I came to realize fairly quickly that no matter how hard I tried and wanted to, I was not going to be as good at taking care of kids as a woman would be. At least not naturally. Not to say there aren’t some shitty stay-at-home Moms. There certainly are, I see them dialing it in, or living their life through their kids, or programming every second of their life…And not to say that a man can’t be a really good, primary caregiver. Not true. There are more than a few. HOWEVER…
I don’t have the same skill set as a woman. I get angry too easily. I often think that anger is a good way to get things accomplished. I believe that there is such a thing as too much talking, and it happens very quickly. I can’t deal with crying, and find myself saying “suck it up!” far too frequently. I hate Barbie dolls and princesses with a passion. I actively resent the kids for taking over my identity. The list goes on.
I see it, I try to change it the best I can, but with much of it, the best I can do is be aware of it. Like when Sophie wells up with tears about something, I realize that my first reaction of ‘Christ, what could you possibly be crying about NOW?’ is not the most supportive, maternal reaction possible. In fact, it’s fairly horrible. It still wells up in my gut every time, though. A mother’s first reaction is so often, ‘Oh, honey, what happened, did you get your feelings hurt, come here, Mommy’ll hold you, it’ll be alright…’ That’s what the kid needs. Not ‘Shut up, you weak moron.’
The experience of not being able to be good at something I was really trying at was new to me, and hard to look in the face. When I’ve really wanted to be good at something, I have been. Just try real hard and make it happen! But this was different. Some things I just can’t do. Once again humbling, but necessary, apparently.
So I’ve changed my expectations, and my goal now is to be the Jeff Garcia of stay-at-home-parenting. Jeff was a small quarterback, his glory years spent with the San Francisco 49ers. They listed him at 6-1, 205, but that’s either total bullshit, revisionist history, or he’d been gulping Barry Bonds’ signature cocktails in his later years. He was 5-10 in pumps and 175 with rocks in his pockets—at least Doug Flutie was honest about it—in a sport where the quarterback must be 6-5 to see over the leviathans on the front line, and be at least 250 lbs. to absorb the constant punishment. He wasn’t the fastest, didn’t have a strong arm… you get the picture if you don’t already remember it. He was behind the NFL 8-ball already. A California boy who went undrafted from San Jose State, played in dismal Calgary for years until finally getting a spot on the 49ers, and only then got a chance to see the field when Steve Young got knocked out. He turned that opportunity into unbelievable success for four years until the ultimate QB killer, primadonna receiver Terrell Owens, ran him out of town.
Jeff was smart. He was clever. He ran to where no one else was, or out of bounds so he wouldn’t get destroyed. He threw short passes with great accuracy, including a nifty hop-pass to get over the gigantic line to a receiver in the flat. (Probably learned that from Flutie in Canada too, eh.) With all his shortcomings, he threw for more touchdowns in his first 3 seasons than either Steve Young or Joe Montana. For all sports fanatics who say that was due to the 49ers offensive juggernaut still in place, I have one inarguable point: Bite me. Plus that’s not what’s amazing, anyway. He played the position at the highest level on one of the best teams in the world, and he did so looking just like a scared, high school drum major, out under center on a dare.
This whole realization has been very freeing to me. I was never going to be as patient, compassionate, tolerant, and selfless as a good Mother was going to be. I would try, try to get better little by little, hopefully and with a good amount of will. But there was only so much I could change, so I needed to be aware of it and adjust, just like little ‘ole Jeff Garcia did. He wasn’t going to be able to throw farther or grow any more except by fudging statistics and smoking Human Growth Hormone day and night, and neither was I. I could put on prosthetic breasts and hope constant Yoga would make me more flexible and sensitive, but that wasn’t going to make me any more a fan of talking through everything or crying it out. I was going to have to use what I had. Be fun, active, engaging, sometimes a hard ass, but almost never taking anything too seriously. And love them as much as I could, which was a lot. And just be me, the scared little drum major under center. Hop so I could see, and run out of bounds when I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to be doing. I was gonna have to be creative and hope no one really checked my stats sheet.
I AM keeping stats and you are doing exceedingly well.
Dad’s who do it as well are rare. Your girls will have high expectations. That will make them wives like you have and mothers like they have. Aren’t you all so lucky.
THis is just great ~ What an insight. The Mama who seems to be understanding and holding a sniffling adolescent is not a better parent than the Jeff Garcia. They are most certainly equal, different, and frankly the girl raised by a Jeff, I believe, will cope well with life on life’s terms.
Your writing just keeps getting better and better! I appreciate it on several levels: my son was the primary caretaker for my granddaughter for two years, I also work at perfecting my writing – and I love your parents.