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?

Benevolent Dictator

Benevolent Dictator

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