KEEPING SCORE

Since my last posting, MEN’S LIB, I have been mulling over the challenges faced by our evolving Mr. Mom. It’s taken me some time to get my arms around the core issues facing the American male as he makes the not so quite graceful transition from uber-bread winner to stay at home dad.
And the crux of the problem comes down to score keeping.
To better explain myself a little background is in order.
When I was a lad I was quickly inculcated, both at home and at school, into the concept of keeping score as a measure of valuing one’s self worth. Specifically, my notion of self was framed by my report card, whether I was in the starting lineup on our school team for whatever sport was in season, merit pins awarded at the end of each grading period, and whether I was a class officer or not. That was pretty much it in Irish Catholic San Mateo in the fifties and early sixties.
As I grew up and supposedly matured, my scoring system changed with me. Now I graded my meaning on sex, my job, my golf handicap, sex, my time in the 10K, how much money I earned, sex, and, later, my children’s climb up the scoring later – because, obviously, their success reflected on my score as a parent.
You see, all scoring, all the time. Constant tallying and grading.
I’m not saying every guy, everywhere, is just like me. Maybe this obsession with scorekeeping is specific to me but I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not alone. Speaking in wide generalities (which I am allowed to do since I am Mr. Smarty Pants) women are raised to be nurturers, and men are raised to earn. In prehistoric times earning translated into providing food for the family hearth. In modern times it has evolved into making money to fund the hearth and all that goes with it. Men are not wired to feather the nest, but rather, kill the beast.
And that’s where I am having a little bit of problem with the whole Mr. Mom gig. I haven’t killed a beast in a while and it is getting to me. If after a day of baby watching the child is alive, dry and not dying of hunger I suppose that is a passing grade and worthy of some self praise. But honestly, it does not gratify me like hitting a line drive or closing a business deal did at earlier times.
We are a living paradox at Chez Finn; my wife would gladly give up her work to stay home with the toddler all day, every day, and now that my retirement has been waylaid, I would gladly cede the child rearing duties for a workaday job making money. But this isn’t happening anytime soon for either of us.
I talk to my intellectual superior, the Akita Kebu, about this and she says that in her experience the only thing that matters is one’s place in the pack. And since she is secure in her place in the pack, I should be secure in mine as Pack Leader. And she says that she is beginning to find all my strident self examination a little over indulgent.
And then she takes a nap.
I wish I were a dog.