For the record, I think that title is degrading. But I don’t know how to PC this one. Mister Mom is a good descriptor so you know what I mean. A stay-at-home-Dad. A SAHD. Like I’m a SAHM. Ok. On with it.
Dear Mister Mom,
I noticed you the first week of school. You smiled the friendly Mom smile when you signed your child in and out. You raced to park under the carport like any minivan driving Mama on a mission to be there first. But you don’t drive a minivan. Too girly, I guess. You drive a big ol’ Suburban. I don’t blame you. It’s the manly version of kiddie carpool. I understand. I, myself, would luh-huv to drive a Cadillac Escalade, but I digress.
As the days and weeks went on, you must have noticed all the Moms getting friendly with each other. A nod and a smile turned into small conversations. Mine all had to do with my bulging belly. You heard giggles and chatters about subjects of a feminine nature. Girly talk all around you. It must have been like stepping barefoot into a pile of pink lipstick with shine booster to you.
Then you started to laugh at our jokes and smile at our kids. You gave the knowing Mom glance like an expert and somehow you seemed to really understand what the glance meant. Breaking the inner circle.
Some Moms started setting up play dates. Some started selling their goods (Pampered Chef, Silpada, etc). Some Moms invited a few kids to their child’s birthday party. Did you get invited to any of those gatherings, I wonder?
You hold the door for me. You tell me my kids are cute. You joke about the minivan vs. the scion. You oooh and ahhh at new babies. You are nice. You’re a nice guy.
I’m sorry, Mister Mom, that there aren’t more of you. It must be awkward for you to be surrounded by so many clique oriented women who talk about hair, accessories, make-up, weight loss, saggy boobs, and kiddie vomit. We don’t know much about trucks and power tools. It never crossed our minds how many miles a gallon our gas sucking vans can get on the freeway when shopping for the daggone soccer camp here we come vehicles. All we cared about was where the car seats would go and would the double stroller fit along with the skateboard, scooter, bike, helmets, and bags of groceries from a trip to WalMart. We are into comfortable clothes and the newest most smacktastic dishwasher detergent known to man that is also good for the environment and comes in a recyclable container. Where do you fit in?
Well, Mister Mom, I notice you. I think you’re a great guy. I see you kiss and hug your son. I see you greet him warmly when you pick him up. I hear you ask about his day. You’re a super Mom.
What I’m trying to say, you see, is that you are a super Dad and I hope we can adapt to help more Dads like you feel welcome and accepted. Congratulations for fitting in. And welcome to the world of Super Parenting.
A Super Mom of three