Suddenly, I was surrounded by dads.
Usually I’m the only guy in a sea of mothers. While the dads of the world head off to work, the stay-at-home moms take their early-morning infants and toddlers to parks, cafes, and the bike path, the very same places I borrow as escape-from-the-house office space. But on Saturday this week, while Siena was with my wife at a birthday party, I took Oren for a boys’ morning out. We ate burgers and fries, rode the bus, and searched for pennies in the plaza.
It was almost 100% dads out there. First I thought it was the burger thing — a stereotypical assumption that only men like burger joints — but I’ve often seen women “circle the wagons” at the long front table near the window: six women, six strollers. But then I remembered it was Saturday. Men were making up for lost time, taking their daughters and sons for daddy dates, renewing their relationships at the fresh start of the weekend.
I fit right in, sitting back as Oren climbed all over the booth and splashed ketchup on his forehead, and yet I felt oddly misplaced. After three years I relate more to the moms, who are both my environment and my admirers, unafraid to smile at the lone XY in an XX pool. But here I was just another guy. There was no camaraderie, no nods, and no knowing looks. My comfortable amusement at Oren looked too much like the stoic patience of everyone else. That’s not me, I thought; I’m not like all these other dads.
We need to believe our children are special and unique, somehow different from the others we see. Maybe we need to believe that of ourselves, too.