The Blogfathers

I work at a school, little dude, and every year, I’m supposed to contribute a little money to a “flower fund.” This money is then used to purchase flowers for the other teachers in the building if they have birthdays, or if a family member takes ill or dies. And I understand that — those flowers come from the fellow teacher of the person in need.

This money also purchases flowers for any teacher who has a child, but in there (I think) lies some sexism. See, you were born at the end of the school year when the other teachers were worrying about other things. A few weeks later, more babies were born to other teachers, and (I could be mistaken here) they received flowers, where you and I did not.

Yeah, all those flowers in your hospital room…they came from family. They came from other people. They did not come from the school. All the female teachers got flowers, and I’m going to assume it’s because they’re female.

(Nothing against the ladies here. You always remind us about the somatic experience of childbirth, and I’m sure no male would take the time to suffer through it, especially in argument of sexism.)

The problem came a few months later when I brought you to the school, because I’m a big fan of show-and-tell. Always have been. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve enjoyed show and tell, especialy when it bothered my teachers. I remember my second grade teacher, after living through my repetitive Transformer™ exhibits, asking that no more toys be brought in for the excitement and wonder of our fellow students.

And so I was dumbfounded at the reaction from my fellow teachers when I brought you in to show off. I had your mama bring you to school so everyone could see you and your working parts; so they could see you move and talk; so they could see you transform from a baby into a tank, and that you’re an autobot and not a decepticon. But all they were concerned with was the degradation of the daddy.

They saw you and said: “He’s so cute!” or “He’s so handsome!” and then they turned to your mama to call out all the problems they’ve seen in their lives.

Does he change diapers?

Yes.

Are you LYING?!?

No.

Does he feed him?!?!

Yes.

You’ve got to be kidding, right?

No.

Every question they asked dealt with that whole male conundrum of maleness. So often we think that fathers will not change, dress, or feed their children, but the truth is (I assume) that we do. It’s just not expected. And when the unexpected happens, we throw a big party.

So there we were, in the hallway, you throwing up on my shoulder, and the people around asking whether I would be man enough to take care of it.

They might not have understood the expression I gave them, little guy, but it was meant to say: “Are you kidding me?”

And that expression came in response to all the other junk I put up with throughout the day: Namely, the fact that no one believed I’ve changed your diaper, or that I’ve fed you. No one believed it. No one believed me when I said I’d rocked you to sleep, or that I’d put baby oil on your skin to reduce the cradle cap. No one bought it when I outlined the proper procedure for getting you through the day, and it all came to a head when I realized that everyone asked these questions of your mama.

No one talked to me.

No one believed me.

No one took my words as truth, even when I backed them up with: “You’re kidding, me, right? Of course I change and feed him.” Or even the: “Seriously, you don’t believe me? You don’t think I’d feed my own child?!?”

Instead of listening to me, they turned to your mama and asked if I was telling the truth.

No one believed you when you backed me up, and I think that belies the inherent sexism in being a daddy.

We’re expected to be unavailable. We’re expected to fail. We’re expected to not understand the child or how to raise it, and we’re expected to say things like: “His mother does that.”

We’re not supposed to raise you. And we’re not supposed to give you flowers.

Spring Cleaning