My wife, mother of our young son and full-time Conquistadora, is a North Shore goddess.
I knew going into this deal—the dating, the engagement, the marriage, the parenthood—that I was a deckhand to her captain, a serf to her monarch, clueless monkey to her jungle ruling ape.
Case in point, one Sunday morning, she had calmly empowered our 2-1/2-half-year-old son to make the right choice: Pee directly into the center of the plastic frog potty while standing.
A few minutes earlier, I thought coercion would prove most successful. She took over as soon as I threatened to send Elmo away on permanent vacation if he didn’t hurry up and go No. 1 so I could watch the final seconds of the Bears game.
We live near Central Street in Evanston, where a scent of cinnamon scones waft through the air from the corner bakery and armies of über Moms navigate strollers worth more than a dinner for four at Jacky’s Bistro.
Sad saps, other Dads like myself, stand on the fringes of Independence Park which is a bagel’s toss form the north branch of the Evanston Library, home of Book Babies every Monday morning.
If you are feeling empathy and sadness for my plight, you are sorely misled. This is our plan. A wise old man, who had long ago watched his grandkids graduate from Northwestern, once told me “to gain control, you must release control.” As a result, I have begun Dads Don’t Play That, or DDPT, a secret society that meets at the Northbrook Court on Sunday nights, when our wives think we are lost while on a gallon of milk run. We share stories, plot success and train young Dads who are still lost in the delusion that they have 50 percent in the Parenthood Partnership.
Honey, do you want to get a manicure at the green spa down the street? Go for it. I’ll watch the kids. Want to drive to Lake Forest Academy with your alumni girlfriends to cheer on the field hockey team? Enjoy. The Moms will then jibber jabber with fellow Moms with stories of how their husbands “game up” and help with parenting duty.
As a result of my gratitude and service, I freely watch Ultimate Fighting Championship with the guys, smoke Nicaraguan cigars with the boys in the parking lot at Wildcat games and shop online for Led Zeppelin tour T-shirts.
Give it away. Get it back. Your wife will love you all the more. And my son is still a “direct hit” in the frog potty.
Do you have a husband who needs to game up? Are you a Dad shipwrecked on Mom Island (“I’ll Handle It OK?”)? Share with us your story.
