Don’t Call Me “Mr. Mom”
August 1994
Michael Keyton made “Mr. Mom” a household word. Quite frankly, I wish he’d passed on the script. Just because I change the diapers, fix the meals and do the laundry does not mean that I am an out of work, ego depressed, deluded macho male destined to fall from the ladder of corporate grace. I might be the “at home” parent, but I am not “Mom”.
Five years ago my wife was offered a promotion. It meant moving from Los Angeles to New Jersey – in 30 days. I was the one who could accommodate that sort of upheaval. As an independent management consultant, my income depended more on airplanes than on postal addresses. So I agreed, quite willingly. After all, her career was taking off. She had always been a corporate woman, and that steady paycheck meant guaranteed health care, a smooth bank balance between my contracts and a great credit line.
There was just one small problem. Actually, the problem began very small and was growing larger every day. We were the somewhat surprised recipients of a new baby boy, now six months old. Neither of us planned this one. In fact, I had not planned on any ones. But passion often leads to unexpected results and Michael arrived in amazing fashion. Parents helped out during pregnancy leave. I curtailed some of my travel after they left. We managed to get by, in spite of the battles over who was responsible to watch him today. Then my wife came home and announced that headquarters wanted her.
So, being a dutiful father, I “volunteered” (one arm twisted) to stay at home with Michael until we got through the move, found suitable care and were established in our new lives in the Northeast.
Five years later I have a five year old boy, a two year old daughter (my favorite, of course), have never gone back to consulting, and spend my days kissing bruised knees, picking up toys and watching Barney. I have an aviator friend who characterized flying KC-135 tankers as “hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror”. I think my life with Barney qualifies. Hours of frustration. Moments of panic, insight, awe, bliss.
When I took on the task of managing an infant, there was a certain relief to the job. The 300,000 miles a year in the airplanes was wearing thin. The money had less and less appeal. I needed a break. And there was a sense of challenge to be able to do the most ignoble job on earth better than a woman. After all, I was a successful, accomplished, organized, energetic MAN. “Of course I can do this menial job, and do it to perfection”, I thought. And the first year I seemed to have it licked. Michael rolled in the playpen while I hung wallpaper, painted ceiling, decorated and established a reputation as “that man who brings his little boy to swimming lessons with all the mothers”. Now that I look back on all that happened during the first eighteen months in wonderful, rural New Jersey, I can hardly believe I did it. There was this intensity about work that simply propelled me from the board room to the baby’s room. I didn’t do the job of child raising – I attacked it!
But after awhile, the adrenaline stopped pumping. Life settled into a routine. The slow burn began.
I have a card, given to me by my wife on one of those forgettable birthdays, that carries the title “Bored in the USA”. The two words in the English language that terrified me the most became descriptions of my existence – normal routine. All of my life I never wanted to be normal. And all of my life I hated “routine”. It is little consolation to know that more than half of the people consider themselves better than average. I didn’t want “better than average”. I wanted “best”. But being at home with an infant did not allow the first class junket, executive suite, brilliant insight status that kept my libido lubricated. I was chafing at the bit.
We searched for day care. Once we realized that no one was going to come to our home, we tried taking Michael to someone else. Instant diaper rashes. Occasional eating fits. General unhappiness. No naps and consequently, no sleep for anyone else at night. Michael liked being with Daddy and he wanted Daddy back. The consulting assignment I took, telling myself that I needed to get back into the work world, became a marginal motivator. It was simply overwhelming to try to coordinate commuting, day care, household management and the demands of corporate life (how do women so it?). Much to my dismay, I gave up, telling myself that I just had to wait until Michael was a little older and could be left at a pre-school.
Then I encountered the almost insurmountable obstacle of “potty training”. The pre-school staff were very nice but very firm. No potty training, no attendance. “We’ll be glad to have Michael in the Fall, Mr. Moen, if you will just make sure that he is potty trained”. I spent the summer sitting on the bathroom floor pleading, cajoling, screaming, begging him to cooperate. Two year olds are incredibly impervious to adult influence. Summer came and went. The pediatrician was not very sympathetic. “Don’t worry. He’ll do it when he’s ready. Just forget it for awhile.”
Fall arrived. No potty training, no pre-school. Oh, well, there’s always the “after Christmas” session. Doubts about my incredible abilities to get things done began to surface. The $1000 a day MAN who could not get a two year old to forego diapers. That armored exterior of total self confidence began rusting at the joints. Soon I quit complaining about my inability to get Michael through this hurdle to my piece of mind. It was simply too embarrassing to admit to all of those mothers that I could not manage this toddler. I read the books (children do not come with instruction manuals), talked to the MALE pediatricians and generally grew more frustrated and intolerant. How Michael survived my fury I will never know. Perhaps in his adult life those sessions in the bathroom will come back to haunt me and I will be branded an “inadequate parent”, but I did all that I could. To no avail. We waited together until one day he simply walked into the kitchen and announced that he was going to go to the potty. It was God’s grace. My penance was over. There is life after purgatory.
Michael was soon attending pre-school. I experienced a new freedom (three hours a day without a child). But things in my life had changed. I found that I was not so anxious to rush out to the work world. I liked being with this little guy who loved to snuggle with me, sit on my lap, read stories and watch Sesame Street. There were days when I envied the frenzy of the corporate jet set, but now there seemed to be just as many when I was happy just to have the time to make a really healthy dinner. Nevertheless, forty years of “success” training could not be undone in two and a half years of parenting. In the deep recesses of my mind I knew that next year Michael would be out of the house from 8 to 5 and I could let the adreneline flow. The very thought of it made me jumpy. Too bad someone did not point out that I was exhibiting all the signs of a work junkie.
I started several alternative life style “projects” with the same addicitive intensity. I wrote two books (but have not found a publisher), invented a children’s high tech game (but have not found a marketeer), created a profitable charity fund-raiser (but could not find a backer), restored a house (and finally found a buyer). God just kept closing the doors to my view of success. I had severe withdrawal pains. But I never gave up believing that my happiness depended entirely on the results of my efforts.
Fortunatley, God was not quite finished with my re-education in values. In October of 1991, after a few weeks of nausea, my wife took the at home test. It was blue. So was I. How could this happen now?! Just when I was finally going to be free of constant fatherhood! It just wasn’t fair. I had visions of miscarriages (or other less acceptable solutions). I felt cheated out of my “real” life, trapped in this alter existence, wasting away in the 2900 square feet at 101 Center Street. Those nine months were horrible. She was sick every day. I was sick at heart every day. I fought it by being angry at the world, bitter, unbearable. There were days when I contemplated running away (my usual fantasy pattern when I am faced with really deep crisis). But there was Michael. He has the most wonderfully loving eyes, innocent, adoring. I stayed, of course. And when that day in June arrived and I saw Rachel leave the protection of her mother’s body to be herself, my anger evaporated in a moment of awe. God intended me to learn that His little ones are more precious than gold.
Life at home is still frustrating. I often feel that being the chief cook and bottle washer makes me about as appreciated as a live in maid (self pity reigns supreme in those moments). Mom struggles with a work load that would kill less addicted executives. And them there is guilt. Guilt about not having spontaneity with each other. Guilt about being frustrated with children. Guilt about life sytles that demand too much too often. We know we need a vacation, but we’re too tired to take one.
Parenting miracles don’t seem to be flashy ones. God does protect us, but mostly from our own mistakes I would guess. I now have two to manage. I’m no longer sure that “manage” is a term which can be applied to the art of parenting. Some days they seem to manage me much better than I can corral them. But we find that we are still together at the end of each day, that we have had moments of triumph, trials and tenderness. And we still love each other, just a little more for having survived what life presented that day. We are Father, Mother and Children. God is good.
My life has taken many unanticipated turns in these last few years. There are moments like this one when I can see that the other path would have led me to “successful” emptiness. I still have the tendency to move into fifth gear without waiting for the light to turn green. But these two little ones who have been entrusted to me are teaching me that life’s real joys are found in the view from a snail’s pace. I am sure now that I can never go back to the old ways. I like those little hands clutching my big hands. Time to watch the rain drops paint rivers on window panes, count petals on a dandelion and “bat the ball way up in the ‘ky”. Thank God He knew what I really needed all along. Enough of His grace to become grateful.
