I’m a Dad

Not a freak.

There seems to be a disturbing trend with regards to how other people view dads who are, well, dads.

Once upon a time, there was a stereotypical dad. He wore a shirt and tie. He went off to a job in the morning, came home at night and you didn’t bother him while he read the paper and drank his Manhattan. He was an enigma. His sole role was to earn money and mow the grass. Additionally, he was the guy who doled out the discipline.

“Wait until your father gets home.” That’s what you heard. Your father was someone whom you regarded with a mixture of fear and wonder. He was a hero and an authority figure. Periodically he gave you a steely hug or a nod of appreciation, but he certainly wasn’t what you considered a nurturing figure.

He didn’t give baths, or change diapers, or stroke your fevered brow. He never made you dinner, and if he did, he managed to burn the cold cereal. As a breadwinner he was the greatest, but as a parent he was a complete buffoon. The way your mind and body worked stymied him, even if he was the owner of a multi-million dollar company.

He was gruff, but loving. When the time came, he’d give you a life-altering lecture about how the world worked as you sat on your bed crying because you’ve made a mistake or because your Dukes of Hazard T-Shirt was an embarrassment to school fashion.

At least, this is what I can gather out of watching old television shows.

And, this myth seems to be perpetuated by what I call the “Mommy Nazis”.

A Mommy Nazi is a woman who somehow thinks that men are sperm donors and are incapable of taking part in the care, nurturing and raising of his own children. However, and herein lays the rub, they also bitch and moan over the lack of men who are willing to take care of their children.

Go out at any given time and look at your local churches, community centers, book stores, or daycares. They organize “Mommy’s Day Out”. A day dedicated to hard working moms who are so committed and loving that they forget to take time for themselves.

No one seems interested in a Dad who is involved and works his ass off to raise happy, well-adjusted kids. A dad who puts his blood, sweat and tears into his children.

I am not knocking mothers. I am not saying that there are not committed, loving mommies out there who give their all to their children. I’m married to one.

All Mommies are not Mommy Nazis. And all Mommy Nazis are not Mommies. And, for the record, all Daddies are not involved. But it pisses me off when you look at me like a freak of nature because I like my children.

But I am standing up and saying this:

I am not a buffoon. I am not a freak of nature. I am not someone with the IQ of American Cheese.

I do not scream and cry as my wife walks out the door. I do not dread time alone with my children. I am capable of getting kids off to school, feeding them, clothing them and caring for their general health.

I am an expert at butt sniffing to see if there is a package I need to remove. I visually check diapers for loads. I can tell by the clumping in the front if they are soiled.

I can fix a variety of foods to feed my child. Foods that are not ordered and delivered. I am capable of choosing an outfit for my daughters that does not make them look like a Punky Brewster reject. I am capable of triaging a wound, cleaning a cut, and comforting a crying child.

My idea of child care is not plopping a kid in front of a television set. I am willing to work on art projects, help complete homework and plan slumber parties. I can apply diaper rash medication. I can hold a bottle, heat it up and empty it in its intended receptacle. I am a proponent of breast feeding, not because I am lazy, but because I feel it is the greatest benefit for the child.

I wipe runny noses with my thumb, if a proper Kleenex is not available. I can deliver juice and healthy foods. I can be trusted to pick up child A and drop off child B. I do not require notes reminding me that child A returns home at 4 and child B is in daycare.

I know that the Matrix is not appropriate viewing for an eight year old. I’d rather play with the kids than watch sports. I do not drink on the job. I wouldn’t rather go out with the boys than play Polly Pocket.

I like it that when I fix the sink, there’s a baby sitting on my stomach with her plastic tools proclaiming, “I help daddy fix!” I like having a shadow who parrots me. I like picking up a child so they can see something better. I like answering questions. I like finding the answers to questions I can’t answer.

I pick up and drop off from school. I make sure homework is done. I make sure there is a hot meal on the table when my hard-working wife returns home from work. I like to do the dishes so she can have some valuable one on one time with the kids.

I talk to my children. I know what their favorite colors are. I know their favorite songs, foods and clothes. I can wash those clothes. I can take out the trash as well as I can comb hair.

I am not afraid to take the girls shopping. I am not afraid of bodily fluids. I will clean up bodily spills.

I give out hugs and kisses. I also receive them.

I love my kids more than I love my lawn and my car. I share my interests with them and they, in turn, share theirs.

I am not afraid to cry with my children. Or because of them. I take immense joy in their growth and development.

I am not a freak. I am not cute when I change a diaper. I am not cute when I take the baby for a walk. I am not creepy when I change the baby’s diaper in the back seat of the car.

I am a Dad. This is what I do. I am not trying to steal my wife’s role. I am not trying to make up for lost time.

I am trying to give my girls the best life possible by being involved with their lives. By loving them at every turn. By being there when they fall down and knowing when to pick them up and when to allow them to pick themselves up.

I am a Dad. I am not a part-time parent. It’s what I do.

I will not accept concessions when it comes to my family. I will fight to the end for their happiness, security and well-being. I will attend family films without feeling like I’m giving up my testicles. I will even enjoy the family film. The pumpkin patch. The children’s concert. Not secretly, but outwardly and certainly not begrudgingly.

I’m sorry if it bothers you that my wife and I work as a team. I’m sorry that you think I should be an assistant manager. That you think I should be a bumbling idiot. I’m sorry if you think I should be out mowing the lawn and tinkering in the garage instead of reading “I Love You Forever” or powdering bottoms to avoid chafing.

My wife doesn’t think that. And I don’t think she shouldn’t be able to fix the sink, mow the lawn. She is not weak, fragile or docile. She is not a robot who believes what I tell her to believe. She is capable of taking me down in less than two moves and that doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, she inspires me.

I am not a sperm donor. I am not a moron. I am a dad.

And I’m good at it.

The fact is my oldest daughter already has one asshole dad and I’m not going to give her a second. I will not fix his mistakes, but I certainly will not repeat them. Both of my daughters will know that I care. That I am involved. That I my love for them is unquestioning, unending, uncompromising and non-negotiable for fifty-yard line seats.

So if you don’t want me at your Brownie meeting or your parents’ meeting or your Mommy’s Day Out I suggest you grit your teeth and bear it. That’s my park bench too. And my aisle at Target.

If you are bothered by me picking out dresses and frilly socks for my little girl, I suggest you look around at your own parenting relationship and start judging that rather than judging mine.

So put down your copy of Working Mom and grant me the opportunity to read Parents. Give me my own magazine called “Stay at Home Dad”. Grant me equal status as the nurturer. Quit looking at me funny when I appear at the park at 11 a.m. giggling and playing with my kids. It’s not cute. It’s what I do.

To those dads who can’t or won’t do what I do I am not trying to make you look bad. I’m not a wuss, pussy, pussy-whipped, girly man or wimp because the perfection of my daughter’s pony tail takes precedence over the Kentucky Blue Grass in my front yard and the cleanliness of my mower’s oil or because I know all the words to the Lizzie McGuire theme and each Wiggles track.

I don’t care that you have an SUV. I don’t care if you can kick my ass. And I won’t humiliate my kid on the front lawn in front of the neighbors, or in private for that matter, for any reason. Ever.

And it’s not an act to get “husband points” any more than my wife’s innate ability to balance the budget is an act to get a manicure.

I’m not a freak. I’m not a metro-sexual. I’m not uncool because I’m wearing a sticker my little-girl made me that says “Papaya”. I probably won’t even notice if you think so.

I’m a Dad.

It’s what I do. I’m good at it. I enjoy it.

I’m here. I’m a parent. And that’s apparent.

Get used to it.

Send all your hate mail about this how this missive is unedited and misguided to someone who agrees with you or has time to read it.

Personally, I don’t have time. Matilda and I have ten more chapters in the latest Lemony Snicket book to read together and Gertrude and I have a date to find really intersting leaves, sticks and acorns.

By the way . . . Nice shoes. No. Really. I’m sure you like them.

/rant