MenGetPregnantToo

Yeah? Well You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Either!

Let's start with a song, shall we? Ahhhh....Babs:

 

Now, let's get real about buying flowers:

At a dinner part on Friday, we were barely through the door when our host blurted: "My husband bought me flowers today!"
My wife looked at me, while at the same time responding to our friend's comment: "Isn't that nice, getting flowers from your husband."
The insinuation was clear: I do not often enough present my wife with flowers. Well, Carnation, ain't I a boob.

A Friend's Antique Pitcher - by keeva999

For the record: it's absolutely true; I rarely bring home flowers. 

But, there was a point I needed to make.  I immediately issued a snide, defensive apology:
"Sorry, sweetie. You're right. You easily  out-do me in the flower department 3 to 1."
"Really? Do I?" she asked, surprised.
"No!" I snapped.
With that, my defensive, immature point was made. I never receive flowers, either.

Last night she mentioned a more recent conversation among her women friends during which they all expressed dismay at the infrequency with which their husbands give them flowers. 
"You're right,"  I continued, "I don't bring home flowers. I find other ways to show my appreciation for you: your favorite dark chocolate or mint Aero bar hiding in the fridge; an unexpected bottle of your favorite (low-tannin) wine which goes nicely with the meal I'm preparing; turning on the hot tub in the morning so it's ready for your lovely self and the beer-ginger-ale shandy I'm carrying into the back yard for you later in the afternoon."
Then I, as I usually do, decided to take things a step further:
"What have you done for me lately?"
A bit of a yikes moment, but I still had a point to make. Her response was swift,  full of bluster, and entirely justified:
"I buy you your favorite bags of chips, and new clothes; I bring home all sorts of surprises for you!"

"Exactly," I answered with deliberate calm. "which is why I never admonish you for not bringing me flowers."

*****

 I would love to receive flowers. The fact that they are normally identified as a gift for women doesn't bother me at all; it's an unjustified, sexist categorization of a lovely gesture.
You don't buy flowers for someone because they're a woman; you buy them for someone because of the implied message.
It tells the person you care about: 'While I was going about my day today, at one point I became distracted by the thought of you. Here is my way of showing you that, amid all of life's duties and timetables, you're what I think of most.'

Are husbands not as worthy of that thought as wives? Of course we are.
I'm sure most wives show their husbands how important they are through any number of selfless gestures: sharing a specific meal  they don't really have a taste for, rubbing our shoulders, letting us choose a movie they think is lousy, cuddling, saying 'I love you', giving us a spontaneous hug.
Likewise, women are on the receiving end of thousands of unspoken gestures of love from their partners. If you're not, your relationship has more of a need for counselling than it does for flowers.

Gestures of love present themselves in thousands of mysterious ways. A bouquet is but one.
I'm one of those men who not only "Don't Bring Me Flowers Anymore"; I almost never did in the first place. But neither did you, and I'm OK with that. I love you anyway. 

 

 

Sparks, Beer, Sparks. A Glorious 54 Minutes.

Wednesday.
Hump day.
The New York City of days-of-the-week; if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
The restfulness of the previous weekend is 72 hours past; the breathing room of the one on its way is 72 hours in the future.
In the Bodanis household, Wednesday is also a V.A.D.: "Vortex of Activity Day." School, homework, supper for my daughter at 4:30pm - she has Sparks at 5:15; supper for my son one hour later - he has Beavers at 6:30.
It's an after-school routine which is hectic, but not uncommon among families with young kids.
But, it became a little more pleasant for me this past week as I discovered a dirty little secret.

Normally, my wife runs out with my daughter at 5:10; I stay back with my son. This week my wife spent the evening at the office. I drove the girl to Sparks, Gramma stayed behind with the boy.
As I left my daughter- wearing her little pink Sparks T-Shirt ("I Promise to Share and Be a Friend") - to swarm the gymnasium with her hive of 5-year-old friends, I walked back to the parking lot wondering whether to return home for the hour until pick-up, or sit at a bus-stop bench somewhere and enjoy solitude while staring at public transportation.
Across the Sparks parking lot was a woman shielded behind her driver-side door waving frantically at me.
She was one of the Sparks moms.
Her daughter, mine, and three or four other girls had attended pre-school together and had followed each other on the exodus to the Girl Guide programme.

I waved back at her.
She again motioned frantically while mouthing something I couldn't quite understand.
I jogged over.
"Where's your wife?" she inquired with a hint of disappointment.
"She's at work." I answered with a hint of indignity.
"Are you coming to Bob's?" she continued in a whisper.
"Where??"
"Bob's!" she repeated nervously. "We all go to Bob's for a beer before coming back to pick up the girls."

I peeked in the car: another mother waved at me from the passenger seat; room had been made among the toys in back seat for a third parent still inside caught up in the drop-off routine.
"Who's Bob'?" I wondered out loud.
"It's the pub down the road."
"Ummm.....sure. OK, I'm in."
"OK." She continued: "There's still one of us caught up inside. As soon as she comes out, we're gone."

Remember when Ernie used to buy letters from that shady guy Leftie behind the Sesame Street wall? This whole interaction had that kind of weird Muppet secrecy to it.

 

Several minutes passed before the third mom strode out of the Sparks hall. Precious minutes had been lost.
Before she had even closed the car's back door, the moms-for-beer getaway vehicle was in motion.
Bob's was fifty feet down the road. We none the less manage to gain enough speed that we screeched into the parking lot: 52 minutes until pickup.
"What are the chances he can bring us the bill at the same time he takes our order?" someone suggested.”It'll give us a couple of more minutes on the back end."

There we were. Three Moms and me, nearly the only patrons at Bob's at 5:27 on a Wednesday - desperately flagging down a waiter.
Two Carlsbergs, a Heineken, and a Smithwicks had never been ordered so quickly.
"Kenny, welcome to the Group."

Alluring Glow by Brendan Adkins

The Group had a wonderful clubhouse feel too it; parents with 54 minutes (and one pint) to themselves before they were forced to return to duties which were the inevitable result of procreation.
While the 5-year-old Sparks - in their clubhouse a few dozen feet away - danced in circles, sang songs, and promised to Share and Be a Friend; their parents circled a small round table, clinked glasses, and built their own friendships (while not sharing a drop of their beer, by-the-way).
We each took turns venting our frustrations, and sharing parenting stories of victory and defeat in the face of our children. Stories were kicked around frenetically among us like soccer balls not being allowed to touch the grass.
Every 7 or 8 minutes, someone would ask after the time. "Eleven minutes!" one of us would yell. Five minutes later: "Six more minutes!"
At one point, two minutes were wasted discussing whether we could leave the pub AT 6:15 for a 6:15 pickup, seeing as how they were only a few dozen feet away.
The realization that the Sparks leaders were themselves moms inspired enough guilt in us we decided punctual pickup was the least we could do.

Alas, 6:10 was upon us.
Back in the cars; back to our daughters.
Like friends arriving home at the airport after a54 minute vacation, we wished each other well.
"My wife will be back next week." I told them.
"In case she's not, Kenny, you're more than welcome to join the Bob's club. You're an honorary mom."

With that, Wednesday was no longer Hump Day. The vortex of activity lost some of its unforgiving gravitational pull.
Instead of scrambling to climb over the mountain that is Wednesday evening, I gravitate towards it. Becoming one of the Moms was exactly what this Dad needed; even if only for 54 glorious minutes.

 

Parents, What's More Brutal: The Anxiety or The Grind?

MenGetPregnantToo is a weekly contributor to "The Good Men Project". Every week I will have an article published on their site. There will be an even rotation between original content, and essays previously published on MenGetPregnantToo.com.

Enjoy the most recent original submission:

Parents, What's More Brutal: The Anxiety or The Grind? 

Photo: Dreaming in the Deep South

Thanks for reading,

KB

21st Century Parents Drown Themselves in Comparisons

It's bad enough when a couple second-guesses each other's parenting skills.
When friends suggest "modifications" to your parenting plan, it can be anywhere from helpful to downright offensive.
But really, as a parent, your two worst enemies are: your own self-doubt, and the internet.

At the playground this week, I struck up a conversation with the mother of a little girl playing with my daughter a few feet away. The two kids are in the same kindergarten class.
I expressed that, no matter how much of a handful my daughter can be at times, I certainly didn't miss changing diapers or 3am bottles.
As we concurred about the stages we gladly left behind, the subject of "stage-anxiety" came up.

"Stage-anxiety" is what I refer to as the second-guessing and comparison which takes place among parents at any given stage of child-rearing.
For instance, in this particular conversation, it referred to toilet training, and at what age our children stayed dry through the night.
Both my children were relatively late in completely leaving diapers behind - for my son it was well past his fifth birthday; my daughter beat him by about a year, but still has the occasional accident at night.

Throughout my kids' roller-coaster voyage towards making it through the night dry; I heard legendary stories of premature toilet training - including my own:

According to my mother, my two brothers and I were all 'dry' at the age of two-and-a-half. Wow. What was I doing wrong? How could my kids be years behind? Maybe something is physically wrong with my son? 
Being my usual skeptical self, I pressed my mother: "Really. You would put us to bed at 7:30, and - at the age of two-and-a-half - we would wake up dry in morning? All of us?
"Yes." she insisted. "I mean, I would wake you up when I got home from work (as a nurse) at midnight, and bring you to the bathroom, but you never had an accident."
Ahhhhh. The truth shall set your bladder free.
In reality, I wasn't a super-baby; I was a dry, sleep-deprived one.

Similarly, when my son was later than others who were swimming without a life-jacket. My father expressed concern:
"You really have to let him figure it out. I remember taking you kids swimming, and you never had a life jacket."
Really? Never?
I actually remember my father taking me swimming. I remember those Styrofoam bubbles rubbing sensitive rashes into the flesh around my biceps. I also remember hanging onto the side of the pool a lot while he swam a lap here and a width there.

Baby Water via Woman's Day

 I think there is a direct correlation between our parents' failing eyesight in the present, and the drastic improvement in their hindsight. It seems while dollar-store reading glasses help them through the paper in the morning, their memory prefers specs of a rose-colored variety.

The playground mother with whom I was sharing these stories of my fake achievements in infancy, seemed relieved to hear she was not the only one occasionally being told her kids should be ahead of where they are.
Unfortunately, our parents' recollections of their own spectacular achievements in child-rearing only add to our own self-doubt as parents in the 21st century. In the playground, we focus on examples of precociousness instead of noticing the majority of children fit right in the middle of the bell curve. We research on the web, but choose unique examples of extraordinary development to doubt our own ability. We worry that each category in which our child may be a little bit behind may point towards their eventual failure as an adult; each area in which they excel may be a sign of genius.

The reality is, as I pointed out to my dad: "Look, he's 5-years-old, and wearing a pull-up in bed, and a bubble in the pool. What really are the chances he'll be 18-years-old going to university with a diaper and a life jacket?
"I don't know." he answered.
"Neither do I." I said. "But chances are pretty good things will work themselves out." 

 

Dear "Oven" Mitt Romney: I Can Cook Family Supper AAAALL By Myself.

My second most frustrating moment in last night's debate came just after Mitt Romney referred to discovering "binders full" of qualified women, thanks to his researchers' hard work:

 

In the sentences which followed, he gloated about one of his goals being a more flexible work environment for women so they could have a corporate job AND be home for 5pm to cook supper for their families.
If I were a woman, I would be demoralized at the decades-old perception requiring me to be in the kitchen to prepare dinner.  Or I might be offended at his suggestion that the only way to find women qualified to be in his cabinet was to hunt them down, since - according to Oven Mitt -  women with Cabinet qualifications don't seem to know how to send a C.V. to the State of Massachusetts (http://www.mass.gov/portal/jobs-education/find-job/).

But, I'm not a woman. I'm a happily married, working father of two young children. Also, among the two adults in our home, I'm the better cook.
So, instead, I'm offended at the implication that should my wife not be home to prepare supper for the family, we would have no supper. 
There are times - at least twice weekly - my wife is working until (gasp!) 7pm. On those days, Oven Mitt, I cook.
Sometimes the children may be with an aunt or grandparent. On those occasions, I prepare supper for everyone ahead of time. 

Chef in Action by Matito

In fact, Oven - if I may call you by your first name - my wife is well-read, intelligent, and computer literate. Should you become President, and require her services as a cabinet member, I guarantee I will be in the kitchen daily by 5pm. Should you ever require her to work until 7pm or later, I promise to leave a plate on the counter for her. In fact, should she be a Senior Cabinet Member (Secretary of State, for instance), I would prefer she remain at the office throughout an international crisis, and not return home until all lives have been saved and the incident completely diffused. 

This brings me to my most frustrating part of last night's debate: I'm Canadian and don't get a vote.

 

My Daughter has a Mood Ring. Oh, It's All So Clear Now.

"Color Your Mood" it says.
Thank goodness, I say, since up until now my 5-year-old's personality was so muted and bland.

The indicator itself is along the back of a shiny silver Gecko. You know, like the one which sells discount insurance on television.
When she drapes the pendant over her wrist, or holds it in her hand, or squeezes it like an automobile compactor, it changes color.
Included with the lizard was a chart, decoding the color scheme to the person wearing this cold-blooded creature: 

BLACK: Tense, Nervous, Harassed.

RED: Anxious, Nervous, Stressed.

ORANGE: Unsettled, Mixed emotions. 

GREEN: Not under great stress.

LIGHT BLUE: Cool, Relaxed, Happy.

AQUA (it could be teal): Calm, At ease, Lovable.

DARK BLUE: Very happy.

Allow me to test the thing myself for a second (there's no indication how long this little Gila Monster needs to be held for an accurate reading, so I'll just give it a quick squeeze).

Dark blue. I'm apparently very happy.
Could be, both kids are in school; although they're coming home for lunch in half-an-hour. I'll have to check back with the chameleon while I'm trying to get my daughter to drink her milk. 
As far as this Komodo Dragon reflecting her little moods, let's look closely at some of the possibilities:

Black: Harassed. The only people she may be harassed by are me or my wife. Pardon me if encouraging her to try an Edamame bean is harassment. If she accepted snow peas, cauliflower, sweet peas, broccoli, lettuce, zucchini, or sprouts we wouldn't be in this situation.

Red: Stressed. That's normal. Stress is the emotion you feel when playing with an umbrella ends with a handle jammed in your mouth and you can't vocalize consonants, so instead of 'Daddy' you are yelling: "aaaaaeeeeee!!!... AAAAAAAEEEEEEE!"

Orange: Mixed emotions. Ahhh. The beef stew of children's personalities. Take a little bit if everything and throw is in there. Any minute mom and dad could be faced with sadness, or love; or tears, or tantrums. This is the real meat and potatoes of parent/child relations: total unpredictability.

Green: Not under great stress. Honestly, this iguana should be green until the kid turns 22.

Light blue: Cool, relaxed, etc. The alligator is blue every movie night - as long as there's popcorn (and not the all-natural kind we've been trying to season with Mrs. Dash).

Aqua: Calm, Lovable.  Calm? Please see 'light blue'. Lovable? By law, we must seek out the lovability in our children at all times. When we can't? That's what bedroom doors and time outs are for.

Dark blue: very happy. According to the chuckwalla, I was 'very happy' when I began this post. Now it is aqua along its center with a yellow perimeter...there's no yellow on the chart. What does that mean? It means she's home for lunch in 4 minutes, and I haven't even cleaned up from breakfast. I think yellow means "Life goes on, even while you blog. Get back to work, Dad." See? I can be moody, too.

An Open Letter to Children of Screaming Parents

This is a fantastic article explaining the consequences of parents losing their tempers in front of their children. Despite the title - which for some reason is directed solely at Moms - it is a must read for any parent who has ever lost their cool; in other words, all of us. All we need now is an article written for children, explaining their parents' occasionally irrational behavior, before those children become withdrawn and troubled. Even more important would be an intervention for parents who develop yelling as their natural form of communication. There are couples who seem to never know when to stop.

****

Dear 2-year-old,

    It's loud and scary, isn't it?
Were you sleeping, or trying to play? You keep trying; there's nothing you can do. Soon things will be quiet again.
You can try crying; that might get their attention. Then again, if they're angry, it might be best to just keep to yourself.
Remember your mommy and daddy love you; it's just sometimes they're tired - just like you are before nap time - or sometimes they're frustrated. You know when you're trying to play with a new toy, and it's so hard to make it work right, and you get mad at the toy?
Sometimes grown-ups have those same kinds of feelings about each other. You play with your stuffy. It'll be quieter soon.

Dear 7-year-old,

    Are they at it again?
You can try telling them to stop. Tell them loudly, maybe that'll help. Remember, they're not mad at you, or maybe even not at each other. They just feel strongly about what they have to say, and they feel the other person doesn't understand. Don't you feel that way sometimes? When you want so badly for someone to get something and they just don't? This is sort of the same thing. I know, it shouldn't happen this often; but it's not up to you to fix it.
For now, maybe just stay in your room. Have you finished building that Leggo project you were working on? Or how about that drawing? I find that helps, sometimes - finding my own little thing to work on.
When things quiet down, you can show it to them; they'll be so proud of you. 

Dear 14-year-old,

    Still, eh?
At this point, maybe it's best you keep out of the house a little bit. Can you head to a friend's place? Think of their house as your second home. Talk to your buddy about what's going on. I know when you're at home you spend a lot of time by yourself, but when you're out of this environment, it's important you communicate with your peers. If you can keep that healthy contact with even one close friend, or a teacher, you'll be happier in the long run. Are their any groups you can join at school? Sports teams?
As long as you have the support of a friend, or teacher, or someone you can rely on; it might not be a bad idea to have a serious conversation with your parents about how you feel. Show them the Yahoo article. Tell them it's getting to the point where you don't really want to be at home anymore.
If that doesn't work, remember: it's not your fault. Just spend time with friends and laugh as much as you can...don't stay alone in your room all the time; it's not healthy.

Dear 19-year-old,

     Maybe it's time to take control.
Remember, you're making important choices, now. These will impact the rest of your life. As angry as you may feel towards them; it's time to focus on yourself. Can you live with a relative or friend while you work on finding a career, or finishing school? You know there are plenty of places which can help you work out a student loan, or help you with job placement. I know it's rough with all that negativity to stay motivated, but nothing has ever been more important. Don't think you're taking revenge on them by denying yourself a future you deserve. Push yourself to focus on a goal. It will get you out from under the storm. Even though they wouldn't see one, a therapist may really help you though this time in your life. What you're feeling could be depression; don't withdraw. Remember, it's not your fault. They're not arguing about you. They've just been at it so long, they don't know how else to communicate. 

Dear 27-year-old,

    See that baby? Remember, he hears everything.

 
Scream to avoid suffering in silence by Tree Leaf Clover

"Doormat Dads"!? Who Thinks of this Stuff?

"Doormat Dad".
I hadn't heard that one before. 
It apparently refers to fathers who are inconsistent disciplining their children.
In this article: Does your kid have a "doormat dad?", at babycenter.com, Carolyn Robertson discusses her husband's unwillingness to follow through on house rules.
In his NY Times blog "Motherlode" Michael Bahler writes "In Defense of the Doormat Dad.", explaining how  - although he fears his son's temper - it's also a question of picking your battles. I can definitely relate to that.

Both these authors seem sensitive to the complexities of parenting, as well as to the variations in parenting styles - even within the same household. But neither husband mentioned seems to be offended at the label itself.
As part of gradual adjustments to gender roles, certain realities are (thankfully) less often derided, for example:  female executives with young children, fathers becoming stay-at-home parents, etc.
Negative labels, however, are still more pervasive when referring to Dads than to Moms. 
Articles about "Doormat Dads" are received as humor pieces, even when written by Mom.
Would a daddy blogger writing about his wife as a "Doormat Mom" be as well received? I don't think so.  

I imagine the response from the women in my own social circle to such a post would be: "Listen, I may not be perfect, but after the daily responsibilities of work, raising children, helping to plan extracurricular activities, and trying to hang on to some form of social life while attempting to prevent our house from resembling a war zone, I don't also need to be labelled a 'doormat', to be analyzed by the blogsphere."

That could be why a Google search for "doormat dad" turns up 13,500 results, while the search for "doormat mom" offers 1,780.
Are men more likely to be doormats than women? Maybe, but I doubt it.
Do men spend still spend less time at home with their children and as a result are more gun-shy to spend that time disciplining them? More likely.
Are men less likely to write a blog post entitled "My Wife is a Doormat?" Most definitely, I think. The parental sense of humor hasn't developed that level of elasticity, yet. 

I've written often about the perceptions of men and fatherhood; about how women complain we won't open up; how modern men appreciate strong women; or how fathers can be unfair targets.
One of the advantages of the blogsphere is it is easy to realize you are not alone and isolated. Whether you're a first-time jogger, someone suffering from depression, a needlepoint fanatic or a die-hard hockey fan; you can find a like-minded soul surfing the internet wave. 
Conversely, blogging allows for ideas to be published quickly, for free, and forever.
I have a healthy self-deprecating sense of humor, but I'm not sure I would want my wife to publish "My Husband is a Doormat." It is akin to making that same announcement into a microphone at the center of a football stadium. I would feel it's none of their business. Also, I wouldn't look forward to my grand-children reading that post thirty years from now:
"Let's Google grampa!....Hey!...Look at this! It's gramma calling him a doormat!" 

I'm seem stodgy, don't I? I'm not. I get the intended humor and lightheartedness of the 'Doormat' posts. And both authors speak very highly of their relationships. But, sometimes, this dad gets tired of being studied and labelled.
I'm not a doormat. I do have one though; it's the first thing people see as my wife and I welcome them into my home. Maybe I'll start using instead as the place I send my kids for their time-outs.

Doormat for Lunch by Kol Tregaskes

 

 

The Answer to Your Question Is: "'Cause No-One Gives a S**t."

FatherDaddy is now a weekly contributor to "The Good Men Project". Every Wednesday I will have an article published on their site. There will be an even rotation between original content, and essays previously published on FatherDaddy.

Enjoy the most recent original submission:

The Answer to Your Question Is: "'Cause No-One Gives a S**t."

 

Thanks for reading,

KB