To Tattoo or Not to Tattoo?

The Recent Paterfamilias has found himself in a situation in which he is typically uncomfortable. The Recent Paterfamilias is curious as to what the public thinks. More specifically, the Recent Paterfamilias is curious as to what his reading public thinks about one singular issue. This is not to say that the Recent Paterfamilias does not care for the public’s opinion, or the public itself (or himself, or herself—does the “public” have a gender?), it is only that the Recent Paterfamilias, being a Master of Opinion, is often loath to seek out the opinions of others.

So…let us begin:

Tattoos.

Tattoos are commonly viewed as taboo, but really only by some (it should be noted here that the Recent Paterfamilias has tattoos of his own, so thusly he supposes that he might be referred to as the Tattooed Paterfamilias for the remainder of this column). In the opinion of the Tattooed (neé Recent) Paterfamilias, we have become a tattooed culture, and they are not all simply tribal “tramp stamps” and ankle sunflowers and gang signs and whatnot. Take half a look at any NBA team. Or the barista who serves up the morning coffee. Or most people walking on the sidewalk. Or Johnny Depp.

Alright…next:

Tattoo Superstitions.

Tattoo superstitions seem to run rampant, most notably amongst the particularly superstitious (a group in which, for better or worse, the Tattooed Paterfamilias proudly considers himself a member). Most people likely know someone who got a matching tattoo with someone else. That friend who, with her boyfriend of two weeks, got a matching Japanese symbol for poetry or purity or whatnot on her wrist, and then, what do you know, Poof! They break up. That guy who got the face of a girl he’s dating on his shoulder, and Poof! It’s done. The aforementioned Johnny Depp gets Winona Ryder’s name on his arm, and Poof! It’s over. All in all, it’s a fairly common phenomenon.

As has been mentioned in a previous Note From a Recent Paterfamilias, the Recent (also Tattooed) Paterfamilias is confident that the body art he got for his beloved dog Oscar, if not out rightly, then certainly circumstantially, caused said beloved Oscar to die an untimely death. He firmly believes this. It’s mystical. It’s supernatural. It’s uncanny. It’s unsettling. Whatever anyone may think, the tattoo was gotten, and then, two weeks later, Poof! Oscar was dead from a seemingly random, but highly debilitating condition called Thrombocytopenia. For the sensitive soul, it would give a person pause before making a similar mistake again.

So…I want to get a tattoo for my daughter. My wife says No. A definitive No. An emphatic No. Being superstitious people, we tend to worry about this sort of thing. The Tattooed Paterfamilias has even brought up this topic when in conversation with his tattoo artist (yes, the Paterfamilias has a regular guy down on the Lower East Side). He, the tattoo artist, thinks this is ridiculous. Not that he doesn’t believe in tattoo superstitions, quite the opposite, actually, it’s only that, according to him, the tattoo artist, no manner of superstition is going to cause a person not love their child, therefore, it, the tattoo, should be viewed only as a celebration of the life of the offspring. The Tattooed Paterfamilias is inclined to agree with this sentiment.

But a superstition is a superstition simply because a person is superstitious, and frankly, the Tattooed Paterfamilias is reluctant to trifle with that theory. If a baseball player puts on his left sock first or eats chicken everyday, and that works for him, then let him do it. If a law student uses a particular brand of pen, then so be it. If a bachelorette party stripper has a favorite thong, then leave it on under his police uniform. Much the same as superstitions, luck is believing you’re lucky, and if you think something is superstitious, then it is. It’s just the way of the world.

This opinion of the Tattooed Paterfamilias has been mocked, of course. “Superstitious tattoos? Tattoos that kill people, or dogs? Preposterous! If that were true, then somebody should’ve run out and gotten a picture of Stalin or Hitler or Count Dracula on their arm, and then Poof! two weeks later, they’d drop dead.”

So…the Recent Paterfamilias wishes to hear all thoughts. Is a tattoo of his daughter sure to be bad luck? Is he tempting the Fates or the Furies or whomever it is that spins the planet? Is it simply bad politics?

And in the interest of full disclosure and hopefully to illicit a more complete response, the Recent Paterfamilias will even enlighten his readers as to what tattoo he would like to get, should he ever get the ink for his infant offspring: a shiny teapot going off at the boil, because she, the baby, tends to get all hot and bothered and then make a lot of noise. (The Recent Paterfamilias is proud to say that the concept of this tattoo was pilfered nearly verbatim from Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, the only major difference being that in the book it’s a samovar and not a teapot. Pompous enough for ya?)

Is the "Recent Paterfamilias" still Relevant?

            It has recently been pointed out to this Recent Paterfamilias, what with his daughter’s first birthday taking place several weeks ago, that his status as Recent Paterfamilias is no longer all that, well, recent. 

            This tidy little reality has caused the Recent Paterfamilias no little amount of dismay and self-inquiry as of late. 

            So, apparently, in addition to the inherent disquiet caused by his baby getting older and growing up, the Recent Paterfamilias has also now been saddled with conjuring up a brand new moniker. 

            So, what has the Recent Paterfamilias come up with? 

            The Not-So-Recent Paterfamilias.  The Just Regular Paterfamilias.  The Child-Loving Urban Gentleman (a definite loser).  The Modern American Homo Erectus (catch phrase: “Me Man.  Me make baby.”).  The Recently Renamed Paterfamilias.  Simply, The Father (clean, simple, masculine, intuitively obvious, and easily confused with 100s of millions of other paterfamiliases).  The Bloggist.  The Master of Opinion.  The Opinion Man.  The Opinionist.  The Father of All Modern Opinion.  The Stay-At-Home Dad (also, easily confused with 10s of millions of other paterfamiliases).  The Recently Recent Paterfamilias (possibly somewhat repetitive).  The Writing Father of One.  The Writing Father.  Simply, The Writer.  The Writist.  The Not-So-Recent-But-Still-Somewhat-Or-At-Least-Marginally-Recent-Stay-At-Home-Father-(in Latin: “Paterfamilias”)-Writer-And-Master-Of-Opinion-And-Overall-Nice—

            You know what?  That’s enough. 

            This Recent Paterfamilias may not be all that recent any longer, but he’s going to stick with that title.  It’s poetic.  It’s got a nice ring to it.  And it suits him.  Taking it away and replacing it with another could be almost as jarring to his sense of paternity and bloggery and, well, humanity as if he’d never changed a dirty diaper. 

            But perhaps, just perhaps, this R.P. is placing a bit too much importance upon his self-appointed nom de plume. 

Perhaps, but probably not. 

A Note from the Recent Paterfamilias on (appropriately enough):  Halloween

           People like to ask questions.  I can’t say, exactly, why this is, but it is a commonly known fact.  And one of these questions that people like to ask is:  “Now that you’re a parent, are you going to dress up for Halloween?”  Naturally, this is one of those exceptions to their respective rules (the rule in question being:  There are no stupid questions).  Of course I won’t dress up for Halloween.  I have no intention of ever dressing up for Halloween.  Other seemingly sane adults are perfectly willing to adorn themselves like idiots if they so choose, but this Recent Paterfamilias is not about to alter an established personal practice simply because sperm met egg, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. 

            Naturally, of course, the daughter of this Recent Paterfamilias will be (or rather, was, this past Monday) costumed.  She was a chili pepper (not like Anthony Kiedis or Flea, but a more literal, and decidedly less ridiculous, chili pepper).  Originally, I had other ideas for her wardrobe, but I couldn’t find a teapot outfit anywhere (gets hot and bothered, makes lots of noise, just like a baby) and the polar bear onesie fleece body suit that was purchased online left this Recent Paterfamilias decidedly nonplussed.  The chili pepper, in all honesty, was apropos of nothing in relation to my offspring, behaviorally-wise, but at the store, the lobster looked lame, the bumble bee has been more than pop culturally bruised, and the sunflower was simply just stupid.  So, chili pepper it was.

            Maybe, in the future, this Recent Paterfamilias might be persuaded to put on a mask of some sort.  The simple black eyewear of a stereotypical bank robber in the time of the Lone Ranger.  An oversized grinning Bill Clinton or Dick Nixon or Willard Fillmore.  That creepy white big-nosed classic Venetian masquerade thing that scares the hell out of most reasonable people. 

            But who knows?  Perhaps, in the future, this Recent Paterfamilias might eventually come ‘round and go in whole hog:  an ironic culturally-relevant cliché (like Heath Ledger’s Joker from the Batman movie); or a sideshow freak (Heath Ledger’s Joker from the Batman movie); or an American original (Heath Ledger’s Joker from the Batman movie); or possibly just a regular good old costume suitable for a regular good old Recent Paterfamilias (a uniform-clad and physically-battered version of that perpetual loser, Dallas Cowboys’ quarterback Tony Romo—a costume under which, of course, the R.P. would be wearing the purple suit of H.L.’s Joker from the Batman movie). 

            Or maybe the Recent Paterfamilias could just dress up like himself with a sign on his back reading “Best Father Ever” (although, admittedly, any so-called Best Father Ever would probably put forth an even modest bit of effort and costume himself as something as simple as Superman or maybe even as banal Heath Ledger’s Joker from the Batman movie). 

            Halloween is meant for children.  And this Recent Paterfamilias is optimistic he’ll still feel this same way next year. 

            The Recent Paterfamilias has been bested.  The Recent Paterfamilias has been outdone.  And the Recent Paterfamilias does not like this.  The Recent Paterfamilias says, “I do not like this!”  He says, “Damnit!”  “Damnit!” he says.  And again he says, “Damnit!” 

            But, perhaps, the Recent Paterfamilias should explain. 

            The Recent Paterfamilias’ loyal readers will almost certainly recall his retelling of his own daughter’s birthday party preparations, tribulations, and, of course, the post mortem after the fact. 

            Well, this past weekend, the R.P. and family en totale attended a single birthday celebration for three of the R.P.’s daughter’s baby friends.  It’s was a birthday party for non-related, but otherwise de facto, triplets.  It was, essentially, a birthday party in triplicate. 

            A brilliant idea, this:  All our kids were born around the same date.  Let’s consolidate forces and stage a single party for our three urchins, only with three times the adult mental acuity, three times the creativity, and three times the physical strength necessary to accomplish all that’s needed when mounting one of these colossal baby party affairs. 

            Again, the R.P. says, “Brilliant.”

            And they went all out, these parental party planners, and they did it on a strict budget, too, which is increasingly more impressive, the more that I think of it. 

            There was a theme (a carnival theme), and they’d strung out pennant banners and balloons along the park fence which cordoned off the party area.  (And did I fail to mention that the party in question was held in Central Park?  In the middle of Central Park?  The logistics alone of getting everything to the middle of Central Park and setting up and executing this thing, on any budget whatsoever, is enough to impress most, if not all, other parents and most, if not all, professional party planners).  There were games.  There was a potato sack race (although only one actual race took place).  There was a beanbag toss into a beanbag receptacle (which was commandeered by the adult males after the urchins on-site cleared out, and, over beers, bets were laid and beanbags were tossed and bets were lost and more bets were laid and more bags were tossed and more bets were lost and so on and so forth and this is just one more example of how men will lay bets on just about anything). 

And, apart from the spread (which was impressive), it was really the presentation and the delivery and the execution of the thing that really set it apart. 

Now, I know I’m really gushing here, but when a Paterfamilias is bested, he often can help but glow histrionic. 

There was a color theme (red).  There were three matching, and equally homemade, but hardly identical, cakes (all in the shape of the number 1).  And all the other minor details had been attended to:  personalized beer cozies, squeeze food packs for the baby set, pinwheels (which, of course, are fun for babies and tall people alike), and then there were swag bags, not only for the babies, but also for the mothers (complete with lotions and bubbles and inflatable beach balls).  And it was all done on a very strict budget! 

The Recent Paterfamilias does not like to admit it (and certainly not in a public forum), but he was impressed. 

So, naturally, the Recent Paterfamilias now finds himself wondering how they (the parents of these three urchins) are going to top all of this on baby birthday number two.  (And, frankly, he’s a little relieved that he set the bar so low per his own daughter’s brouhaha that all he has to do is launch a little better than average brunch on a pleasant little Sunday afternoon, and it will never be compared to a brilliant baby get together that some people will remember, and think about, and write about, for years and years and years to come). 

Alas, there is much solace to be found in being so solidly half-assed.  

Just another story about Vomit Everywhere

            The Recent Paterfamilias is beginning to wonder if it is in bad taste, if not totally unsportsmanlike, for him to have a grudge with a one year old. 

Admittedly, this is an unenviable predicament in which the R.P. has found himself, and, to top it all off, she’s not even his one year old.  She’s the baby best friend of his own one year old. 

            And what did this baby best friend (if we can still call her that) do to warrant such a grudge with the otherwise forgiving and lenient and overall mild mannered Recent Paterfamilias? 

            This baby best friend, whom we shall refer to henceforth as the Modern Typhoid Mary, has afflicted the Land of the Recent Paterfamilias with a plague of Biblical proportions.

            In an age previous, an era we shall refer to as B.V.A (or Before Vomit was Everywhere), the Recent Paterfamilias had learned verily from the mother of this so-called baby best friend that their respective filial congregation had found themselves suffering through a rather rough weekend.  The whole family, one after another, had come down with a stomach bug.  This baby best friend, after having been kindly invited into the bed of her longsuffering parents, proceeded to reenact a rather memorable scene from The Exorcist. 

            Oy vey!  What a mess. 

            Then the mother got sick, and then the father got sick, and so on and so forth, but, I was assured, things were all better now. 

            And so, our babies played.  Our babies laughed.  Our babies lunched.  Our babies shared Cheerios. 

            And hen my baby had some projectile vomit of her own.  While sleeping.  She didn’t seem to mind, however, as she kept sleeping right through it. 

            My wife and I were unaware of what had happened until the middle of the night, when we were alerted by the smell, and at that point, that age old adage raised her head and bellowed, “You never wake a sleeping baby.” 

            And so we waited it out. 

            She was all chipper upon awaking, that baby of mine, and, given the circumstances, that’s really a commentary upon her personal constitution. 

            Oh…and It was also coming from both ends now. 

            Consequently, the Clean Up Crew stepped in. 

            A few hours later, clean up was complete. 

            This all began in the wee hours of Friday morning. 

            By Saturday afternoon, this Recent Paterfamilias wasn’t feeling so hot.  By 7pm, he was exorcising all over the place, on a regular basis, and the Clean Up Crew, busy as it was, had been slashed by 50%. 

            By 11pm, the R.P. was in a cab, alone, on his way to the Weill Cornell Emergency Room, where his exorcising continued unabated for several more hours. 

            After three litres of IV fluid were inserted for dehydration, several anti-nausea and anti-diarrheal medications were administered, and seven hours of observation were observed, the medical professionals finally let the Recent Paterfamilias go. 

I could barely walk. 

            It was now Sunday morning. 

            By Sunday afternoon, around 3pm, the wife of the R.P. wasn’t feeling so hot. 

            By 6pm, the Clean Up Crew consisted of a what could only be referred to as “useless” thirteen month old. 

            Eventually, by Tuesday afternoon, days after our baby was feeling tip top, fit as a fiddle, raring to go, pretty and witty and gay, the wife of the R.P. and the R.P. himself were finally finding themselves wishing to rise to the land of the living, complete with an appetite for something marginally (although only marginally) more substantial than dry toast and lukewarm water. 

            And so, as my reader can most clearly see, concerning good taste or sportsmanlike or not, this Recent Paterfamilias has a little bone to pick with that certain baby best friend, that certain Modern Typhoid Mary, and the next time I see her, I will be sure to say, “Hey!  Look here, you baby, I have a bone to pick with you!”  And then she’ll look at me with her Modern Typhoid Mary eyes and she’ll curl up her mouth in her Modern Typhoid Mary way and I’ll think, “Well, that’s pretty cute,” and then I’ll consequently (and conveniently) forget everything that’s happened. 

            Because it’s not her fault, really.  Just because a baby spreads an epidemic, does that mean you can blame her?  It would almost be like having a grudge against that first dog or rat or flea who stepped into Dark-Ages Europe and thought, “Huh, that’s weird but my throat feels a little scratchy.”  

Chest-born Baby Carriers: Dashing or Douchey?

     As virtually everybody knows, or should know by now, a father with his infant daughter on a “date” is just about the cutest thing ever. Women, apparently, of all ages, creeds, and socioeconomic statuses, find this adorable. But the Recent Paterfamilias is not interested, today, in exploring why, exactly, this is so. Instead, the Recent Paterfamilias wishes to determine, when he’s out on the town and ‘round the neighborhood and off to the grocery store, with his kid strapped to his chest in one of the several chest-born baby carriers he’s got lying around the house, whether or not he, the Recent Paterfamilias, looks like a jackass.

     A little movie called The Hangover has done much to paint us child-wearing male caregivers as ridiculous looking douche bags. And who could argue after watching the husky Zach Galifianakis waddle about awkwardly while having a baby strapped to his prodigious man teats? Do all Recent Paterfamiliases look this ridiculous?

     Probably.

     So this Recent Paterfamilias would like to suggest the following to all the other Recent Paterfamiliases on the planet: Own it. Stick your baby-bearing chest out. Strut with confidence. Attempt valiantly to avoid being kicked in the junk by your maniacally flailing offspring’s maniacally flailing feet and boldly, proudly, arrogantly move down the street like that kid on your front is your very own (which, of course, she is). Certainly, it’s not attractive. How could it be? It’s a frontward-facing Swedish-designed backpack-like-device with an automatic drooling machine shoved in its gaping front. Certainly, it’s not dashing. Certainly, it’s an act of pure douche-baggery. But that’s your kid you got out front there, that squirming, squealing thing tied beneath your collarbones, and this Recent Paterfamilias has found that having his offspring on his person has actually proven to make him more testosterone-filled, more protective, more aggressive than he ever was before, causing him to take on a sort of mama bear mentality—for example: I’m just trying to run into Midtown and pick up some spray paint at Lee’s Art Shop with my baby strapped to my chest, bringing her along for the ride, and then there are people who want to try and shoulder check me on the sidewalk in an outlandish effort to convey their annoyance about congested Manhattan walkways, or simply to exert some kind of misguided self-confidence in an otherwise hostile universe, and, well, this makes the Recent Paterfamilias just about ready to murder someone before he’ll let his baby girl get bruised. And understandable mindset, I am sure, to the everyday American human, but probably not one that makes you all that attractive to many of those around you (particularly given what is probably a frightening, if inadvertent, sneer on the R.P.’s face, situated directly above the giggling gob of that four-month-old who couldn’t care less one way or the other what she looks like in this ridiculous, uncomfortable, chest-born infant-carrying contraption that transports her from one place to the next).

Douche bag or daddy?

Really, when it comes down it, what’s the difference?

The Perfect Mother's Day Gift

            The R.P. is torn as to what he should write about this week.  The Recent Paterfamilias has a new personal art collection acquisition.  But the R.P. also wants to vent his concerns about his quest for the perfect Mother’s Day present. 

            Well, as it turns out, today the R.P. found (or rather, put together) what he suspects is the perfect Mother’s Day gift for the mother of his offspring, but he is afraid, should he write about such gift (the conception, the hunt, and the entire experience), that the wife of the Recent Paterfamilias might very well read about all of it on this very same blog column, which might very likely ruin any and all surprise on a certain mother’s first Mother’s Day. 

            So, I suppose that leaves me little option except penning a missive concerning my new acquisition (see: inset photo). 

            It’s art.  It’s pop art.  It’s folk art.  It’s modern art.  It’s provocative and interpretive and even somewhat inquisitive. 

            But what I’m most curious about are the interpretive aspects of aforementioned artwork (see: inset photo). 

            The artist, to whom I spoke upon purchase, a certain Andrew Cotton, who is part of an artist collective called “Art Moves” (they pedal their goods from a fashioned bread truck—they have Jay-Z screen prints on plywood which are pretty effing awesome), told me what he thought his work might mean.  The piece had been treated with copper so that eventually the copper would spread and the work would change as it aged.  The artist said it was kind of a statement on how the empire was deteriorating.  

            Naturally, this is all valid (see: inset photo).  

            But, naturally, this Recent Paterfamilias sees it differently. 

            This Recent Paterfamilias thinks the piece looks like a battered Revolutionary War flag (with a few more stars, of course).  This R.P. thinks it sort of represents a country that’s not perfect, but that’s still standing.  And this Recent Paterfamilias really likes how this work mirrors pop art and folk art and, more vaguely, the work of Jasper Johns. 

            Also, the Recent Paterfamilias thinks his new flag looks rather nice across the room from his American folk art convex Federalist mirror.  Sort of an exact but equal sort of thing. 

            So, all things considered, this R.P. is rather more than pleased with his recent acquisition. 

            (It should also be noted that the other piece of artwork featured—a sketch of a Wire Hair Fox Terrier named Oscar—is by the artist Greg Voth.) 

Note From the R.P. on Crotchetiness

            Murmurings have been heard coming from certain corners.  Ugly rumors circulating through the night.  Whispers of wicked slanders whistling about through the metaphorical grapevine.  The Recent Paterfamilias has changed, they say.  He’s not the same as he used to be.  He’s too opinionated.  He’s too crotchety.  He doesn’t like anything.   Maybe he should post his columns on a day beside Wednesday.  Maybe Wednesday is bad for his intellect, for his psyche, for his ego, for his id.  Maybe earlier in the week is better.  Maybe later in the week.  Maybe every other week.  Maybe that will change his tune, change his attitude, chipper him up, make him less crotchety like he’s been so much as of late.

            Well, in response, the R.P. would like to state publicly:  These accusations of recent crotchetiness are patently untrue, and the R.P. finds them both misleading to his reading public and offensive to his own idea of himself.  The Recent Paterfamilias is not crotchety as of late.  The Recent Paterfamilias has always been crotchety.  This is a natural consequence of being in possession of an opinionated constitution.  One is perpetually, and inherently, and understandably, crotchety. 

            Now, it must be admitted, the sources of these criticisms are themselves, at best, suspicious, unreliable, and fairly crotchety themselves.  Which would, of course, make any and all of their opinions on the R.P. suspect, at best. 

            So…is the Recent Paterfamilias intent on altering his crotchety ways?  Absolutely not.  If he, the R.P., has an opinion on modern dollhouses, he will state it.  If he, the R.P., has complaints about the state of European children’s products, he will voice them.  If he, the R.P., wishes to admire a chair designed by those elusive Eames people (whomever they are, and if that is their real name), his admiration will abound upon the blogosphere. 

            So that’s that, the Recent Paterfamilias would like to announce with full confidence that this discussion on his crotchetiness is exhausted and complete.  And to finish, with all outward crotchetiness deliberately withheld, the personal opinion of this Recent Paterfamilias for this particular week, the 25^th of his offspring’s life, is this:  Always view with utmost prejudice all opinions other than one’s own.  (Although, in all honesty, that ain’t exactly an opinion.)  

High Design or Frivolity?

          It has recently occurred to this Recent Paterfamilias that, after last week’s column (see: tirade), it might possibly be construed by some wretched breeders of twisted slanders that the R.P. suffers from an inability to appreciate the design aspects inherent in a pair of red-soled ladies’ shoes and $4,000 kids fur coat. This is not the way the Recent Paterfamilias wishes to be viewed. And it is patently untrue.

         The Recent Paterfamilias appreciates design (and at almost any price, too, he might add). A good-looking chaise lounge by someone with the ostensibly ridiculous name of Le Corbursier for lots of money? Sure. An expensive elephant-shaped metal kid’s seat by some person (or persons) going by the name of Eames? Sure. A molded plywood chair by this same person (or persons) called Eames? Sure. (I like the cowhide-covered one nearly enough to get it as a tattoo, if such a tattoo wasn’t a tremendous cliché amongst design devotees). Egg-shaped sitting pods made by Dutchmen? Strangely shaped homes designed by Americans and Japanese? Patterned fabrics by firms in Finland? The Recent Paterfamilias can appreciate all these things (or pieces, or objects, or designs, or whatever you wish to call them).

An arc floor lamp for $2,500? Absolutely. It’s great. It’s design. A fabric lighting pendant for three grand? Absolutely. It’s great. It’s design. A German-manufactured internal combustion engine-propelled personal transportation driving device? Absolutely. It’s great. It’s design. (Or is that engineering?)

But still, a child’s coat crafted out of bunny skin or Bambi’s hair for four grand seems a little bit steep.

Maybe it’s just the stuff for kids. The Eames elephant chair for kids is great (and expensive), but it can also serve a second purpose: a fixture in a sculpture garden after its stint in the nursery. That’s something, I suppose.

Does the R.P. think that a pig-shaped piggy bank in a tacky metallic pink is worth three figures? No. Does he think a simplistic black bird by those mysterious Eames people is worth an equivalent amount? Yes.

And why is this?

Honestly?

Well…honestly, the Recent Paterfamilias can’t say.

As a Master of Opinion, the coin of the so-called realm is just that, opinion, and the opinion of the Recent Paterfamilias is presently stating these following things are, if not self-evident, at least “true”: red-soled ladies’ shoes = good; red-soled ladies’ shoes encrusted in ersatz crystals with an inflated price tag = bad; a molded plywood chair = good; a handmade molded particle board P.O.S. = bad; an Eames elephant = good; a real elephant = better.

And the R.P.’s newest opinion is consequently thus: this R.P. column = opinionated; this R.P. column = finished.

Buy American ... or not?!!

What is it about the French and baby consumer products? Why do people think that they (the French, not the babies) know so much about what they’re doing? Why were my wife and I told that Sophie the Giraffe (a squeaky toy, a teething toy, from France) was a “can’t live without”? Why were we told that we would regret it if we didn’t have Sophie, not just in the nursery, but in the delivery room? Is this just a shameless marketing gimmick to which susceptible parents fall prey and then go on to encourage other susceptible parents to fall prey and then so forth and so on until the gambit has run its course? And why are new parents so prone to fall for these ploys? Why do we like the weirdo Deglingos stuffed animals (designed in France)? Is it because they are weirdoes or because they are French? Or is it in spite of the fact that they are weirdoes and/or French? If a child refuses to teethe on Sophie the Giraffe, does that mean she’s xenophobic? And why did this Recent Paterfamilias see a copy of Walter the Farting Dog in translation, in French (Walter le Chien qui Pète), in a kids’ store window last week, in a non-French speaking country? Shouldn’t Walter the Farting Dog, in America, in translation, be in Spanish? Or Chinese? Why is it that this Recent Paterfamilias has found a “European Baby Bathing Pod” (see: plastic bucket) to be the most effective and convenient way in which to bathe his child? Why is it that the only thing this Recent Paterfamilias has found to successfully clear his daughter’s clogged nasal cavities is a Swedish “Snot Sucker”? And why does no one ask for a description as to how this tool works? Is it because the description itself is nearly as nauseating as the operation of the device? And why is this Recent Paterfamilias so comfortable discussing how he orally sucks the snot, through a filtered tube, from the nose of his beloved offspring? And on a side note: are the Swedes comparable to the French when it comes to child-specific consumer products? Are Swedish highchairs superior to French ones? Or Finnish ones? Or Dutch ones? Do the English or the Spanish or the Latvians even make highchairs? Why is it that European Teddy bears (see: our 26^th President and the obvious malcolloquialisms) seem so chic and all our bears just seem so…well…bearish? Why do German wooden toys come across as more “wholesome” than American wooden toys? Are their trees more wholesome than ours? And why has the Recent Paterfamilias fallen for all this? Is it Francophilia? Anglophilia? Swede-o-philia? Is it marketing? Sleep deprivation? Sheer stupidity? Is the Recent Paterfamilias questioning his purchases too much? Or is the European Bathing Pod (see: plastic bucket) actually superior to American Bathing Buckets, if American Bathing Buckets did, indeed, exist? And why are there no American Bathing Buckets? Can’t somebody in a Midwest warehouse somewhere spare a five-gallon bucket so that his neighbor might effectively give his child a complete and proper scrubbing-down? What is the country coming to when we can’t even share our empty buckets? Will this eventually make us industrially inferior to the Europeans? And why do They have a corner market on buckets? Doesn’t a bucket seem like it would be a universal item? And why do all these questions come up at the precise moment when a child is wailing in the next room? Is it sleep deprivation? Coincidence? Marketing? Is it some sort of global conspiracy? And why can’t a person just buy what he wants without having to question it so much? If his baby likes it, and if it works, and if it clears her nostrils, then who the hell cares?

Xenophobic babies? Over giraffe-shaped teethers? Just because they’re make in France? Really?

The Recent Paterfamilias On: Little Old Ladies

photo by: Lilith Ecate

            The Recent Paterfamilias is growing tired of nosy little old ladies. 

            But please, allow me to explain. 

            Perhaps it’s a New York thing, though I can hardly believe that to be the case, but little old ladies seem to feel it is their right, no, their responsibility to offer their wizened opinion upon any topic at-large.  And the topic at-large which seems to constantly hang about the neck of this Recent Paterfamilias?  Children, parenting, filial conduct, and et al. 

            Just this week, the R.P. was stopped by a little old lady, while crossing Broadway, in the middle of the crosswalk, with turning traffic oncoming, and then she’s there calling “You!  You with the dog!” and what she wants to tell me is that the baby I have strapped to my back looks uncomfortable. 

            Now, I am sure this was true.  The baby (my baby) I had strapped to my back at the time did not care for the back-born baby carrier in which she was being carried about, so, in an act of protest, to demonstrate her distaste, she had bent herself backward at the waist and as sticking straight out horizontally. 

            I did not need some little old lady to point this out to me, nor did I need her to inform me that my baby’s positioning looked unnatural.  So, this Recent Paterfamilias was polite enough to tell the old coot to mind her own business, and then I walked away. 

            On this most recent New Year’s Eve, while walking home from my in-law’s Upper East Side afternoon baby-friendly New Year’s get together, my beloved darling offspring decided to have an emotional meltdown. 

When my daughter does this (which is more often than any human would like), it sounds as if someone is shoving sharpened chopsticks under her eyelids. 

As we were passing an East 63^rd Street townhouse just off of Park Avenue, the matron of said townhouse, while putting the finishing decorating touches on her courtyard (and shouldn’t she have staff for that?), turned her focus on the passing stroller which apparently held what could only be assumed by the casual observer as a screaming demon, and, with her scowl deepening, snarled, “Pick.  Her.  Up.” 

The Recent Paterfamilias thought his wife was going to explode.  The R.P. himself was polite enough to tell the old coot to mind her own business, and then I walked away. 

Nosy little old ladies also abound in my apartment building (there must be some sort of honing device in the basement), so, given that my baby and I have apparently become fixtures in the neighborhood, I have adopted a new policy:  When I am running an errand, or taking the dog out, or doing any other single little thing while the baby is being cared for by the wife of the R.P. or the baby sitter of the R.P., when any of these nosy little old ladies catches sight of me, sans child, and comes running over while letting out an exaggerated gasp and exclaiming with all the tone she can muster, “Where’s your baby?!!” I have proceeded to tell them: “Oh, I just left her upstairs to amuse herself with a book of matches and a steak knife.” 

I can’t be certain if the nosy little old ladies believe me or not, but it does serve to shut them up just long enough for me to get of the area and on with my business (which more often than not includes cleaning up dog poop and keeping said dog, let’s call him “Tedward,” from attacking some poor defenseless old Labrador Retriever with three legs, one eye, and less than a half a lease on life).  

The Recent Paterfamilias as Noble Savage

            The Recent Paterfamilias is proud to state that he is the man of his house.  He is the head of his household.  The sergeant of his platoon.  The king of his castle.  The chief of his village.  The chief of his tribe.  The chief of his chiefdom.  The Recent Paterfamilias is master of his domain.  He is Neanderthalic Primo.  He is The Man. 

            The R.P. calls the shots in his family.  And the most recent shot called?  The final decision on a little baby-sized baby armchair for his infant baby’s room. 

            As has been mentioned previously, the room of the infant of the R.P. is on the small side.  Space is at a premium.  So, a multitude of infant chairs were vetted.   Chairs for an infant to pull herself into.  Chairs to feel all grown up in.  Chairs in which to look cute so that somebody could go run into the other room, grab the camera, run back, and then find said infant out of the chair and back on the floor, on all fours, playing with that stupid bongo toy that drives the dog (let’s call him “Tedward”) bonkers. 

            Ultimately, after endless searching, the R.P. found a chair of his liking. 

            It was small.  It was cube-ish.  It was uber-designed and kind of awesome and saddled with the inherently obvious (and pretentious) name of “The Cubino Chair.”  Frankly, in all honesty, the chair was awesome.  It was perfect. 

             As it turns out, the wife of the Recent Paterfamilias didn’t like the chair.  The wife of the R.P. liked other little chairs, bigger little chairs, little chairs from Pottery Barn Kids and The Land of Nod and some other place that the R.P. can’t think of at the moment. 

            But the R.P., himself, didn’t like those other chairs.  They weren’t of his taste.  They weren’t of his style.  He liked the chair he had picked.  And all those other chairs were at least six inches larger in every dimensional direction, making them, as he protested, impractical. 

            As has been said, in the nursery of the R.P., space is at a premium.

            So, the Recent Paterfamilias put his foot down.  He told the wife of the R.P. how it was going to be, how his decision was final, and how there wasn’t going to be any more debate on the topic, one way or the other.  Period.  End of discussion.  Case closed.  Man of house has spoken. 

            So, now that the decision had been made, the wife of the R.P. logged onto the Internet, located said Cubino chair at its (as it turns out) single U.S. distributor, picked a color (brown/pink), inserted credit card info, registered for email confirmation of both proof of purchase and shipping confirmation, placed order, and then pressed “Submit.” 

            Sometimes, it must be stated, it feels good to be the Chief of the Clan. 

            (On a side note, it should be noted that the little infant baby chair has since arrived at the apartment, and it just barely fits into its niche in the room, which consequently means that all those other chairs would have been returned anyway, no matter what the Master Cave Clubwheeler thought about any one of them, one way or the other.  “Ooga!  Ugh!  Me want more sophisticated design!  Ooga!  Ugh!  Eames Ottoman good for fire kindling!  Ooga!  Ugh!  Molded plastic chair good lines have!)

            Ooga.  Ugh.  It’s got to be said:  It ain’t all that great being a Neanderthal. 

Fishing in Manhattan

            This past weekend, the Recent Paterfamilias took a fly fishing tutorial in front of the New York Public Library on 42^nd Street in Midtown Manhattan. 

Standing there next to the big marble lions which flank the entrance, in the shade of London Plane Trees (which, I believe, in London, are simply called Plane Trees), while tourists from Denmark, Korea, the American Southeast, and sundry other earthly locales snapped away with their digital cameras on their digital phones as a dozen of us seemingly ordinary, eccentric locals stood there with eight foot fly rods, casting thirty feet of line forward and backward and forward and backward and forward, over and over and over again, all the while attempting to lay our fly line out on the paving stones in practice casts, it must be assumed that these uninitiates to our local weirdness were almost certainly saying to themselves, “Only in New York City,” that age old cliché going through their minds as they stood there on a Saturday afternoon when they’d expected to see merely the Public Library, Bryant Park, Saks Fifth Avenue, and maybe even one or two drag queen hookers. 

            Admittedly, we must have looked at least a little odd, casting for fish with no water to be seen, but this odd looking Paterfamilias was so excited to learn that he hadn’t forgotten everything he’d ever known about fly fishing during his decade long hiatus from the pastime, that he hardly noticed those people gawking and pointing and capturing our strange urban moment for future anecdotal conversation fodder. 

            I somehow remembered how to cast.  I somehow remembered how to hold a rod.  I somehow remembered how to lay down the line and stay out of the trees and feel really good about my fishing ability.  It was only the knots that gave me some trouble, and even with those, my sluggish memory managed to kick start itself after a half dozen attempts.  (But knots are hard and you can’t be too tough on yourself at first.) 

            There’s a reason the Recent Paterfamilias has decided to rekindle his fly fishing enthusiasm.  In fact, there are a couple of reasons.  Firstly, he likes it.  Secondly, the R.P. needs a hobby (although, truth be told, fishing isn’t largely viewed, amongst the fishing community, as a hobby, but, instead, as a passion).  Perhaps this behavior on the part of the Recent Paterfamilias is exhibiting some sort of stay-at-home-dad-like-mid-life-crisis, though I doubt that’s the case.  (Buying a little red corvette and bedding buxom blonde model-types is a far stretch from the likes of fly fishing alone on a river somewhere.  Or on a lake.  Or a saltwater bay.  Or a pond in Central Park.) 

            And that’s right.  There’s fishing to be had in Central Park.  They (They being some sort of state or federally funded fish conservation agency) even stock the ponds in Central Park with fish, actual live fish, fish that just swim around, fish that are eating and swimming and just waiting to be caught.  (Naturally, per Their regulations, there is a catch-and-release policy.) 

            Plus, if I ever move to Brooklyn, They (the conservationist overlords) also stock the lake in Prospect Park, too. 

            With fishing so close to home, it’s almost a sin for the R.P. not to take advantage of it. 

            So, it should be noted, in the future, the R.P. should be considered not only as the Recent Paterfamilias, but also as the No So Recent But Recently Invigorated Fly Fisherman Paterfamilias, and, believe him, he will be sure to relate to his loyal readers how his inaugural urban fly fishing adventure transpires when he hits the water at the pond around West 104^th Street this coming weekend.  (And there is no doubt in the R.P.’s mind that this Recently Enthused Fly Fisherman—or R.E.F.F.—will be heckled mercilessly from the shore—but sometimes you have to do what you have to do when it comes to hooking some poor fish in the lip and dragging him out of his natural habitat).