our culture frowns upon. Also, the notion of the “sacred bedroom” in the West is simply not shared among other cultures. We are social beings when awake, and that idea of being together extends towards sleeping hours as well. Some other cultures don’t place the same exaltation for sleep privacy, or for that matter, the cult of happy baby, sleeping baby, as we do.

In fact, one new parent in our class specifically said that they transferred baby to a crib and a separate room at two weeks since they were afraid that the baby will turn out to be dependent on the parents – that’s culture talking, not biology – babies are still learning how to regulate their breathing during sleep – and the best way to learn this is by observing and being close to another sleepyhead.

So for now, we’re going to have a little Hmong village in our San Francisco apartment – no strollers, and no crib, for at least a few months. It kind of makes me feel like a white devil.

Beer Before Dinner

Our family took a trip to a nearby Druze village of Daliyat Al Carmel next to our hometown in Israel when the second intifada of 2002 was raging. The Druze, a minority Muslim sect, have always pledged allegiance to Israel and serve in the IDF, yet the spillover effect of the violence of was evident all around. Jews who normally flock to this mountaintop village for weekend souvenir shopping and eating hummus stayed away in droves because of the violence in the nearby territories.

So Daliyat was empty on what should have been a bustling Saturday. We entered into a restaurant, where the jovial owner greeted us warmly. These type of Mediterranean restaurants always start with a large platter of meze and a pitcher of hot mint tea. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the village, but something came over me and I poured tea to all my family members, starting with my dad and going down the line.

The owner, who was in the middle of serving, almost dropped the plates, put his hand over his chest, and proclaimed that act warmed his heart, and that it was very rare nowadays to see this happening with the younger generation. It seemed genuinely heartfelt, though my mother later remarked it was a cynical ploy for a larger tip. A bit doubtful, since we were the first and probably last customers that slow day.

I was then reminded of this watching a scene from this year’s movie “Tokyo Sonata”, where the family sits down to eat dinner (being a Japanese movie – food is given a very important consideration, almost another actor), and nothing happens, not a word is spoken, the food remains untouched on the table, until the father is poured a beer by his son. Only then everyone digs in, chopsticks flying.

That’s pretty cool. I like that idea of demonstrating every day family obligation and respect. When I broached this idea to Jaclyn, she objected, not because of the idea itself, but because only the father is respected in this scenario. “Well, what if the kids have to do something for both Mom and Dad? Is that OK?” Yes, very much so, apparently.

But then, what if the kids don’t feel like pouring the parents a drink before dinner is served, was her second question. Well, if the kids don’t feel like pouring us a drink, giving the parents a token measure of respect, we won’t feel like feeding them. A bit harsh, it may seem, but a growling stomach is a great teacher. (it doesn’t have to be just beer – whiskey is OK as well – Jaclyn’s fine with tap water).

Reactions from friends and relatives to our future family dinner plans have ranged from highly enthusiastic approval to downright shock. My personal take is it’s easier to drill kids into doing something routine, an act, rather than talk about it. After all, aren’t all acts of kindness and respect necessarily small acts that convey large meanings? And the village of Daliyat, I’m happy to report, is once again packed on summer weekends – we’ll be back soon to the same restaurant as soon as our kids learn some respect by pouring a beverage.

Special Olympics

On the way to an all-day new parent meditation class, Jaclyn and I stopped at the Noe Valley Whole Foods to grab a to-go lunch. It was still relatively quiet at 9:00 AM on a Saturday morning, and we saw at least five babies carried around on slings and Baby Bjorns in the produce aisle. Except this particular Whole Foods was in some alternate, “Twilight Zone” universe, since every single baby was carried around by dad. Plenty of yoga bunnies, but not a single mom in sight.

Where was mommy? Or this being San Francisco, where was life partner? Jaclyn was thrilled to see this a sign of feminist triumph. I wasn’t so sure. One of the secret thrills of entering into a new era of being an engaged, active father, is that the bar is set so ridiculously low. Much like a participant in the Special Olympics, I am prepared to receive an inordinate amount of praise, cheers, accolades and “awws” when doing tasks that shouldn’t be considered so hard and wouldn’t get a second’s worth of attention if done by mom.

Pushing the stroller? Isn’t that sweet? Grocery shopping with baby in tow? What a good father! Taking the kid out on an urban stroll? He’s so good! And the ultimate gold medal, changing diapers in public.

Well, not in Noe Valley. The poor schlubs I saw there were doing something unprecedented in the history of manhood, i.e., taking charge of activities that were for the longest time woman’s work, and did they get any positive reinforcement? Far from it – a collective yawn was more like it. No wonder they looked so miserable.

That’s why I’ll stick to doing chores with baby in the Mission District.

What's in a Name?

Sorry Shakespeare, but names do matter, even if a rose still smells sweet. A name has to sound nice cross-culturally, not be old-fashioned, not too radical, but not commonly bland. The mouthflow and acoustics needs to be smooth, and it should be hard to tease on the playground. Sounds more like wine tasting than name picking.

My initial idea to name our child after an ethnic food or winery was promptly vetoed, and soon the name well ran dry. Creative name picking is not my forte - I was raised in a house where our cat was called simply “kitty” in Hebrew. That’s either very lazy or very Zen.

The broader American Jewish community isn’t giving us guidance either, since they like to name kids after dead relatives. Super creepy. Doesn’t the kid deserve a fresh name with a fresh start? (wait – wait -”Mentos” – the freshmaker!)

On the other hand, the new Israeli names all sound like titles of Cirque Du Soleil shows. Sure, they have hip, cool names for kids now – but it’s the equivalent of 60’s Woodstock children such as “Moonbeam” and “Sunshine”. My nephews’ name meanings are “water well”, “half-moon”, and “amber”.

We could also be very cruel and name the boy “Nimrod” and the girl “Osnat”. Perhaps “Akugoso” – Japanese for “cute little shit”. That should build character.

So for now, baby has to wait for an appropriate name. At least we can agree on our future cat’s name – “Miso”

Diaper Dude

My generation of men have to contend with something that’s brand-spanking new in Western society: how to pull off that look wearing a “man purse” – or it’s older cousin - the “diaper bag”, while still retaining masculinity. It’s a complicated dance. But then, pockets weren’t made to carry an absurdly heavy 21st century combination of wallet, keys, sunglasses, and for those who aren’t lucky yet to get an Iphone, then a cellphone AND an Ipod. Unless you wear cargo pants. And then it feels like walking with weights on.

An easy solution was to dump all this gear into my wife’s purse. She protested after the combined weight became too much, and ordered me to get such a “man purse”. It made logistical sense, but it was equal parts scary and humiliating in its instantaneous ability to diminish masculinity the first time wearing in public. But the man purse is here to stay, as my initial reaction gave way to the realization that nobody cares If I have such a purse or not. Luckily, I found one at the outdoor gear store – so I could mentally think of doing macho things like being out in the wilderness or doing something adventure-y.

The next upgrade after the man purse, is, for new parents, the diaper bag. Babies need, besides diapers, of course, an enormous amount of stuff, both for stepping out of the house for a stroll, or for a weekend get-away. Marketers now sell a “girlie” version and a “manly” version – LL Bean, Eddie Bauer, and “The Diaper Dude” all have diaper bags – purses, really - that cater to the man’s sense of ruggedness and masculinity. Black, Grey, or military camouflage – no pinks or Hello Kitty here.

Is this a healthy thing for our society? I don’t really see my Prague high-society great grandfather wearing one. He was so old-school aristocratic that according to my grandmother, she needed to set an appointment whenever she wanted to talk with him. Ditto for my grandfather, a salt-of-the earth farmer, or my dad, who was serving in the army for each one of my mom’s birth. His commanding officer once ordered him to take a leave of absence and visit the newborn in the hospital. I don’t think any of them would consider wearing the “diaper dude” a positive step forward for our society.

But it’s something that progressive, New-Agey dads have to consider to lighten the load for the moms. If these styles allows us to retain a semblance of manliness carrying baby diapers, handi-wipes, and a bizarre assortment of baby toys, then it’s worth it. Now if they only sell toddler bags for the little one to carry their own gear as soon as they start walking…

Stroller Wars

The last time I gave any thought to baby strollers was when my older brother pulled one up a hill in our neighborhood, got to the very top, and let go. With me in it. The stroller shot down like a bat out of hell, while my nine-month old veins pumped full of adrenaline, shrieking in fear and delight. Repeat. The only thing between me and serious head trauma was the relative lack of cars in mid-70’s Israel.

For the next 35 years, didn’t give a whole lot more thought to strollers, but now, as baby’s arriving, I see them everywhere, and am fixated not so much by what’s in it, but what brand it is and who does the pushing. I guess it’s a simple matter of perspective. One day they’re invisible, and now they’ve got my full attention.

Shifting perspective is like my 5′2” friend who, as we were walking into a huge crowd of people during a meet-and-greet, told me “doesn’t this huge crowd frighten you a bit?” “Not really, because the medication works really well”, I joked. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me down a few inches, to her height, and my whole line of vision changed. What seemed to be a pretty decent sized crowd instantly became a morass much more bewildering to go through, and I felt like I needed a machete similar to a Victorian-era explorer wading through the deepest, darkest jungle.

Expecting a baby pulled my line of vision down 6 inches. And now I see strollers everywhere. Last weekend’s huge bluegrass festival at Golden Gate Park was a good place to see them. One can easily spot the parenting philosophy and socio-economic status of the happy couple simply by their choice of strollers.

If a couple has an infant less than six months old, they’ve got two choices – either carry it around “close to the vest” in a Baby Bjorn / Asian-Mayan sling wrap, or push it like an older kid in a stroller. So if you see that Baby Bjorn, then the couple is probably an adherent to a philosophy espoused by Dr. John Sears called “Attachment Parenting”. This philosophy is exactly what it sounds like – the baby must always be in physical contact with one of the parents throughout the entire infancy – the baby literally does not touch the ground for the first six months. So if it’s a six month or younger infant in a stroller, then the presumably healthy couple is not familiar with Attachment Parenting (unlikely in San Francisco), or they’re simply saying “screw you” to Dr. Sears.

Once the baby is past six months, then the parents have a bewildering choice of strollers. It seems that the recession has put a bit of a damper on the market for “Bugaboos”, super high-end strollers that routinely cost $1,000. I’ve been seeing a lot less of these in the past six months. Maybe it’s a sign of the times, though they’re still extremely obnoxious, like a tank sized SUV. What’s a San Francisco yuppie to do? Well, the stroller version of the de rigueur Toyota Prius is probably the Maclaren, a British designed hybrid between the high-end Bugaboo and the super low-end umbrella stroller. At $250, it seems to have weathered and prospered through the recession – these things are everywhere in San Francisco, at least in our neck of the woods at yuppie central, Noe Valley.

Taking a stroll towards poorer and browner Mission neighborhood, however, and the stroller scene changes yet again. No Bugaboos. Much fewer Maclarens. Now it’s time for the old-school folding umbrella type strollers that everyone used to have up until ten years ago, super lightweight, cheap plastic, but seems to last forever. It’s the Daihatsu Charade of strollers.

All the parents seem to be, if not happy, then content with the type of strollers they wheel their kid around. And the baby? It doesn’t matter to them one bit if they’re being rolled around in the pedestrian equivalent of an SUV, Prius, or Charade. Someone else is doing the heavy pushing, and they’ve dozed off long ago.

Gender Myths

After some discussion, we decided to stay in the small minority of expectant parents and not discover what the gender is of our baby during the ultrasound. This was a bit of a surprise to some of our friends, who thought this was antithetical to our no-nonsense, practical side. However, as one friend succinctly put it, there are so few genuinely nice surprises in life, and this is one of them.

No peeking during the ultrasound, and our technician didn’t give any hints – we closed our eyes during the crucial waving of the wand. Jaclyn’s Orthodox cousins also shun the new technology, citing God’s will. It’s probably a bit more prosaic and psychological astute than that. Most of the time, the pregnancy ends up OK – but the minute you start assigning a gender (and a name), emotional attachment sets in, expectations (both social and gender) are formed, and if ever a miscarriage takes place, then what is a hard task to overcome emotionally becomes a lot harder to bear.

In any event, Jaclyn’s decision to forgo new technology opened the door to myths and old wife’s tales that are more suited to medieval Europe than 21st century Silicon Valley. In the midst of one of the most technologically advanced, science-is-religion areas of our country, people routinely spout myths and superstitions handed down from one generation to the next.

Jaclyn hears things all of the time – such as the way her belly is hanging (high or low), the color of her pee, if she has sweet or sour cravings, whether the baby’s heartbeat is fast or faster, how much acne she’s been getting, etc., etc. One person even offered to perform a parlor trick, swinging a ring on a string pendulum over her belly. All of these answers are supposed to tell you if it’s a boy or girl. She’s been a good sport during the questioning phases, but respectfully declined the ring pendulum parlor trick, though I think she still needs to do it, like getting your palm read or a Tarot reading – creepy and cool at the same time.

What I find surprising is not this sort of nonsense, but the eagerness in which people jump at the opportunity to partake in myths and superstitions once science and fact are ushered out of the room. Joseph Campbell says that myths are our public dreams. In tech-obsessed California, it seems people are so eager to dip back into the myths and stories that sustained us for so long. In fact, how could we have known what the gender was a baby for the past thousands of years except using these myths as a fount of imagination?

Paradoxically, our decision not to know infuses the whole pregnancy with more mystery – and that has drawn more reaction from people than an ultrasound ever can. Oh, yes – it’s going to be a boy, judging by the answers.

Free Advice

I love asking for free advice. Most of it is actually decent, when it comes to marital advice. Parenting advice for expecting parents, however, is a whole different ballgame. “Be prepared for your wife to be a post-nup wreck”, “You don’t have breasts (milk-producing, I assume)”, “Move to the suburbs”, “Forget about sleeping for the next few months”, “You HAVE to buy (fill in the blank)”, “Don’t expect to go out and see a movie for the next few years”, “Don’t read too many parenting books”, and my personal favorite, usually said with a hint of evil glee masked as concern - “Your whole life will NEVER BE THE SAME”. Yikes.

Well, I don’t give a rat’s ass. My wife’s been doing great up to her six months of pregnancy. The three stooges of small talk questions – “When are you due? ” “Boy or girl?” – and because we live in San Francisco “hospital or home-birth?” doesn’t faze her one bit. Neither does the total lack of people moving from the reserved front car on the “J” line.

What I do care about is being bombarded by a consumer frenzy that, much like the wedding industry, the “baby industry” does very well. Baby Einsten? Of course – your kid needs to be smart by toddlerhood. How about a stroller – why not spend a thousand bucks on one? Eco-friendly diapers? Sure – I want to feel like I’m saving the earth while wiping a baby’s bottom. Toss in an aluminum (non-PET of course) baby bottle while you’re at it.

I’m afraid that first-time parents, just like first time newlyweds, get caught up in the excitement and fear of the moment and just go overboard buying things they don’t really need or even want. My once divorced friends who had lavish weddings barely dragged themselves to the county courthouse for the second time around. Same with second time parenting – that poor kid gets all the hand-me-downs, but then doesn’t have to deal with the elaborate nervousness from the first time around.

So the one parenting piece of advice I’ve listened to is to stop focusing on the events of the birth – and its accouterments – and start paying attention how you want to raise the human being your are bringing into this world.

Hence the benevolent dictator. Fathers’ roles (and to a lesser extent, mothers’) have changed dramatically over the past 30 years. We’ve come a long way from the glares and nonchalant, smoking parents of “Mad Men”, yet it seems clear that kids really freak out when Mommy and Daddy want to be best friends, and not parents.

Can I find a happy middle path? Not to be like Stalinist Russia, with gulags, prison camps, and mass starvation, but neither like a Somalia, with lawlessness, poverty, and chaos that comes with weak or no institutions. Perhaps Bhutan is a good model to look at parenting – they’ve replaced Gross Domestic Product with a “Gross National Happiness” index. Absolute monarchy, yet tempered by a constitution. A benevolent dictatorship as a model for parenting. I’ll keep you updated on the results.

Besides, what’s the point of wheeling a thousand buck Bugaboo when the person sitting inside is a snot nosed brat?