Aaron Traister at Salon.com argues for the former:

After 14 uninterrupted hours of childcare, making the transition from Diego and diaper cream to Jim Lehrer and Paul Krugman is an exhausting prospect. If I ever muster the energy to investigate what is going on in the world outside the baby bunker, I find it impossible not to see that world through the deceptively warped lens of how my children fit into it.

I would love nothing more than to write an insightful article about healthcare reform, but I’m dumb now. Anything I write relating to healthcare would end up as a screed about why my children have to take a back seat on getting their flu shots to a bunch of kids with “respiratory disorders.” Why are kids who can’t breathe right so much more important than my own kids? My kids love to breathe, and they’re good at it, and they should be rewarded for their aptitude in breathing.

…nobody to watch your back.

The Great Flake Out continues, as today I managed to leave an entire bag of groceries behind at the store. And unfortunately the fine union workers at “the Jewels” couldn’t find it, which means the person behind me probably picked it up along with their items. Enjoy that $8 brick of Parmgiano Reggiano random stranger! I have a great recipe for Steak Caesar Salad if you want it — just make sure you don’t have to buy all the shit for it twice, or you might beat my record for the Most Expensive Salad in History.

As a work at home dad — or GLAAD — I get to experience some of the abstract joys of parenthood, such as walking the kids to school on a sunny fall day. While it doesn’t always go according to plan with the 4th grader, as we all notoriously can’t get moving in the morning, I definitely make it a point to walk the scant quarter mile to my younger son’s preschool down the street for his afternoon class. My little effort to fight childhood obesity, and one look at me can attest that I could use the exercise as well.

Today, however, was different as it was our turn to bring snack. I had overcompensated by making 10 pounds of fruit salad so we drove instead. I dropped him off, handed the giant tray to his teacher (who gave me a multi-meaning, “Oh, uh, wow!”), and headed home to try and get some work done. After a while, I remembered I needed to go to the post office. I grabbed the mail, ran outside, and immediately felt a wave of panic. OUR CAR WAS GONE.

Oh, god, my baby! My sweet, sweet car, the first new one we’ve had in 6 years! Gone! Did I park it in the street for some reason? I ran into the front yard — not there. Repossessed? Sure, I was a few days late on the last payment, but that’s not worthy of the repo man. It must have been stolen! What brazen car thief would steal a car in the middle of the afternoon on a side street in a sleepy little suburb? I’VE BEEN VIOLATED! That’s when it hit me.

I had walked home from preschool, and left the car in the school parking lot.

So I guess I got my walk in to and from (er, from and to) school after all.