Let’s talk about dads. In particular, SUPERDADS. It’s tough for dudes to navigate their way around this whole having babies thing. For women, the maternal instinct comes rather naturally. After all, we are the ones that carry the child for nine months and have to push them out of you-know-where. So it’s only fair that we pride ourselves in being the ultimate authority on what they need.
But as far as dads go, all they do is contribute some fine specimens of their little fellas, which let’s face it, hardly constitutes as a chore. Besides, guys are just not wired to go all goo-goo ga-ga on babies. Most guys carry babies like they’re lifting a sack of rice for all of two minutes, then promptly hand them back, citing reasons like “I don’t know how”, or “See, the baby is not comfortable”.
So after the little squirts are born, what’s a dude to do?
In the world of fathers, there are three main archetypes.
1. The sperm donors. These days, you can get them off Ebay for $29.95. All they do is contribute the DNA (hey, DNA is very important, too) and take credit for anything good the child does. Once in a while, they provide very insightful comments like “Honey, the baby is crying” before resuming their oh-so-important quest of fighting the baddies on Resident Evil 5.
2. The functional father. From my observation, most dads fall neatly into this category. To avoid being nagged at by the wife, they do their share of baby chores like making the milk and running the bath. But they’re smart enough to make a hasty exit once there’s poop or puke involved.
3. The Superdads. They form a league of superheroes that can singlehandedly take care of all of the babies’ needs. For all intents and purposes, they’re practically women. They can tell the difference between a fontanel and a fingernail, whip up a pot of baby food, and change a diaper with their eyes closed. And in order to attain the status of a true Superdad, they have to pass through the initiation rite of being pooped on at least once.
I dare say, I’ve had the good fortune of snagging for myself one of those Superdads, which is the sole reason I haven’t completely lost my marbles. Of course, it wasn’t always the case. They did get off to a somewhat rocky start, which led to a rather embarrassing 3-hour screaming fit during a wedding dinner. But they’ve come a long way, and truth be told, I sometimes have to bribe Tru with snacks to make him like me more.
I’m not complaining, though. We’ve got a spiffy little system down pat. Mommy does the weekdays from 9-6, and Superdad takes over in the mornings, evenings and weekends. And that’s just fine by me. Plus, now I’ve got the handy little excuse that I’m preggers and can’t overexert myself. It’s good to be pregnant.
