I think that woman just called me a pedophile.

That’s what went through my mind when I was once part of a panel of at-home dads on a syndicated talk show. The first question (more of an outlandish statement than a question) came from a mother who said she would never leave her daughter alone with a stay-at-home dad (SAHD). She was afraid a man helping her child in the bathroom would not be able to control himself. You know, because we can’t be trusted around a prepubescent vagina. She had seen some bad stuff go down … once on an episode of Law & Order.

As crazy as this woman sounded, it made me think: She can’t be the only one who feels this way. Other issues raised by the audience were less controversial but no less ridiculous. Here’s the actual TV segment:

Based on that experience, here are five sadly popular SAHD myths stay-at-home fathers regularly:

1. Don’t trust a SAHD with your children

This is one of the most annoying and horrific SAHD myths. One of my fellow panelists answered such a pedophile implication with, “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem, not a ‘dad’ problem.” The audience ate it up!

We were not talking about leaving your child with a stranger. I wouldn’t leave mine alone with someone I was not completely comfortable with, man or woman. Furthermore, I wouldn’t leave my children alone with anyone THEY were not completely comfortable with.

But labeling a stay-at-home father “untrustworthy” simply because he’s a guy? That audience member I first mentioned was dead wrong in her belief that a dad cannot be deserving of trust simply because he has a penis.

2. Fathers can’t bond with children like mothers can

I hear SAHD myths like this all the time: Sure, dads can be great parents, but they can never have the same relationship with their children as mothers.

I don’t deny the hard work and heroic efforts women endure during pregnancy and childbirth. A sincere “thank you” to all mothers. You brought us dads the greatest gift in the world. (So stop with the ties on Father’s Day: they’re ugly and we don’t like them.)

But, ladies, the children are just as much ours as they are yours.

I felt a bond with my children the first time I laid eyes on them. My daughter was a daddy’s girl from day one, often to the exclusion of my wife. (Something that caused tears on more than one occasion.) These things ebb and flow, and Mommy is the favorite these days. Not, however, because of some bond that I was not privy to because I have a penis.

3. Stay-at-home dads are not nurturers

What? More gender stereotyping SAHD myths! I am physically unable to pick up my 2-year-old son without kissing and hugging (and usually tickling) him.

There are certainly times when he prefers his mom, but bedtime is Dad Time. When he knows he’s tired, he crawls into my arms. And when he’s tired, but does not know it, I can calm his screams and get him to fall asleep far quicker than my wife can. I think my scent soothes him. I know his scent soothes me.

Nurturing, it should be said, goes beyond all the hugs and kisses I give my kids. I nurture their spirit, confidence, education, and sense of fun (and sometimes mischief). People who don’t think stay-at-home dads nurture have not seen a stay-at-home dad in action.

4.  At-home fathers are trying to be better than moms.

Are dads better stay-at-home parents than moms? What a dumb, meaningless question. But that is what the talk show producers wanted us to argue. Dads are not better than moms. And moms are not better than us.

Parenting is not a competition!

I don’t work against my wife to raise our children; I work with her. That we parent differently is a benefit to our kids. They get the best of both worlds.

5. SAHDs are the only fathers worthy of attention

Stay-at-home dads are so hot right now! But we are still in the minority. Not only compared to stay-at-home moms, but compared to all the active and involved fathers who go to work (or work from home) every day and are co-equal parents every night. Why are they being ignored by the media?

Stay-at-home dads are at the forefront of the changing image of fathers, but working dads deserve our attention, too. Like working moms, they are trying to have it all and should be lauded for their efforts. It is not being done enough, so I’ll do it here. You guys are defeating the stereotype of the lazy, bumbling dad who doesn’t know his way around a diaper. Keep up the good work, at the office and at home.

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A version of SAHD myths was originally published by Time Ideas before it ran here in 2014. Photo by Juliane Liebermann on Unsplash.

This blog post is part of the #NoDadAlone campaign. Fathering Together/City Dads Group, the National At-Home Dad Network, and Fathers Eve are joining forces to amplify messages that help dads recognize we are not alone! Follow #NoDadAlone on Instagram, and learn more at NoDadAlone.com.

Fathers are incompetent man-children who may be able to keep their kids alive (in a pinch), but not much else.

Mothers are incessant nags who wouldn’t know a good time if it tickled their collective behinds, but they do know to take care of business … around the house, anyway.

WTF!?!

It seems impossibly outdated, yet somehow this view of parenthood as a battle between the sexes rather than a partnership persists.

Give me a friggin’ break.

I know my situation is different than the norm. I’m a stay-at-home dad. When my children go to my wife for help, do they look around and ask, “Where is Dad?” No. They ask her for what they need. When we’re both home, do we magically revert to old stereotypes, that she knows everything and I’m just a dumb lug who scratches himself all day? No! We have a partnership in this whole parenting thing.

I’ve seen the memes about helpless dads countless times. For each one, there are a host of women commenting “oh, yeah!” and “preach it, girl!” I usually just roll my eyes and make a mental note of which of my friends is an idiot that day (or who is getting really annoyed at this silly B.S., which can also be amusing).

Parenting partnership is no joke

These moms are probably mostly joking or venting, maybe thinking back to particular instances when their men could have done more … or maybe these moms just weren’t thinking at all. Totally understandable. I’ve encountered my share of arguably sexist memes and, for an instant, saw a grain of truth in them or just wanted to empathize or bond with the dude who posted it. Then I think about the message I’d be sending to the world – about my wife and women – and I keep scrolling. There are better things to like on the internet. But I’m not mad at the women who click “like” and leave messages of support for this view. I feel sorry for them. Their “partners” are not holding up their end of the implicit parental bargain.

However, I’m willing to bet that most parents recognize how valuable their significant other is. If not, something is wrong in that dynamic. It’s possible that dad is slacking and needs to get his act together. Maybe mom is stressed because dad feels his role as a parent is to provide for his family, and not much else. It’s also possible that mom won’t let him participate as much as he’d like to because he doesn’t fold the laundry the “right way” or cook a “perfectly balanced” meal the way she would. A parenting partnership requires some give and take, particularly the giving up and taking of control.

As a stay-at-home parent, I absolutely depend on my wife. Just like she could not put in long hours at work if I didn’t stay home with the kids, I could not take care of the kids all day if she didn’t share those responsibilities when she was home. I would lose my damn mind!

By the time we pick my wife up at the train station, I am ready to hand over the reins. I am all too happy to take on some of those household responsibilities I shirked during the day. After a long day at the office, every minute with the kids is precious for her. Yes, she’s exhausted, but in a different way. What is something of a break for her is the very thing that threatens every day to break me: those crazy kids and all their questions!

Upon further reflection, maybe those memes aren’t as far off as I originally thought. If the moms who liked it are anything like me, they’re probably hiding in the kitchen once their spouses get home. The kids aren’t asking dad where mom is because dad is a useless idiot, they’re asking because there are times when mom doesn’t want to be found! It’s a good thing that, like me, she has a husband in this whole parenting partnership thing who is ready, willing, and able to take on whatever questions, requests, and demands are thrown his way.

Parenting partnership first ran in 2104 and has since been update. Photo by Katie E from Pexels

O my beautiful and amazingly accomplished, bread-winning wife,

I love you and, if there’s one thing I know with any degree of certainty, it’s that you love me, too. We vowed to spend the rest of our lives together and nothing would bring me more joy than to spend eternity by your side.

So.

WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME??

All those times you said it? I thought you were joking!

Maybe you see our relationship as a short-term investment. Like Diddy said, It’s all about the Benjamins, baby. And baby, you make a shitload more Benjamins than me. And that’s the problem.

You see, guys whose wives earn more than them die younger. You may not have read about this enlightening and frightening new study – I know you don’t have time to surf the web, you’re so dedicated to your job – so I’ll sum it up for you: you’re killing me, Smalls!

I will die a marginally, but statistically significant, earlier death than if you made less money than me. Men like me are dying young because of the stress of not living up to society’s idea of masculinity. Sad!

The subjects in the study were all born in the 1930s, so maybe don’t buy that extra life insurance just yet (I’ll totally tank the interview anyway, sucker!). Ideas of what it meant to be a manly man’s man were more limited and limiting back in the good ol’ days. Can you imagine if one of those poor bastards had to explain to his drinking buddies that he couldn’t go bowling because his wife was working and he had to watch the kids? If dudes in the 1950s and ’60s threw shade, I’m sure that guy would have been well-protected from sun damage … no need to worry about skin cancer because he would have died from embarrassment.

Where does that leave us? I’m a stay-at-home dad, who blogs on the side. I will grant you that in our current setup, you’d be hard pressed to earn less than me. I believe I made a whopping 3,500 bucks last year. American. Okay, some of it may have been Canadian. Anyway, you love your job (most of the time) and I wouldn’t trade being a stay-at-home dad for the world (especially when the kids aren’t being little a-holes). Plus, my drinking buddies are all stay-at-home or work-at-home dads. They get it. And my college friends and family get it, too. And you? You get it more than anyone.

This is what we chose. This is what works for us.

Do I get stressed and depressed sometimes? Fuckin’ A, right I do. I may be progressive and liberal and comfortable not conforming with societal expectations, but I’m still a man. I have a hard time talking about my feelings and asking for help and all that other crap that would make me a more balanced person and probably add years to my life. That’s one of the reasons why I have a blog (it’s clearly not the get-rich quick scheme I once imagined it might be). I get to write stuff out and think about it, express my, ugh, emotions. Do I still hide behind sarcasm and humor? Why are you even asking? YOU KNOW WHO YOU MARRIED, WOMAN. And that’s probably why there are times you actually do want to put me in early grave.

But you’re not killing me by killing it at your job. You should definitely keep making way more money than me, lest we all die – hungry, destitute and in the streets. Or worse, at your parents’ house. No pressure!

I love you, honey!!!!

Don’t kill me.

A version of “Bread-Winning Wife” first appeared on Amateur Idiot / Professional Dad. (Photo by Brooke Lark on Unsplash)

I hadn’t thought about it much, but I just assumed that pretty much every little girl got her ears pierced by some teenager working at Claire’s in the mall. And I guess you could do that, but … why?

It sounds like a recipe for disaster. Infection, at least. I mean, I’m sure those super-responsible teens making minimum wage and excellent life choices totally give two craps about the job they do. It’s not like their parents still need to remind them to wash their hands before dinner. That gun they use to shoot your darling’s little lobes? It’s probably safe and sterile, way better than a silly old-fashioned needle! Or maybe I’m being sarcastic. Read this informative article from Good Housekeeping to find out!

But if not two stores down from the Kids Foot Locker, where?

If not from an adolescent who watched an eight-minute instructional video, who?

Fear not, good parent! There are other piercing options. Some doctor’s offices offer the service. A better choice than the mall, but — get real — those medical nerds aren’t experts in the field.

The experts don’t have multiple doctorates, they have multiple piercings. Their shirts are rolled up to reveal a complex and colorful sleeve of ink that tells a life story; sometimes that story involves a Mogwai. They’re not teenagers and they’re definitely not in the medical profession. They’re tattoo artists and professional piercers.

It may sound odd or even irresponsible to bring your innocent little lamb into this den of alleged miscreants and ne’er-do-wells, but tattoo parlors are the best place to get your child’s ears pierced. Also, quit being so judgy, jerkface.

Ears pierced by a professional with standards

A good tattoo parlor is maintained to exacting standards: cleanliness is paramount. Tattoo artists are well-trained and go through a certification process. The piercing needle they use is safer than a gun because it’s sharper and, unlike the gun, can be sterilized. A tattoo artist’s business is built on his reputation and his reputation is his business.

In other words, unlike the kid at Claire’s, he actually gives a shit. As far as piercings go, anything goes. Professional piercers have done noses, tongues, nipples and scrotums — oh, my! Your kid’s ears are a cakewalk by comparison.

Last weekend, I took my daughter to get her ears pierced at Artisanal Tattoo in Somerville, N.J. The place felt like a doctor’s office, but way cooler. The whole experience was fantastic. As we were walking in, Penny and I joked about the unicorn tattoo I would get … only to find out someone was actually getting a unicorn tattoo at that moment! I’m pretty sure it was a sign.

After a couple of minutes in the waiting room, flipping through tattoo ideas that I’ll never get but kind of want, the piercer came to get us and bring us to his partitioned office. He explained the process to Penny and took his time making sure the earring placement, marked with a drop of ink, was just right. He held her ear with a surgical-looking tool, slid the needle through, and put in her new earrings. She said it felt like a pinch and was proud of herself because the old pro told her she was braver than some grown men he’d seen. He even had a stack of juice boxes for recovery and gave Penny one. I’d write more about the process, but that was it. Super simple, sterile and professional. And, yeah, pretty cool.

A version of this first appeared on Amateur Idiot / Professional Dad.

I was on the other side of the room so I’m not exactly sure what happened with Penny. I just know I saw her crying and spent the rest of the birthday party comforting her.

Through barely muffled tears, she told me part of the story before we left. Through slightly more muffled tears, I deciphered additional details on the car ride home.

She and a few of her friends were in the bathroom together. (This is, by the way, super common for them. I don’t know why women use the restroom in packs, but I do know it starts young.) One of them was, apparently, still “busy” when the mother of the birthday girl knocked on the door. When they innocently exited, she reamed them out. She made it clear that they wouldn’t be invited to any more parties ever again.

W T actual F, right?

That was Penny’s perspective, anyway. And she bawled her little eyes out.

I didn’t speak with the mother before we left. I just wanted to comfort my daughter, find out what was wrong, and get the hell home.

But I couldn’t just let it rest.

My baby got hurt and I had to make it better. I had to find out what happened, at least. I know the mom and the mom knows Penny. There had to be a good explanation.

I texted the mom that night to hear her side of the story while letting her know how distraught Penny was. I also hoped to subtly convey that explicitly un-inviting a 9-year-old to all future parties is kind of a fucked-up thing to do. (If you really don’t want her at another party, don’t send an invite. You don’t have to be a dick about it a year in advance.)

Why did you yell at my child?

The mom explained that the girls locked themselves in the bathroom because, apparently, they didn’t like the game that was being played. They were hiding in there, goofing around on an iPhone, refusing to come out even though she knocked on the door repeatedly. She felt like they were disrespecting her (and her time putting the party together) and being mean to her daughter on her birthday. It was a yell of protection as well as anger.

I followed up, explaining Penny’s side of the story as I understood it and my wish that things had been handled differently. She emailed a sincere and thoughtful apology to me and the other parents involved, admitting that she handled the situation poorly and should have spoken with the adults instead of yelling at the children.

From an objective parent’s perspective, I understood her frustration. She was, after all, throwing a party for her child, and the guests – who are supposed to be her child’s oldest friends – seemed to bail on it. She also explained that she was going through some crap with her father’s health, so under additional stress.

Let me be clear: If my child is misbehaving and I’m not there to witness it, I trust her friends’ parents to reprimand her. Not yell at her necessarily (unless she’s doing something dangerous then YELL LIKE HELL), but tell her she’s not doing the right thing. In turn, I’m very comfortable telling her friends that they’re being little assholes when they are, in fact, being little assholes. Probably not in those words, of course. But it really does take a village to raise a child not to be a douche and we all need to do our part. Unfortunately, sometimes the villagers fuck up. I suspect that’s what happened in this case.

I’m still not exactly sure what happened in the bathroom, but I know my kid. And I know those kids. And they’re all good kids. And they all take a long-ass time in the bathroom.

I believe my daughter when she tells me they weren’t playing in there avoiding the party. I believe her because she’s given me little reason not to. And, again, I know how long she and her friends take in the bathroom. Frankly, it’s a little much.

Lessons for kids (and adults)

I’m not glad this happened, but there were some important lessons. And life is all about the lessons we learn along the way. Here are a few I talked about with Penny and some she’s figuring out on her own.

1. Everyone makes mistakes.
2. Everyone can be an asshole sometimes.
3. If you make a mistake or you’re being an asshole, own up to it and apologize.
4. There are two sides to every story.
5. Everyone is going through their own crap.
6. Empathy is important.
7. Even if you didn’t do anything “wrong,” you can get in trouble.
8. Perception matters.
9. Friendships can survive misunderstandings.
10. Maybe don’t take so damn long in the bathroom. Seriously, what the hell are you doing in there??

Penny and the birthday girl have seen and played with each other since the incident. They’ve known each other forever, and it’s all good in the hood, water under the bridge, forgiven and all but forgotten.

Our paths have not crossed with the mom, yet. Penny is sensitive and has a long memory. I’m not sure how that interaction will go. Hopefully with a hug. Hopefully with mutual apologies. Hopefully with the parent being the adult.

A version of “Yell” first appeared on Amateur Idiot / Professional Dad.

It’s fun to make predictions secure in the knowledge that no one will call you on your bullshit. Well, screw you, Daily Parent. I found your Parenting Trends to Watch for in 2015 and WOW — WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT!

The author started off slow, hoping we wouldn’t notice, with mindful consumption and mindful parenting. Basically, it’s two ways of saying the same thing: “Put your damn phone down and pay attention to your kid!” Looking around the playground, as well as in the mirror (or at least the shiny reflection from my phone), I’m going to go out on a limb and say this trend did not catch on. As parents, we tried, we failed, we downloaded a new app.

Sharing kids. At first, I thought the author was going to predict  our kids would share more in 2015. Ha! That definitely didn’t happen. She actually meant sharing your children. Basically, dropping your kids off at a loved one’s house who doesn’t have their own bundles of endless joy. That’s called “babysitting” and it’s a not a trend.

Vanity birth selfies. “Some popular birth clothing items include bikini tops paired with complementary earrings and necklaces to ensure the ultimate postpost-delivery selfie and/or labor video … even … Botox and blow-dries immediately after birth.” I’m sure new mothers want to look their best in those first pictures with their precious newborn, but I can’t imagine them caring more about multiple outfit changes and low-level cosmetic surgery than having JUST EXPERIENCED NATURE’S GREATEST DAMN MIRACLE.

Cake smashing. People with too much money were clearly trendy in 2015. Aren’t they always? The prediction here is that parents would hire a professional photographer for their child’s first birthday. The penultimate shot, where this alleged trend gets its name, is your little angel in his Sunday finest smashing his cake like the destructive little asshole he apparently really is. The birthday party/photo shoot culminates in your baby screaming in the bubble bath, as the lens zooms in, the camera snaps away, and your guests wait downstairs wondering why they’re friends with you.

Sip-and-See parties. “Keep nosy neighbors, well-meaning in-laws and other extended family members and friends from landing on your doorstep to see the baby unannounced by sending invites or e-vites to your child’s social debut.” As if anyone actually gives a shit! If people are stopping by it’s to be a friend and help you out. If you don’t want them there, grow a pair and tell them to get out of your house. This passive-aggressive party, somehow, did not become all the rage.

And, finally, baby sprinkles. This is like the baby shower you had for your first child, but way less special and your friends will definitely resent you. They were barely hanging on after the cake smashing party. If you’re thinking of throwing a baby sprinkle, throw some cold water on that idea. They weren’t a trend in 2015 and they never will be. By the time you have more kids, your friends have kids of their own. No one is buying anyone any more new shit. If your second child is a different gender than your first, someone will give you the stuff their kid grew out of. They’ll be happy to get rid of it and you’ll be happy to take it. And the best part is: no one has to sit through another damn baby shower. No one likes baby showers! If anything, not having one will be a trend in 2018. You heard it here first!

Try again next year, Daily Parent!

(Please note: I don’t actually have a clue if any of these predicted trends caught on. But they all seem pretty stupid, so I sincerely hope not.)

A version of this first appeared on Amatuer Idiot/Professional Dad.

My daughter is the smartest kid in her class.

I’m not sure if that’s actually true, but it’s true enough.

She is intelligent and excels at reading, science and math. But this isn’t her college class I’m talking about. She’s not on track to graduate valedictorian of her high school. She’s in second grade.

Second grade, people. There’s supposed to be a big spread of abilities when children are that young. And while it may sound like I’m humblebragging about my girl – and maybe I am a little – my point is parents, including myself, need to get a grip.

Milestones reached at different paces

Other kids will inevitably catch up to her reading level. Things will click for them in math and science like they somehow already have with her. And then she’ll be playing catch up.

She won’t always be top ranked. At certain points, she just won’t get it and she’ll need a tutor. In the future, I’m sure we’ll worry about her grades and if she’s going to pass this or that test. Even if she is smart, chances are someone will be smarter. She will stumble and have setbacks, and it will be tough for her and us. In academics, sports, the arts, whatever. That’s life.

I’ve already been through these races for milestones with both of my kids. I’ve seen it and been guilty of getting ahead of myself, feeling like their accomplishments are my doing and that they will always be high achievers. I couldn’t help being smug that, in her pre-preschool class of 2- and 3-year-olds, she was one of the few, the proud, the potty trained. 

I did my job over the summer. Unlike some slacker parents. And my girl picked up on it right away. She’s so advanced.

Except she relapsed. It may have started with a UTI, the birth of her brother or a bizarre combination of psychological and physical maladies that remain a mystery to modern science, but at the end of the school year, she was back in pull-ups. Potty training the second time around took far longer and was far, far more frustrating. It reminded me to take parenting in stride.

Everything changes

With kids, everything changes. All the time. My son won’t eat hot dogs, anymore. Why not? No idea. I think someone else said they didn’t like them, so he convinced himself he doesn’t either. I’m not worried. They’re just hot dogs. And, more importantly, he’ll probably remember they’re his favorite food next week.

Unlike his sister, he was late in the potty-training game. He just had no interest. But once we (it was definitely a team effort) figured it out, he was able to hold it all night almost immediately. That little trick took his sister quite some time to master, even before the relapse. I was happy not to have to deal with diapers or dirty sheets, but I knew that the situation was a fragile one. And believe me, there have been accidents. Horrible, unspeakable accidents.

Right now, they’re 7 and 4. The milestones that seemed so important at the time — when they first rolled, crawled, walked, spoke, and, yes, wore underpants full-time — are nice memories but are really pretty irrelevant. When all the kids in my daughter’s class get comfortable with reading and basic math, it won’t matter what level everyone was on in the beginning of second grade.

At a certain point, our children’s’ accomplishments will be well-earned, hard-fought and will, hopefully, lead to other achievements and sources of pride for both us and them. Still, don’t get cocky! You never know when your kid will face adversity and metaphorically shit the bed. If you gave him the skills to clean up his mess and move on, then, and only then, can you get a little cocky. But only a little.

A version of this first appeared on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.

Sometimes I call my wife “Mom” or “Mommy.”

And just writing that makes me want to shower the ickiness off in a hot stream of sulfuric acid with a power sander for a loofah. It sounds weird, right?

It’s not.

Let me clear a few things up. If you’re here because the title sounded kinda kinky, I apologize. You’re in the wrong place. I’ve never called my wife “mommy” while crawling around on all fours while begging for forgiveness because I’ve been a bad, bad boy who needs to be spanked. (No judgment. Whatever gets you and your consenting partner off is a-OK with me. Just not my thing and not what this is about.)

On the flip side, I’m not a buttoned-up religious nut (cough-Vice-President-Pence-cough) who calls his wife “Mother” and is so afraid of the evil one-eyed serpent in his pants that he won’t even eat lunch with a woman unless his “Mother” is there to chaperone. Something is seriously wrong with that dude.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me, too. Not because of what I call my wife, though.

I get that some people refuse to call their partner “Mommy” or “Daddy,” because it’s fetishizing and/or infantilizing … in other words, just plain creepy. A recent article in Romper took this subject on and came down firmly on the “fuck no“ side of the fence. Everyone is, of course, entitled to his/her/nonspecific gender pronoun opinion, but the author seemed a little sanctimonious in her assessment. (Not that big a deal, I’ve certainly looked down my nose at other parents from time to time. Because I’m better than you!) Although eight reasons are promised in the title, the author’s argument boils down to:

1. it’s creepy,
2. it’s easy and more technically accurate to add the word “your” before “daddy,” and
3. her partner has a real name.

Some version of these reasons is probably why other parents may feel the same way she does.

Creepiness is (relatively) subjective. I’m not going to un-skeeve anyone who gets the willies when they hear the word “Mommy” or “Daddy” come out of their partner’s mouth. In theory, I get it and, at one point, I probably felt the same way.

But, as strange as it sounds, I have found calling my wife “Mommy” and hearing her call me “Daddy” totally normal. Under the right circumstances, anyway. It’s so simple that it also addresses the other enumerated issues.

“Mom” (and every derivation thereof) is what our children call my wife. It’s not just a noun, it’s a pronoun! Because she’s not just a mom, she’s Mom! For my kids, that is her name. So when I’m talking about her to them, that’s the name I use. I call my wife “Mom” or “Mommy” when I say things to my kids like “Mommy and I told you to never discriminate against people because of their deeply held religious beliefs. Isn’t that right, Allie?” Because I am a hypocrite (and Mike Pence has some seriously effed-up beliefs), but when I address my wife directly I call her by her name or a nickname or anything other than “Mom, “Mommy” or “Mother.” Because that shit is creepy.

Isn’t that right, Mother?

A version of this first appeared on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.

I can’t remember why I didn’t bring a change of clothes to the hospital. It’s probably because I kind of suck at planning. Also, it was our first kid, and I was freaking the f**k out.

My wife, Allie, also may have been freaking the f**k out, but she is a planner by passion as well as by trade. She planned on having a natural child birth. After 36 hours of labor … It. Was. Not. Happening.

Allie cried. A C-section was not part of the plan. A nurse gave her some meds, which helped. Then an emergency C-section bumped Allie down the wait list. And she had to wait. And wait some more. The meds wore off and she was suffering through contractions that had no endgame. The nurse told her not to push; she was supposed to pull or hold, I don’t know, anything but push. Allie was in pain like never before and she just wanted to have her goddamn baby already. I don’t remember what T-shirt I was wearing at the time.

My daughter, Penny, was born on a historic night, the one in which America elected its first black president, and the streets were filled with revelers. The world changed. My world changed. I really wanted my shirt to change. But Allie needed me to stay by her side.

(Before I get too much credit or make too many women swoon while throwing their significant others significant shade, it is here that I am forced — by my wife — to admit that I would abandon her later for Thai food and frozen yogurt while not getting her the Chinese food she was so desperately craving.)

Penny was a big, beautiful, happy baby. We were starting to accept visitors and my buddy Jeff was one of the first. I begged him to pick up a shirt on the way, figuring he’d get me a $2 “I Love NY” shirt at a corner bodega or something completely cheesy and embarrassing. Because we’re friends and that’s what we do. I would have happily worn anything other than the sticky, stinky shirt I’d been nervously pacing and sweating in for nearly 3 days. The one he brought was a plain brick-colored tee from Old Navy. Nothing exciting, but also not goofy and embarrassing. And it fit well. I would wear it often in the years to come.

I used a shower in the maternity ward and changed. I felt like a new man. I was a new man. I was a dad. I held my baby wearing that shirt. I read her her first story in that shirt. She looked at me with her big, beautiful, knowing eyes. She cried and I comforted her. I cried and couldn’t believe what I’d help make. I swaddled and changed her. I lay down next to my wife, with Penny on her chest, just gazing at both of them. In awe. In that plain brick-colored t-shirt.

I haven’t worn it in a while. It’s just been sitting in my drawer, an occasional reminder of the most monumental day of my life.

I picked it up again yesterday, along with quite a few other T-shirts that I never wear anymore. At first, my wife was excited when I told her I was tossing some old clothes. She looked through the discarded garments to see if there was anything threadbare and soft she could use as pajamas. After initially agreeing with my decisions, she saw a baby blue shirt imprinted with a green palm tree that I’d bought for our honeymoon cruise. She started a pile of her own, telling me indignantly, You can’t throw this away. It’s special.

And then she saw that brick-colored shirt from Old Navy. She paused in disbelief. Don’t you know what THIS shirt is from!? Of course I do. How could I forget?

But it’s just a shirt. A shirt faded and stained with dried deodorant and baked-in sweat. A shirt I will never wear again. A shirt that I don’t need to keep for the memories it contains, because one look in my little girl’s eyes and the memories are all there. It’s just a shirt.

But I haven’t thrown it out yet.

A version of this first appeared on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.

I took a picture while running recently and I can’t stop staring at it. I get lost in it. My daughter’s ponytail caught mid-swing as she comfortably strides at her perfect pace. Our puppy chasing her, eager to catch up, mid-air, sprinting. Their shadows are crisply cast. The photo tells a story, not only of what’s happening but of things to come.

I’m not a photographer, by any stretch. I just snapped a bunch of shots with my phone, hoping to get something good. I tried to get my own shadow in the picture, because how cool would that have been? Couldn’t do it. Even if my shadow didn’t quite make the cut I know I’m there, just behind them, smiling like only someone who is completely aware of the moment can. Looking at the picture now, I know who they’re running with and it makes me smile all over again. It’s also making the outermost corner of my left eye slightly moister than usual. It doesn’t bring a tear to my eye or a lump in my throat; I’m not that big a sap. It just makes me sort of exhale a little louder, almost a sigh, but not quite.

Left on her own, our dog, Mallomar, could outpace my daughter and me with no problem, at least in relatively short distances. I could totally kick her puppy behind in a 10k! (Unless there was a squirrel pacing her.) It’s fun to hold Mallo back when we run with my daughter, Penny. All she wants to do is run alongside her girl, our girl. She practically pulls my arm off, her front and hind legs working in unison and straining against her leash and my shoulder socket. Finally I let her have at it. I have to go full 100-yard dash mode to keep up with her, bounding, practically bouncing, in an effort to catch up to Penny. (I say “effort,” but nothing could be easier for Mallomar.) She practically gets a foot in the face from Penny’s carefree kicking, but she doesn’t seem to mind. As soon as she catches up, she slows down. Everything slows down. I’m not normally one of those “Life is Good” bumper sticker people. But … Life. Is. Good.

All of that is captured in the photo. All of that and so much more.

I look at the picture and I already feel nostalgic, even though it’s from like a week ago. Who am I kidding? I felt the pangs of a moment gone forever the moment I took the photo. It was already in the past. But it also gave me a glimpse into the future.

I saw it all very clearly, as I blinked my eyes my baby girl was 17 years old. Ten years away. More time than she’s spent on the Earth thus far, but it happened, will happen, in an instant. I saw her heading off to college, but humoring me with one more run together before shipping out. I even joked a little bit about it that day.

When you do you think you’ll be faster than me? I asked, purposely goading her.

I’m already faster than you! She paused for dramatic effect . Because I cheat! 

That’s why you’re Cheater Girl.

I’m Cheetah Girl, daddy. Chee-TAH.

That’s what I said, Cheater Girl. Chea-TER, right?

It’s only funny when she says it, so she tried give me a little jab. Too bad I’m too fast for her! For now. In 10 years, who knows?

I think running together is going to be our thing. I hope so. Like most runners, I have a love-hate relationship with the sport. It’s annoying, frustrating and brings me so much pain. Kind of like Penny. But it has also afforded me some of my proudest, most cherished moments. And there is almost nothing in the world that makes me smile more. Exactly like Penny. (And her little brother, Simon, but he’s not running yet. Yet.)

A version of this first ran on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad.