amy g. dala

Yet Dad Lit is a tricky business, fraught with traps: the putatively self-­deprecating vignette that actually demonstrates how pleased the author is with himself; the inordinately delineated neuroses of the overexamined life; the T.M.I. disclosures of sexual proclivities and other familial weirdness; the tone-deaf presentation of some mundane, schleppy aspect of parent­hood (e.g., the absence of “me” time, the utility of swim diapers) as some sort of epiphanic discovery.