Ogling the Frug's fish

We DadWagoners, so chummy and close in blogland, actually don’t see each other that much. It’s not that we have some sort of seething Fred-hates-Ethel offscreen dysfunction. It’s just that we are scattered across two boroughs, somewhat busy and absent enough from our own homes that we don’t actually have much time to throw back beers in person.

So it was serendipitous that Matt was calling for people to come keep him company on a Brooklyn camping trip last weekend (Side note: Jean! Go camping! It’s fun!). I had absolutely zero Special Things planned for Mother’s Day weekend, so a near-shore adventure sounded perfect.

My wife, god love her, was game for spontaneous speed-packing and the hideous rush hour drive down Flatbush Ave. We found Matt, spent the night, learned a lot about a quirky corner of our fair city, and had an excellent time. Theodore brought the bairn out the next day and the three dads ended up spending half a day with JP and Dalia (side note: Christopher! Go camping! It’s fun!)

What I always seem to forget is that Matt is going to, you know, write about all of this. And like any good reporter, he writes the truth. As it turns out, the truth this time included a healthy dose of me and the wife and kids. In his post on the Frugal Traveler blog and the accompanying pictures, my role was as the guy who gutted a fish (actually Matt gutted much of it), picked up a defenseless froglet, let my son touch the campfire, and put my kids to bed at 10:30pm, whereupon one of them didn’t sleep at all.

It could have been worse. Last time I hung out with the Frug while he was reporting, my daughter ended up in the NY Times (anonymously) as a girl who licked bar snacks off a bar menu at Alchemy in Brooklyn.

All said, though, it’s a fine piece. And to be honest, in Matt’s blogposts and articles I come across as the father I wish I were all the time: a little too laissez-faire, perhaps, but adventurous. It’s a good standard for me to try to live up to, even when I’m the only reporter around.