There’s an App for That.

It is amazing how all-consuming smart phones are. Parents regularly ignore their children for extended periods of time while they check and recheck their email. It’s a compulsion that makes no sense unless the goal of parenting is to convince your child that s/he is less important than a $200 handheld computer.

This mom seemed to be checking her text messages, over and over and over again. She would set her iPhone down for about 5 seconds before retrieving it and checking for a text, occasionally an email. Little Johnny looked bored out of his skull. He tried to talk to his mom once or twice, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She prominently held up her iPhone so that it was between them. This went on for about 30 minutes. I’m sure Little Johnny won’t suffer any adverse effects from Mom-of-the-Year’s excellent parenting style.

Mom-of-the-Year checking for yet another text.

Even when her friend arrived, Mom-of-the-Year continued to check for a text or email about every 30 seconds. Seriously, nobody is that important. And no message needs to be read the second it arrives on your phone. Put your phone in your purse or your pocket and talk to the people around you, especially if it’s your child. Your kids will come up with their own reasons to resent you, don’t justify that resentment by being a disengaged bitch.

Idle Threats are Useless

Kids are shrewd. They know when you mean what you say and when you don’t. For example, these two mothers spent 45 minutes scolding their children for misbehaving, running around, climbing on furniture, and yelling. Each time mom said something to the effect: “If you don’t behave, we’ll have to go home right now!” or “If you can’t quiet down we can’t come out in public again.”

Three moms. Four kids. Pandemonium:

News flash mom: Nobody believes you! You have no credibility. Soon your children are going to start mocking your half-assed efforts to parent.

Maybe, just maybe, if you can’t start parenting, you shouldn’t come out in public again. Spare us your children and your empty threats.

Augmented breasts, work-out clothes, and school drop-off

While we all appreciate the fact that when you invest in something, you want to show it off. But is school drop-off the appropriate time and place to be flashing your augmented breasts? Must you wear your leotard or your fitness pants or your hot-pink cami top when you take you 8-year-old daughter to school? Exactly who is the audience for such a show? The other mothers, who are perhaps more mature and don’t feel the need to compete with their daughters? The fathers, who are for the most part dressed in some professional attire and headed into the office? The kids?

And don’t tell us you are going to go workout immediately after dropping little Jane or little Johnny off at school. Even if you are, every gym has “state-of-the-art” locker-room facilities, saunas, showers, etc. You can and you should change there. But let’s be honest, the “I’m going to workout” excuse is really just a lie. We see you in the same offending outfit sitting at the local cafe, often with other moms who have similarly bad sartorial taste. You look like a collection of tarts hoping to turn a quick trick.

Do us all a favor. Grow up and act your age. You’re a mother, not a teenager. Perhaps your husband and his philandering friends enjoy looking at your heliotropic breasts, your liposuctioned thighs and ass, and your botoxed face, but the rest of us don’t.

Fatherhood is not some impoverished male motherhood

In a recent article in the NY Times on the paucity of men in the counseling world (“Need Therapy? A Good Man is Hard to Find“) a professional/academic psychologist from the University of Texas, Austin, makes the following statement: “In the same way that there is something very personal about being a mother, something very important to female identity, the experience of fathering is also very powerful.”

What is disturbing about this sentence is the fact it was said and printed in the first place. Why would anybody think that there was something special and defining about being a mother but deny that a similarly special and defining experience affected fathers? Particularly today, as fathers share more of the child-rearing responsibilities, such a statement is condescending and insulting. It purports to combat a common assumption about men/fathers as devoid of feeling and attachment, as uncaring. But it really reaffirms those assumptions, in part by the revelatory nature of the claim, in part by the professional credentials of the person making the claim, and in part by still devaluing the experience of being a father:

• The reader is meant to be surprised by the statement, it is meant to be a revelation.

• The claim is all the more important because it came from a trained professional who can unearth these human experiences in ways we common folk cannot.
• Interestingly, fathers are not a type a person but a type of action, “fathering” sounds a lot like “fathering a child” and very little like “being a mother”.
• And, in the end, there is only something “very powerful” about fathering that is not, apparently, something “very personal about being a [father], something very important to [male] identity.”

Something is amiss in our purportedly modern society when professionals (and the broader public) continue to disparage the role of fathers. Men are assuming more responsibility for raising children. Increasingly, men are stay-at-home fathers. And many others would probably opt to be stay-at-home fathers if economics allowed it. So why do we insist on denying to them some equality of attachment to their children? Why is it men cannot form bonds with their children that extend beyond the paradigmatic, emotionally shallow “fathering” with its connotations of “siring offspring” and “bread winning”?

If there is “something very personal about being a mother, something very important to female identity,” there is something equally personal about being a father, something very important to male identity. Stop making fathers into second-class parents.

One Father, Two Kids, No Hellion

In a marked contrast to Lazy Mom with Little Hellion, a father walked into a restaurant today carrying a toddler and holding the hand of a slightly older child. He walked over to a table and sat down. The toddler teetered about his chair while his older child sat across from him, wobbling on the chair. Dad and progeny sat there and had some food and drink. He read a book to them and at one point took them both to the toilette. When they got ready to leave, the older boy headed for the door. The father called his name and told him to wait. The little boy wandered back over to stand by dad. As the three headed out the door the father said they were headed over to a local playground.

A few noticeable things about this scene. First, dad left the stroller outside. That’s right mommies out there. He left his posh stroller outside on the sidewalk. He didn’t rearrange the entire restaurant so that he could shove his double-wide stroller and ass between the tables and chairs and park some Winnebago-sized pram next to his table. No. He was considerate enough to leave the damned thing outside. He brought in with him his two children and a small bag that seemed to have a bottle and some diapers in it (again, not an overnight bag into which he had crammed supplies for a trek across the Yukon Territory).

Second, he kept his kids by his side! He didn’t let them terrorize other customers. He didn’t offhandedly bark at them to stop doing something while talking to his friend. No. He paid attention to them. He actually read to them. He talked to them. He bounced one on his knee. And let’s recall that he had two kids, a perfectly ambulatory little boy of ca. 4 and a toddler. Somehow he was able to keep them under control.

Finally, when he did have to say something to one of his kids, he made clear both what he expected the kid to do (or not to do) and conveyed to his child the importance of minding. Amazingly, the child paid attention and did what he was told to do. No yelling. No nagging. No threats. Just a clearly stated command.

I don’t think this father was Superman or anything. But it doesn’t take Superman or an army of nannies to keep kids in line. He was simply engaged and clear about his expectations. And his expectations were socially responsible. He didn’t assume that the rest of the world would adore his offspring or had any obligation to put up with them. He and his kids seemed to enjoy themselves while there and walked out excited to go to the playground.

Maybe he could lead a parenting workshop for Lazy Mom and parents like her.

“Don’t Climb Up There…”

Her little terror is running around the cafe, climbing on chairs, grabbing food and plates from tables, and generally ignoring her injunctions. Perhaps because she doesn’t mean them. It is clear to her 3-year-old that she doesn’t mean them. The mother has already lost the opportunity to establish her authority. And now we, the rest of the world, will have to pay the price.

As Little Hellion is pulling at cups on the counter, mom is sitting on her ass explaining to another woman that he is “willful” and “stubborn,” that he doesn’t listen well, and that he is difficult to control. Note, her efforts to corral her child has extended only so far as saying “Don’t climb up there,” said over her shoulder as she continues to talk to the woman at the next table over.

Exactly what makes Lazy Mom think that Little Hellion will mind her? Oh, nothing. She clearly depends on the rest of us to endure her child and her parenting techniques. The rest of us have to move our drinks, pick up our bags, hold on to our food so that Lazy Mom doesn’t have to tend to her child.

Lazy Mom tells Little Hellion to “Stay right there, by your sister” and watches him dart off across the restaurant. And rather than reprimand him, scold him, explain in soft and empowering words that such behavior is inappropriate, she simply plopped her ass down on the couch and resumed a conversation with yet another woman.

Moms don’t have a monopoly on lax parenting, on the assumption that everybody else must bear the burden of raising their children or getting out of the way, but such moms are incredibly common out here on the Mainline. They let their little darlings maraud around spreading destruction. In some demented and twisted version of Rousseau, they turn their kids loose in the social wilderness, assuming that a radically unstructured and disciplined upbringing is better for the child. It’s like Emile for the rich and privileged. Emile wandering amongst the Range Rovers and BMWs.

But no, that’s giving the moms too much credit. Madame Bovary is probably more the model. They don’t seem to realize that parenting is work. That it is tiring. That is a thankless task and requires constant attention. They refuse to admit that they are no longer young, single, and free of responsibility. Rather than raise their children, they compete with each other to see who is the most attractive, whose vacations are the most “exotic.” Children have become something you have, not a person you raise.

Little Hellion just hit me with his lolly pop. Not accidentally. He stood next to me, looked at me, grinned, and smacked my arm with his sucker. When I asked him not to do it again, Lazy Mom told me she would take care of him. Her solution: “That’s not nice, Little Hellion.” He giggled and walked away armed with his sticky lolly pop.

Sorry Lazy Mom, that’s not the appropriate response.

Roaming Bands of Mainline Moms

Mainline Moms congregate, they convene, they assemble. They seem to precipitate out of thin air, suddenly filling public space with fashionable diaper bags, posh strollers, Avent bottles, Table Topper®s, and blather about vacations, nannies, and accessories. And like most other packs of animals, they quickly forget that anybody else exists. They appropriate chairs, clog walkways with paraphernalia, talk louder and louder, and generally take over all available space like some living fluid that has been poured into a cafe. They lose all sense of decorum. They assume that everybody in the coffee shop or restaurant wants to hear about their privileged lives and shares their hyper-exaggerated opinions of their progeny. And if any of their offspring happen to be ambulatory, they let them range freely and widely. Again, apparently assuming that the rest of the world loves their children as much as they do. Anybody who doesn’t share their myopic, navel-gazing worldview, anybody who refuses to drink their Kool-Aid, is immediately and loudly vilified.

Mainline Moms dissipate much as they arrive, seemingly without warning or cause. Evidence of their having been there often clutters the tables and floors—disheveled chairs and tables, cheerios, wrappers, dirty plates and cups, half-eaten bottles of organic, vegan baby food.

While they frequently seem like nice enough people when alone, Mainline Moms are unbearable in packs. They are like manicured, botoxed, lifted, augmented, and liposuctioned hyenas.

What is “truth”?

I will be the first to admit that I am not a perfect father. I’m probably not even a particularly good dad. But sometimes even I am amazed at just how bad a dad I can be. For example,

Yesterday XX progeny and I were out back working in the yard, I digging out rogue plants and a battalion of weeds that had taken over the garden during the fall and winter while she played happily in her sandbox. Occasionally she rushed over wielding her small plastic rake or shovel in an endearing and admirable effort to help. Her assistance ranged from considerable to complete impediment, often bringing progress to a halt. But she basked in and boasted of her superior ability to climb under the big yew and pull weeds. Apparently not having to bend over is a sure sign of weed extraction skill. Then, after swooping in to make sure I was on the right track, off she ran back to her sandbox or further in the yard chasing bunnies or birds. The scene bordered on idyllic.

At one point she was playing with a garden decoration, a large bug-eyed bee to be exact that stands next to the patio on the top of a retaining wall. She likes to take it’s wings off and put them on. She also likes to remove the bee from its stand so that it can “fly” around before landing again back on its stand. Suddenly the bee and its stand came tumbling down in a cacophony of metallic wings, body, and legs. Our own personal Humpty Dumpty. She stood at the top of the wall looking down with some concern on her face.

I turned and asked what happened. She looked contrite as she said “nothing.” I’m not attached to the bee, which hadn’t suffered any injuries in the fall, so I wasn’t upset. But I confess that I didn’t really accept that nothing had happened. After all, there was bee carnage all over the lawn. So I asked again, prefacing my question by saying, “I’m not mad and you’re not in trouble. I just want to know what happened.” Nothing was her story and she was sticking to it.

So I changed my approach. Let’s agree that something had happened and focus on how it happened. So I asked, “Did you accidentally knock the bee over?”

Her: “No.”

Me: “How did it fall over then?”

Her: “I don’t know”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Her: “It just fell over all by itself.”

Me: “All by itself? Bees don’t fall over all by themselves.”

Her: “One of my sand toys knocked it over.”

Me: “One of your sand toys? I don’t see any sand toys up there.”

Her: “That’s because it fell into the sandbox.”

At this point I my interest had shifted from the bee to getting her to tell the truth about what happened. So I asked her a couple times if she was telling the truth or lying. She said she was telling the truth, that she wasn’t lying. We went around for a few minutes, me asking if she was telling the truth, her affirming that she was telling the truth. We were at an impasse. In an effort to impress on her the importance of telling the truth, I scolded her. I tried to explain that she was in trouble for lying, not for knocking over the bee.

She cried. My heart ached. I made her sit on the steps while I worked. Every few minutes I would ask if she was ready to tell me the truth about what had happened. She repeated that she was telling the truth. She cried some more. My heart continued to ache.

Finally, I knelt down in front of her and asked her again: “Did you touch the bee? Are you telling me the truth?” Through tears she said that she had knocked the bee down. I asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? You would not have been in trouble for knocking the bee down. You were in trouble for not telling me the truth.”

Through more tears she said “I’m sorry.” And then, totally confused, she asked: “What is ‘truth’?”

Rarely have I felt worse than I did at that moment.

Ass Crack and Coffee

Men in general have little fashion sense, and often lose whatever sense they had after procreation. And fathers do not, in general, grow up very well. They continue to retell ad nauseam their athletic, automotive, and sexual exploits. And like the fish that gets away, these stories grow with each retelling. But in at least one area fathers seem to do a better job than mothers—they don’t squeeze their aging and increasingly soft bodies into teen fashions.*

Case in point: low-rise jeans. Very few women old enough to drink alcohol look good in low-rise jeans, and even fewer women who have counted the ceiling tiles in a delivery room.

There are many problems with low-rise jeans. The most common complaint (usually uttered by other women rather than men) is the infamous muffin top. But the real sin is the “plumber’s crack,” that gaping ass crack that peaks or more often gapes over the waist of some pair of low-rise jeans. Let’s be honest, outside of a few intimate encounters, nobody wants to see another person’s ass crack.

The other day I was drinking coffee in a local cafe when two moms walked in pushing the little ones in strollers. They sat down in at the table in front of me. I reached up to get my coffee only to find myself confronted by a healthy dose of cottage cheese and ass crack. Although the one mom was merely sitting there, her jeans were riding down it was obscene. Not just a hint of crack and cheese, but a full plate load of both. If she had leaned forward at all, I’m sure I could have told you whether or not she shaved. I don’t know if she was ignorant of her vertical smile or if she thought it was somehow attractive, but it wasn’t. An increasingly sweaty, lint filled ass that has probably visited to toilette at least a couple times during the day is anything but sexy. In fact, it’s disgusting.

Maybe, like much fashion, women are dressing for women here. Maybe, just maybe, women enjoy seeing another woman’s ass crack, but I doubt it. These women can’t be dressing for men. Men who aren’t immature (usually balding and overweight) twits certainly don’t enjoy looking down some woman’s pants. So do everybody a favor and cover up your ass.

There seem to be two options. First, buy pants that fit. This would require that you stop shopping at stores that cater to teen fashion. Your not a teenager any longer, so you shouldn’t be there unless you are shopping for your daughter. So grow up and act your age. Second, if you insist that low-rise jeans are all you can find or for some reason “fit” better, then wear a blouse or shirt that is long enough to reach your jeans, even when you are sitting.

Don’t spoil somebody’s coffee by flashing your crack all over the place.

*Please note, this is not a screed against getting old and soft. Everybody grows old, gets soft, becomes wrinkly, loses hair (or grows hair in unwelcome places), and parts of the body start to sag, parts that previously seemed to defy gravity. That’s life, or rather the slow and inevitable process of dying. Along with those changes comes a beauty that teenagers, 20-somethings, and many 30-somethings will never have. That’s the price of being young. If they live long enough, they too might be beautiful one day. But not for many years.

Resurrecting Main Line Dads (redux)

Like throwing biscuit dough at the wall to see what sticks, different versions of this blog have been thrown at the internet a few times to see if it will stick. So far nothing. I’m now tossing another ball of blog dough and thinking about throwing it at the wall to see if it will stick. This post inaugurates yet another version of Main Line Dads with a summary of what you can expect here.

First: this is not a parenting blog. While I am a parent (a dad), I have no intention of or qualifications for dispensing parenting advice. Like most people, I am scarring my children in ways I don’t intend and probably can’t even imagine (along with all the ways I can imagine).

Second: this is not a blog about how to be a dad. There are lots of dad blogs out there, some dedicated to preserving some modicum of sports-loving masculinity, some devoted to being a modern, sensitive dad, and others focused on how to pick out the best parent-oriented, child-protecting, father-appropriate gear. Those blogs all provide a service and some excellent reading. If you want to know which diaper bag will preserve and project your tender-masculinity at the next party for 2-year-olds, turn to one those blogs.

Third: many of these posts will offer some critique, will be critical, and might even verge on the vitriolic. I intend to use this space to reflect on how people are parents: how they treat their children, their spouses, and the people around them. My own experiences and behavior will share the stage with observations of other parents.

Fourth: many of the observations will contrast how fathers and mothers behave, toward each other, toward their children, and toward other parents. I am intrigued by the different expectations and standards applied to moms and dads.

Finally, I am not a perfect or probably even a particularly good dad. But simply because I live in glass house will not deter me from throwing stones, at myself or at others. I hope to offer a cocktail of self criticism (and at times loathing) along with social commentary and, occasionally, condemnation.