Recently in casual conversation with a colleague of a colleague the subject of children came up. I was asked about daycare for my kids and I responded that my husband and I have arranged our schedules such that one of us is always with the kids – that my husband was taking care of them right now as I worked. One of the men in the conversation laughed, and said that it must be hard for me knowing that my husband and children were sitting around all day eating macaroni and cheese and watching TV. In a voice tinged with relief and disdain the man commented that, “I could never do that. “ And I thought to myself, “No, jackass, I’ll bet you couldn’t.”
Jeff was thrust into fatherhood on March 11, 2006 – the day we found out I was pregnant with Thomas. I took the pregnancy test myself and walked into the kitchen not knowing how to tell him we were expecting a baby. The words, “I have something to show you…” escaped from my mouth and I led Jeff to the bedroom where he was expecting I would show him a spider I wanted him to kill. Instead I showed him two lines on a home pregnancy test. After he regained the power of speech, he declared that we needed to go get some more fruit and vegetables to feed me and the growing embryo within. Off to Whole Foods at 8:00 at night we went, Jeff adding a massive array of colorful produce to the cart. If we lived in neolithic times I imagine Jeff would have pointed at his spear, grunted at me, and then gone off to slay me a mammoth. He started as a great father long before any of our babies even took their first breaths.
While I was pregnant Jeff made me innumerable meals only to have me reject them, retching with nausea like a sitcom cliche. He would simply eat them himself and then make me yet another bean and cheese burrito or plate of nachos. He suffered through hypnobirthing classes with me; truly torture for a man who looks pained whenever someone uses the word “spiritual”. While I labored with Thomas for days he was right by my side; he didn’t eat, he didn’t shower, he didn’t complain. As Thomas was born he [the baby] promptly let out a big poop as if to say “This what I thought of being squeezed every four minutes for the past 46 hours”. Jeff picked our new baby boy up to give to me and his [Jeff''s] arm was immediately smeared with copious amounts of newborn poo – christening him as a father. Jeff has changed just as many (if not more) diapers as I have. He shirts are stained with snot. He is up every single night soothing a pissed off baby back to sleep without nursing during his “shift” from 12:00 am – 4:00 am.
Jeff is a father who truly knows his children. It was Jeff who figured out that Thomas’ favorite color is yellow. Jeff devised an experiment where he divided all of Thomas’ toys into four separate piles: red, yellow, green and blue. He then observed which toys Thomas preferred to play with and at the end of the day which pile was most scattered about. The hands-down winner was yellow. He recently did the same thing with Henry and although the results were not conclusive (Henry thinks toys are for babies and doesn’t seem to realize he is one – maybe we need to test him with different colored electrical cords) we think Henry preferred green. Jeff is the one that noticed how much Henry loved the “chamois” fabric of Thomas’ blankets. He found Henry a sleep sack that we had made with the desired fabric and it has now become Henry’s “lovey”. Jeff does a far better than I do calming Thomas down for sleep – to the point that Thomas will state “I want Daddy to help me fall asleep. Mama, you are not very good at it.”
Jeff doesn’t do everything the way that I would and I like it that way. Jeff draws with the kids and I do playdough. Jeff is much more “open” to the kids staying in their jammies all day and I won’t leave the house with the kids until I have taken a hairbrush to Thomas. Jeff often tries to nap the kids on separate schedules.; I aim for simultaneous naps. Jeff doesn’t bake cookies with the kids but they do work on the compost pile (I try to think of all the leaves Henry surely ingests as fiber – I just hope that he isn’t eating the grubs for protein). I take the boys to singing class and the children’s museum for hours, Jeff takes them to the park for the entire afternoon. I won’t say it’s always easy to so fully share parenting. Sometimes I get home from work and while Thomas tells me about their trip to the park I look down at what he is wearing and cringe (PSA to men: grey and brown do not go together. They just don’t.) There have been times I have come home to find all three of them asleep and I am annoyed thinking at how late the boys will be up at the end of a long work day. But the hardest of all to deal with is when I come home to find them laughing and roughhousing; telling me about the great day they had together and knowing that I wasn’t there to spend it with them. It is so bittersweet for me; the only way I am able to go to work without tears is to know that my boys are with someone who loves them as much as I do, but that doesn’t stop my feelings of jealously and even resentment that it isn’t me.
Parenting is hard. I can see that in some ways it is even harder for Jeff than it is for me. He doesn’t have the magic boobies that will fix nearly any baby complaint. He doesn’t have dad’s groups to sit around and talk about sports or when to drop your three year old’s nap. If being an at home parent is isolating for mothers it is even moreso for fathers. The bulk of parenting has traditionally fallen to women and women have generally not been afforded a great deal of respect for parenting. Jeff doesn’t get much either. While many people will praise him generously for even once doing the things that every mother does – like getting up with the kids at night; I think such praise is really an insult to fatherhood. Jeff would tell you that he only doing what is right; he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself. I am insulted on his behalf when people imply that simply by virtue of him being a man; he is somehow a less responsible, less capable parent.
He is not “watching” the kids. He is not babysitting. He is not Mr. Mom. He is not a poor substitute for a mother. He is a father. And he does an inspiring job of it.
