The Domestic Specialist

Not that I’m the most self-confident person to begin with, but I’ve found that since being a stay-at-home dad, I’m hyperaware of my surroundings and how I might be perceived. Even though no one has ever said anything to me, I feel like there is more pressure on me because I’m a guy. It’s such the stereotype for the dad to be a buffoon. You know, “that guy.”

The one who never has his act together. Who is always late and confused. Who is unable to handle the “domestic” tasks, like cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, administering naps, grocery shopping, etc. When I found out I was taking this job, it seemed as though I developed a neurotic hang-up of not wanting to be “that guy.”

I remember showing up for Ellie’s first story time class at the library. I didn’t know what to bring and I didn’t want to be in any tricky scenarios, so I brought just about everything I could possibly need. I tried to make it look like I didn’t though. I tried to play it cool. I brought two diapers, wipes, hand sanitizer, sunscreen, a change of clothes (for her), crackers, and spit rag in my back pocket for quick, easy access. You know, playing it cool. The class was only 20 minutes, but I didn’t want Ellie to puke or poop and not have the tools to deal with such an intense situation.

I could picture her leaking and not being prepared and one of the other moms thinking, “Of course he’s not prepared; typical dad.” But to my surprise, I didn’t see anyone else with a diaper bag there. Maybe they had them, but they were hidden in a secret mom’s-only closet? So, I ended up being “that guy” with a spit rag in my pocket and the only one with a non-covert, totally obvious, overloaded diaper bag.

I don’t want to be “that guy” who is too cool to participate in Ellie’s activities or sing the songs at swim class or story time. But I’m super uncomfortable with the songs, so I kind of mutter the lyrics until the chorus part. “The mumble mumble mumble bus, mumble round and round, round and round.” Or “Old McMumble mumble mumble E-I-mumble mumble, Moo Moo mumble, and a Moo Moo mumble …” You get the idea. So I’m “that guy” who mumbles the songs. But at least I’m participating.

It’s also the stereotype that guys aren’t that good in the kitchen. I know there are many men out there who are excellent proficient cooks. But generally, you hear about the ones who can barely make toast. Well, I didn’t want to be “that guy,” so I devised a plan that wouldn’t let me slide into a habit of ordering pizza every other day or heating up cans of ravioli. I plan my meals for the week and then I grocery shop specifically for those meals. I try to have a balance between meat, chicken, fish, pasta and vegetarian dishes. It’s a well-oiled machine now and doesn’t require a lot of effort. Sure, I still don’t know how to pick out a ripe cantaloupe or avocado, but I pretend to. So, I’m “that guy,” the overachieving-kitchen-nerd who doesn’t know how to pick out fresh produce.

I don’t want to be the quiet, creepy guy either. You know, “that guy” with the shifty eyes. To avoid this, I find that I either stare too long, or I avoid eye contact all together. I can be horrible with small talk with strangers, too, especially with the cashier at the grocery store. I always have this image in my mind that when I walk up to the cashier, I’ll give a big smile and we’ll have this pleasant chat about the weather or what I’ll be cooking for dinner. But it seems like as soon as I approach, the cashier drops her smile and my confidence turns to panic. So I stand there with a weird look on my face. As she scans things, I try to think of something to say. But usually my mind just turns blank and thinks: “Dude, say something. Anything. Try the weather. How about all that rain? Just say it. Really? You couldn’t say that? What’s wrong with you?”

One week in particular, I bought a lot of fresh beets and beet greens. I was going to have a week of beets. Either as a side dish or main dish. Every day, the meal was going to feature something made with beets. So when the cashier seemed surprised with the quantity of beets I was purchasing, I just blurted out, “It’s beet week.” Only I didn’t offer the explanation of what “beet week” was. We stood there in silence after that. I was “that guy.”

I also don’t want to be “that guy” who has the kid with dried food on their face or dirty hands. Or the kid who doesn’t clean up after story time. Or the kid who’s crying all the way through the grocery store. And I don’t want to be “that guy” who loses his diaper bag at the park with his fancy camera inside. I know these things happen to everyone and they are unavoidable, but I still find myself desperately, and sometimes unsuccessfully, trying to avoid them.

But over the past year, I’ve found that no matter how hard I try not to be “that guy,” I wind up being “that guy” who’s trying not to be “that guy.” So at the end of the day, it turns out I am “that guy.” And I’ve learned it doesn’t matter what I say or what I do, I think it’s all in my head anyways. Maybe being “that guy” isn’t so bad after all. And you know who has two thumbs and likes “that guy?”

One of my friends, who is a mom, told me that when you become a mom, you become stupid. (These are her words.) She said it happened to her sister and now it was happening to her. I wasn’t buying it though. I thought maybe it was just her family. There were some pretty strong signs for that. But as I get deeper and deeper into this “mom” territory, I think she might be right. As each day passes, I can feel my intellectual capacity getting smaller and smaller.

Continue reading “IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN” →

It’s funny what perfect is, or how we get it.

We all have that vision of the perfect job, the perfect house or the perfect life. Most often they are unreasonable goals or limits we put on ourselves just for the sake of dreaming, just to have that ideal image to always look forward to or work toward. Usually, “perfect” is unattainable.

But for me, “perfect” isn’t so much a thing, a person, a position in life or a goal, as it is a moment. That perfect moment. Sometimes these moments last for a few hours, or sometimes just a few minutes. But it’s a collection of these perfect moments that are building the memories of my life. An imperfect life with perfect moments.

You know those moments when it feels like time stops. When everything lines up perfectly in a blissful synchronicity that only lasts a few minutes. Like on a summer morning when the breeze is blowing in the window and you don’t want to get out of bed. When you’re already awake and have to pee really bad, but you don’t want to move because you’re so comfortable. It’s those moments. They can be at major life events or pop-up randomly in our regular mundane lives.

A few years ago, I had the day off from work on a Friday and had big plans to clean the garage. I know, what fun, right? But it was an early summer morning and I was eager to be outside. I remember it exactly.

I had Elvis playing quietly on the radio, the garage door was open, I had my coffee in hand, and the light crisp summer breeze was coming in. It was just perfect. It was still and quiet outside.  A little brisk, but sunny. And then as I slowly swept up the garage just taking it in, it somehow faded and turned into just another day. But every time I go out to clean the garage, I try to recreate that scenario. It never works, but it’s always worth a try.

Another time, we were having the family over to watch the fireworks from our front porch. It was our first summer in the house. We were so excited to not only have the family over at our house, but to be able to watch the fireworks from the porch. It wasn’t the best view, but we could still see them. Sometime after the fireworks had ended and there was a traffic jam of cars in front our house, it hit me. We had music playing on the porch, and everybody was having their own conversations and laughing. My brother and his wife, my folks, even grandma was there. It came out of nowhere. All of a sudden I got that feeling of absolute complete contentment. When you’re not thinking about anything else except how that moment feels. I didn’t want to say anything and mess it up, so I just sat there quietly absorbing the moment. Maybe it was the pride I felt of being a first-time homeowner, or realizing that we had successfully made it a little deeper into adulthood. Either way, that year and the fireworks always stick out in my mind.

Now that we have a child, I find that we are constantly trying to create those “perfect” moments. We all want those moments captured on film. We both want that perfect picture with her. The first Mother’s Day, the first Father’s Day, the first Christmas, or her first birthday. We try so hard to make those events perfect. But when I look back to my own childhood, I realize those aren’t the moments that I cherish the most. It’s always the smallest, random, seemingly insignificant memories that mean the most.

I remember one evening when my dad took me to McDonald’s to get a sundae for no reason. It was just me and him on a weeknight. My older brother and mom stayed at home. I thought that was the coolest thing. It’s something I’ll never forget.

Another time my mom took my brother and me to Toys R Us and bought us modeling clay for no reason. We thought it was for my cousin’s birthday present or something. But when we came home, she opened it up and showed us how to use it and helped us make things with it all evening. I don’t remember half of my birthdays, but I’ll always remember that.

I’ve noticed some of the same things with Ellie. I might be able to get that cute picture, the totally staged photo of her with the cute sunglasses that looks like a perfect moment. It’s not, though. I’m usually too busy behind a camera making faces and snapping my fingers and making weird clicking noises trying to get her to smile to really be present. It’s the total unexpected moments that get me.

Around Christmas, Ellie and I were both sick. Miserable, actually. I was lying on the couch barely breathing, while Ellie was sitting on my stomach waiting for Aya to give her a bath. She was watching TV and then looked over at me and gave me this smile. It lasted only a second or two, but it felt like forever. It was this kind of smile that pierced right through to my soul. Perfect. She could have sat there all night and I would have been happy.

And most recently, my perfect moment took place on the front porch. Ellie was a little fussy because the Reverse Tooth Fairy was causing her pain, so we went out on the porch. I was tired and a little irritable. The weather wasn’t even really that great either. And then Ellie asked to sit next to me on the bench and started barking at the birds in the tree. (Yes, literally barking.) Then she rested her head on me and stayed like that for a few minutes while we rocked on the bench. It didn’t last long before she got off and started barking at the dogs across the street, but it was still perfect.

It’s so easy to get lost in the day-to-day activities and the things we want. We all want that “perfect” life. But I find if I look close enough, I see that I’m already living it.