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.
