Call me Mr. Mom
What a convenient way
to have an experiment, I thought.
Not a novel experiment mind you, but one that would offer me
grand epiphanies. I would probe fundamental mysteries and come to deep
revelations of great import. My research would take me down avenues of personal
evolution that could grant me a more fine-tuned perception of reality; thus
gaining new perspectives. I would do what is still considered to be rare, if
not taboo, among men of many cultures...
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“About what? Being pregnant?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure. Let’s do it.”
Call me Mr. Mom.
Halfway between then and now
After the co-op playgroup, several of the parents (all
mothers) and I shot the shit about parenting, jobs, and other random topics. They
were addressing long hiatuses from work in order to parent full-time and the
difficulty of going back. They assured me that, when I was ready, there’d be
something out there.
One mother joked that she’d been harping on her husband to
start a (stay-at-home) dad blog in order to keep him busy and relieve stress.
I laughed uproariously in my own private bubble of irony.
Three Years after the beginning
Looking over my domain, which really isn’t, it seemed
pristine. Yet, upon closer inspection I could see that the cleanliness was only
superficial. It’s usually like this but shouldn’t be after the second cleaning
that day. Such is life.
Ah, fuck… Life was
easier when I was beholden to no one. A loner. An irresponsible slob. An errant atom bouncing around in the Void.
A man!
“Daddy!”
I stepped out of the kitchen, “(I can’t get no) Satisfaction”
suddenly popped into my head. It wasn’t a self-directed tune, but in reference
to another’s constant state of need.
“Whacha singin’ daddy?”
“Your theme song, darlin’.”
The living/ TV room was a manageable chaos that could wait.
I turned back to the kitchen and saw Tupperware, bits of food stuck to the
wall, and other pieces of crumbs and crud hiding in every nook and cranny.
I wonder if there’s something I’m doing wrong. Are there men
out there who own housework? Would my
wife be better at [all] this? Would
any woman? Do they tolerate it more than men? Or, do we all find it futile? These
are sexist thoughts, I know, but maybe that’s what generations of socially
accepted gender roles forced women to perfect: the household.
Google could probably answer all of my questions, but, either
way, the fucking apartment wasn’t going to clea
n itself.
A few years prior
“So, what do you do?” my row-mate on the plane asked.
“I, uh, maintain the health and happiness of a little human
being.”
“Oh…” he said, clearly not amused.
“Yeah, I’m a stay-at-home parent.”
“Oh,” he said again, “that’s interesting. More and more men
are doing that these days, I guess. I always worked for a living,” his gaze
lasting a moment too long, as if he saw through me and found me wanting. There
was no need to challenge him or keep the conversation going, I’m not really a
fan of midflight conversation.
His unspoken accusation wasn’t common for me, however. I’ve met
plenty of folks, his age and younger, who’ve praised me for my decision to stay
at home. I live in a DC and many of the people I interact with are progressive,
tolerant, and new age. Classic gender roles don’t hold sway, even if they still
persist below the surface.
It’s not even uncommon to see men in my line of work around
town.
We’re a minority but we do
exist.
We’re lucky, too, that we can afford having one parent stay
at home. I’m told my daughter benefits greatly and this is probably true, but I
have personal doubts. I wonder if my increasing skill in childcare has somehow
lowered my economic earning power. Will I be able to return to the work force
after not having had to answer for my appearance for so long?
I doubt an interviewer would take me seriously if I included
house parenting on my résumé.
Mrs./ Mr. Interviewer: So what have you done over the last
few years that would make you competent at this job?
Me: It’s true that I’ve grown a magnificent beard, I never
wear a suit, and I don’t put pants until I have to actually go outside. But the
old stereotype of the relaxed, pampered housewife, who hasn’t a care in the
world, is absurd! Listen, I’ve managed to keep pure chaos alive for the last 3
years. Hire me, damn it!
See what I mean?
There are also other intangibles that only manifest after
the fact. House parenting is mentally and physically grueling, tedious,
repetitive, frustrating, and often times isolating.
Isolated amongst others of my kind, yet not of my kind: the
stay-at-home mom.
Would you find that intimidating?
I find that intimidating.
Intimidating groups of women give me bad gas.
Tragic but true.
Flatulence aside, I don’t easily fit into these groups, but
there I am, another parent mixed in with the “non working” crowd.
Maybe I’m just projecting.
No one has ever overtly made me feel unwelcome in these groups,
but I still can't shake the sense of being an outsider. It’s an alien thought
always drifts through the social aether, nagging at my common sense.
Then, I hear my former row-mate again, “I’ve always worked for a living...”
Yeah well, so have I.
Every parent on the surface of the planet, who’s stayed at home, would back me
up. Whatever your sex or gender, house parents are a special breed! We stand united against a society and economy
that don’t always appreciate our sacrifice.
Ah, just like that, I feel the warm glow of my in-group
connection. A group that, no matter their reasons, chose to stay home to take
care of their children, and test the extreme limits of their sanity.
Not too long ago…
When picking up my daughter from her co-op playgroup the
other week, I noticed all the mothers (and one lone father standing off to
the side) sitting down to picnic. I caught the dad’s eyes and in them, I thought I
saw desperation. Or, was it just a trick of the light? I wasn’t on a tight schedule
but suddenly it was time for Mr. Mom to go.
“I’ll, uh, picnic with you all next time.”
Ah, men and our lives of quiet desperation.
1 comments
Brilliant. Insightful. So, so funny!
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