Stay at Home, Dad

It was 2007 when my wife first uttered those words that would change our lives forever. “I’m pregnant”, she said, looking both stunned and ecstatic at the same time. For me, this wasn’t that big of a surprise. We had been trying for months by that point, and for the nature of things to finally take hold, it was a day I knew would come eventually. When she once again told me “I’m pregnant” in 2009... I didn’t handle things quite as well as the first time, but hoped, beyond hope, she hadn’t noticed. We were knee deep in raising our one year old boy by that point, and even though Sarah had expressed an interest in having another baby, I’d be lying to you if I said I was completely on board.

“We need to have another baby, so they can play with one another. They’ll grow up together and be best friends. Just wait and see,” she had said, trying to sell me. Personally, I grew up an only child, and in my mind, the notion that I would’ve benefited by having a brother or sister around, not only seemed ridiculous, but it seemed downright impractical. At Christmas and Birthdays, I received twice the amount of presents that my friends with siblings did, and if I did ever get bored, I did things like read comic books, watch TV, or ride my bike to a friend’s house. Not once in my memory do I remember thinking, “Gee. Being the center of my parents universe sure is nice, but I only wish they would’ve had another kid. How great would it be, having a brother or sister, so I could compete for mom and dad’s attention?”

In 2011, right after cleaning up a formula puke stain on the couch, my wife, looking beyond tired, once again said, “I’m pregnant”. I proceeded to handle this information, about as delicately as one who knows me might expect. “You’d better go to the doctor and have that checked out!” I snapped in frustration, as my wife stood there, totally frazzled.

We were having another child. The thought of an abortion was off the table, considering my wife’s Christian upbringing. “I don’t want to go to hell,” was never said out loud, but the implications were there. She was raised in a Pentecostal home, and although she hadn’t been a practicing Pentecostal for years, those religious morals, which had been embedded in her psyche at a young age, still carried on. “I’m Pro-Choice”, she would freely admit to friends and acquaintances, whenever that landmine topic should arise. Ultimately, it was true. The choice was hers, but I had no doubt in my mind that we were keeping this baby. And although a third baby had the very real possibility of throwing us into financial ruin, we were keeping it, no matter what.

Having a third baby boy meant several changes would have to be made. Call it lifestyle changes, or a work-life balance, but we weren’t making enough money to pay a babysitter for looking after our three children. It wasn’t like the babysitter was going to give us a “Pay for two, get one free” deal, and until Kevin, our oldest, turned six years old, we were going to have to pay $600 a month X three kids = $1800. That was a little on the inexpensive side, as far as babysitters goes. It was commonly known that at $600 a month per kid meant, don’t expect the sitter to take the kids on any field trips to the zoo, or teach them to speak French. At $1800 a month, for all three kids, they were going to be put onto a room with a big screen TV, where Nickelodeon and Disney Channel would be shown all day long. Weather permitted, they would be put in the backyard for a hour or so, where they would all take turns swinging on an old, rusted, nineteen eighties A-frame swing set. This would be what we were paying for, just so I could go to work as a copy, print, and shipping supervisor. I made a little more than $3000 a month, so we could swing it, but not by much. My whole salary would essentially be paying for the babysitter, with not much left over after that.

One evening, after putting one out of two kids down for the night, Sarah asked if we could talk. The formal, severity in her voice had me thinking, “Uh-oh. Did I forget to delete the browser history on the laptop?” But that wasn’t what she wanted to talk about at all.

“Kyle, I was thinking. It will be tough on one income, but what do you think about quitting your job and staying at home with the kids?”

“Me? You want me to be a stay-at-home Dad?” I asked, a little put aback.

“I mean, it makes sense, don’t you think? I make more than you, and since I work for the state, my benefits are a lot better.”

“Financially, it does make sense, but....”

“Does the thought of being a stay-at-home Dad seem emasculating to you?”

“Emasculating? Me? No. Definitely not,” I answered, waving the notion away like a bug. “You know I don’t get hung up on all that traditional, stereotypical, macho bullshit.”

“I know.”

“It’s just... I don’t know? It’s a tough thing to wrap my head around, ya know? Here I’ve been working a job since I was sixteen and...”

“I understand,” she said, taking my hand. “We don’t have to make a decision right now, but...” She said, as she placed my hands on her cantaloupe sized belly. “This little boy is coming out soon, and we gotta get our ducks in a row.”

“I do like the idea of one of us raising the kids, instead of a sitter. Don’t get me wrong. Tamara seems like she does a good job.”

“She does, and maybe this is a little Mommy guilt eating at me, but I feel that we can care for our kids, much better than any sitter can. And think of what a bonding experience it would be.”

“And you don’t want to stay home?”

“The practical answer is that we can’t afford for me to stay home, unless you were willing to get a second job.”

“And the honest answer?”

“I’d go stir crazy, being cooped up in this house all day. I’ve gotta work.”

“So, I’m just a fat, lazy slob, who could care less about holding down a job?” I responded with a laugh. “Is that it?”

“No. I didn’t say that,” she said, as she flung my hands away, sighing with exasperation. “I’m just spit-balling here. You know, feeling things out.”

“So, essentially, you’re asking for me to quit my job, so I can binge watch Sy-Fy channel, all day long, five days a week?”

“Well, yes, and keep our progeny alive. That would be the main thing.”

“Screw it. I don’t have to think about it. Sign me up.”

Timing became key, after we put our plan in place. And speaking of timing, the prospect of putting my two-week notice in had become more and more desirable. This was in response to the fact that my company, which I had work for for years, kept screwing me over. Despite coming in on my off-days, working all sorts of overtime uncompensated, and showing myself to be a good team player, I had been passed over for multiple higher-paying positions.

Instead of climbing the corporate ladder, I was being directed towards the basement stairs. After pissing off a high profile client, by making a fairly innocuous mistake, my regional manager called me into his office. He told me that the site, and it’s increasing responsibilities, had outgrown me.

“Unfortunately, for this reason, we’re going to have to demote you to a site lead”, he said, trying his hardest to look sad about it. The reality was he didn’t give two shits about me, and his main goal was to keep the powers-that-be happy. All that time spent, and always coming in, without ever calling in sick. I called in once, in almost nine years. All that was forgotten.

After baby number three, Zachary, was born, I had one month of paid paternity leave, and Sarah had twelve weeks of maternity leave. The day I returned to work would be my first in my demoted role, at a lesser amount of pay. Feeling not even one ounce of guilt, I handed in my two weeks notice.

“Well, Kyle, this certainly is a surprise,” he said, and by the expression on his face, I think he actually meant it. He might as well have said, “But Kyle, you eat our shit so readily. Where will we possibly find another spineless, groveler like you?”

By the time I had assumed my stay-at-home Daddy role, Sarah was reluctantly ready to go back to work. Child birth had gotten progressively worse, from baby one to baby three. Kevin, her dream child, was almost delivered in the hospital lobby. As I alerted the ER receptionist, telling her that the baby was coming out... Like, right now, she said condescendingly, “Oh, Sir. It doesn’t happen like that. Labor takes time”. Then, my wife screamed, a nurse looked her over, and we were suddenly being hustled back to one of the open emergency room bays. My oldest, Kevin, was born twenty minutes later.

Lucas, the middle child, wasn’t so anxious to get out. After nearly eight hours of Sarah being induced, and having her water broken, Lucas was staying put. Sarah’s Obstetrician, a older man in his fifties, was really giving her the business, too. “Push hard. Push hard, now, or we’ll have to do a Cesarean. You don’t want that, trust me,” he commanded sternly.

“Yeah, Sarah. Push. You don’t want a C-section, do you?” I added, feeling like I was helping. The light of pure hell fire, which lit up Sarah’s eyes, told me that maybe I needed to keep my mouth shut.

Even though Sarah jokingly told her friends that Lucas, weighing over nine pounds, had completely loosened things up down there, our third child, Zachary, proved that he, too, wasn’t prepared to simply slide right out of the womb. She was in labor for a staggering eleven hours, and although he weighed less than Lucas, Zachary was clearly the hardest to deliver. She claimed, that like some kind of incubus, he was a soul-sucking parasite, who was trying to kill her from the inside. I, for one, wasn’t about to correct her.

Sarah, still feeling pains after eleven weeks, was both physically and mentally drained. It didn’t help that Zachary had been born in early January, when snow banks and depression levels were both running high. The other tough things was the fact that we had two toddlers, who needed constant supervision. Putting the cat’s food up on the counter, because Kevin and Lucas tried eating it, became routine, and as for the liter box... Let’s just say there were some close calls.

The older boys weren’t too bad, even though Kevin was starting to go though his “Why?” phase. God, I hate to say it, but cable TV was my savior, and I fully admit that media devices, with their ability to show cartoons, were the world’s best pacifier. Judge me if you want, but it’s the truth. Of course, a binky, literally considered a pacifier, works better than a TV for teething, but you understand what I’m saying.

Newborns are easy, because there’s only one of four things they need: sleep, food, a diaper change, or being held. Sure, you become sleep deprived, and dress like a hobo, but by the time the third kid comes around, you’re used to that. I do have to admit, it did feel like three against two sometimes, like in Jurassic Park, when the raptors would check the electric fence perimeter for weaknesses. I told my friends, “It’s constant pressure, like a power play in hockey, but instead of lasting one minute, it lasts until the all three kids fall asleep.”

Sarah eventually went back to work, and then it was the Daddy show. My dreams of watching Sy-Fy Channel all day, or maybe sneaking off to my bedroom to take a nap, had been a pipe-dream.

People always say, “You gotta sleep when they sleep”, which is great advice, if all your kids are on the exact same sleep schedule. Problem for me was that the newborn only slept two, maybe three hours at a time, and then it was “Feed me, change me, hold me” time. Then, there was Lucas, who would typically go down for a nap in the afternoon, until his screaming baby brother woke him up. And my oldest, Kevin, would only nap if we were driving in the car, which wasn’t the most practical thing in the world.

“One fine day, I will sleep again, and that will be the best-i-est day ever,” I told myself, as a screaming match between Kevin and Lucas woke me up from a deep, tranquil nap.

Sarah worked as a service coordinator for the State of Ohio’s Jobs and Family Services Department. She essentially made sure that poor folks in Ohio, could get public assistance for important things, like food stamps and child support. One day, just kidding around, I asked what it would take to get on the WIC program, which assists Women, Infant, and Child with nutritional care.

“Baby formula is too expensive,” I whined, as I checked the temperature on a bottle I had just heated. “Why don’t you hook us up?”

“Oh, honey. We aren’t even close to being in that ballpark. You’ve got to be the poorest of the poor,” she said, as her face dropped. “We’re talking, barely a roof over their heads poor. A lot of those people... Their lives are already so hard, and then, to add a baby or two? It breaks my heart how much harder their lives becomes.”

She was a saint like that. I obviously realized that there were poor people in our community, but since my interactions with them were so seldom, it was real easy to forget about them. Sarah, on the other hand, interacted with these people every working day, as she walked them through the process of applying for state funded aid. It was a thankless job, which required a ton of patience, and a thick skin. Not all of her clients were appreciative of what she could, or could not do for them, and even though they called her every bad name in the book, she never took it personally.

After a few months in, the boys and I had somehow gotten into a routine. It was a tenuous routine, having been cobbled together haphazardly, by boogers and Snoopy band aids. But at least it was something. Here are just a few of the highlights:

Sarah had to work, so she was excused from 3:00 or 4:00 AM feeding duties. She needed her beauty sleep, so she could look her best, while being screamed at, over the phone, by unhappy clients. I was happy to help.

When the older boys were hungry, they typically liked some kind of specific food, wholeheartedly, for about three, or four weeks. So, let’s say, Lucas would only eat Chef Boyadee Ravioli for lunch and dinner, and Kevin would only eat cinnamon toast for all meals. Right after you had just committed, to buying that two pound box of honey nut Cheerio’s at Costco... That’s when they wouldn’t want it anymore. That big box of cereal just became yours to eat.

Next, the big, sixty inch TV belonged to the toddlers. Being a little hypocritical, we were against letting the boys use our laptop, the tablet, or our smart phones. Child Psychologists at the time, would bully and browbeat caregivers on every talk show, news expose, and parent magazine around, claiming that the permanent damage being caused, by giving youngsters access to any computer device, was catastrophic. It was believed that these devices rewired the little ones brains, making their moods more volatile, and their attention span shorter. “They’ll get hooked,” I read, ironically, on my smart phone, after having finished up three full hours on my laptop, researching this topic.

Although they didn’t openly endorse using the television as a safer alternative, they weren’t quite as passionate about condemning it. They vehemently railed against online YouTube, not the big screen boob tube, and in my mind, the message was clear; “Big screens good, smaller screens bad. Got it”. Let me tell you, I gladly gave the TV to the kids, just so I could grab a quick nap, or play video solitaire in peace.

Sarah still took days off for the big things, like Zach’s six month check up, or when I came down with the Swine Flu. That was fun. Sarah locked me down in the basement, where I had a gallon jug of water, a bucket to puke in, a bucket to relieve myself in (just pee). When Sarah fed me, she would knock on the door, and leave a plate at the top of the stairs. She was so freaked out about catching any kind of viral bugs, she went to any lengths, just to ensure that she would remain bug-free. It made me feel like a goddamn convict, but I understood her feelings. I was the first to admit that that stuff was awful.

When the weather was nice, which didn’t happen in Ohio until May, I would take our brood out to one of the many playgrounds, within the city limits. The kids were all over the playground equipment, whose designs, with safety in mind, hadn’t even been a remote thought, when I was growing up in the eighties. We had metal slides, which were twelve feet tall, and might give you tetanus. In my day, there was a thing called the merry-go-round, where kids being kids, stuck their limbs underneath, resulting in a trip to the hospital. Don’t even get me started on the rusty see saws, with the splintering, wooden seats.

Nowadays though, all the rough, jagged edges were all covered, and if a youngster was to fall off the not-so-high-up jungle gym, they’d land safely on rubber mulch, or the cushy, artificial pad, which covered the ground. Kids and parents alike can thank Gen-X engineers for that, having been scarred, both mentally and physically, from our childhood on the playground.

“Well, lookie there. How old?” A random mother at the playground asked me.

“Thirty three years, next month,” I’d said, receiving a polite, but questioning look. “Oh, you mean the baby. How embarrassing. He’s eight months old.”

“So cute,” she said, looking down at Zach, and then, with a flash of concern, she looked back up at me. “The baby. The baby is so cute.”

“Thanks. And I helped,” I said, using my best country accent. Evidently, she didn’t remember the Shake-and-Bake commercials from the eighties, because she gave me an awkward smile, then quickly scurried away.

It was always the same. Stay-at-home moms out numbered me ten to one, and I got a lot of curious looks. When I was feeling especially judged, whether self-consciously, or intuitively, I would be sure to call the other two boys over, and interact with them in some random way. I’d says things like, “You boys need any water?” or, “Let’s get some more sunscreen on your face”. I was not going for dad of the year. These moves were all for show, as I worked hard to neutralize all these side-eyeing mothers, who probably thought I was there for nefarious reasons.

“I can assure you, this is an actual baby in this stroller, and not just a prop,” I thought, as I picked Zach up and held him out like Rafiki did Simba in The Lion King. He then immediately started to cry, and the looks of disapproval intensified tenfold.

After having kids, my buddies, who I used to go out with to bars, concerts, and sporting events, quickly disappeared from my life. Like me, a lot of them were experiencing the joys of parenthood too, and their free time had become totally depleted. Guys who are married with children don’t typically buy season tickets for the local Pro hockey team, because their dance cards are filled up, by their various daddy/husband duties. And the single guys, although trying their best to be sympathetic with your plight, don’t happen to have a lot in common with you anymore. It might be over-simplifying things a little, but it’s more like, single guys find it’s easier just to not hang out with you anymore. Other single friends are more available than you are. Plus, they have no idea what a diaper genie is, and how disgusting it can get.

I did retain two good friends, who were also dads, and we hung out at a bar, at least once a month. They both were divorced, and went weeks, without having their kids in their house. These weeks they didn’t have the kids seemed magical to me. They did things like go out, to the downtown clubs, until 2:00 AM, or fly to Vegas for the weekend. I made the mistake once of telling Sarah how this type of freedom must feel so liberating, and how I missed that feeling. I was then promptly reminded of the harsh reality, that I was, in fact, talking to my wife, out loud, and using words... Poorly chosen words, at that.

“You know, you have this problem with thinking you can verbalize every little thought that passes through your head. Trust me when I tell you that you shouldn’t,” she responded, without preamble. I then shut my mouth, because my Mama didn’t raise no dummy. I knew a threat when I heard one.

My buddy Stewart was one of my old college roommates. We did a lot of growing up together, in our early twenties. I was there, when he got arrested for underage drinking in a college bar, and he was there, when I lost my shit, and started to call my Mom on the phone, while hallucinating on magic mushrooms. He stopped me, and I will forever be in his debt.

Now, Stu was a divorced dad of two, who lived the exciting life of a salad dressing salesman. You think I’m kidding, but the guy traveled everywhere, in the United States and abroad, and he was always partying with other food-related sales folks. He’d tell me things like, “Man, am I glad to be home. I’m exhausted. I just got back from the big New Orleans salad dressing conference, and every night of the week, it was whiskey shooters, and staying awake until four in the morning. I even hurled one night. It was like college, all over again.”

My other buddy, Dean, was also a divorced dad of two. I met Dean through Sarah, because Dean’s ex-wife, Janelle, worked with Sarah at Job and Family Services. Shortly after having their second child, Dean and Janelle decided that they had absolutely nothing in common, and called it quits. Dean was a lawyer, and he had that alpha male-type personality, which serves most lawyers well. Janelle, a section chief at Ohio JFS, dealt with complaining clientele all the time, and she had the patience and understanding to do that well.

Shortly after their second child was born, she discovered that she didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with the general public’s gripes, only to come home, to then be thrown into arguments, which were concocted by Dean. I mean, he’s a lawyer. Arguing is what he does best.

In the 2010s, thirty microbreweries started popping up like mushrooms, throughout the city. It was the greatest trend of all time, as bearded lumberjack types opened up shop, and rode the “Buy Local” wave, as long as they possibly could. They all seemed to have the same interior decorator, too, because industrial design reigned supreme. There was a lot of wood and metal table, and stools, vertical box gardens on the walls, and a token house cat, just lazing around on the bar top. Stu, Dean, and I decided we were going to hit up a different brew pub every month. I may not be speaking for them, since they were divorced world-travelers, but it really gave me something to look forward to.

On a hot, August night, we chose a micro brewery, close to Dean’s house. I feel like we usually ended up going somewhere close to Dean’s house, unless he was the one, who really wanted to check out a bar, far from his place. This pub was called Tooth & Nail Brewing, and I was later told, by one of the owners that, “We had to fight, tooth and nail, to make this place happen. So we said, let’s name it that”.

“Tooth and nail, huh?” Stu said, as he approached Dean and me at the bar. “Doesn’t make me want to eat their food. I don’t wanna get lockjaw.”

“This is their Rusty Tin Can Amber Ale,” Dean said, lifting the pint to his mouth. “The irony is that it was on tap.”

“I’m sure they sell it in cans, too,” I said, trying to stop their attempt at ruining my night out.

“They have half off apps, and two dollars off pints for happy hour,” Dean reported, as he tossed a menu to Stu. “I just had their Thai peanut butter and jelly chicken wings. They were decent.”

“Damn, man. Why can’t they have just regular, old Buffalo wings at these places anymore? Everything’s gotta be fancy,” Stu said, as he ordered a Rusty Tin Can Amber Ale, too.

“They do it because they wanna charge you fancy pub food prices,” Dean answered, as he took a long drink. “With a name like Free Range Barbecue Chicken Breast Sandwich, they can charge you at least five dollars more.”

“Yeah, listen to this description,” I said, opening the menu. “GMO free, organic chicken breast, battered lightly with Panko, topped with house made BBQ sauce, swiss chard, a slice of beef steak tomato, on a Kasier roll. All our meat and poultry is locally sourced by Taylor Farms in Utica.”

“Sounds both delicious, and regionally conscience,” Dean added.

“How is the Rusty Tin Can Amber Ale?” Stu asked, as he pulled up a stool.

“I don’t know if the name is supposed to be literal, or what, but all I’m tasting is rust. Probably just a subconscious thing.”

“Yeah, Dean. I doubt they’re pouring actual rust in your beer,” I quipped. “People dropping dead of heavy metal poisoning tends to hurt repeat business.”

“Shit. I think about the beer we used to drink back in college, like Red Dog, Icehouse, Old Milwaukee, and Schlitz... And now look at us. We’re so sophisticated,” Stu said with a laugh.

“I’ve never even heard of most of those beers before,” Dean claimed, as he ordered the Tooth Decay IPA. “Icehouse sounds familiar. I think my dad used to drink that. He was notorious for drinking the cheapest stuff that the drive thru had to offer.”

“You don’t remember Red Dog?” Stu asked, as Dean nodded negatively. “I keep forgetting how much younger you are than us. When we were at OSU, in the nineties, you were still in diapers, and learning your ABC,” Stu said, clinking my glass, as if he had scored points.

“I’m only eight years younger than you guys, so if I was still in diapers by sixteen, I must have been into some kinky shit.”

“So, how are you doing, man? How’s the stay-at-home daddy thing going? Are you loosing your mind yet?” Dean asked.

“Well, yeah, it’s definitely easier, now that it’s Summertime. If the temperature isn’t above ninety degrees, we’ll get out to a park, or something like that. Staying in the house all of the time, isn’t as fun as you might think.”

“I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, except for the fact that you make no money. I don’t want to sound money-motivated, or anything, but having a large income, and seeing huge checking and saving account balances... It feels pretty good,” Dean said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my kids, and all...”

“I’ve gotta work. Traveling constantly is kind of a drag sometimes, but...” Stu said, as I cut him off.

“Isn’t that what broke up your marriage?” I asked jokingly. “At least that’s what Jenn said in court, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, right. We got divorced because my Ex is a complete and total narcissist,” Stu said, shrugging my comment off. “No, what I was going to say was, even though I travel a lot, my networking has gotten so tight, that everywhere I go, I’ve got friends. I’ve got friends in Arizona, who get me high as fuck, and let me crash in their guest room. I’ve got a buddy in Chicago, and we go out and party on Michigan Ave. until three in the morning, then, after a street gyro, we go back to his crib, and play video games until the sun rises.”

“Nobody says crib anymore,” Dean chimed in, laughing.

“ANYWAYS, back to what I was saying,” Stu said, acting annoyed at Dean’s interruption. “I know this one cute, little mama, down in Miami, who wants to go dancing in South Beach, every time I’m down there... But sometimes, we just stay in my hotel room, and order room service. No. I don’t think I’d be willing, to give up all of that. And that’s why Jennifer has seventy percent custody of the kids.”

“Heather wanted seventy percent, but I was like, fuck that. I’m gonna teach Dean Junior to swim, and fish, and play baseball... All of that father-son shit.”

“What about your daughter?” I asked.

“I don’t know what to do with her yet. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’ll end up being a tomboy. She can learn all of that same stuff that I’ll be teaching little Dean.”

“Just do like me, and pay professionals bunches of money, to teach her to dance, or gymnastics, or whatever. The bad part there, is when you gotta go to their dance competitions. It’s usually an all day long event, with nothing but a bunch of little kids dancing, and dancing poorly, I might add. It’s pretty brutal,” Stu added.

“I don’t know? She’s only two, so I’ve got time to figure it out,” Dean added, before taking a tug off his beer.

“This stay-at-home thing... It’s like Sarah and I live in the nineteen fifties, except we’ve completely swapped gender roles. I mean, I’m not handing her the evening post and a dry martini when she comes through the door every night, but it’s pretty close. I do all the housewife type things, like the cleaning, the laundry, the cooking, the vacuuming.”

“No offense, Kyle, but Sarah is a whole lot smarter than you. It’s no surprise that she’s the breadwinner in your family. If you doing all the cooking and cleaning helps keep her less stressed out, then that what you gotta do,” Stu said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Sometimes I wish I could be a stay-at-home dad, but without the kids,” Dean added.

“Jesus, Deano. That sounds like it could be on a T-shirt, or something” I responded, as we all laughed.