The Gay Uncle has been saying for years that our culture is engaged in a war on parents. He’s not talking about the war for parental leave, the war for affordable day care and universal health care, or the war for allowing photos of breastfeeding on Facebook, all of which he believes are perfectly valid crusades. He’s talking about the war against intelligence, self-actualization, and self-respect that comes from many adults’ unwillingness to assume the mantle of being the grown up–the boss, the one in charge, the person on whom their child can depend for guidance, limits, and structure–when they have kids. The front lines in this war take all sorts of forms, from parents asking their four year-old whether or not they should move to a new city, to an abdication of responsibility for how much television their toddler views, to cooking different meals for every child in order to avoid “blowback”. But Gunc believes that much of it is based in one brutal field of combat: a strange willingness for parents to allow themselves to be infantilized by a consumer culture that tells them that they’re idiots and have no idea how to do their job. That they need Boppy Cushions to nurse, digital thermometers to tell them how warm the bath water should be, and eleven expert/peer opinions to determine whether or not they should allow their child to sample strawberries. The G.U. believes that parents have brought this upon themselves, with their own refusal to give up indulging in childish whims, like playing video games or consuming cupcakes. But he believes he has found its apotheosis in an ad he found on SkyMall this afternoon (itself, the most accurate bellwether of contemporary culture): one for grown-up footy pajamas. How the fuck, he would like to know, is one supposed to be in realistic command of the life of another growing person if one is still this deeply mired in their own infancy? And what, he would like to know, is next? Adult cribs? Adult breast milk? With the new intelligence sweeping through government, he hopes for major change.

The Gay Uncle is back in LA, which means he got to spend some time with his best friends (and parental whipping posts) Kate and Dylan last night, and to see his adorable “nephew” and “niece” Max, 6 and Athena, 3. Once the kids got over the disappointment that “Uncle Towel” (a.k.a. Tal) was not going to be joining them, it also meant that he got to hear their latest stories of family insanity. Max is one of the most empathetic kids he’s ever met. He’s like a feeling, caring machine, always genuinely concerned about other people. This translates in two ways: 1) he’ll talk to anyone, and 2) he’s very aware of human suffering. He’ll go out of his way to give money to a scangy teenage panhandler yelling curses at him or a homeless guy drinking mouthwash next to a dumpster, and hel’ll wander up to an obviously insane and overly made-up matron in a sailor’s cap (why always a sailor’s cap?) waiting on line in front of him at Rite Aid and ask, with all sincerity, “Are you a captain?” and when the lady hazily nods her head and delivers a junkie’s pirate’s growl, he’ll counter with, “Where’s your boat?”
This infernal kindness recently challenged his mother when, on exiting a supermarket, they encountered a sketchily official-looking volunteer ringing standing in front of a overturned plastic water-cooler bottle. “Change. Donate your change. Donate your change.” Max turned to Kate. “What’s he doing?” Kate cocked her head and tried to figure out how to answer the question–honest, or padded; a common choice when dealing with kids. She went instead with vague. “He’s collecting change.” Max stared at the man for a second, causing Kate to examine him more closely. She wasn’t exactly sure he was working for any sort of organization. But Max had figured out his take on things. “That’s what I want to do when I grow up,” he said. “And I’ll give it all to homeless people.” Kate was distressed, and let her feelings slip out. “Oh, Maxy. I think you can do so much more with your life,” she said, immediately regretting her own sentiment. But the boy will not be swayed. He’s on a path. And for his next birthday, his Gay Uncle is going buy him a bell, a bucket, and perhaps a Santa suit.

The Gay Uncle was in one of his favorite places yesterday: an airport bathroom! He’s been on the road quite a bit recently, and since his bladder is about the size of an almond, he spends an inordinate amount of time in terminal pissoirs. There’s always something…funny going on in these locales. But this was the first time he was approached by a woman on his way in. “Excuse me,” she said, “but is there a man with a little girl in there?” Gunc found this a strange request, not only because it called for his being psychic, or that it conjured all sorts of nasty images, but also because he worried that by answering he might become embroiled in some sort of kidnapping/custody/traversing state lines battle between this lady and her estranged husband (he was in Dallas!). Still, being an professional Advocate for Children sometimes involves taking risks. “I’ll check,” he said. The woman smiled and then called at his back, “Craig and Melinda. Their names are Craig and Melinda.”

They weren’t difficult to find. Unlike in most other airport bathrooms, there was only one man standing with his head in poked into the stall, barking instructions to whoever was on the other side of the half-closed door (“You have to wipe! You have to wipe!”). And only one person with a tiny squawky voice answering from the other side (“I am NOT going to wipe! I’m not!”) Motivated by a profound sense of duty (ugh), the G.U. approached the man from behind. “Excuse me,” he said, suddenly at a loss for how to proceed. “Are you Craig and Melinda?” The man took a step back and revealed his face: early 30′s and decent looking, but reddened, sweating, and screwed up into a rage-filled scowl. “Yes,” he spat. The Parenting Bubble does all sorts of crazy shit to people–blinding them to the futility, counter-productiveness, and entrenched nature of their child-rearing tactics–but this was one of the worst forms of perspective-losing Gunc had seen in a long time: a man trying to make his daughter wipe her bottom–verbally, argumentatively, and forcefully–in a PUBLIC RESTROOM. It’s her butt, the G.U. wanted to tell the man, Close the door and let her take care of it. (Whose control issue is this?) But this did not seem the time or place to offer advice to a stranger. So The Gay Uncle turned on his polished heel and exited. “They’re in there,” he told the anxious mother, who was pacing by the door. “But they don’t seem to be doing very well.” He reached into his purse to grab his business card–the one with the SAY UNCLE slogan, an image of the book’s cover, and a link to this site on it–but mommy had already picked up here cell phone and turned away. “Craig?” she shouted into it. “What’s going on in there?” Gunc suddenly realized he hadn’t completed his business, but decided it was best if he found a different bathroom.

The Gay Uncle read something very interesting this weekend, an article about scientist parents who use their own children as research subjects! It seems that, in light of the tightening restrictions on the use of young humans as guinea pigs, the dwindling pool of foundlings, and the discomfort that many folks feel at allowing someone to experiment on their kid, Dr. Mom or Dr. Dad are signing their own children up as participants. One father strapped a camera to his newborn’s head so he could record every single thing the baby looked at. Another put all three of his kids through repeated MRIs. And, in what the G.U. thinks might be an invasion of privacy, another wired his house with dozens of video cameras and microphones, recording every move and sound his son–and anyone else who dropped by–made for his first three years. (Guests were eventually asked to sign releases, and the university oversight board strongly recommended against taping any bathroom action: drat!)

Now, the Gay Uncle has conducted quite a bit of scientific research with young kids himself, mostly concerning the educational effects of watching TV–some of it for the U.S. Department of Education–so he knows first-hand the value of studies with live subjects. His research entailed little more than having participants view episodes of Curious George, Word World, or Caillou and then answering a few questions. He feels proud of this work, and wouldn’t hesitate to ask his friends or family members to participate if needed (okay, maybe not on the Caillou project, which may transgress the Geneva Conventions). But repeatedly running your child through a body scanner, or forcing them to constantly wear an electrode-studded cap so you can study their brain waves? Come on. If you saw someone doing this at the supermarket, you’d call Child Welfare.

Gunc’s objections are myriad. He believes it impossible to avoid bias when studying one’s own child. He has concerns about the lack of oversight inherent in circumventing third-party approval. And he’s uncomfortable with the slight echoes of Dr. Mengele. But more than all this, the G.U. believes this is just another example of our contemporary struggle with what he calls Texas Hold-’Em style “All In Parenting”: an inability for parents to separate themselves and their own needs from those of their child. Kids are born individuals and should be treated as such, not as extensions of one’s own whims, vanities, style statements, or professional advancement. Likewise, parents need and deserve some form of life (professional, peer-based) separate from their role as a mother or a father. Raising your child in a petri dish achieves neither of these objectives. It is simply an extreme example of the Parenting Bubble in which he feels so many families are currently locked.

The Gay Uncle cannot believe it: his little niece “Cakes” is turning one today. She is truly one of the most sophisticated and advanced babies in the world, as evidenced by this incredible picture of her engaging her super-powers in order to levitate, as well as render herself invisible to the naked eye. It’s fortunate that the G.U. is a master photographer–as shown in his recently published work in Vanity Fair–allowing him to snap this rare shot on a recent visit to The Keys just before she lifted off and disappeared. He’s pleased that she is still using her powers for good–helping along the cease-fire in Gaza, calling beachable whales back to sea, setting that jet down safely in the Hudson–but hopes that she comes back down to earth in time to enjoy her party, rebuild the engine on her daddy’s ’64 Nova, and complete her new translation of À la recherche du temps perdu which she and Gunc began together during a visit last month.

Happy Birthday, Cakes!!!

Gay Uncle loves you!!!

The Gay Uncle is in Chicago working on an article for the fabulous parenting magazine COOKIE, about helping a parent choose a preschool. One of the struggles his subject is going through in her selection process concerns her part-time work schedule. Her daughter is currently in an in-home care provider environment–where a nice young lady named Dawn watches over a group of three or four other kids. But given that she works only three days a week, the girl is often confused as to whether or not a particular day is one that she attends day care or not. “Is today a Dawnie day?” the girl will ask each morning. “Yes,” her mom will say. “I have to go to work.” Recently the girl has been pulling on her mother’s heart strings. “Let’s stay at home today,” she’ll say on waking up. Or, having learned about tele-commuting, she’ll suggest over breakfast that mommy “work from home.” She’s even gotten sharp about one of the core benefits work provides. “Let me see your wallet,” she said one recent morning. Mom passed over her purse, and the girl looked thumbed through. “It looks like you already have money in here,” she said. “I don’t think you need to go to work today.”

The Gay Uncle is headed to Chicago to work on an article for COOKIE magazine in which he follows a mom around as she searches out a preschool for her daughter. It’s supposed to be sort of a she said/he said (or she saw/he saw) piece, comparing what parents look for and see in an early childhood center versus what a trained educator like the G.U. spots. But it’s also going to be sort of instructional, letting parents know what kinds of questions they should be asking, and what kinds of things they should peel their eyes for, when considering a school. So here’s Gunc’s question to you: What do you want to know about picking a preschool? Let him know in the comments section below so he can be sure to look for that as he makes his rounds in the Windy City.

As we pass the end of what the Gay Uncle likes to call “Candy Season”—a time period that begins at Halloween and lasts through January 1st—and enter the “Dour Season” of weather-based lock-down and ambitious New Year’s resolutions, he has a few thoughts on how to manage children’s intake of fun compelling garbage like sweets, snacks, and TV.

Too many parents end up locked in constant battles over these forms of mindless fun, attempting to fend off their child’s desire, or completely restrict their access. This often ends up backfiring since a) kids love a fight, as it provides them a template and opportunity for engagement, and b) absolute limitations create a countervailing—and often stronger—desire for transgression.

Everyone knows just how alluring junk can be. Everyone knows just how good it feels to indulge. And it’s the G.U.’s belief that everyone (even kids) deserve some wanton happiness. So the goal—as with most things with young children—should not be to attempt to completely quash this profound desire, but to teach your kids how to have a healthy relationship with it.

Instead of creating unconditional and unachieveable rules and expectations, try what the G.U. calls the Co-Option Option (COO). Make clear protocols about when and for what duration treats like candy, snacks, and television can be consumed, and then stick to them. If kids know that dessert comes only on weekends, that they can watch fifteen minutes of Dora once they finish their chores, or that they can eat their fill of Cheetos when they visit their Gay Uncle—and that these are the only times that such things are generally allowed—they’ll be much more likely to understand that these are “treats” to be controlled and doled out in limited quantities (and regulated–first externally, then internally), and much less likely to ask for them when these requirements aren’t met.

Happy 2009! As your New Years gift, The Gay Uncle just found something brand new for you to worry about! Third Hand Smoke. According to researchers, people with kids who think that the issues related to second hand smoke can be solved by inhaling with a fan on, with the minivan window cracked, or by hiding in the bathroom behind closed doors, are ignoring all the special super-secret toxins that are clinging to their skin and clothes, which then get passed on to their beloved offspring. The G.U. knew that smokers’ hair stinks–his mom smoked More menthols for his entire childhood, even, memorably, while breastfeeding his little brother–but he didn’t know it was POISONOUS!! According to the inflammatory article he skimmed in the Times, among the substances present in third-hand smoke are “hydrogen cyanide, used in chemical weapons; butane, which is used in lighter fluid; toluene, found in paint thinners; arsenic; lead; carbon monoxide; and even polonium-210, the highly radioactive carcinogen that was used to murder former Russian spy Alexander V. Litvinenko in 2006. Eleven of the compounds are highly carcinogenic.” The article does not say anything about the dangers of hanging out in a smoky Richmond go-go-boy bar, or a cigarette-fueled Key West lounge, (or of smoking substances other than tobacco) so Gunc thinks he will plead not-guilty if he’s ever accused of having an impact on his nieces’ lifespan, mental prowess (or lack thereof), or mysterious immunity to chemical weapons. But all you smoking parents might want to invest in a good shampoo.

The Gay Uncle had a chance to visit with his LA-based friends Kate and Dylan over the holiday season, and to see their charming little buggers Max (6) and Athena (3). The kids had spent the entire day out with their old babysitter Eleini–a campaign funded by the parents to give the adults some alone time–and when they returned to the apartment that evening, they were tired, wound up, and excited. The girl was thrilled that the sitter had given her a share of the per-diem her parents had provided for the day’s festivities, stuffing about ten bucks into her chihuahua-shaped purse. “I got some dollars!” she exclaimed. This reminded the G.U. of the story of this girl’s first word. Frequently mistaken by casual listeners, who would coo and smile, She’s saying Mommy Athena’s initial utterance was less familial and more…financial. Actually, Kate would correct them, She’s saying MONEY.

But more intriguing was the boy’s response to the day. “We took three trains!” he told the gathered adults.
“Great. Wow.” the grownups calmly stated, already into their second Ketel on the rocks.
“The M train, the A train, and the 6 train,” he said, even more enlivened.
“Three trains in one day,” Gunc said. “Incredible. Can you please pass the olives?”
The boy retreated to his room to remove his winter clothes, getting tangled in his thermal shirt in the process, but when he returned, he was still stuck on this subject. “I was telling you about the trains for a reason. Because we took the M train, which is for my name, the A train, which is for my name, and the 6 train, and I’m six.”
The Gay Uncle smiled, shamed, impressed, and reminded once again that it is only in actually listening to kids, that one can truly understand their intent. Sometimes what they have to say is more interesting than one’s drink.