Papa Murphy’s: Dad-Shaming at 425 Degrees

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 dad doing laundry and playing with his daughter. Kellogg’s presented a dad serving breakfast to his kids. And Campbell’s is currently running a brilliant spot that shows two dads enjoying a bowl of Star Wars soup with their son.

Papa Murphy’s decided to jump on the bandwagon, only they completely screwed it up. Their commercial, which can be viewed here, 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.

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!

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!

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?

Could it be? Did I marry one of those "good guys"?

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?

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.

Here are some reactions on Twitter:

@LauraKeeney: “Re-bold your man”? ‪@papamurphys thinks dads lose manhood by playing with daughters. I don’t understand how ads like this get made. ‪#NFL

@KellyDiels: That Papa Murphy’s “re-bold your man” commercial is some sexist bullshit.

@wilder_timothy: Nothing better than appealing to crappy male stereotypes and glorifying uninvolved fathers <3 Thanks, Papa Murphy’s

And here are few of the many, many posts customers are putting on Papa Murphy’s Facebook page:

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.

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.

If you find nothing wrong with the “bold” pizza commercials, why do you keep deleting posts about people’s disappointment in the ad?

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???

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.

For Papa Murphy’s part, they’ve been replying to some of the negative posts with a predictable half-apology:

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.

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.

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.

Mother's Day: The Morning After

Yesterday 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.

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.

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?”

“Do what?” I responded.

“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.

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.

She seemed surprised by the idea that I make breakfast for my family. “Oh!” she exclaimed, impressed and confused at the same time.

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.

Sorry, moms, but your day is over. Back to work!

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 you, 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.

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.

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 next 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.

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.

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.

Let's make Mother's Day a celebration of our love for mothers, not a recognition of everything we make them put up with.

“Do You Help Your Wife With the Cleaning and Stuff?”

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.

Noticing the small child and assorted groceries in my cart, she asked with a smile, “Are you a stay-at-home dad?”

“Yep,” I said, wondering to myself whether she asks moms the same question.

“Aw, that’s so cute!”

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.

But then she kept on yammering.

“So, do you help your wife with the cleaning and stuff?”

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.

“I do the cleaning,” I replied. “I don’t really call it ‘helping.’ It’s my job. I’m the stay-at-home parent.”

“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.

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.

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.

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?

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.)

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.

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 shared 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.

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.

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.

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.

Silence

About 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.

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 lack of absurd comments—or any comments, for that matter. I’m going to write about silence. Undisguised, unmistakable silence.

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.

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.

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.”)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“My son has eczema,” I said. “So we’ve switched to unscented everything.”

They all stopped speaking and turned to look at me.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

“So you, like, do the laundry and stuff?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, clearly interested but not really knowing what else to say.

Silence followed as we zipped shut our diaper bags and grabbed our kids.

“OK, have a good day then,” I said. And we parted ways.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Tale of Two Old Ladies

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.

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.

Three of those fingers are
pointing right back at you,
you crusty old bird.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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.”

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.

“Oh, I know,” I replied, nodding.

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.

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.

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.

I know this, because one old lady actually said it.

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.

Then, she spoke, and it’s something I’ll never forget.

“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.”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

Then, of course, five minutes in, some grandma at the library noticed me and chuckled. “Uh oh!” she said, “Dad’s in charge today!”

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.

“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.

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.

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.”

Left: Young, graceful Margot Kidder. Right: Old, crazy Margot Kidder.

Bonkers noticed my little family and seemed excited by us. She energetically asked me, “Are you out to eat with both of your kids?”

“Yes, I am,” I replied.

“Wow! You’re Father of the Year!” Bonkers declared with a slightly-psychotic smile.

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.

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 am 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.

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.

Do I really deserve one of these? Probably not.

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.

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.

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.

But no compliment for my wife. Not even a “Happy Mother’s Day.”

“What about me?” my wife asked me. “Am I not a good mom?”

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.

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:

“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.”

The comments came pouring in, from men and women alike:

“What a great dad!!!”
“Awwww! Lucky girl!”
“Superdad!”
“Good guy you’ve got there. Hang on to him. ;)”
“So great that Larry will do that for you!”

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

I mean, if a moron like me can figure out how to clothe and feed my children, anything’s possible, right?

“Dad’s Babysitting?”

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.

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.

“Dad’s babysitting?”

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.

“Oh, Daddy’s babysitting today?” he asked.

I gave a slight, insincere laugh and said, “Yeah, every day.”

“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.
 

I'm going to start hanging these around the house.
Then I have to change my name to Sarah.

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.

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?
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.
 
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.
 
Let me repeat: I’m their dad. Stop staring and smiling. And stop saying I’m babysitting.

Now, some of you might be saying, “Oh, lighten up, Dave. They think it’s cute. What’s wrong with that?”
 
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.

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.

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, like this one from The Atlantic, 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 just by reading that sentence.

But, believe it or not, some people out there actually defend the “babysitting” label. Like the sexist windbag who wrote “10 Reasons Fathers CAN Be Referred to as Babysitters.” 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.
 
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.
 
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.