tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54136774467006085462024-03-05T10:30:32.511-08:00The Rants of a Stay-at-Home Dad People say and do dumb things. They usually mean well. This blog is where I criticize them.Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-66105731975442704382016-01-28T11:03:00.003-08:002017-10-08T17:32:24.261-07:00Boys Will Be Boys: A Bunch of BS<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">The other day, while my son was at school, I took my
two-year-old daughter down to the local community center for our weekly
playgroup. While the kids played and crammed crackers into their mouths and the
parents chatted and sipped coffee, I sat in my usual spot away from the group,
observing everything from a distance. Once again, I was the only dad in
attendance, and the moms were engaged in the same conversations they have most
other weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">There’s one mom in particular who does a lot of the talking,
and I overheard her giving a speech she’d given before. She was talking about
boys, explaining to the other moms that boys are “naturally more aggressive”
than girls, that rowdiness is in their DNA.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“That</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">’</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">s just how boys are,</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">”</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> she said matter-of-factly. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">T</span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">his indisputable truth, she argued, is why her toddler son
keeps running around like a maniac, shoving other kids and destroying
everything he can get his grubby little hands on. His behavior couldn’t
possibly have anything to do with her parenting methods or the kid’s own
individual psyche. It must be his gender.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">“I mean, what can you really do?” she asked rhetorically, as
her son chased after another boy, wrestled him to the ground, and snatched a
toy from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s the familiar “boys will be boys” mentality, and it
drives me insane. We’ve all heard it, and if you’re a parent, you’ve heard it
more times than you can count. You hear it whenever two boys are beating the
crap out of each other on the playground, whenever a boy refuses to share,
whenever a boy enthusiastically vandalizes something.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Boys will be boys” never refers to good behavior. Only bad.
Fighting, rule-breaking, general mischief—that’s when people say “boys will be
boys.” And the boys hear it. This means we’re telling our boys from day one that bad behavior is
acceptable, excusable, and even expected from them. Then, of course, we become distraught when they
grow up and do terrible things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">In the United States, <a href="http://www.oneinfourusa.org/statistics.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">98% of reported rapes are committed by males</span></a>.
That includes both female and male victims. <a href="https://www.fbi.gov/about-us/cjis/ucr/crime-in-the-u.s/2010/crime-in-the-u.s.-2010/offenses-known-to-law-enforcement/expanded/expandhomicidemain" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">Men also commit 90% of the nation's murders</span></a>. <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/national/mass-shootings-in-america/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">In 98% of mass shootings since 1966, the person holding the gun is a man</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Boys will be boys, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Is it a stretch to say that a boy who’s allowed to pummel
another boy on the playground will grow up to be a killer? Probably. After all,
plenty of boys get in fights, and most grow up to be normal, well-adjusted
non-killers. But what about those boys who grow up to be monsters? Was their
bad behavior constantly justified when they were growing up? Was there too much
condoning and not enough correcting?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s a chicken-or-egg situation for sure. Do we assume men
are naturally more aggressive because they commit these deplorable crimes, or
do men commit these deplorable crimes because we’re always telling them they’re
naturally more aggressive?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I don’t know the answer. I’m not a psychologist or a criminologist.
I’m merely a dad trying my best to raise a boy and a girl. I just can’t help
but think that if my son hears over and over again that bad behavior is in his
blood, he’ll grow up believing it. And if my daughter hears that boys are helpless
to stop their natural tendency toward violence, she’ll grow up learning to
accept some pretty despicable behavior from the opposite sex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">That leads me to my next example, from a few weeks ago, when
my daughter and I were at an indoor playground (a common thing in our cold
climate). She was at the top of a slide, getting ready to go down, when a boy
who was about the same age elbowed her out of the way and went down the slide
ahead of her. I wasn’t all that upset by the kid’s actions, because these
things happen all the time with little kids. What I took issue with was the
mom’s reaction. She simply laughed, shook her head, and said, “Typical boy!”
Not a word to her son—just vindication of his bad behavior.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">What if her kid were a girl? Would she have called her a
“typical girl”? Or would she have done something? And if she says “typical boy”
when her son is two, will she still say it when he’s three? What about when
he’s six? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? In other words, when can that kid and his mom stop
using “typical boy” as a defense?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Most of us learn at some point that, as adults, we can’t
shove people out of our way at work or at the grocery store, no matter how much
we might want to. The key words there are “most of us.” Some people never learn
this, and if violent crime statistics are any indication, those people are far
more likely to be men. So, why wait to teach our boys that this behavior is
unacceptable? Why not teach it from the very beginning, like we do with girls?
Sure, two-year-olds will still push and shove and be difficult, but if that
behavior is left uncorrected—if it’s met with a shoulder shrug instead of a
negative consequence—it will only continue and be harder to correct in the
future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I know it’s easy for me to sit here and talk like I have all
the answers, as if raising a child is simple. I don’t mean to come off that
way. No parent can tell another parent how to raise their kids. If you insist
on perpetuating the “boys will be boys” mentality with your own children, I
can’t force you to change. I can, however, ask you to not say it around my kids,
because it’s not in line with what my wife and I are trying to teach them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">I can also challenge you to pause the next time your son
pushes, shoves, hits, punches, kicks, or tackles another child and ask yourself
the following question: If I don’t step in and stop my son now, when will I? At
what age should he learn that boys aren’t entitled to violence and aggression
just because they’re boys? Or—and maybe this is the better question—at what age
will I as an adult learn that?</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-4426168175025767542015-10-16T12:54:00.000-07:002015-10-19T16:09:05.343-07:00Papa Murphy’s: Dad-Shaming at 425 Degrees<div class="MsoNormal">
Some encouraging ads have popped up in the last few years
that show dads taking more active roles with their kids and around the house. A
couple years ago, Tide made a commercial that showed <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcGDH6pgLl0" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">a dad doing laundry and playing with his daughter</span></a>. Kellogg’s presented <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmgiKBiVLzw" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">a dad serving breakfast to his kids</span></a>. And Campbell’s is currently running a brilliant spot that shows <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rZOMY2sOnE" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">two dads enjoying a bowl of Star Wars soup with their son</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Papa Murphy’s decided to jump on the bandwagon, only they
completely screwed it up. Their commercial, <a href="http://ispot.tv/a/AL8x" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">which can be viewed here</span></a>, starts
out all right, showing a loving father doing what loving fathers do: playing
dress-up with his daughters. Then, it quickly takes an awful, poorly calculated
turn.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The voiceover asks all the ladies in the house if the men they married have become big, soft “un-bold” wusses who do terrible things like
interact with their children or express their fatherly devotion by engaging in
active play. Our guy grows increasingly sad and helpless with each shot. His
wife, who’s been watching all this, becomes distressed, realizing that her once-immature,
sports-loving, beer-guzzling husband has become what no woman in her right mind
would want: a devoted father!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So, into the kitchen she goes. Like any good wife, she makes
her damn husband some damn dinner so that he can feel like a man again. She
slides a nasty looking and nastier sounding Papa Murphy’s Frank's RedHot Buffalo
Chicken Pizza into the oven before it’s too late. Next, we see that husband of
hers doing what men were meant to do, watching football, eating pizza, and grunting
like an enthusiastic ape. Rejoice! This man is BOLD again!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As is the case with a lot TV ads, there’s a 30-second
version and a 15-second version. If you catch the longer version, you’ll see
that, at the end of the commercial, this poor sucker’s daughters are still
painting his toenails, and we’re reminded that this guy isn’t so bold after
all. Even Papa Murphy isn’t a miracle worker, and this fella is still stuck
with two adorable, healthy daughters who admire him. What a sap! Am I right, bros?<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfacYfKQnODJ-aXUAjo5nWEJCsJP87WiZ43pYsh9oMbGAHtuDOPHjNnNQf8kCigsY8LOuNTSXclMMjUtU5xksBrx4R3Dttvaby3IhzSCKHE26QO182kWjXxqK_EuL1tM4tftj6r9UkcTc/s1600/papa-murphys-pizza-re-bold-your-man-large-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfacYfKQnODJ-aXUAjo5nWEJCsJP87WiZ43pYsh9oMbGAHtuDOPHjNnNQf8kCigsY8LOuNTSXclMMjUtU5xksBrx4R3Dttvaby3IhzSCKHE26QO182kWjXxqK_EuL1tM4tftj6r9UkcTc/s320/papa-murphys-pizza-re-bold-your-man-large-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;">Could it be? Did I marry one of those "good guys"?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It’s hard to tell which part of the commercial I hate the
most. Is it the look of boredom and defeat on the dad’s face as his daughters
show him how much they love him? The horror on the wife’s face when she
recognizes what’s become of her man? The idea that it’s every wife’s job to
“re-bold” her husband, whatever the hell that means? The suggestion that
Buffalo sauce is manlier than fatherhood?<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reception in social media has been overwhelming, and not
in the way Papa Murphy’s was hoping for, I assume. It’s been said that any
publicity is good publicity, but when your customers are saying things like,
“I’ll never buy another one of your products again,” it’s hard to see the
silver lining. Papa Murphy’s has clearly failed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here are some reactions on Twitter:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #1f2326; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">@LauraKeeney: </span><span style="color: #1f2326; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue Light"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">“Re-bold your man”? <a href="https://twitter.com/papamurphys"><span style="color: #6e6f6f; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span><span style="color: #6e6f6f; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">@</span><span style="color: #222324; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">papamurphys</span></a> thinks dads lose manhood by
playing with daughters. I don’t understand how ads like this get made. <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/NFL?src=hash"><span style="color: #6e6f6f; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"></span><span style="color: #6e6f6f; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">#</span><span style="color: #222324; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">NFL</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">@KellyDiels: </span><span style="color: #1f2326; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">That <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Papa</span> <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Murphy’s</span> “re-<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">bold</span> your man” commercial is some sexist bullshit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">@wilder_timothy: </span><span style="color: #1f2326; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">Nothing better than appealing to crappy male stereotypes and glorifying
uninvolved fathers <3 Thanks, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Papa</span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Murphy’s<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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And here are few of the many, many posts customers are
putting on Papa Murphy’s Facebook page:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">Love your product, hate your latest
commercial. A father engaging in imaginative play with his daughters is NOT an
issue. I’m appalled that you would air such a sexist, misogynistic, and
outdated idea. Please stop airing the commercial and find a different way to
promote your new flavor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">Based purely on your “de-bolded man”
commercial, I will never purchase your product again. It sends the message that
there is something wrong with a man who enjoys playing with his daughters, and
that it’s something which needs to be fixed. Why? Does a man playing dress up
threaten his manhood? Does it threaten yours? Clearly you are out of touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">If you find nothing wrong with the “bold”
pizza commercials, why do you keep deleting posts about people’s disappointment
in the ad?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">I am so very disappointed that the cheese bread
changed at my Papa Murphy’s. I liked the round bread and now a VERY thick
rectangle is the choice. I will not return to the store. Why was it changed???<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Clearly, the decision-makers at Papa Murphy’s are screwing
up left and right. Their marketing department, their cheese bread department … in
light of such passionate consumer feedback, you have to believe heads are gonna
roll. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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For Papa Murphy’s part, they’ve been replying to some of the
negative posts with a predictable half-apology:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #10131a; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-font-kerning: 0pt;">Thank you for taking the time to provide
feedback. Our recent Buffalo Chicken Pizza commercial was intended to show the
bold flavor of the new pizza in a fun and humorous way, showcasing a family
dynamic in a light-hearted manner. We apologize for any offense this
advertisement may have caused as that was not our intention.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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As for me, I’ve never bought a Papa Murphy’s pizza. Until
now, I had nothing against the company. But after seeing this ad, I can safely
say I’m now devoted to being a lifelong noncustomer. It won’t be easy, but I’ll
somehow figure out a way to reclaim that boldness I lose every time I play with
my children. Maybe I’ll skip a few showers or get a new pickup truck or go
strangle a wild animal with my bare hands. Or I’ll ignore my kids, like Papa
Murphy’s suggests.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Better yet, I’ll ignore Papa Murphy’s. Ignore their ads,
ignore their stores, ignore their ludicrously thick rectangular cheese bread. I
invite everyone else to do the same. Let’s see how bold Papa Murphy’s feels
when it looks at its falling profits and realizes that running such a sexist,
backward ad, no matter how “light-hearted” they think it is, has consequences.<o:p></o:p>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-62900853473840593052015-05-11T08:22:00.002-07:002017-05-15T11:17:43.472-07:00Mother's Day: The Morning AfterYesterday was Mother’s Day. People love Mother’s Day. Every restaurant in town that offers brunch was packed, every flower shop was bustling, and every social media site was clogged with sentimental photos of kids alongside their dear, beloved mothers. According to USFlag.org, you’re supposed to fly the American Flag in your front yard on Mother’s Day, putting it right up there with Veteran’s Day, Memorial Day, Washington’s Birthday, Lincoln’s Birthday, and Easter Sunday, the celebration of the heavenly ascension of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I’m telling you—people love Mother’s Day. Father’s Day, absent from the flag-flying list, has never achieved that level of reverence.<br />
<br />
It makes sense, I suppose. We expect so much of moms that it’s only natural that we make such a big deal out of their day. When my mom was around, I certainly celebrated it without question. However, a recent comment from a friend made me realize I’ve developed a different point of view on Mother’s Day, that I’ve gained a new perspective since becoming a parent and witnessing other people my age become parents. Something about the day has become unsettling to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. <br />
<br />
I was working late Saturday night, the night before Mother’s Day, and I ran into this lady I know. I’m a comedian, so I almost always work Saturday nights, and I usually (despite my best intentions) end up staying out with friends until bar time. She’s a comedian too, and she’s a mom. When she saw me, she said, “How are you going to do it tomorrow morning?” <br />
<br />
“Do what?” I responded. <br />
<br />
“Don’t you have to get up tomorrow? It’s Mother’s Day. Don’t you have to make breakfast and take care of the kids?” she asked, as if I should be at home, rehearsing my omelet flipping technique in preparation for the big morning. <br />
<br />
I explained to her that I’m up with the kids most mornings, making breakfast and getting them ready for the day, often after a late night at work. Although Sunday is usually the one day a week I get to sleep in (my wife’s day is Saturday), I wasn’t sure how we were going to handle Mother’s Day. If I had to get up, no big deal. <br />
<br />
She seemed surprised by the idea that I make breakfast for my family. “Oh!” she exclaimed, impressed and confused at the same time. <br />
<br />
And then it occurred to me: Mother’s Day is the only day of the year I’m expected to do anything. The other 364 days, in most people’s eyes, I’m free to sleep in without judgment. But what if my wife sleeps in on any day other than Mother’s Day? Well, that makes her selfish and lazy. She should be up and about, feeding kids, scrubbing floors, and packing lunches. If she doesn’t like it, too bad. She’ll get her annual day off the next time the second Sunday in May rolls around. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPndsksJyDIWTSDgn97M7TTzvVqx1jBdiHm7rfMYqp5jlkwU-v3Iqyhz8up0PMqw1dLY_Lg1EvAv9ArypOwLah17L8PIkbE65fnyv7Pfy1JhGSIWX8y9KbD86EV9NegDJf7iNP895G1c/s1600/11009863_10153175565286005_467396477998975320_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLPndsksJyDIWTSDgn97M7TTzvVqx1jBdiHm7rfMYqp5jlkwU-v3Iqyhz8up0PMqw1dLY_Lg1EvAv9ArypOwLah17L8PIkbE65fnyv7Pfy1JhGSIWX8y9KbD86EV9NegDJf7iNP895G1c/s320/11009863_10153175565286005_467396477998975320_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sorry, moms, but your day is over. Back to work!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Because of that, I’m not so sure I like Mother’s Day. Please don’t take that to mean I don’t like moms. I love moms, which is why I’m not so sure I like Mother’s Day—at least not the way we celebrate it. It’s a giant reminder of how shitty we are to our moms every other day of the year. I’m not saying <i>you</i>, the person reading this right now, is shitty to your mom. I’m saying we, as a culture, are shitty to moms. And that’s why we feel the need to continue observing Mother’s Day. It’s a celebration of how much suffering our moms put up with, orchestrated by the people who caused the suffering in the first place.<br />
<br />
Here’s an idea: Maybe if we didn’t demand that moms handle 90% of the parenting duties, maybe if we didn’t stick them with all the household chores, maybe if we would remove the enormous pressure to be super-human that we saddle them with, maybe if we didn't penalize them financially for pausing their careers so that they can create life, maybe if we provided adequate and universal prenatal and neonatal care—then maybe we wouldn’t need a day to praise them and all that they do. We pile all these burdens on our moms, buy them chocolates once a year, and then go back to burdening them the next day. <br />
<br />
It’s supposed to warm my heart when I hear a mom on Mother’s Day say, “My kids made me breakfast this morning, and my husband did the laundry! I’m so #blessed!” Truth be told, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Look how excited you are that someone toasted a frozen waffle for you. You call yourself blessed because the people you live with cleaned their own damn clothes—in other words, they acted like considerate human beings. If your family wants to show you how much they love you, how about they make you breakfast and do the laundry <i>next</i> Sunday too? Or on a random Thursday in September? Or, I don’t know, how about every day? You know, like you do for them. <br />
<br />
So there’s my problem with Mother’s Day: One day of extreme, planned appreciation is supposed to balance out all the other days we take moms for granted. <br />
<br />
Starting today, the day after Mother’s Day, let’s treat moms better. Let’s show them we love them not one day a year, but every day of the year. Let’s do the dishes, wash the clothes, and vacuum the crumbs out of the sofa (after all, we put them there). Instead of applauding moms for doing all the things we selfishly demand that they do, let's stop demanding that they do to them.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's make Mother's Day a celebration of our love for mothers, not a recognition of everything we make them put up with.</div>
<div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-55471126422986815272014-11-27T11:08:00.000-08:002014-12-15T14:53:26.227-08:00“Do You Help Your Wife With the Cleaning and Stuff?”<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
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--></style><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Not long ago, I was at Target
with my 1-year-old daughter. It was our weekly trip to spend ridiculous amounts
of money on diapers, baby food, a wide array of kid-friendly crackers, too many
paper towels, and maybe—if there’s room in the budget—one or two items for me. We
were in the checkout line, and the cordial, clueless employee started chatting
it up with me.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Noticing the small child and
assorted groceries in my cart, she asked with a smile, “Are you a stay-at-home
dad?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Yep,” I said, wondering to
myself whether she asks moms the same question.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Aw, that’s so cute!”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I smiled and gave a polite,
fake laugh. As I’ve pointed out before, I don’t think it’s particularly cute
that I care for my kids, but whatever. No point in making this lady feel bad.
Target management had already required her to wear a “New Team Member” nametag,
and that’s embarrassing enough.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">But then she kept on yammering.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“So, do you help your wife with
the cleaning and stuff?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">At that point, I looked around
for a hidden camera. I had met this lady 15 seconds ago, and she had already
said three blog-worthy things to me. Was this some kind of a prank? It’s like
she had read my blog and was trying to provoke me. Maybe she wanted to get
mentioned. If so, it was working.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“I do the cleaning,” I replied.
“I don’t really call it ‘helping.’ It’s my job. I’m the stay-at-home parent.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">“Oh! That’s great!” she said,
wide-eyed. “Do you want a handle for your toilet paper?” Then she made stupid
faces at my daughter and continued ringing me up.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I hope I got through to her, at
least a little. That word—“help”—bothers me, and anything I can do to stop its
widespread use is a step in the right direction.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I’ve heard it a lot since I started
the stay-at-home thing. Someone once asked me if I “help with laundry.” When people
hear that I cook dinner most nights, I’ve been told, “That’s so nice of you to
help your wife like that.” It reminds me of when my 5-year-old “helps” me
shovel snow, which is to say he scoops one small shovelful and then just jumps
around making snow angels. I call him “Daddy’s helper” because it’s cute
(there’s that other word the Target lady used), not because he’s actually
helping.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Why is it “helping” when men do
the housework? When I was single and lived alone, I did my own laundry and
washed my own dishes all the time. Whom was I helping back then?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">When I moved in with a woman,
did it immediately become her job to clean my skivvies for me? If that’s the
case, someone tell her, because I can count on one hand the number of times
she’s done my laundry in seven years of marriage. (Full disclaimer: Because of
my OCD, I pretty much have to do my own laundry. If I let someone else do it,
they might fold it all wrong.)</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I’m not helping my wife when I
clean the house, anymore than she’s helping me when she goes to work every day.
Using the word “help” implies that the cleaning is rightfully her job, and that
the breadwinning is mine. That it’s not my responsibility as a grown man to
scrub the toilet once a week, and that she really shouldn’t have a career that
can support a family.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">We’re married, we own a home,
and we decided for some reason to have two money-sucking, attention-demanding,
mess-making, beautiful, wonderful, glorious children. All of the
responsibilities associated with those endeavors are <i>shared</i> responsibilities. They don’t belong to one of us or the
other. I mow the lawn and iron the clothes. My wife bathes the kids and cleans
the gutters. We both work and earn money.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The majority of the housework falls
on my shoulders, and it should. After all, she works full-time, and I work
part-time. It seems like a no-brainer, and it works for us. That’s not to say
we enjoy it all the time or never quibble over who’s busier, but simply that we
recognize things need to get done and don’t much care which one of us does them.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I know it’s not my place to
tell anyone how to run their household. The traditional arrangement—man go hunting,
woman go to river and beat clothes on rock—works for plenty of families, no
matter how disturbingly outdated it seems to me. To ask everyone to abandon
that and embrace a world in which we all rake leaves and pay mortgages and bake
quiches and wipe babies’ asses, regardless of our preconceived notions about
gender, is asking a lot.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So let’s start slow, by simply
correcting Target employees. And by recognizing nobody should feel forced to do
anything because of what is or isn’t between his or her legs. If you want to do
it the old way, go ahead. It’s none of my business. Just don’t refer to me as
my wife’s “helper” if you happen to notice me cleaning my own damn house.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-76264829531495872642014-09-30T11:49:00.000-07:002017-06-30T15:37:51.201-07:00SilenceAbout a mile from our house, there’s a community center that offers playgroups several days a week. Before my son was in school, I took him there often, and now I take my 1-year-old daughter. It’s close, it’s cheap, and it provides valuable socialization for my daycare-less kids. <br />
<br />
The community center is where I’ve met about 90% of the men and women (mostly women) in my network of stay-at-home parents. It’s also where I’ve encountered countless absurd comments that could inspire legions of blog posts. But that’s not what I’m going to write about today. Rather, I’m going to write about the painful <i>lack</i> of absurd comments—or any comments, for that matter. I’m going to write about silence. Undisguised, unmistakable silence. <br />
<br />
It happens all the time. There I am, the dad, walking into the playgroup room with a child in my arm and a diaper bag over my shoulder. There she is, some random mom, sitting at the snack table, reading a magazine or looking at her phone, glancing at her kid every once in a while. I nod and say hello as I enter. She gives a polite smile and, without a word, goes back to what she was doing. <br />
<br />
OK, I think. Not everyone has to jump out of their seats at the sight of another parent. She’s here to sit for a while and let her kid play, just like I am. Like I said, it’s the kids who are there to socialize, not the parents. <br />
<br />
So we sit in silence for a few minutes. Then, in walks another mom with her kid. And another with her kids. And another. They greet each other, they settle in, their kids play. The buzz of conversation slowly begins, and soon the room is humming with children frolicking and moms chatting and laughing about bedtimes, feeding routines and discipline strategies. Some of them clearly know each other, but others are definitely strangers, as I overhear several introductions. (“I’m Katie, and this is my daughter Indigo.” “Hi, Katie. I’m Sarah, and this is Maxton.”) <br />
<br />
Wait a minute, I think. What’s happening? I thought the lady reading the magazine just wasn’t social, and now she’s yammering on with two other women about the best overnight diapers and which brand of sippy cup is BPA-free. And there I sit, in a chair designed for a 3-year-old, looking like the new kid in school. Or just the kid everyone avoids because he always smells like cat pee. <br />
<br />
I realize it takes time to be accepted into any new group. That’s cool. And, to be clear, I’ve met plenty of personable moms who have accepted me immediately. As for the ones who don’t, I’m a big boy and I can take it. It’s just that it fascinates me how blatant it can sometimes be. <br />
<br />
For instance, some moms were sitting around one week talking about laundry detergent. I know it sounds cliché, but I speak the truth. When moms get together—the moms I witness anyway—they talk about laundry detergent and baby shampoo. I’m all for breaking down stereotypes (that’s the whole point of this blog), but damned if I don’t overhear a conversation about which brand of cleanser won’t scratch the bathtub or some such domestic matter every time I show up to playgroup. It’s like being on the other side of the glass during a Procter & Gamble focus group. <br />
<br />
This particular week, as I said, it was laundry detergent. Do you pay the extra money for name brand, or is the store brand just as good? Liquid or powder? Scented or unscented? And don’t even get me started on dryer sheets. <br />
<br />
I sat in my seat apart from the group, listening for a few minutes before weighing in. I figured, if they won’t ask for my opinion, I’ll take the initiative and offer it unsolicited. Then they’ll see I’m one of them, and I’ll be accepted. <br />
<br />
“My son has eczema,” I said. “So we’ve switched to unscented everything.” <br />
<br />
They all stopped speaking and turned to look at me. <br />
<br />
“Unscented body wash, unscented detergent, unscented dryer sheets,” I continued. “We use All Free Clear. It works just as well, and his skin has really improved.”<br />
<br />
There was a moment of silence from both sides. Probably a second or two, but it seemed like much longer. Then, slowly, they all turned back to one another, shook off whatever it was that had just happened, and picked up their discussion where they had left off. <br />
<br />
And that was that. My attempt to join the party had failed. They carried on conversing, and I went back to keeping my mouth shut. <br />
<br />
About a half hour later, I discovered that my contribution to the laundry detergent forum did break the ice a bit. As I was preparing to leave, a mom who was packing up her stuff alongside me started making some chit-chat. <br />
<br />
“So you, like, do the laundry and stuff?” she asked. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, I do,” I replied. <br />
<br />
“Oh,” she said, clearly interested but not really knowing what else to say. <br />
<br />
Silence followed as we zipped shut our diaper bags and grabbed our kids. <br />
<br />
“OK, have a good day then,” I said. And we parted ways. <br />
<br />
Another playgroup, another hour of awkward silence, I thought on my way home. As I considered this lady’s question, however, it occurred to me that I had stumbled on a possible revelation. Maybe I had an answer as to why these moms don’t include me in their domestic discussions. <br />
<br />
See, I assume all stay-at-home parents do the bulk of the housework. They’re the ones home during the day, so it just makes sense that they would handle the laundry, grocery shopping, and what not. But, if this lady’s question is any indication, these moms assume I don’t do these things. “So you, like, do the laundry and stuff?” the lady had asked. The notion had never occurred to her, so she didn’t even think to include me in the discussion. <br />
<br />
These moms weren’t necessarily ignoring me because I gave them the creeps (although I still kept that open as a possibility); they were ignoring me because they figured I wouldn’t have any interest or input in what they were talking about. It’s akin to a bunch of men sitting around talking about football while ignoring the one or two women in the room. <br />
<br />
As anyone with a partially open mind can understand, that’s not really fair. Still, it happens to both sexes all the time. Just as some men assume sports talk is a boys-only club, certain women assume child-rearing chat is girls-only territory, and they’re protective of it. No boys allowed. <br />
<br />
To a certain extent, I’ve got it coming. Everyone knows sexism almost always hurts women, not men. Women are the ones who get talked down to by mechanics. They’re the ones whose gender is used as an insult—nobody ever disparages a kid by saying, “You throw like a boy.” They’re the ones who—in 2014, for god’s sake—get paid 77 cents to the man’s dollar for doing the same damn job. <br />
<br />
One thing women have on men, however, is parenting. Moms, not dads, are still seen as the family nurturers. They’re the experts in raising children and managing households. So I can imagine their confusion and possible resentment when I strut in, trying to talk about unscented laundry detergent. Men have taken away enough from women over the years, and here I am trying to horn in on something they’re universally seen as better at. <br />
<br />
Ah, the hell with it. Maybe I’m over-thinking this. Maybe I really do just give them the creeps. I suppose the next time I go to a playgroup, I should wear pants. Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-48474386021325183422014-06-25T13:49:00.000-07:002014-10-01T19:45:53.729-07:00A Tale of Two Old Ladies<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
As I go through my daily adventures as a stay-at-home dad, I regularly field odd looks and dumb questions from a vast array of people. Young, old, man, woman, parent, nonparent, seemingly intelligent, obviously dimwitted—they’re all capable of the unintentional insult. But the demographic that seems to notice me and other daytime dads the most would have to be senior women. The surprise, the judgment, the genuine confusion, the “Giving your wife a break today?” questions—they seem to come from older ladies more than any other group. <br />
<br />
It makes sense, I guess. When I’m out food shopping with one or both of my kids in the middle of the day, it’s probably a jarring image for the sixty-plus female crowd. Thirty, forty, fifty years ago, when they were parents of toddlers, this was their territory. There wasn’t a man to be seen in these parts. While today’s retail aisles are still populated by more moms than dads, the tide is slowly turning, and I suppose the old guardians of the grocery store are the ones most likely to take notice.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_5DbXnGIDv_1t_0MxFxMqLdF3K4K9pgfZMbcEqWyULciZ7ZNaO-tP6PFLk-YuBjxr_3D9FX-_NcViI8n9kU_GQCUv_XhFtb2Sfqh1W2NqyB-BAGlB6LZoldVGC1q7XJwNcAaaCvY098/s1600/Crabby-Old-Lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz_5DbXnGIDv_1t_0MxFxMqLdF3K4K9pgfZMbcEqWyULciZ7ZNaO-tP6PFLk-YuBjxr_3D9FX-_NcViI8n9kU_GQCUv_XhFtb2Sfqh1W2NqyB-BAGlB6LZoldVGC1q7XJwNcAaaCvY098/s1600/Crabby-Old-Lady.jpg" height="200" width="156" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">Three of those fingers are<br />
pointing right back at you, <br />
you crusty old bird.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I’ll give you a couple examples, one that reinforced my general disapproval of the human race and one that might just be enough to convince me to give everyone another chance. <br />
<br />
I took my son, who was two at the time, to an indoor playground for a morning of chaos and germ trading. If you’re a parent, you know the kind of place I’m talking about. You go there when it’s too cold or rainy to play outside or when you’ve run out of other ideas. You pay admission, you take off your shoes, and there are a variety of slides, half-broken toys, and overpriced snacks. The kids run amuck, simultaneously dazed and squealing from their steady diets of Ritalin and Twizzlers, while their parents wander around, staring at their smartphones. Not my favorite place in the world, but for $8, it’s not a bad way to spend a half day and let the boy burn off some energy. <br />
<br />
At the end of this particular half day, when I told my son it was time to go, I was met with some resistance. Kids hate to leave a place when they’re having fun, and if there’s anyone in the world harder to reason with with than a two-year-old, it’s an exhausted two-year-old who’s approaching naptime. I gave him a five-minute warning, but when he didn’t make his way to the exit himself, I did what you do next in these situations: I lifted him off the floor myself, securing as many of his flailing arms and legs as possible. <br />
<br />
As I raised him toward my face, he let out a horrible, high-pitched, ear-piercing yelp. An octave higher and it would have been detectable only by dogs. <br />
<br />
“Whoa!” I reacted. “What’s with the screaming?” It was a rhetorical question; I didn’t really expect my two-year-old to answer me. <br />
<br />
Then, from behind, I felt a boney old hand on my shoulder. It was some kid’s grandma, attempting to assuage my anxiety. In a calming voice, she said, “Noises like that are perfectly normal for children that age.” <br />
<br />
Huh? She was talking to me as if I’d never dealt with a two-year-old before. As if this was my first day on the job. As if, because I’m a dad, I needed some guidance. <br />
<br />
“Oh, I know,” I replied, nodding. <br />
<br />
She gave me a reassuring smile and another pat on the shoulder, and then she went back to practice her obviously superior caregiving with her dirty little grandkids.<br />
<br />
As with any such instance, this could simply be a case of my misinterpreting things. Maybe I’m looking for subtle sexism in every interaction, so I’m bound to see it even when it’s not there. Perhaps this lady would have said the same thing to a mom in the same situation, and I’m just paranoid. <br />
<br />
But you know what they say: sometimes a little paranoia is just sound thinking. I’ve gotten “the look” before. Plenty of times. And I might seem like some crazy guy who thinks everyone is out to get him when I say old ladies look at me differently from how they look at moms, but I know it’s true at least part of the time.<br />
<br />
I know this, because one old lady actually said it.<br />
<br />
We were at the post office on a Tuesday morning, my son and I. We had stopped there on our way to story time at the library, so it must have been about ten a.m. I held my son in one arm and handed our package to the postal worker with the other. My son was helping push the buttons on the credit card machine, as he likes to do, when I noticed an old lady watching us and smiling. I smiled back. <br />
<br />
Then, she spoke, and it’s something I’ll never forget. <br />
<br />
“I think it’s wonderful,” she said slowly, “that we’re starting to see more men doing so many of the things only women used to do.” <br />
<br />
“Thank you,” I replied. And I meant it. “Thank you” is something we say a dozen times a day, but we don’t often mean it; we’re just being polite. This time, it was sincere. That lady made my day.<br />
<br />
I didn’t think there was anything particularly mom-like about what I was doing that morning. I was just mailing a package with my son. But it was ten a.m. on a Tuesday, and I was ably handling a two-year-old in public, and that was enough for this old lady to take notice. As I said before, I have to remember that when she was my age, she probably didn’t see such things. <br />
<br />
The fact that she was embracing this change made me want to hug her. She “got it.” In one sentence, she acknowledged that roles are shifting, she approved of it, and she delighted in it. She didn’t make me feel unwelcome or inept. On the contrary, she made me feel warm and fuzzy, right there at the post office. <br />
<br />
It’s almost enough to make a grump like me find a restored faith in humankind. I walked into library story time with my head held high that morning, and there may have even been a skip in my step. I felt I had broken through some sort of societal wall. It was a victory. <br />
<br />
Then, of course, five minutes in, some grandma at the library noticed me and chuckled. “Uh oh!” she said, “Dad’s in charge today!” <br />
<br />
And just like that, I was put right back in my place as the untrusted outsider. Thanks, lady. For a moment there, I was feeling good about the world. Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-34610078772883226692014-05-27T21:56:00.000-07:002014-10-01T19:45:53.723-07:00“Father of the Year” I almost feel bad writing about this one, because the lady who said it really did mean it as a compliment. She didn’t intend to simultaneously degrade all fathers and mothers everywhere. But she kind of did.<br />
<br />
It happened a few weeks ago, when I was at a restaurant with my kids. It was just the three of us: me, my 5-year-old, and my 9-month-old. My wife was in the midst of a busy period at work, and, for the second time that week, she’d be home rather late. It always feels a bit pointless to cook a substantial dinner on nights like that, as I’m the only adult around to enjoy it, so I figured we’d dine out instead. Let someone else do the cooking and wash the dishes, and let the kids be distracted and entertained by the many sights and sounds of “da westawant,” as my son fondly calls it. <br /><br />We were sitting at the outside patio—my son enjoying his buttered noodles and fruit salad and me skillfully eating a black bean burger with my daughter squiggling on my lap—when a lady sat down at the table next to ours. I was taken aback, because she was a dead ringer for Margot Kidder. For those of you unfamiliar with Margot Kidder, she played Lois Lane in the Christopher Reeve Superman movies in the ‘70s and ‘80s. She also went bat-shit crazy in the ‘90s. This lady at the restaurant looked like the ‘90s Margot Kidder. We’ll refer to her simply as “Bonkers.”<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j4M8RJx7oPlaBvN8mtyaWxq57-YF4Zc45pwQws7I4vkT4fhbhVWg5XEM_0pe8XpBicK1HiRczUrPFL2pFVqMzg90RbAevdTntvkPzvBwp1wXELaLRCeC9ZMzfjLdgQmbAAlmBO5dVFM/s1600/Margot+Kidder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4j4M8RJx7oPlaBvN8mtyaWxq57-YF4Zc45pwQws7I4vkT4fhbhVWg5XEM_0pe8XpBicK1HiRczUrPFL2pFVqMzg90RbAevdTntvkPzvBwp1wXELaLRCeC9ZMzfjLdgQmbAAlmBO5dVFM/s1600/Margot+Kidder.jpg" height="172" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Left: Young, graceful Margot Kidder. Right: Old, crazy Margot Kidder.</span></td></tr>
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Bonkers noticed my little family and seemed excited by us. She energetically asked me, “Are you out to eat with both of your kids?” <br /><br />“Yes, I am,” I replied. <br /><br />“Wow! You’re Father of the Year!” Bonkers declared with a slightly-psychotic smile. <br /><br />I smiled back and thanked her. She stared at us for a while and then periodically glanced over and smiled adoringly throughout the rest of our time together. I was a bit frightened but mostly flattered. <br /><br />I knew she was just being nice. She was congratulating me on my bravery for taking two young children out in public with no assistance. And, for a moment, I bought it. “Yeah, I <i>am</i> Father of the Year,” I thought, smugly helping myself to another sweet potato fry. But it didn’t take long before my general dislike of people kicked in, and I recognized how unfair her statement was. <br /><br />This amazing feat that I was pulling off? This “Father of the Year” display I was exhibiting? Moms do it all the time, and nobody seems to notice. This lady sees a dad doing it, and it’s the greatest thing she’s ever witnessed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPJkqqkYRkpfq5rD521C8Wp784YJA1AbubGP-8uvjEHV_DpZOj9Aq81V0rk3UOK7MimmJnT9A845qmswHtTXFDzCt4Qvn8BY-dKv7ORoQp-ba4DGWgw0kHtcpa4XxCEpFpTyN48eIUFk/s1600/photo-editor_ist2_597228-father-of-the-year-trophy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPJkqqkYRkpfq5rD521C8Wp784YJA1AbubGP-8uvjEHV_DpZOj9Aq81V0rk3UOK7MimmJnT9A845qmswHtTXFDzCt4Qvn8BY-dKv7ORoQp-ba4DGWgw0kHtcpa4XxCEpFpTyN48eIUFk/s1600/photo-editor_ist2_597228-father-of-the-year-trophy.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do I really deserve one of these? Probably not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Yes, it can be difficult to handle a 5-year-old and a 9-month-old at a restaurant. So I hope the next time Bonkers sees a mom doing that, she flashes her a creepy grin and declares her Mother of the Year. <br /><br />But that never happens. In fact, I’ll tell you another story. A few days later, all four of us—my wife included—were out to dinner at a restaurant to celebrate Mother’s Day. Our 9-month-old was especially cranky that evening, and she refused to sit in the restaurant’s highchair without crying, pounding her fists, and letting everyone around her know what awful, selfish parents we are for asking her to sit quietly for ten minutes while we eat our meals. So, my wife and I took turns eating. My wife ate first while I carried the baby around, making silly faces at her and pointing out distractions like ceiling fans and crappy wall paintings with my best faux enthusiasm. Then, when my wife finished eating, she grabbed the baby and returned the favor so I could eat. <br /><br />While I walked around with my daughter, I caught some man who was standing at the bar beaming warmly at me. When I got closer to him, he said, “You’re a good dad.” Of course, I thanked him. But when my wife walked around with the baby, he said no such thing to her. And he had the opportunity to say it, as she walked right past him. When we left the restaurant after finishing our meal, he saw me carrying the baby in her car seat, and he said it again. <br /><br />But no compliment for my wife. Not even a “Happy Mother’s Day.” <br /><br />“What about me?” my wife asked me. “Am I not a good mom?” <br /><br />Sorry, honey. That’s how double standards work. You don’t get any praise; all that hard work and dedication to your children is just expected of you. <br /><br />Here’s yet another example, brought to you by Facebook. One night, around 8:00, a friend and mother of two posted something along the following lines: <br /><br />“Whew! So thankful for my wonderful husband Larry, who’s taking over bath and bedtime duty with the boys so Mommy can get some alone time at the gym! Feeling blessed.” <br /><br />The comments came pouring in, from men and women alike: <br /><br />“What a great dad!!!”<br />
“Awwww! Lucky girl!” <br />“Superdad!” <br />“Good guy you’ve got there. Hang on to him. ;)” <br />“So great that Larry will do that for you!” <br /><br />In other words, 364 nights a year, this lady bathes her kids and puts them to bed, usually after working her full-time job. Then, one night, her husband takes over, and he’s elevated to superhero status. <br /><br />Like Bonkers’s Father of the Year proclamation and bar dude’s “You’re a good dad,” this Facebook BS is an insult to both sexes.<br />
<br />It’s an insult to women because it reinforces the outdated idea that it’s their job to take care of the kids while the men do whatever it is they do—work, eat, drink, perhaps relax with a pipe and the evening newspaper. When people subscribe to this kind of thinking, mothers who aren’t constantly nurturing their children are seen as being bad at “their job.” That’s right, ladies. You don’t get time to enjoy a meal, read a few pages of a favorite book, or—heaven forbid—have a career. Your proper place is in your house, bent over the side of a tub, washing your screaming two-year-old. Whatever other silly endeavors you take on, child-rearing is still all on you. <br /><br />It’s an insult to men because it implies an expectation of incompetence or indifference. Even though someone might mean it as a compliment, they’re also saying, “Gee, seeing as how you’re a man and all, I would expect you to be a bumbling idiot or just not give a shit about your own kids. But look at you! Way to go, you big, loveable dummy!” <br /><br />So, the moral of the story is this: Don’t compliment anyone. No, that can’t be it. I guess you should just think before you speak. And maybe try gradually shedding whatever archaic ideas about gender roles you’re still carrying around in 2014. It’s not easy, I know. These ideas are reinforced everywhere: our upbringing, our peers, TV, movies, advertising. Everywhere. But you can do it if you put forth a conscious effort. <br /><br />I mean, if a moron like me can figure out how to clothe and feed my children, anything’s possible, right? Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-13247745307561425422014-05-10T07:47:00.000-07:002014-10-20T18:34:55.021-07:00“Dad’s Babysitting?”<span style="font-size: small;">I’ll be the first to admit, most of the dumb things people say to me and other stay-at-home dads are pretty harmless. I really do understand that they’re not meant to be offensive. “Mr. Mom,” probably the most common gaffe, is just an outdated attempt at creating a cute nickname for us. For better or worse, most people see nothing wrong with it.<br /><br /> But here’s one I don’t understand at all. Every time I hear it, I wonder how people can say it without knowing how offensive/degrading/inappropriate/imbecilic it is.<br /><br /> “Dad’s babysitting?”<br /><br />Let me tell you about one of the many times I’ve heard this phrase or one of its variations. When my son was two, he and I went to the hospital to see my mom, who was recovering from shoulder surgery. After the visit, we were standing in a hallway, waiting for an elevator, when some guy who worked at the hospital—perhaps a nurse or a lab tech or a bedpan emptier—noticed us and smiled.<br /><br />“Oh, Daddy’s babysitting today?” he asked.<br /><br />I gave a slight, insincere laugh and said, “Yeah, every day.”<br /><br />“Oh,” he said, his smile disappearing. Put off by my refusal to be amused by his stupid comment, he turned his head away and quickly got back to his business. My son and I boarded the elevator, and I mumbled a variety of curse words as the doors closed.<br /> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBRmM4BTl_tYVgpLd1RAOUcDlEyphqNbRWOT09Et80Cc8UhL0UBa7EIb6TFGpGVelGrLvruUL9Jjw6Jr81FkXAhVBhSEDyzcQTvQIlc-3Vlnykpf0khIINvqca3OnF1EcHrGW5KazeYk/s1600/babysitting_flyer_ladybug-r32be989c2b904e76a1fa65d218e1c794_vgvyf_8byvr_512.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBRmM4BTl_tYVgpLd1RAOUcDlEyphqNbRWOT09Et80Cc8UhL0UBa7EIb6TFGpGVelGrLvruUL9Jjw6Jr81FkXAhVBhSEDyzcQTvQIlc-3Vlnykpf0khIINvqca3OnF1EcHrGW5KazeYk/s320/babysitting_flyer_ladybug-r32be989c2b904e76a1fa65d218e1c794_vgvyf_8byvr_512.jpg" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I'm going to start hanging these around the house.<br />Then I have to change my name to Sarah. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;">That day at the hospital is just one instance. Over the years, I’ve been accused of babysitting at all sorts of places—the bank, the park, the grocery store, the mall, the library, the police station (don’t ask) … and the list goes on. That doesn’t include the times I’m not around to hear it. On the rare occasion that my dear wife gets a night or an afternoon out with her friends, some ditz in the group inevitably says it. “Where are the kids? Dad babysitting today?” she’ll smugly inquire.<br /><br />Really? Babysitting? What the hell do I look like, a high school student? A neighborhood teen trying to make a few extra bucks so I can buy a used car? Do they think my wife pays me $9 an hour and tells me to help myself to anything in the fridge?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I’m their dad. It’s not babysitting if I’m one their two parents. That’s what I represent: half of their total parental team.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I just don’t get it. I don’t get how people in 2014 can still say such thoughtless crap and think it’s OK. The idea behind it is pretty clear: that it’s somehow not my place to care for my own children. That I’m just keeping things under control until Mom—their rightful caregiver—returns. That I’m waiting for my shift to be over so I can hand these strangers back to someone who loves them and return to whatever it is I do when I’m not working my part-time nanny gig.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Let me repeat: I’m their dad. Stop staring and smiling. And stop saying I’m babysitting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Now, some of you might be saying, “Oh, lighten up, Dave. They think it’s cute. What’s wrong with that?”<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Plenty. When I went to the oil change place a few months ago, I didn’t tell the woman who checked my tire pressure that I thought she was cute. I didn’t say, “Oh, pretending to be a mechanic today?” I didn’t say anything, because I assume she just wants to be treated like the rest of the employees. She’d rather I not notice—or at least not point out—that she’s a woman performing a job dominated by men.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">And that’s exactly what I would like: to just not be noticed. Yep, I’m a dad alone with his children. Go ahead and treat me like any other parent. Not sure what to say to me that doesn’t involve the root word “babysit”? Try simply saying hello or chatting about the weather. Or—here’s an idea—say nothing at all. Just act like what you’re witnessing is perfectly normal.<br /><br />By the way, I am by no means the first person to write about this topic. Google “dad babysitting” and you’ll find articles and posts aplenty, <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/sexes/archive/2013/01/dads-caring-for-their-kids-its-parenting-not-babysitting/267443">like this one from The Atlantic</a>, which describes the phenomenon much more eloquently than I ever could. Here’s a taste: “The act of a man sharing parental responsibilities is highly desirable to women, but still relatively infrequent, and therefore elicits laudatory reactions.” See what I mean? You raised your IQ ten points </span><span style="font-size: small;">just </span><span style="font-size: small;">by reading that sentence.<br /><br />But, believe it or not, some people out there actually defend the “babysitting” label. Like the sexist windbag who wrote <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/fathers-can-be-referred-to-as-babysitters/">“10 Reasons Fathers CAN Be Referred to as Babysitters.”</a> It’s a shitty little article that describes the majority of dads as men “who dance between being an extra child and a full-fledged partner” and warns moms that leaving children with Dad could result in a visit by a team of first responders. Feel that? That was your IQ dropping back down. If you’re reading this, Keesha (the “author”), please contact me. I have some words for you.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Here’s the thing about Keesha. By referring to me and her husband as babysitters, she’s not just insulting us—she’s teaching her kids a significant lesson. She’s teaching her sons that, when they grow up, they needn’t consider themselves caregivers of their own children. And she’s teaching her daughters that they shouldn’t expect the fathers of their future children to act as partners in child-rearing.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">That’s unfortunate, because Keesha has the chance to break the cycle. If her dad was all thumbs with her and her siblings, or if her husband is a neglectful oaf who wouldn’t touch a diaper with a ten-foot pole, then I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe her kids can turn the tide. That begins with a conscious effort to keep her unfair preconceptions to herself. Otherwise, she’s just perpetuating the very problem she’s whining about.</span>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I look back at my previous posts,
I notice they’re all about women. I didn’t mean to do that; it just happened
that way. It’s not that men never say dumb things to me. Quite the contrary. In
fact, I’ll tell you about a doozy that happened just a couple weeks ago.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Recently, a regional
appliance/furniture/electronics store was having a going-out-of-business sale.
One afternoon, I had some time to kill, so I decided to toss the kids into the
car and go check out the deals. I was hoping to score a small, cheap TV for the
basement.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The trip was a bust. Hardly
anything was left, save for a few scratched-up end tables and some giant microwaves
that looked as though they had been on the sales floor since 1986. So, the kids
and I abandoned our mission.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As we headed for the doors,
some dumbass employee was inspired to crack a joke. He saw me carrying my
8-month-old daughter’s car seat in one hand while using my other hand to guide
my 5-year-old away from something shiny and toward the exit. Apparently, my
slight struggle was an amusing site for this guy.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Hey, ya don’t wanna carry a ‘frigerator
out too?!” he loudly kidded, motioning toward the appliance section. (Yes, in
Wisconsin some people call them “‘frigerators.”) He then laughed much harder
than necessary and continued with the following zinger:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Your wife could probably do
it! She’s better at multitasking!”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I gave him an annoyed smile,
muttered some response and went on my way.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was a lame joke, told by a
guy I’ll probably never see again. But there’s a popular attitude behind his
words—an attitude I run into all the time. It’s this idea that, as a dad, I’m
out of my element corralling two kids while trying to complete an everyday task
like shopping. That kind of juggling act is better suited to my wife, who no
doubt has some sort of device connected remotely from her lady parts to her
brain that enables her to handle such stress.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It happens at the pediatrician’s
office, when the nurse directs every question to my wife while ignoring me. And
it happens globally, like when a video entitled <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3xM93rXbY" target="_blank">“World’s Toughest Job”</a></span> went
viral last week. Maybe you’ve seen it. Some guy in a suit interviews a bunch of
eager job-seekers for a non-specified position. As he gradually reveals the outrageous
stipulations of the job—you must be on duty 24 hours a day, the work can be
highly physical, there’s no pay—the candidates grow more confused and indignant.
It’s then revealed that the position they’re interviewing for is “mom.” It’s a
clever and cute little video full of tears at the end, but would it have killed
them to say “parent” instead of “mom”?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now, if you’re a woman and
you’re reading this, you no doubt have little sympathy for me, as you’ve
probably been the victim of sexism more times in the last month than I have my
whole life. Mechanics, repair technicians, complete strangers, bosses and
certain politicians talk this way to you all the time. In fact, had my wife
been with me in that appliance store, and we would have been shopping for a
‘frigerator, I’m sure that same employee would have looked directly at me when
throwing out cubic feet measurements and energy efficiency numbers, figuring my
silly wife wouldn’t understand such technical talk.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe I don’t have much to complain
about. Of course, I’ve never let that stop me before.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyway, back to the ‘fridgerator
guy. My first thought was that I should attribute his cluelessness to his age. I’d
guess he was about 50. Not ancient by any means, but not the typical age of a new
parent in 2014 and therefore still stuck in an old-school attitude about gender
roles. Then again, he might have been 30 for all I know. He looked like a heavy
drinker and chain smoker, and it’s always hard to guess the age of those people.
Actually, what he really looked like was a guy who previously wasn’t allowed to
leave the stockroom for fear that he’d frighten customers but was permitted to
come out this week because the store was closing anyway.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So I’m not sure how old he was.
But does age really matter anyway? Is that a valid excuse? If anything,
shouldn’t extra years give a person extra wisdom?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">On second thought, he has no
good excuse for his boneheaded remark. Get with it, ‘fridgerator guy. The times
they are a-changin’. As parenting becomes more and more of a shared
responsibility, your ideas about bumbling, clueless dads and multitasking
supermoms—much like your once-mighty retail store—are rapidly becoming
obsolete.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-79792241689642438122014-04-05T07:52:00.001-07:002014-10-01T19:45:53.739-07:00“So, What Do YOU Do All Day?”<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As my millions of fans know (millions, dozens, whatever), I
write about dumb things people say to me when they find out I’m a stay-at-home
dad. It’s been my intention from the beginning to focus on things people say to
stay-at-home <i>dads</i>, not stay-at-home
parents in general. Plenty of asinine comments are directed at stay-at-home
moms every day, and I don’t mean to disregard that fact, but I’m going to stick
with what I know. And I believe the two lists of stupid comments are distinct
enough that I can dedicate a blog solely to the dad side of it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is, of course, some overlap. Today’s comment
represents an interesting and ironic slice of that overlap. It’s one that
stay-at-home parents of both sexes hear, but it means different things
depending on the recipient.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When moms hear it, it goes like this: “So, what do you DO
all day?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s the last thing you should ask a stay-at-home mom. Look
it up. They hate hearing it, and for good reason. It implies that their job is
easy, conjuring up images of comfortable, makeup-less women relaxing on sofas,
watching daytime soaps and eating economy-size packages of Double Stuf Oreos. Stay-at-home
moms know that spending the day with screaming, messy, ungrateful, destructive
kids who can’t give you two goddamn minutes to pee in peace, let alone wash the
dishes, is a nerve-racking, exhausting job, and they don’t like to have their
blood, sweat and tears come under question.</span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tZq7fNR2DOR7cpkcTsKecf0gWh1xsirNwE90Vb1PC5eQTVO9CLJoTSt1YayknImNgd48KbeVdGC2Ktk-Uy4IYOl6GE0Maqx94iu05bJ9YKK63DcTUhK44mKSiaR8FnoRecDFDg36j5E/s3200/stay-at-home+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6tZq7fNR2DOR7cpkcTsKecf0gWh1xsirNwE90Vb1PC5eQTVO9CLJoTSt1YayknImNgd48KbeVdGC2Ktk-Uy4IYOl6GE0Maqx94iu05bJ9YKK63DcTUhK44mKSiaR8FnoRecDFDg36j5E/s3200/stay-at-home+mom.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One of those clever Internet memes.</span></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Stay-at-home dads don’t like it either. However, when we
hear the question, it goes like this:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“So, what do YOU do all day?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Notice the emphasis is on a different word. That’s an
important distinction, because it carries with it a whole different
preconception. And here’s the kicker. You know who says it every time I hear
it? Stay-at-home moms.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Take this one time, for instance. I had just dropped off my
son at school, and I was at the grocery store, buying some ingredients for that
night’s dinner. I ran into one of my friendly neighborhood stay-at-home moms,
and we had the following exchange:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her: So,
what do YOU do all day?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me: Oh,
pretty much the same stuff you do. Like, for example, here we both are at the
grocery store.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her: Oh!
Well, I suppose so.</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now, I should probably explain the context a bit more. It
was September, and my son had just started half-day three-year-old
kindergarten. This was before my daughter was born, so for that school year, I
did have it pretty easy. I dropped my son off at school at 9:00 and picked him
up at noon. After I’d bring him home and fix him his lunch, he’d usually take a
nap. I’ll be the first to admit that, of the four-plus years I’ve been doing
the stay-at-home thing, those were the least demanding nine months.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still, it wasn’t a vacation. The house needed to be kept
clean, meals needed to be cooked, laundry needed to be done—all the same tasks
as before, just without my needy, babbling sidekick.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The lady who asked me also had a child in school, but she,
unlike me, still had a one-year-old at home with her. There was a hint of envy
in her question, and she had the air of a worn-down prisoner looking through
the bars at someone who had just gained sweet freedom. So I gave her a pass,
figuring she was simply referring to the fact that I was now childless for part
of my day and she wasn’t.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But then, that same day, it happened again. This time, it
was a mom whose only child was also in kindergarten, so she was in a situation just
like mine. We were picking up our kids from school when she said it: “So, what
do YOU do all day?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Same question, same unmistakable emphasis on “you,” as if to
say, “Hey, I know I still have plenty to do even though my kid is in school,
but what could you possibly be filling your mornings with?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That time, it was harder for me to write it off as I had
done earlier. Then, probably three days later, I heard it again. Same tone, and
from another a stay-at-home mom. Then I heard it again. And again. And again.
Every time, from a stay-at-home mom.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s an innocent enough question, and it’s not said with any
malice. It’s just that, everybody knows it’s a question you never, ever, ever,
ever, under any circumstances, ask a stay-at-home mom. Well, maybe not <i>everybody</i> knows that. But damn. You’d
think a stay-at-home mom would.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I suppose I should be only half offended. The fact that
these moms never asked me this question before my son was in school—and haven’t
asked it again since my daughter was born—means they’re acknowledging that I take
care of my kids the same as they do. But there’s something fishy about so many
of them asking it when my son started school. Apparently they were assuming I
was dropping off my son and immediately heading home to play video games, drink
cheap beer, take a nap, make a mess for my wife to clean up or all of the above.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What a terrible thing to assume.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ81B5UxmXtkek3g4MAVdWMNpD08NVANKFgiLzV5By7OUBQt2Og3nxPfyfEB2uoISCFLu3gj3WWvXJLezK3enaN9UZesJUgT08ToldnDctFk8sxVEw5oAUF8Vuq1BlwfxQblqtlHkNQuU/s3200/homer_simpson-41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ81B5UxmXtkek3g4MAVdWMNpD08NVANKFgiLzV5By7OUBQt2Og3nxPfyfEB2uoISCFLu3gj3WWvXJLezK3enaN9UZesJUgT08ToldnDctFk8sxVEw5oAUF8Vuq1BlwfxQblqtlHkNQuU/s3200/homer_simpson-41.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me, apparently.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Number one, I would never drink cheap beer. Number two, my
wife works all day. Do they really think I expect her to spend her nights and
weekends scrubbing floors, folding my socks, and going grocery shopping? Do they
think I’m that lazy or incompetent? And do they think my wife is that much of a
sucker that she would allow her husband to pull that crap?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Maybe that’s the thing. Maybe they’re just not thinking.
That’s how dumb things get said by otherwise intelligent people.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, to the millions (or dozens, as the case may be) of moms
reading this, when my daughter goes to school in a few years, please don’t
start asking me again what I do all day. Just assume I’m doing something
constructive, as you expect others to assume of you. We’re all domestic brothers
and sisters in the struggle to be fully appreciated and celebrated, aren’t we? So
let’s ally our forces to defeat the ignorance, not perpetuate it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-18101157374682830092014-03-22T08:11:00.002-07:002014-10-01T19:46:56.509-07:00“Mr. Mom”<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In last week’s post, I referenced <i>Mr. Mom</i>, the uproarious 1983 motion picture comedy starring Michael
Keaton and Teri Garr, in which a husband is imprisoned in his home with his
children while his power-suit-wearing wife sips martinis and yucks it up with
the boys in a fancy corporate board room. The husband, frazzled and flustered
at first, ends up figuring things out at home and shows everyone that he can
handle household chores just fine. In the end, of course, he gets his job back
(whew!), and things return to normal. He gives up those silly domestic duties,
and his wife comes to her senses about this whole “career” thing she had
briefly toyed with.
</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/solr1W5idNY?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Here’s the trailer, in case you’re the only person
in the world unfamiliar with this movie.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The movie certainly didn’t mark the first use of the term
“Mr. Mom,” but it did a lot to bring it into the mainstream American vernacular.
And that’s fine. It was a different time.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But it’s 2014 now, and it’s time to put “Mr. Mom” to rest. You
see, there’s already a perfectly good term for a man who cooks, cleans and cares
for his kids. It’s “Dad.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For those of you who don’t understand why “Mr. Mom” is a stupid
thing to say, let me break it down for you. When you call me Mr. Mom, you’re telling
me there are certain things I’m supposed to fail at or have no interest in
simply because of my gender. When you realize I actually partake in these things
willingly and competently, you’re surprised. I’m pushing a stroller, and you’re
reacting as if you just witnessed a trained bear perform a juggling act. “Well
how about that,” you’re saying. “You’re so good at caring for your kids, it’s
like you’re a woman!”</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzI_jODcxepW6R1sQxTlzMhLZTmFl9zfXWY_9cySElJYP69iZJpKtn0uagXjkseE-CJ2woIbEPsAHSYddIr1kqPO-OhG1AcS8Fo9gF8G2vsGGss7ceqY6eC4dxCOLqykEytHBzEtEPboo/s1600/letsjugglekidss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzI_jODcxepW6R1sQxTlzMhLZTmFl9zfXWY_9cySElJYP69iZJpKtn0uagXjkseE-CJ2woIbEPsAHSYddIr1kqPO-OhG1AcS8Fo9gF8G2vsGGss7ceqY6eC4dxCOLqykEytHBzEtEPboo/s1600/letsjugglekidss.jpg" height="320" width="218" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Step right up and witness this rare and amazing spectacle!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That’s a pretty bone-headed attitude, and it’s one I don’t
dare take with women. If I see a mom building a treehouse with her kids, I
don’t say, “Hey everyone, take a look at Mrs. Dad!” When I meet a woman who’s a
successful corporate manager, I don’t shake her hand and say, “How’s it going,
Ms. Bossman?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don’t say those things because I don’t have this notion in
my head that there are certain tasks women aren’t fit to take on simply because
they’re women. And even if I did think such a thing, I would know better than
to say it out loud.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yet, “Mr. Mom” is said without hesitation all the time.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let me tell you about one instance. It wasn’t the first time
I heard someone say it, and it wasn’t the last. Its significance is that it’s
the first time I corrected the dummy who said it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One afternoon, I mentioned to a group of friends that my
son’s fourth birthday was that day. “Oh, tell him happy birthday!” several of
them cheered. Someone asked what we’d be doing to celebrate, and I briefly
explained our plans for later that evening, which included a carrot-applesauce
cake my son had requested.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Carrot-applesauce?” some lady said, amused at my kid’s
unorthodox cake choice.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Yeah, three cups of shredded carrots,” I groaned. “I spent
all morning making the thing, and look at my hands. I need to get myself a food
processor.” I showed them my palms, which were died orange and clearly abused
from the manual shredding they had performed.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Oh, that’s right,” the lady giggled. “You’re Mr. Mom!”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Or just Dad,” I replied flatly. “Because, you know, dads
bake cakes too.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She cocked her head to the side, briefly confused. “Oh, OK,”
she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head, as if I were being silly.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And from then on, that became my standard response. Not
overwhelmingly clever, not especially rude, not altogether that polite. Just
blunt and necessary. When someone calls me Mr. Mom, I simply correct them and
remind them that dads are parents too.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of course, you can’t correct everyone. For example, take
CNN, one of the world’s largest news organizations. They were using the term willy-nilly
as recently as 2010. See this article entitled <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/wayoflife/06/18/mr.moms/" target="_blank">“Mr. Moms become more common.”</a> Beyond
the headline, the reporter goes on to drop the term casually multiple times throughout
the story. It astounds me that, in this age of political correctness, no editor
stopped and said, “Hey, wait a minute. Maybe we shouldn’t refer to men who
fully engage in parenting as some sort of mutated gender-bending part-man,
part-woman hybrids.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, even CNN is in on it. It’s coming at me—and other dads—from
everywhere.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, almost everywhere. You know who never calls me Mr.
Mom? My kids. They call me Daddy. (Well, one of them does. He’s five and can
speak English. My seven-month-old daughter just kind of babbles.) You see, to
them, there’s nothing odd about Daddy doing laundry or making them breakfast or
taking them along while running errands. It’s not emasculating or cute or
temporary. It’s just normal.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So let’s work on that. Let’s make it normal. Hell, let’s <i>expect</i> it. Let’s make it so our own kids
grow up thinking that dads can do anything moms can do—and vice versa—and that “Mr.
Mom” was just some old movie.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-35402656832996704372014-03-15T08:25:00.000-07:002014-11-06T07:01:00.318-08:00“Did You Get Laid Off?”<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><style>
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</div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here it is. The big one. Do a Google search of “things not
to say to a stay-at-home dad,” and it shows up on every list. It’s a sentiment
that stay-at-home dads run into repeatedly. That’s why the words can be found in
the URL of the very blog you are reading. Testify with me, my diaper-changing
brothers—we’ve all heard it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Did you get laid off?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZaABHGF1EtnkmbCI9aRaKPs61UWer69x-649d4TnyaN4vkmpgHnXlqH2szNEKVlKNS28gTPzl8fpQOXDJqdkBkySWp6R3zwAlFUzgh2nOaGWcExoUlnIp6QnR8vQt4veLBGLfuVC1tE/s1600/MrMom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLZaABHGF1EtnkmbCI9aRaKPs61UWer69x-649d4TnyaN4vkmpgHnXlqH2szNEKVlKNS28gTPzl8fpQOXDJqdkBkySWp6R3zwAlFUzgh2nOaGWcExoUlnIp6QnR8vQt4veLBGLfuVC1tE/s1600/MrMom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I'll show you, Teri Garr. I'll be Batman someday.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You see, the logic behind it is simple. There’s no way a man
would subject himself to the daily duties of child-rearing and household management
unless he were forced into it after getting canned. It was the premise of the
movie <i>Mr. Mom</i>, remember? Dad lost his
job, Mom was pushed back into the working world, and Dad was stuck at home,
where he hilariously confronted foreign objects like vacuums and crying
toddlers. And, because that movie was made a mere 31 years ago—I mean,
practically yesterday—that must be how it still works, right?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now, in fairness, I think I’ve heard these exact words only once.
Few people are bold enough (or clueless enough) to come right out and say it.
Still, I’ve gotten several variations of it, and it’s clear what these people
are trying to get at. For example, take a look at this very common scenario, featuring
a hypothetical woman named Doreen, who has just discovered I’m a stay-at-home
dad. Because I live in the Midwest, go ahead and give Doreen a Fargo accent if
you’re so inclined:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doreen: “So, whadya do before you stayed at home?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me: “I worked at an ad agency.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doreen (with a look of great concern and pity, assuming she already
knows the answer): “Oh. What happened?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me: “Well, I quit.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doreen (taken aback): </span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“</span></span>Oh! So...wait...huh?</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Me: “I work part-time from home now.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Doreen (relieved, as if it somehow affects her): </span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“</span></span>Oh, OK!</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">”</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And then the awkward small talk continues. I explain the
situation my wife, Christine, and I were in: Christine was making more money at
the time, we had our health insurance through her employer, she’d never find a
similar position if she’d quit, I had always wanted to work from home. Then Doreen
tells me her own story, which sounds awfully similar to mine, a fact that might—but
probably won’t—occur to poor, backward-thinking Doreen.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here’s another example. This was an actual conversation
between my wife and our next-door neighbor. It occurred shortly after our first
child was born and Christine was preparing to go back to work:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Neighbor: “Gettin’ ready to go back to work?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Christine: “Yep, pretty soon.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Neighbor: “Who’s gonna watch the baby, then? Daycare?</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Christine: “No, Dave’s going to stay home.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Neighbor (shocked and genuinely worried, with one hand now
over her chest): “Oh no! What happened?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Christine: “He quit his job. He’s going to work from home.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Neighbor: “Oh. Oh my.”</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Those are two of many examples, and they both illustrate the
most common form that “Did you get laid off?” takes: the more diplomatic but
still presumptuous “What happened?” Because, you know, something must have
“happened” for this man to end up in a park, playing with his kid the middle of
the damn day.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When a chit-chatty stay-at-home mom tells me what she once
did for a living, I don’t ask what happened. I can see what happened. She left
her job—under whatever circumstances—and now she takes care of her kids
instead. So, as is often the case when people say dumb things to me, I wish that
chit-chatty mom would just assume the same of my situation.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzv34HDKYjKwNzDbTpRiP4314GeQqH6qgepZtSHaMfjsMfyUL9XbHk3oIdA6Qx6-i_G1zVEwC6SclActLPfw03LbBzQn25p6XuRCV7uAYh0TxUUGjplmAg4-NVlL1J8Sn_zTrkHCRtFZ8/s1600/laid-off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzv34HDKYjKwNzDbTpRiP4314GeQqH6qgepZtSHaMfjsMfyUL9XbHk3oIdA6Qx6-i_G1zVEwC6SclActLPfw03LbBzQn25p6XuRCV7uAYh0TxUUGjplmAg4-NVlL1J8Sn_zTrkHCRtFZ8/s1600/laid-off.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Get a load of this poor sucker.</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then again, maybe I can’t blame people for their
assumptions. I know a bunch of stay-at-home dads, and getting fired/laid
off/downsized is indeed how several of them landed at home with the kids. In
contrast, I don’t know of any stay-at-home moms who didn’t leave their
full-time jobs willingly. I’m sure such moms are out there; I just can’t say
for sure I’ve ever met one. So maybe people figure I got kicked to the curb
because that’s the plight of other dads they’ve met.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Also, I realize some of the moms I talk to are drawing
conclusions based on their personal situations. “Oh, my husband could never do
that,” they say when I tell them I stay at home. They can’t imagine their own spouses
feeding babies or folding laundry, so they figure no man would do it unless he
had to. I can’t say this with complete certainty, but I imagine many of their
husbands would do just fine. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So, all things considered, is it worth my time to get bent
out of shape when people think I got laid off? Probably not. They’re simply
basing their reactions on what they’re familiar with—and that’s what we all do
every day, isn’t it? I just hope that, in some small way, I’m able to change
what it is they’re familiar with. Then, maybe the next time they run into one of my
kind, they won’t be so quick to assume.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5413677446700608546.post-4996460790634410882014-03-08T09:25:00.000-08:002014-10-01T19:45:53.733-07:00“Don’t Tell Mom”<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is the one that inspired my blog, so it’s the one I’ll
begin with. It certainly wasn’t the first dumb response I’d gotten after
telling someone I’m a stay-at-home dad—indeed I had lost count by the time this
one was uttered. Its significance is that it was the last straw. The clincher. The remark that made me take to bloggin’.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It happened at the dentist. I was settling into the chair
the other day, and the hygienist was making the usual small talk. I’m not sure what
my hygienist’s name is, so I’ll call her Miss Hasenfuss. That was the name of
Kevin Arnold’s hygienist on the TV show <i>The
Wonder Years</i>. My hygienist doesn’t trigger the same hormone-pounding desire
in me that Miss Hasenfuss did for young Kevin, but no matter. I have to assign
her a fictional name, so Miss Hasenfuss it is.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQDhV1gs5b5Os3EbqXF6QZhPzm4lZrUwhh9mRrUo0NRu7CuU7j6AXi0HkHFuW6FPyQAcW-ifhr9wmY8JWGNBuwB05V2o6YEYVzGCKRBtl_NlJNYxZM15c2xgYhM9zsyKryOfoLRhvPKw/s1600/60hasenfuss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBQDhV1gs5b5Os3EbqXF6QZhPzm4lZrUwhh9mRrUo0NRu7CuU7j6AXi0HkHFuW6FPyQAcW-ifhr9wmY8JWGNBuwB05V2o6YEYVzGCKRBtl_NlJNYxZM15c2xgYhM9zsyKryOfoLRhvPKw/s1600/60hasenfuss.jpg" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Miss Hasenfuss</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I say in the introduction to my blog, there was a time
when I didn’t particularly like telling people I’m a stay-at-home dad. But Miss
Hasenfuss dragged it out of me.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“So did ya work today?” she asked.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Uh, no, not today.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Oh! That’s nice. So whadya do?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Uh...well...I...uh...I stay home with my kids during the
day.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Oh!” she said, clearly taken aback. “Well that’s so nice.
That’s really great that you can do that.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She could have just stopped there. And she should have. But
she continued:</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Then the kids get to do all that fun daddy stuff.” And,
with a wink and a nudge, she chuckled, “Don’t tell Mom, right?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Yeah, sure,” I replied. Actually, it was more like, “Ah
hargh” because my mouth was now wide open.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Several thoughts ran through my head at that point, and many
comebacks were forming. I didn’t say any of them. In fact, I <i>couldn’t </i>say any of them, as Miss
Hasenfuss’s gloved fingers were in the way.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It didn’t really matter, because the moment soon passed, and
we moved on to discussing my brushing technique and receding gum-line. </span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I’m sure </span></span>Miss
Hasenfuss quickly forgot the whole thing. But I couldn’t forget,
because I hate comments like that. Call me oversensitive or over-analytical,
but I hate them.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Fun daddy stuff.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Don’t tell mom, right?”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What exactly does she think I do all day? Is she envisioning
my kids and me building elaborate, unreliable go-carts that are good for a few
minutes of intense thrills but ultimately result in a covert trip to the ER?
Does she think we buy cheap microwaves at thrift shops just so we can stuff
them with scrap metal, turn them on, and watch them blow up? Or maybe she
figures I pack up the kids once a week and take them to the neighborhood nudie
bar for the lunch buffet special.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbOFgiLMj8ksz7QJrU63Tgt9O9PPi7jlk8UhfuQQLKNdvZ-jgycn9U4Ndu7YwvWDWZn2lUyA_oebVPQmuhdVVdwg8TlowfnOtA2UA3BKh6cMuDEaNKBAn9t2LY1DiuOoAt640OOzr3tk/s1600/tossing-babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbOFgiLMj8ksz7QJrU63Tgt9O9PPi7jlk8UhfuQQLKNdvZ-jgycn9U4Ndu7YwvWDWZn2lUyA_oebVPQmuhdVVdwg8TlowfnOtA2UA3BKh6cMuDEaNKBAn9t2LY1DiuOoAt640OOzr3tk/s1600/tossing-babies.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption"><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some photo I found online. I don’t know these fools.</span></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You want to know what I did that day, Miss Hasenfuss? I
drove my son to and from school. I made breakfast and lunch for both kids. I
went grocery shopping, did four loads of laundry, and ironed a big pile of
shirts. In between all that, I exchanged emails with several clients and
potential clients on behalf of the freelance editing business I run from home.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wink, wink! Nudge, nudge! Don’t tell Mom, right?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I know, I know. Miss Hasenfuss didn’t mean to anger me with
her comment. And really, what difference does it make if she thinks I spend my
days tossing my kids around the backyard like a couple of volleyballs? Who
cares?</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, <i>I</i> care.
First of all, nobody likes to be told their job is easy, and that’s one of the things
her comment implied. “Fun daddy stuff” is just another way of saying “goofing
off all day.” I would never suggest her job is easy (“You just brush people’s
teeth all day, right? How hard can that be?”), because I’ve never done her job.
Second, if I would dare suggest a woman would perform a job differently or
inadequately simply because of her gender, I’d be labeled a sexist asshole.
There’s a double standard at work here that’s always frustrated me.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So hear this, Miss Hasenfuss: While I always make playing
with my kids a priority, I also have work to do. This is a job. The kids need
to be fed and taken to appointments on time. The fridge needs to be stocked,
the laundry needs to be washed, and meals need to be cooked. Yes, there’s time
to build snowmen and play hide-and-seek, but at some point the work needs to be
done. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And one more thing: My kids are never in danger. We don’t do
whatever it is Miss Hasenfuss had in her head when the words “Don’t tell Mom”
came out of her mouth. I’m a responsible adult who wouldn’t like to see his
children injured or traumatized.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes, Miss Hasenfuss, there was a lot packed into your casual
comment. I know it wasn’t intended as an insult, but that’s kind of what it
was. So, the next time you’re telling a stay-at-home dad to open wide, try to
see him not as a dad, but as a parent. Not as a man, but as a person. If you
can’t do that, then (wink wink, nudge nudge) maybe you should keep your own
mouth shut.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10697779619363999992noreply@blogger.com6