Stop Using the Phrase: "He's a Very Involved Father"

Perhaps the single most grating phrase to me as a mother is hearing people praise my husband for being an "involved father."

My husband gets this compliment a lot. From my parents. And my sister. And my child's teacher. Even a few of my friends.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with my husband getting compliments about his parenting. Or compliments of any kind, really. He's a thoughtful, romantic husband. A devoted and loving father. A brilliant mind. A hard worker. And he has a great ass.

But I reject the specific compliment of calling him a "very involved father." For starters, no one would ever use the term: "very involved mother." And if someone did, the mother they were referring to would take it as an insult. Because it would be.

Beyond that, why do fathers get complimented so often? Mothers rarely get compliments. I never hear one of my husband's coworkers say, "That wife of yours sure is a remarkable mother." And yet, I've had more than one coworker say to me, after explaining something my husband did with our child over the weekend: "Oh wow! He's a very involved father. And what a great ass!"

No, no. Mothers don't get this kind of praise. Instead, we get, "Are you breastfeeding?" "What percentile is your child in?" "How many words can she say?" "What school will you send her to?" "Are you planning to have more children? " "How did your child get so many bug bites?"

The fact of the matter is, we are programmed to award fathers for behaviors they should already be doing. And yet we consistently scold mothers for things that are perfectly fine to do, like formula feed or send their kid to public school. If I drop my child off at school and she is clothed and looks like she's had at least one solid meal in the past week, the teacher should say, "Man, you are kicking ass as a mother. Look at that kid all alive and upright." But instead, I'm told to bring more diapers and asked if I've had a chance to have the rash on her leg checked out.

Fathers are doing what they can. But mothers are never doing enough. 

Oddly, women are often the cause of this inequality. We are so hard on other mothers. Judging them silently and, sometimes, aloud to others. Giving less credit to the women whose husbands are more helpful. Praising men who show up to school performances. Never saying to a good friend: "You are a really good mother. Oh, and nice ass."

This past week our child has been quite sick. Not alarmingly so, but enough to get a call from day care informing me that our child was running a high fever and needed to be picked up immediately. I received this call as I'm walking into teach my first class of the day. I hang up with the teacher and call my husband, who says he can leave work in 10 minutes. Knowing his office is a 15-minute drive from day care, I picture our fever-stricken child sitting alone on a cot in the classroom while her classmates are out on the playground. I text my husband to hurry.

Later in class my phone, which is sitting on the lecturn, lights up and buzzes.


Husband: Should I give her medicine?

Me: Take her temp first.

Husband: Where's the thermometer?

Me: Don't know. Try the bathroom. I'm in class.


On break between classes I call him and discover that he has found the thermometer, she does have a fever, but he can't locate the pain meds. I walk him through this. He's got it.

Back in class the phone lights up on the lectern again.


Husband: How much do I give her?

Me: 5ml

Husband: Is that the same as one teaspoon?

Me: Yes.

Husband: Which of our spoons are a teaspoon? The ones we use for soup or cereal?

Me: Cereal.


The next morning my child awoke worse than the day before. Fever still there, cough worse, runny nose and, now, spots on her face and arms that looked a helluva lot like chicken pox. On his way out the door to work, my husband asks that I text him what the doctor says after our appointment later that morning.

I medicated our child again, gave her a cool bath, put her in another pair of pajamas and brought her downstairs to cuddle with me on the couch while I sent my boss an email stating that I would be working from home with my sick child. Half way through composing the email a thought struck me:

My husband and I never discussed that I would be staying home with her.

And yet, there I was.

Now, a couple of things are true here. 1) I'm not put out that my child is sick. And I certainly don't mind staying home with my sick child. 2) I have a flexible work schedule in a field that is already quite flexible, and I report to a laid back supervisor.

And yet, I do have a job. Two of them. For two different universities. One in which I teach, and one in which I research. And they are paying jobs. With students and clients and deadlines.

And yet, there I was.

So throughout the day I medicated, held and consoled my child whose voice was hoarse from coughing and whose eyes were red with exhaustion. I held her on one knee and balanced my laptop on the other, trying to get a little work done in the moments between her dozing off and waking up in a coughing fit. In the afternoon, unable to nap or get comfortable, my child had the most heart wrenching breakdown I've ever witnessed. It started when I tried to wipe her nose. Swatting at my hand, she began to cry. And kept crying. She cried so hard and so loud that I couldn't get her to settle. She clung to me, digging her nails in my neck, shaking through the heavy sobs and then, with the loudest of screams, she threw up all over the both of us.

When I tried to reach for a towel to wipe up the puddles of vomit that were dripping down between us, she screamed even louder, burrowing deeper into the waste until her face was covered in her own puke. So then, without shame, I cried, with my crying, vomit-ridden child until we both managed to calm ourselves from sheer exhaustion. But even then, she wouldn't let me move.

An hour later, my husband came home to find us bonded together in a foul smelling crusted epoxy. She pried herself from my shoulder and looked up at him, held her hands out and above her head, spread a wide, bright smile across her face and yelled "Daddy's home!"

When my husband and I decided to have children, there was never an expectation between us that I would carry the bulk of the weight with child rearing. I rejected even the idea of that. I, perhaps foolishly, thought we could be equal partners in raising our child. Would share equal burdens, sacrifice equally, be equally exhausted, equally appreciated and equally fulfilled.

I recognize and accept that parenting comes with sacrifice. But often that sacrifice comes more from one side than the other. I also understand that my husband's salary, which I will never come close to matching, is the reason we continually find ourselves in this constant imbalance.

But money can't win every time. Equality can't exist if we, as mothers, continue to take the hit because we can rationalize it all: My child needs me; My husband's job is more important; Mothers are expected to take off; Men are the providers, women are the caregivers; It's biological; and, It's just the way it's always been.

I'm grateful that I have a husband who helps around the house, is supportive of my career and is a truly attentive and loving father and spouse. But it seems to me that I'm the one who has to continually announce my gratitude for his traits and behaviors, the same traits and behaviors that are simply expected of me.

So rather than compliment my husband for being involved in his child's life, praising him for doing his share, I will instead give him this compliment: my husband recognizes how unfair this imbalance is. He sits quietly beside me as I rage about always being the one sacrificing. He allows me room to be selfish and resentful, and he doesn't resist when I say I just need to be alone to sulk, and he should just butt out.

But knowing him, he'll try to get involved.

Waxing Poetic

The amount of time women must spend in awkward positions at the mercy of other women, just for aesthetics and relaxation, is mind boggling. Head full of foil in front of the hair stylist. Lying naked in front of the masseuse. Feet in the hands of a kneeling pedicurist. Boldly without makeup in front of the facialist. And, like today, spread eagle wearing a paper thong in front of the esthetician holding a tongue depressor covered in boiling hot wax.

Yes. I had my very first bikini wax today. 

And I was an absolute champ. 

I've always contemplated doing it. And by always, I mean every time I shave. Or swim. Or see a Groupon for half off. Price, that is. But intentions are just that until you see a sandwich board outside a dark basement salon advertising a bikini wax for "Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!" That, coupled with my upcoming 30th birthday trip to Vegas, led me to drop my drawers.

When I called to set up the appointment, I immediately confessed to the receptionist that it was my first time to ever get a bikini wax. When she didn't seem thrown or surprised by this at all, I still felt the need to further explain that I have a young child at home and have been really busy with graduate school the last couple of years, and you know, the recession. A few more details of my life and a couple more excuses about my lack of maintenance, and even eventually throwing out, "Just cause I've never hired a gardener doesn't mean I don't weed the bushes," led to silence on her end. A few moments later she said, "M'am, is four o'clock this afternoon okay with you?"

When I arrived at the salon wearing my most presentable pair of underwear, all of the staff members were in the lobby enjoying coffee. When I walked in, I felt all eyes on me. It was clear I was the only client in the building, so they all had to know I was Hairy McTalksalot here for her wash and wax. I was lead back to a room where there was what looked like a card table covered by a towel next to a crock pot full of melted candles.

"So, what kind of waxing were you interested in today?" she asked while handing me a pair of disposable underwear.

"Um. I'm not sure." I replied. "Topiary?"

"No. I meant bikini or Brazilian?" she clarified.

"Oh. Bikini," I muttered. "But one of those bikinis with the skirt bottom."

I was surprised at her ease in the situation. She pulled my dress up to see what kind of work was ahead of her. She looked at my area long enough to let me know she was strategizing, but not so long that I started to feel bad for my husband.

The experience wasn't too unlike giving birth. I was spread eagle with searing pain in my groin while the professional in the room just looked at my area with the eye of an expert, unabashedly gazing at something so personal in such a clinical way.

"You know," she said between pulls. "I've seen everything."

"My OBGYN says the same thing. But that never makes me feel better."

But, just like during child birth, about halfway through I began not to care. I relaxed into the frogger position and tried not to look at what was on the strips of paper she pulled back.

"Tell me your craziest story," I asked while she was in a particularly delicate place.

"Oh, let's see," she said, pausing and holding up a dripping spatula of wax. "Well, I can either tell you about the man with the hairy penis, or the 60-year-old female who had never shaved once in her life."

"I'm gonna need to hear both," I said, wondering if there was any chance I'd be one of the freak shows she'd talk about to her next client. But she worked quickly, talking in between the sounds of heavy duty Velcro being released, and assuring me in a subtle way that everything she was looking at was run-of-the-mill.

There was one particularly awkward moment; the cleaning up. This involved using a substance that would remove all the left over wax from the area. And while this sounded like an easy enough endeavor, it turned out to be a bit intrusive. But she assured me that if she didn't do this thoroughly my ass cheeks might get seared together.

All in a day.

Truthfully, it was a good experience, all things considered. It actually made me feel proud to be a woman. I mean, pissed that vaginas need such upkeep, but proud to be part of the gender. Because what other gender can stomach such experiences? Getting a bikini wax is right up there with getting a pap smear or having an episiotomy. But that's the thing about vaginas: they can handle it. Especially if there's another woman in the room rooting for you.

Now I feel ready for our upcoming trip. Actually, I feel ready for the world. After letting a stranger scorch my nether regions with lava hot goo, I truly feel like there is nothing I can't do.

But for now I'll go to Vegas and sit by the pool with my husband.

Happily enjoying the breeze.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

My sister has recently read the book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking.  This book spoke to my sister, an introvert herself, who has often felt powerless in a world full of extroverts. Ironically, my sister won't stop talking about this book.

I like that this book has given my sister a sense of belonging to a group of introverts who have long felt that they were getting the short end of the societal stick. It validated her feelings that extroverts are loud and overbearing and making everyone who is not an extrovert uncomfortable. But I've had to challenge her a bit about some of the book's content. Mostly, she seems to believe that introverts are the only group of people that ever feel uncomfortable with certain social situations. She thinks that because I'm an (extreme) extrovert,  I don't ever feel uncomfortable socially. And while I do not flinch at public speaking, or meeting new people, or talking to strangers, or hosting parties, there are a few occasions in everyday life that really make me uncomfortable.

Shoppers Beware

I really resent the plastic divider you have to place on the conveyer belt between your merchandise and the items of the customer in line ahead of you at the grocery store. For starters, you almost always have to reach for it. You extend your arm--you typically have to go under the arms of a lady who's writing a check on that teeny check-writing pedestal--stretch out your hand to allow your finger tips to graze the plastic cube tube, and tickle it until it starts coming down the metal chute so you can get a firm grasp, at which point, you've gotten the attention of the check-writing customer. This is when it gets worse. I feel the need to explain and apologize through facial expressions why I have to divide my groceries from hers. I need my toothpaste and mayonnaise not to touch your tortilla chips. And that's on me. Not you. I'm just particular. You're great. And this sort of facial explanation inevitably causes me to begin talking compulsively with the customer, because I feel weird about drawing a line between our items as though I don't believe we are all brothers and sisters on this earth and only truly prosper when we share.

And when she seems not to understand why I'm yammering about how Kate Middleton--whose face is plastered all over the magazines in front of us--is doing a grave disservice to all new moms, I give up on her and turn to the customer behind me. I see that she is standing there with her groceries piled up on the metal edge of the conveyer belt, waiting for my condiments and diapers to move and give her purchases space. So then I do the awkward reach again, this time for the second plastic divider, and place it between my groceries and her pile. And then I wonder if putting the divider between us is perceived as rude because it's basically saying "I, in no way, want to pay for your groceries." So then I start apologize/explain smiling and awkwardly commending her for her choice in mustard.

This happens almost every time I go grocery shopping.

Which is why this is now my husband's chore.

The Answer is No

More often that you would think, people will say "No" to a simple question you ask in an attempt to be playful. For example: I was in the copy room the other day and a good friend was getting some extra paper for her office printer. I said, "Hey, can I borrow that stapler?" which was beside her. She said, "No you cannot," and then smiled at me a second before handing it over. There's always a beat in there before the person actually does whatever super easy task you've asked them to do. And in that beat, I'm left to respond in a way that accomplishes a few things: 1) playfully respond to ensure she knows I understand she's joking, 2) come back with something witty, as we are apparently engaged in banter, 3) use my will power not punch her in the face.

Check, Please

I spent a summer waitressing, so ranting about waiters/waitresses is coming from a place of knowledge. I am highly annoyed when I am out to lunch during the work week with coworkers and the waiter says at the end of the meal, "Will this be one check, or shall I separate it?" This makes me uncomfortable because it forces everyone at the table to play a game of ticket chicken. If you are the first to respond, you are admitting you are a tight ass who doesn't want to pay for anyone's meal but your own. If you are the last to respond, it looks like you were waiting for someone else to buy you lunch. So here's how it always plays out: the waiter comes up and says, "Will this be one check, or shall I separate it?" [Pause a beat], group of coworkers all muttering responses simultaneously, waiter becomes confused, leaving the table assuming the checks need to be divided. Hint: during lunch on a week day is most likely a split check, especially if it's a group of people who don't seem like they would have any other reason to be eating a meal together on a weekday. Or ever.

Happy Ending

I have sympathy awkwardness. I also project awkwardness that is usually accompanied by sympathy awkwardness. For example: I enjoy the occasional massage. But I struggle a bit with the ending. No, no, not like that. I project the awkwardness onto the masseuse when the massage has ended and she has to tell me that it is over when I'm typically in the middle of a maginificent REM cycle.  I'm lying naked under warm towels, the lights are off, the music is playing, the fountain is tinkling and I've been rubbed within an inch of my life (again, not like that, these are professionals) and the massage is over but I don't know it. So the masseuse usually pats me lightly and says something like, "Ok, you're all done Meg." And I always startle a little and am tense because I wonder if I should have known it was over so she didn't have the awkward task of basically waking me up and telling me to pay her. And she may not find that awkward at all, but I project my awkwardness onto her, and then develop sympathy awkwardness and then start chatting incessantly about Kate Middleton.

Door to Door

I hate when people come to my door and try to sell something. Mostly because the only way I know to avoid giving them a direct answer is to revert to a 50s housewife mentality. I usually say something like "Oh, my husband makes all the decisions in our household (I'm an incredible actress) and you'll need to come back and talk with him." And then I spend the remaining part of the day mad at myself for abandoning every single principle, by pretending my vagina makes me incompetent and unable to make decisions, just because I didn't want to tell someone no.

Hint: I will not buy a vacuum, or believe in a God, if it must be sold on my doorstep.

Have a Drink

If you are a woman, and between the ages of 16 and 40, people naturally assume you might be pregnant unless they see you drinking a glass of wine, doing a line of coke or eating Feta cheese. It's annoying to constantly be doing at least one of those just to squelch a rumor, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Haggling

Sometimes, extroverts can make other extroverts uncomfortable with all their extrovertedness. Recently, I helped my mother furniture shop. She's been looking for living room furniture for nearly a year and we finally found her a few pieces she truly loved. Instead of high fiving and going out for champagne, as I do for any successful find, my mother prepared to haggle. I wrung my hands and begged her not to, agreeing to personally pay her the amount she was wanting off the couch and chairs if we could just walk out of the store. But she insisted, explaining that it's never about what you can afford, it's about how much you should have to pay. So back and forth between her and the salesman, with me pacing in the background, resulted in a victory (albeit small) for my mother, after which I promptly went out to my car to dry heave. The car for which I happily paid sticker price.

Just Walk on By

I am extremely paranoid when someone walks behind me. This stems from a childhood spent with a severe limp. And though the limp has since been corrected (in fact, it was corrected nearly 15 years ago), I still hold on to the paranoia that those walking behind me are wondering why I limp. So, in the mornings when I take a brisk walk on the path in the park before work, I almost always come up against this problem. So much so that it's become increasingly clear that no one else suffers from this awkwardness because so many people do it to me; walk directly behind me at the same pace so as never to pass me. And so, rather than spending my walk working through the problems of the day, or reconfiguring the furniture in our family room, I walk with my ass clenched tighter than a fist because I assume the jack ass behind me is analyzing my gait and judging my shoes.

Eye Contact

The close relative to my walking paranoia is passing someone head on in an extremely long hallway. The campus where I work was designed with an eye toward making people feel uncomfortable. The building is constructed of long narrow hallways with no open congregating spaces to break up all the awkwardness. As I'm walking down the 100 yard hallway I hold my breath if I see another soul coming toward me. If I make eye contact too quickly, then I feel the need to hold the gaze until she passes. If I keep my head down to avoid premature eye contact, then I can't accurately judge the optimum window for looking up and smiling. But these are my only two options because I'm sure as hell not gonna turn around in the middle of the hall and walk the other way because I don't want her watching my ass give itself a wedgy from clenching so hard.



I reject society's attempt to divide people into two categories. Men and women. Black and white. Gay and straight. Introverts and extroverts. Cops and robbers.

More often than not, people do not fit into one category perfectly. Plenty of introverts enjoy public speaking, and numerous extroverts sometimes suffer from stage fright. But it helps to feel part of something. A group that understands your discomforts in life, your pain in this world, your place on this Earth. So embrace your group. Whatever that may be. Revel in all your similarities, bask in your hatred of the other side, immerse yourself in the identity.


Just don't get too comfortable.