The Mr. T in Me Part A

                I’m afraid I have a bit of Mr. T in me.  No, not the multiple gold chain-wearing, mountain of muscle who often finds time to “pity the fool” (although secretively I hope I have him in me too, especially the gold chain part), but the Mr. T that my dad had in him.

                When I was growing up, my father was a girls’ basketball coach in west Texas.  This is a very serious position in west Texas; boys play football, and girls play basketball.  It’s just the way of life there.  Every day after my school, I’d walk over to the high school and hang out while my dad had practice.  I was a bit of a mini-celebrity, as all the students knew who my father was.  As I walked down the school halls, the teens would say, “Hey, that’s Mr. T son.” 

                No, my father also does not wear gold chains and throws pity parties while putting bad guys in their places.  The students had affectionately given my dad this nickname because it his tendency to get technical fouls called against him during games.  Let me be clear: my dad does not have a temper at all.   But for some reason, early on in his career, the Mr. T in him would come out on game night and unleash himself on the refs. 

                One morning in particular I discovered my Mr. T.  It is our habit in the mornings to take my wife to work downtown.  We do this so we can take advantage of the HOV lane and get her there significantly quicker.  The morning in question started off on the wrong foot.  As always, I had to get up early, no matter what the baby or my wife were doing, because I always have to take care of the dogs.  This morning, especially, they were being super-annoying.  Even though I got up early, my wife and son slept in, even to the point of ignoring my numerous attempts to warn my wife that she would be late for work.  By the time she got up and going, I was already feeling frustrated; however, it really wasn’t enough to bring out Mr. T. . .yet.

                We eventually got on the road, but the city decided to close the HOV lane that day, and we got stuck in the same traffic that everyone else has to deal with.  This meant that by the time we got home, I was late getting the baby his breakfast, which meant all the way home he let me know how unhappy he was about not getting his food on schedule.  By the time we got home, my patience was exhausted, but it would be pushed even further.

                I smelled it immediately upon opening our front door.  We have pretty well-behaved dogs, but they have one major letdown.  If we do not shut them in our bedroom when we leave, they for some reason they take the open door as both metaphoric and literal permission to let their bowels have their way with the carpet.  At no time when they’re in the bedroom ever do they relieve themselves inside, but only when they have free reign on the house.  I knew for a fact that my wife had been the guilty party who had failed to close the door, because she is always the last one out of the house, and I’m sure that in the rush of the morning it had slipped her mind.  And by the way, this was no ordinary dog mess.  I’m sure the dog had been saving up for this opportunity for awhile and took his time while making his mess (for some strange reason, I even envision him reading a magazine).  So, I put the baby down, and he immediately started crying, probably because he smelled the same God-awful stench that made me want to lose my breakfast, and the fact that he still hadn’t had any.  And just to add a little insult to injury, on my way to clean up the dog mess, I noticed the cat had hacked up a fur ball all over the kitchen table.  The Mr. T in me was ready to explode!

Chaucer’s Revenge

              Today I had an “incident” at Wal-Mart that left me somewhat frustrated by my inability to have confrontations with complete strangers.  So since I was unable to debate the legitimacy of my point with the rude lady at the store, instead, I will immortalize her boorish behavior through my writing. 

                It all started off pretty innocently.  I took my son to the store to buy some baby food for the upcoming week.  A simple chore by any standard, right?  Now, to fully understand this chore, you need to know that all baby food is not created equal.  There are three “levels” of baby food.  As your baby becomes more comfortable with solid foods, you move him up these three levels.  The baby food companies make it real simple on the label to see what level you are buying. 

                So, I was minding my own business when a young woman approached me.  She wanted to know at what age it is appropriate to move her baby from one level up to the next level.  Now, parenting is a complicated thing for sure.  There are as many opinions on parenting as there are parents.  When approached with a question on a complicated question, I prefer to take the, “My opinion is. . .” instead of the, “The right answer is. . .”

                I told her that I thought it wasn’t so much of an age issue as it is a development issue.  As I was reaching for one of the food packages to show her the label, another woman from down the aisle interrupted me. 

                “Actually,” she said, as her tightly crooked nose pointed accusingly at me, “you are supposed to feed them first foods at 6 months, second foods at 8 months, and third at 9 months.” 

                Now, I know for a fact that that is a pretty good timeline when your baby might be ready to move up, but if you read the labels on the food, it’s pretty clear that you should move your baby up a level when they start showing certain abilities such as sitting up, crawling, and making chewing motions.  I felt like retorting back at this lady and her snotty unasked-for answer.   I wanted to point out to the young woman the differences between the rude lady’s toddler, who had been fussing the whole time, and my perfectly-behaved baby boy who smiles at random passers-by, and then ask her whose opinion she should take.  Instead, I put my head down and finished my shopping. 

                Afterwards I couldn’t help but wonder if the rude lady would have been so confrontational about the topic had I been another mom in the store, rather than a dad.  Now, I know I shouldn’t be so sensitive, and that there are just some people who have to be “right” about everything (if you are one of those people, I want you to stop reading and never come back to my blog, seriously), and this lady may have been one of those people.  Still, it was almost like she was defending her own personal turf that I was on.  The way she directly contradicted what I had just said made me think that she wasn’t so much trying to help the young woman but rebuking me. 

                In any case, I went home, got a smile from my boy, my wife listened to my story, and now I get to write about it, so really it’s all good. 

The Best Housedad I've Ever Known

It is a little embarrassing to think that we’ve made it this far in our little sharing experience without talking about the one individual who has impacted me most as a housedad, my mom. 

See, my mom has the type of personality that drives her to always do her best in whatever her hands find to do.  Since she had two teacher parents, she excelled at academics.  In athletics, the solo competitive nature of track and field aided itself to her personality, and she was able to run for Abilene Christian University, a well-respected program.  And my grandpa’s farm-boy past probably encouraged her love of plants, animals, and sciences, which is where she devoted her studies. 

 I can say certainly that going into college, my mom could have pursued any number of interesting, challenging, and fulfilling careers to go into.  I’m sure she would have loved to be a marine biologist or perhaps a botanist, and I’m sure that she would have been one of the best you could find. 

Instead, she and my dad decided to have a family.  But I don’t think this story is the one where the young woman is forced out of career to take care of her husband and children.  Instead, I know my mom made a willing decision to make her family her ambition. 

Because of that choice, she applied the same drive she had in everything else she did and put it into us kids.  I can still remember, early in my childhood, dyeing eggs and having our own Easter hunts, or watching “The Three Stooges” with her in the mornings (I blame this for why I inappropriately laugh at other people’s pain).  Later, she took on the near-impossible task of homeschooling us and pushing us to do better than we thought we could.  I can also remember what a comfort she was to me during my freshman year in high school in a new town, because I could always go to her classroom to get away from everything else. 

I find myself with a similar choice.  I’m not trying to brag on myself, but I feel as though professionally I still have a lot to offer the world.  However if I make the same choice that my mother made and put the growth and development of my children over my desire to be respected in a career, can I really argue with her results?  All three of us kids have attained bachelor’s degrees from a well-respected college and have pursued higher education in our various fields.  Each makes a significant impact in our communities, places of work, and churches.  I think I can safely say that all three of us kids are good, contributing members of society, and our mom was a major part of that. 

Maybe we need more men (not ignoring the women here—just remember what the blog is about) like my mom.  If I can stay at home and give my children the best possible start in life, then who  is to say that is any less valuable to others than if I went out and earned money and gained respect in the workplace?  At a time in our culture when many children grow up without having been taught how to be an adult, maybe we need some grown men (and women) to willfully make the choice to be that person at home. 

The Measure of a Man

                I remember that day very clearly.  It was a crisp Tuesday summer evening.  The day had been completely average, until my wife fatefully (and unwittingly) planted that cursed idea in my mind.  It was innocent enough at first; she didn’t mean me any harm, but in fact she was dooming me to a day of frustration and misery.

                “Honey, can you take the Toyota to the Jiffy Lube?  It needs an oil change.”

                See, there are certain pet peeves that I have that have been exacerbated since I became a housedad.  Number one on that list is people who waste my time.  Before I was a housedad, I used to hate people who’d take their sweet time getting their groceries onto the conveyer belt.  Seriously, it is no big secret what is going to happen when you get to the front of the line.  They are going to check you out, so get your food on the belt!  Also, it is not a secret what they are going to need from you after they scan your groceries, so is it too hard to ask that you have your money ready?  The post office is the same way.  Why is it that the five people in front of me always take ten minutes each to do their business, but it only takes me 30 seconds?  So you can imagine how this exponentially irritates me more now that I have my infant son’s delicate schedule to fit in these chores. 

                Going to the Jiffy Lube definitely fits into one of these pet peeve events for me.  I hate going to the mechanic, because not only does it take way too much time, but it is one of those places that is always trying to sell you something.  And since I’m not well-versed in car mechanics, I am never fully convinced I can trust them to tell me honestly what I need, and what is a luxury. 

                Giving my feelings about the Jiffy Lube and oil changes, my wife’s suggestion irritated me, not because she suggested it, but because I knew that it was time to get that done.  After thinking about how annoying it was going to be to take Josiah and wait for over an hour for a job that I knew only took 15 minutes to do, only to have some guy come at the end and tell me all the things that I “need” to have fixed in my car, I came up with a brilliant plan.  I was going to change the oil myself.

                Now, my own father was an incredible dad.  He taught me many valuable things such as sports, hygiene, manners, work ethic, and most importantly, how to be a Christian man.  However, one thing he did not teach me was how to be a handyman.  This includes car maintenance.  So when I decided that I was going to change the oil myself, really, what I decided was to teach myself how to change the oil. 

                The internet assured me this was going to be a simple task.  I believed it because, obviously, everything on the internet is true.  So I found my handy instructions and set off for the task.  The first order of business was to get the right tools of which I had none, a symptom of not having been exposed to this stuff.  So on a Saturday morning I went to the store and bought a nice car jack, a set of car stands, oil (for the record I already knew I needed that before I looked it up!), and a filter.  The internet and the nice lady at the AutoZone said the filter should just simply screw off and replace easily. 

                Once I got back from my first (notice the sequencing here) trip from the store, I managed to get the car jack up and the stands in place with no problems.  At this point, I was feeling pretty good about myself.  But then problems started to settle in.  The first stemmed from the oil pan plug.  I got under the car and tugged and tugged at that thing and it would not budge.  My trusty friend, the internet, had warned about screwing this on too tight after you were done, otherwise it might be difficult to get off again, yet another reason to hate the Jiffy Lube.  I tried an assortment of wrenches and tools to get that plug loose for about 30 minutes, when finally I just put my whole muscle into it, and off it came.  The joy I had when I first laid eyes on that Texas tea only lasted a few seconds when I quickly realized that I should have paid more attention in science class during the section that covered liquid conversions.  You may not know this, but 4 quarts is a lot of oil and my little bucket filled up pretty quickly.  So I simply sat and watched helplessly as the oil spilled over the top of my bucket and continued to pour out all over my garage floor. 

                Despite the frustration and mess I had just created, I decided that the stain the oil was sure to leave was a character mark for my garage and really no big deal because, according to the internet, the next part was the easy part.  So after cleaning up enough of the oil spill to get back under the car, I set off to replace the filter.  Once under the car the new part I had bought and the old one didn’t really seem to match.  In fact, the old part didn’t really seem like it was meant to be screwed with (I mean this both literally and figuratively).  So after giving it the old college try, I soon figured out that I must be missing something. 

                I went back to the AutoZone for a second time.  This time my friend told me to buy a filter wrench.  So I did and went home and tried that.  No luck.  So I went back to the store and third, and fourth, and fifth time.  Each time I tried a different tool with the same result.

                Now I don’t really swear much at all.  I’m not telling you this because I’m bragging about my pure tongue.  Trust me, it gets me in trouble in lots of other ways.  But I want you all to know that I just simply don’t have that much use for the vulgar words in the English language.  The rest of the language is plenty descriptive for me.  But I’m ashamed to admit that after the fourth trip and spending over three hours trying to get that filter off, I’m pretty sure I left my religion in that garage several times that morning.

                It was about this time that a thought came into my mind.  Why was this so important to me to do this myself?  In the course of one morning I had gone from ex-youth minister turned housedad to sweaty oiled-covered mechanic (and not a very good one) with a sailor’s mouth.  And to make matters worse, I was really, really ,really frustrated.  After some time had passed and I was able to reflect on my experience, I began to realize what had driven me to this point.

                See, during the course of the week my accomplishments had included cleaning the house, grocery shopping, cooking, and managing to keep the pets and the baby alive.  None of these accomplishments will be recorded in the annals of history, and none of them seem very “manly” to me.  Meanwhile, I had friends who had gotten new jobs, new promotions, and new challenges in their careers.  I decided that it was obvious that I needed a victory in my life, and one that reaffirmed me as a man. 

                Eventually I did get that filter off.  Turns out, the internet didn’t know what it was talking about (I know, shocking, isn’t it!  And just in case you also didn’t know, Santa’s not real either. . .) because I own a Toyota (which I told the people at the AutoZone, still not much help) and these foreign cars have a filter cap.  Once I figured that I was pulling on the wrong part, I managed to get it off with a simple wrench and replace it no problem.  Despite everything, I’m proud to say that now when a group of dudes are chatting about cars I can honestly pitch in when the conversation turns to how difficult maintenance can be on foreign cars. 

Hi, my name is Matt, and I’m a recovering gaming addict.

              

No, not gambling gaming, video games.  That’s right, I’m 28 years old, and I still care way too much about what is going to happen to Mario next (how can one plumber possibly get into so much trouble?). I stay up way later than I should trying to win yet another Halo match with my buddies.  And on occasion I may or may not completely tune out my wife while in the “zone”.  To be blunt, I spend way too much time playing games rather than taking care of responsibilities that really matter.  It’s sick, and I’m sick of it. 

                However, I think there is something to video games that resonates deeply with men.  It isn’t the cool graphics (although they keep getting better all the time), or the neat game play, or even the in-depth storylines.  These all add to the entertainment value of a game, but I think the guys who make these games are really intelligent and knowledgeable about the psyche of a man. 

                On Xbox, not only do you have the joy of playing the game through, but in nearly every game there are also assigned side objectives that you can score to your all-so-important “gamertag.”  Each time you complete an objective, it is added to your overall score so that everyone who looks at your gamertag can know just how good you are.  It is no coincidence that these side  objectives are called “Achievements”.

                Achievement is what we men crave and need for our fragile self-esteems.  The makers of video games know this, and this need for achievement is what draws us time and time again into these carefully crafted video game traps.  They prey on our need to feel like we built, conquered, or mastered something, and quite frankly, video games are an easy way to do that.  But this blog isn’t about video game addiction, and in any event, at the beginning of this post I claimed I was a recovering game addict, not a current one. 

                What is it that has my addiction on the run?  I can tell you it isn’t my iron will and I didn’t have to hit rock bottom to get there.  Instead it was one of the greatest moments in my life, when I became a father.  Not only am I a first-time dad, but I also have the privilege of staying at home with my baby boy.  Many men might find this hard to understand, but through our daily schedule, I find a good deal of achievement through watching my son’s growth and his progression.  We housedads should find satisfaction in this, because without our hard work every day at home, our children would not have the same opportunities for family connection that aid in their growth.  It is a good thing for us to take pride in our children and our role in the wonderful blessings they are to the world.  Instead of hiding our roles as housedads we should display our status just like our gamertag score to everyone. 

If men are from Mars and women are from Venus, does that mean Housedads are from Pluto?

                In 1992, John Gray wrote the book “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.”  Since its debut, it has sold over 7 million copies and is known to be the best-selling hardcover nonfiction book ever.  In this book, John Gray discusses the inherent differences between men and women.  Why has this book been so popular for so long?  Because humans have a desire for self-discovery.  Both men and women want to know why we do what we do, so a book that helps us understand our gender-based tendencies is basically a guide to understanding our subconscious actions and feelings. 

                Since that time many studies have been conducted on this topic.  It has been widely accepted and agreed upon that one big difference between men and women is that women tend to gain self-esteem and meaning through relationships, and men tend to get it from accomplishment and achievement.  So, how is this relevant to our discussion of the role of housedad-dom? 

Well, borrowing the title of Gray’s book, we can say that Mars is pretty well-defined in our culture as what is “manly,” and Venus is the place the women occupy in our society.  So where do we put housedads?  On Pluto.

Poor Pluto.  Can someone please decide if it is a planet or not?  I mean, really is it that hard?  Even if it isn’t big enough or doesn’t pull enough gravity or whatever the rationale is, can’t we just throw it a bone?  Plus, what about all of us who learned the planets through the acronym MVEMJSUNP?  Otherwise known as “My Very Educated Mother Just Sold Us Nine Pizzas”.  I mean, if we take away Pluto, how can we possibly know what my educated mother sold us, and how do I know it was worth buying nine of them?  With pizza, I know what it is, and trust me. . .it’s worth it. 

Housedads in America are kind of like Pluto.  Do we really know what they are?  Why can’t we define them?  I find the answer to these questions is rooted in the inherent ways that men and women find self-worth and achievement.  Because women are naturally drawn to relationships, this lends itself organically to the nurturing that infants and toddlers desperately need in their daily schedules.  But does this mean that because women have this natural nurturing inside them, they should be limited to child-rearing?  Also, does this mean that because men find worthiness in accomplishment, they can’t be successful at being housedads?

Hecks no!  In any job or task, the more you understand about it, the more prepared you are to face it.  So for us housedads, we need to get some education about our kids and ourselves.  Because I understand that my child needs for me to be nurturing and relational, I need to take steps in my day to be certain he receives such affection.  This doesn’t make me less manly because I’m doing something that my wife is naturally better at than I am.  Instead, it makes me a good father for providing the things that my baby needs.  As for myself, I need to feel like I accomplished something at the end of the day to feel good about myself.  I know this upfront, everyday.  So, my challenge for myself is plan our day in such a way that I gain self-esteem through my accomplishments.  More on this next week.

"So you're Mom now?"

Ahh, the words that every young boy eagerly yearns to hear someday…right along with “Hey sissy!,”  “You’re such a feminine guy,” and “Dude, you look so skinny in those jeans.”  I mean, what guy wouldn’t want to have the title "Mom"—the utmost defining title of womanhood—attached to him? 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a bunch of titles associated with me in my life, some great and some not so flattering.  I’ve been a son to my parents, a brother to my siblings, a nerd and a jock to my classmates (holding those concurrently took a good deal of balance between Star Trek and being naturally physically gifted), a student to my teachers, “Little Balls” to my fellow Pi Kappa brothers (my older brother was “Hot Balls” in Pi Kappa and I was his “little” brother…you can do the math on that one).  I also have accomplished quite a bit in my own work history.  I’ve been an intern and turned that title into Children’s Minister and that one into Youth Minister, all the while being a missionary in my own country. 

All of these titles I accepted to various degrees and lived up to their meanings and to everything that came along with them. But now, sitting across the table from a friend my wife and I were catching up with, I had been assigned the most off-base and really unmanly title I’d ever been given.  And remember, I had been called “Little Balls” for three years.

Of course, our friend didn’t mean it to be an insult or derogatory observation.  Instead, he was simply trying to describe my function in my family and to society right now.  But the truth is that the implications of that title were extremely unfair, to not only me, but also to Jennifer, my wife.  See, she is Mom and I am Dad!  The only thing that makes us different from our culture’s norm is that Jennifer is the provider and breadwinner in our family, and I stay at home and take care of our three cats, two dogs, and most importantly, our infant son Josiah. 

If you are reading this you, may be one of the few but growing number of men who are finding themselves in a similar role.  You may be the wife of such a man.  Maybe you are a single father who has to fill the roles of both mom and dad.  Or maybe you simply are someone who finds this topic interesting enough to read on.  In any case, let me invite you to enjoy some of the observations I’ve made in my ongoing story to retain my sanity as the housedad.