That’s “happy baby” pose for y’all without your yoga-ese translation books.
Recently, a Facebook friend posted a HuffPost article prohibiting screentime for kids until age 12. Alongside, the friend wrote, “While I’m not a father, it breaks my heart to see children in restaurants staring mindlessly at screens. I was raised to paint and draw and entertain myself with puppet shows. If I’m ever a dad, I’ll never let my kid play with an iPad.” Thank goodness several other parents lashed out before I needed to. I snarkily/charmingly wrote,
Discussions of how our company will be named, what it will sell, and what we will stand for.
So I’m new to the blogging. Clearly, I’m also still insecure about it and need to make disclaimers. I’ll try to shut up about that. One of the reasons I’ve been reticent about diving into social networking (besides worrying I have nothing to say) is: I don’t want to walk through life in a double-tasked, obsessive fog constantly crafting the wittiest facebook posting, the dreamiest Instagram picture, or
Just a cute pic to lure you into chapter 2… On the same bench in the same playground on the next day, I pitched my idea to James: “Baby gear for stylish dads”. He nodded his head. I scanned the playground to make sure Big E wasn’t stealing other kids’ toys or climbing a 20-foot
On the banks of the Connecticut River in Lyme.
STAY INNOCENT “Take my shirt off! Take my shirt off!” Big E jumped while pleading with me. He wanted to be like the older boys running across the grass as shirtless savages of summer. Normally, he does not let it all hang out. So I took off his shirt, cursing myself for having left the sunscreen at home. It was already 4:30. Post-PTH, hopefully. (*peak tanning hours.) I knew one of the boy’s parents and we’d all met at the park for an early summer picnic. I needed adult contact since my one-year-old was near the peak of his incessant whininess. Upon arrival, the parents offered me a beer. I almost downed it in one sip. Seconds later, I noticed Big E and the older kiddos were missing. I said as much. “Oh, they’re over behind that brick wall playing in the fountain,” the mom said as she handed me a second beer. “They’re fine. Don’t worry.” I’m sorry. What part of that statement should not have made me feel apprehensive? Our kids were out …
What is this “george e. knox” pseudonym I’m hiding behind? A year ago I was pushing my double stroller to Washington Square Park when I stumbled upon an idea: “What does our society of plenty, culture of consumerism, attitude of ‘if-you-cant-find-it-in-New-York-it-doesn’t-exist’ lack?, what our disposable income has yet to buy so that it can later dispose of it? Diaper bags for stylish dads.” Diaper bags for dads are seen in two versions: “clearly-I’ve-borrowed-this-from-my-wife” and “I-need-to-look-as-masculine-as-possible-toting-around-this-jerky-kid-so-I’ll-dress-ia-all-up-in-camouflage-and-New-York-Giants-logso.” But what about classy gear that doesn’t look like you’re heading out for a morning of cliff repelling or going to a basketball game? What about masculine and stylish? Something to dress up or dress down and shows pride in self and in fatherhood? Something that doesn’t look like a diaper bag but, when elicits reactions of “Wow. Look at that guy and look at that bag and, wait…aaaaaaah, he’s a dad!”