DadWagon Q&A: Jennifer Niesslein of the late, lamented Brain, Child

As editors of a dadblog that rarely produces anything particularly smart, we are keenly aware how little protein-rich writing there is about parenting. So at the end of May we were saddened, along with the rest of the Internet, to hear that the magazine Brain, Child would stop publishing. The magazine, run for 13 years by co-founders Stephanie Wilkinson and Jennifer Neisslein, had a unique style of parental inquiry, often expressed through searing personal essays, that seems quite irreplaceable. And yet, they are no more. Neisslein was good enough to chat with DadWagon about Brain, Child, its demise, and the future of writing about parenting.

DadWagon So let’s start at the beginning. Why did you start Brain, Child?

Niesslein The short answer: it’s something Stephanie and I wanted to read. The longer answer is that I didn’t feel as if I had a community (Steph was literally the only new mother I knew at that point), and I was irritated at the condescension directed at mothers.

DadWagon Let’s talk about that condescension. Where did you see it?

Niesslein Oh, holy hell–everywhere? From the ped office calling me “Mommy” to various dogma-based advice-givers warnings that if you don’t follow these parameters, you will almost certainly screw your kid up. We just really wanted something that was a peer-to-peer kind of vibe.

DadWagon The wonderful (!) thing is that those are completely different kinds of condescension, although they both would seem to add to a sort of forced identity change: you are a mother now, I’m going to call you Mommy and tell you how to raise your child

Niesslein Yep! The whole title is a play on, yes, I have a brain and a child, and it’s, as Steph says, not an oxymoron like jumbo shrimp.

DadWagon So that peer-to-peer conversation, did it tend to have its own tilt? That is, did it advocate for more of a free-range parenting approach, for example?

Niesslein Not really. We don’t have any particular parenting philosophy. Honestly, I couldn’t really live with myself if I thought I had all the answers for every family. Do what works for you. I think that’s one reason people liked the magazine. You get to step inside families like yours and families that aren’t like yours. For me, at least, it’s been a big empathy-strengthening experience.

DadWagon I guess that is a bit of a hallmark of the magazine, that open-mindedness. Do you think it’s still as rare now as it was in 1999 to find that kind of writing on parenting?

Niesslein No, not all. What I think is rare still are places to publish the length of work that we do. If you’re writing under 1000 words, there are some outlets, and if you’re writing a book, it’s possible to find a publisher, but if you’re writing long, meaty essays about parenthood, it’s a tough place to be.

DadWagon It does raise the question: your readers (including folks we’ve heard from) were passionate, you were doing something quite different then and now. Why did it fail?

Niesslein I don’t actually think of this as a failure. Maybe I’m being delusional, but we had a good long run, got to do things and meet people we wouldn’t have otherwise, and actually made a modest living for a number of years. The day we made our announcement, the message we got… that was probably the most gratifying day of my professional life.

I’m thinking of this as a transition to a different business model. Why are we having to transition? I wish I knew the answer. But I think it was a combination of rising postage costs, the simple cost of paper, and the internet. Or not really the internet but the perception that the written word should be free.

DadWagon The idea that something like Brain, Child should be free is amazing, because it was already quite a bargain to subscribe (I’m saying that, of course, as the kind of hypocrite who didn’t actually subscribe). But seriously, you were charging very little for some great content. If you had it to do over, would you raise rates, or is there something else you’d change?

Niesslein Hmm. I can’t think of what. All of publishing, from the big six to small independent magazines like Brain, Child, are in flux, it seems to me.

DadWagon You mentioned in your Transitions letter than e-subscriptions had been going well, but not enough to keep the presses running. Will you keep eBooks going? With your anthologies? What is the afterlife plan?

Niesslein It seems like you have to have an ereader version these days, doesn’t it? We still haven’t worked out all the nitty gritty of the anthologies yet. We’re uploading the Summer issue to the printer today, and then I think the plan is rest and vacation, then work on the new plan.

DadWagon Will you go back to journalism?

Niesslein I’m actually working on a novel now–I’m 25K words in. Who knows if I have any talent for fiction, but I’m having fun. It’s like the lamest mid-life crisis ever.

DadWagon Yes, from editing to writing isn’t exactly sailing around the world for a year, but I understand the vertigo.

Niesslein It’s about my speed.

DadWagon Final question: the world of (ick) “mommy blogging” and “dadblogging” has come into existence almost entirely since you started Brain, Child. What’s your view of the parenting blogosphere in general? What is it useful for, what doesn’t it do well?

Niesslein I’m not very well-versed in it. But I once interviewed Jenn Mattern (from the blog Breed ‘Em and Weep), and she made the point that writing is writing–parenthood is just one lens to look at the human experience. I think that’s true, whether you’re writing for a magazine or a blog. Like everything, the quality of blogs can vary and what people are looking to get out of them varies. Sorry to be so wishy-washy here.

DadWagon I can see the point. But to echo what you said before, longform is not a big strength in the blogosphere. I hope someone picks up where you left off, and pushes it forward. There. That’s my closing wish.

Niesslein I’m trying to think of something pithy to say here.

DadWagon Please let us know when the anthologies come out.

Niesslein Oh, definitely! Thanks for the chat.

A Dream Trip for the YouTube Generation

I am the father of a fourteen-year-old boy named Jack, and he, his mother and I are journeying from our home in the Catskill Mountains to JFK Airport, where we will fly to L.A./Anaheim for the third annual VidCon.

VidCon is the brainchild of musician Hank Green and New York Times bestselling author John Green, known collectively as the Vlog Brothers. At VidCon, online video enthusiasts—fans and creators alike—meet in real time to schmooze, gawk, praise, and otherwise engage one another. (Smackdowns are possible but unlikely.) Panels include “Redefining Celebrity in the Post-TV Era,” “The Evolution of Storytelling on the Web,” and, of particular interest to you, dear reader: “The Parent’s Panel: Encouraging, Protecting and Enabling Your Kid/Teen’s Passion for Internet Video.” In addition to panels, VidCon offers constant meet-and-greets and a never-empty performing stage; it’s kind of a mash-up of SxSW, Fan Fair and ComicCon.

The plan for this trip was hatched last year, when Jack, an avid YouTuber, asked us to combine several present-giving occasions— Christmas, birthday, middle school graduation—into one splurge, so he could meet the pop-culture icons who fire his imagination. These include authors, musicians, commentators, actors, personalities who do all of the above, plus the occasional ill-defined YouTube celebrity.

Like most of his peers, Jack looks to YouTube as radio, television and My Weekly Reader, all rolled into one. For comparison’s sake: it’s like fourteen-year-old me getting a chance to meet S.E. Hinton, Rush, John Belushi, and John Hughes, under one roof, down the street from Disneyland. (We’re going there, too.)

Meme creators The Gregory Brothers, whose Songify This (AKA AutoTune The News) made stars of Antoine Dodson (“The Bed Intruder Song,” 102 million views) and Yosemite Bear (“Double Rainbow Song,” 30 million views) will be there (as will Dodson and Yosemite Bear). Like many other performers and panelists, the Gregory Brothers have ascertained and perfected the science of “going viral,” and monetized it. They recently freelanced with Sony. Also on hand will be hundreds of vloggers, who, via their laptops, webcams, and FinalCut Pro, are storming the castles of Stewart, Colbert, and SNL.

While it is a gift for our son, this trip also offers my wife and me—both writers— chance to check out the expanding world of various online platforms (and an opportunity to meet Yosemite Bear). While our TV gathers dust, screen-oriented entertainment, promo and social networking are an ever-bigger part of our household, and not just in Jack’s room. VidCon is an opportunity to meet the mover-shakers behind this tectonic shift, in all their nerdy glory.

Much is afoot. As you may have heard, YouTube is morphing from user-generated content to original programming, with Netflix, Amazon and Hulu following suit. Companies that provide and/or enable that content will be on hand at VidCon. Jack, incidentally, scoffs at them. Like his mother, who once stored her punk rock singles in a balsawood crate and abhorred all notions of “corporate,” he is drawn to scrappy indies, especially when they are changing the entertainment world free of influence, and fielding offers from advertisers who seek not to alter them, but to co-op some of their DIY street cred. (Some YouTubers affix ad banners and pre-rolls to their vlogs, some don’t. See VidCon panel “How YouTubers Can Be Professional With Brands.”)

It’s a good we got our tickets months ago, as VidCon is sold out. Jack is more excited than he’s been since Santa Claus days, which of course is a thrill for his parents. I will be reporting from the floor of the Anaheim Convention Center and thereabouts, where the ground, no doubt, will be moving beneath my feet.

Robert Burke Warren is a writer-musician currently residing in the Catskill mountains with his wife and teenage son. He blogs at Solitude and Good Company. You can find him on Twitter at @RBWUncleRock

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Dork Dad vs. Dick Dad: The Fine Line

One of the great things about being a father is that, well, you get to act like a father. Not in the teaching-your-kid-to-play-ball, carrying-the-sleeping-first-grader-to-bed sentimental-tripe way, but in the sense of getting to indulge in stereotypically dorky dad behavior. Example:

“Hey,” says Sasha, trying to get my attention.

“Hay is for horses,” I interrupt.

Sasha looks confused. “Hey—”

“—is for horses.”

Sasha tries again: “Hey—”

“—is for horses!”

I’m not just messing with her here—I’m trying to teach her not to just say “Hey!” to get someone’s attention. Well, and I’m messing with her, because it’s fun! Because I can! Because it’s a silly-stupid thing to say. Soon, I imagine, I’ll tell her, “Sit down, kid, you’re rocking the boat!” Just like my grandfather used to say all the time.

This is great. I’ve started wearing silly boxer shorts around the house, and Dad’s receding hairline and generally foul aroma are becoming stock jokes with Sasha. Maybe I’ll get a beagle and start smoking a pipe—whatever will bring me closer to the 80s-sitcom ideal of the paterfamilias.

Mostly, though, it’s going to be through the idiotic things I say, and that’s where I need to watch myself. Yesterday, for example, the guy at the butcher store gave Sasha a lollipop, which she asked me to open. I did, then pretended it was mine.

“Where’s your lollipop?” I asked.

She could tell I was joking, but I could also tell she wasn’t quite sure what was up. Was Daddy really about to steal her lollipop? And I could have—I could’ve just given it a single lick to amp up the joke, but that, I knew, would put things over the edge. But I didn’t—I handed it back to her.

This is a danger zone for me. Sometimes I don’t know when to stop with a joke, with the teasing, and I worry about becoming like Homer Simpson or Peter Griffin in those episodes when you just can’t believe, or tolerate, their behavior. Or like a certain friend’s dad, a miserable jerk who thought he was really funny and always had a sneaky smile on his face and a can of beer in his hand. The kind of guy who’d say, “My house, my rules,” knowing it was cliché, and inadequate to reality, but enforcing it all the same. He was Dick Dad.

The worst part about Dick Dad, actually, is that he doesn’t even realized he’s crossed the line from being a dork. Worse, he thinks he’s Cool Dad—hilarious and edgy. So that’s my warning signal: If ever I think I’m being cool, I can be pretty well assured I’m being a fucking dick.

 

 

Why I Plan to Kidnap and Murder ‘Baby Pizza’

Baby Pizza as she looked when new.

Normally, Sasha is a pretty good kid—and pretty good at playing on her own or with other children. But lately she’s been getting on our fucking nerves, and it’s her damn doll—Baby Pizza, as she’s decided to name it—that’s to blame.

Every morning, every evening, we hear the same thing: “Daddy, I want baby to talk to me.” (When she addresses Mom, she says it in Chinese.) The idea is that one of us will hold Baby Pizza, a Corolle doll recommended by a reader long ago, and engage Sasha in conversation and play.

Very quickly, this became an annoying burden. Unlike other games Sasha likes to play—hide and seek, drawing, Lego building, dancing, etc.—this just requires a level of imagination and child-logic that neither Jean nor I can muster. We want to play with, though! We want to engage in stories and make-believe! But something about this is just impossible. Maybe it’s because Sasha wants us to start the activity, to come up with a storyline. Shouldn’t that be her job?

We’ve tried to turn this back on her. “Sasha,” I’ll tell her, “I want baby to talk to me!” But she absolutely refuses, and so now Jean and I are absolutely refusing. We’ve run out of clever things for Baby Pizza to say. And now I’m considering “losing” Baby Pizza entirely. I mean, I wouldn’t throw the doll away. We paid for it! But that doesn’t mean Baby Pizza couldn’t find her way to a far-off, hidden shelf in the closet, to be rediscovered years hence, when Sasha’s imaginative skills have developed a little more.

Is this bad? Really, I want to play with Sasha—or I want to want to. But it’s so hard! I just can’t think the way she does, I can’t be entertained on her level (unless we’re talking about farting or other silly matters). And I can’t figure out how to distract her from this goddamn doll. Maybe when Baby X—our real child—arrives in mid-September, Sasha can shift her attention to a sibling who can actually talk back. Ah, I get it: This is why people have second kids, right?