MEN’S LIB

It was the final gasp of our well-deserved Indian Summer; a hot afternoon in the first week of November and we were still in thrall to the unexpected joy of the Giants World Series Win. I was sitting at a wrought iron table in the plaza outside my local Starbucks. With me was the dynamic duo; Vivienne, the cute but screeching toddler, and Kebu the wonder dog. As people came in and out of the coffee shop we all shared a good word regarding our magical team’s run to the championship.
At the appointed time my friend Louis sauntered up to our table in his slow easy gait, whistling cheerfully. Kebu hates whistlers and so she barked in alarm, though she has known Louis since birth and her tail was wagging enthusiastically. She can be a living paradox, her front end sounding a warning, while her rear end signals glee. Or as close to glee as an aloof Akita is likely to get.
Louis placed a Newsweek article on the table. Its title was MEN’S LIB, and he said: “Dude, this is you.”
After a 2 hour gabfest I took my wrecking crew home and read Louis’ article.
And, Dude, he was right.
It was all about me.
Basically the article said that life is changing dramatically for American men. Their old jobs are going away and they ain’t coming back any time soon. Sort of like the lyrics to a Springsteen song. Men need to embrace girly jobs and dirty diapers (ring a bell?). And they better learn how to re-imagine masculinity at work and at home or they are going to be in for some rough adjustments. (I’m paraphrasing here, but you get the drift.)
In short, because of the new economy and a shifting job market many men are going to be doing exactly what I am doing now – performing the Mr. Mom gig, while the mother in the family goes off to work. And if you don’t think that is going to be some bumpy adjustment for most men, then, brother, I am here to relieve you of that notion pronto.
Yes, it is a thorny change for men of my ilk. But that is not to say that there aren’t some beautiful and rewarding moments along the way. Just this morning I was feeding my daughter Vivienne her oatmeal for breakfast and she was irritating the living daylights out of me by spitting the food right back in my face. I was getting spun up and so I took a moment to back off and gather myself. And then I recalled what my wife was telling me this morning about our daughter’s development. Vivienne is 15 months old and her body and mind are growing faster than she can handle. She is frustrated because she wants to do things that her motor skills cannot handle. And because she is having semi-cogent thoughts, but as yet lacks the ability to communicate, she is doubly frustrated.
So I took a moment to objectively examine the state of affairs. Often when I am cogitating on sticky situations I call on a mind better than mine. So I turned to the noble Akita Kebu, who was lying in regal posture on the floor beside me, the thick fur of her neck ruffed out like a lion’s mane, her dark eyes gazing placidly on the mess around her.
I’m big enough to admit that I’ve been talking a lot more to my dog lately. But considering the alternatives, this is not necessarily a bad thing.
I said, “Kebu, I am flummoxed. I have a 15 month old daughter whom I no longer recognize. She used to eat everything, sleep all night and the only sound passing her pearly lips was the delightful giggle of the angels. Now she sprays food about the kitchen, screams from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. each and every night, and her comical singing of Chinese Opera has been replaced by an ear piercing Banshee-like shriek that, quite frankly, drives me to distraction. What am I to do?”
Now I’m not nutty enough to believe my dog actually talks back to me. Come on, everybody knows that is crazy. But when I voice my fears, thoughts, etcetera, to my haughty canine, I frequently have a following thought that is, by and large, a lot more enlightened than the usual junk that passes for reflection in my brain.
And the thought I had was this; “Your child isexperiencing the craving for independence. She is frustrated with being confined and directed. Think outside the box, Mr. Doofus.”
So I had the bright idea to let her feed herself. I bent over the high chair and gently placed the spoon in her hand. And then I guided her fat little fist as she fed herself oatmeal. She looked up at me with a big smile, her sharp little teeth poking haphazardly from her pink gums and then emitted a loud barking laugh reminiscent of Linda Blair in THE EXORCIST, complete with a demented demon’s grin. And she pulled her hand away from me and gave me a look that said she was in charge of the feeding now, thank you very much, and my help was no longer required.
“I am guiding her first step towards independence,” I said to myself. And in my mind’s eye I could see all the future steps spread out in front of us; potty training, pre-school, the first day of kindergarten, coaching her soccer team, high school and finally leaving home to go off to college.
For a moment I actually felt grounded and even as if I was doing exactly what I am intended to do. It was a fairly startling insight for someone as flawed as myself.
And if all the other Mr. Moms can have a few of these moments, then maybe the transition towards a new phase of the prototypical American family will be a little less jarring and a little more beatific.
(Endnote; I left my daughter to feed herself while I wrote in this journal and when I returned the bowl and spoon were on the floor and oatmeal was spread all over her face, hands, highchair, and, yes, especially in her hair. And even up her nose. But she wasn’t screaming and she seemed content so I was glad to clean up the mess.)