Men

Who needs 'em?

That's a joke. It's Father's Day. I wanted to write something about the Old Man who is, as I type, play-fighting with The Kid. They are smashing our couch pillows into each other and making growling noises. Like bears or wolverines or really pissed-off marmots.

http://www.literarymama.com/interact/blog/archives/002518.html

Look at the link from Literary Mama. The post is about a panel discussion about the questions "When are men going to care about work/family balance? And what is the role of men in the feminist movement anyway?" Why ask this around Father's Day? These questions must plague many, many women, and I am sympathetic to their desire for their men to fully join them in child-rearing, home-life, etc. Many, many men simply don't pull their weight at home.

The Old Man was raised by a strong woman. He did chores growing up. He learned to respect women. Plus, I'm a loudmouth and tell him what I need.

"Darlingest, please from now on and forevermore do all of the laundry because I can't do it all?" And he does it.
"Light of my life, there is .5 inches of dust on the kitchen countertops. Be a dear and wipe the counters after you do the dishes from now on?"
And there he goes, wiping the counters.

And I'm benefiting from that. I wonder if the women of Literary Mama asking those questions are from the previous generation, or are there men out there still, men in their twenties and thirties, who are husbands and fathers, who don't care about work/family balance? Aren't couples sharing the work these days? And if not, why the hell not?

Anyway, thanks Old Man for doing the dishes and the laundry and wiping the counters and vacuuming on Mondays and fixing the smoke alarms and changing light bulbs and mowing the lawn and dropping The Kid off at daycare and working full time.

I love all of this. I am most grateful, however, for your calm voice of reason, your unconditional acceptance of a crazy redhead's rants and temper tantrums, for your eye-rolls and hugs when I take myself too seriously.

You should go to the Literary Mama panel so that these women can meet a man who cares. I love you.

Husband

So, I've been struggling with a name for THE HUSBAND, the man who encourages me to take my wine and diary and books upstairs when I need a break, the man who uses his sick leave to take The Kid to the doc without complaint, the man who holds me every night. The man who expects nothing less than full-fledged partnership in return for his constant calm and presence. And I have no mystical, mysterious name for him because, frankly, he think mystical, mysterious things are voodoo. He's a down-to-earth kind of guy. The kind of guy who never, ever speaks unless he's thought it through. Try it sometime. Don't say a word until you have analyzed every infinitesimal meaning of what you're about to say, until you have dissected the situation you are in and have thought about your proposed solution from every possible angle. Only after you have let it sit in your brain awhile, then speak.

You will be right EVERY SINGLE TIME.

This is weird in a relationship, annoying, but also very, very comforting. There's no name to do him justice. He doesn't believe in true love - or so he says - but he's the guy who's loved me more than any other man. Since he doesn't believe in true love, I can't call him Angel (Buffy the Vampire Slayer's True Love), or Edward (Bella's). Or Aragorn or Sam (my perfect ideal man) or Heathcliff. The drama those characters intone is too mushy-mushy. It has to be simple, unassuming. It's the kind of love that will stick for fifty or so years, like a really good metaphorical oatmeal sticks to the metaphorical ribs. You don't get hungry again after metaphorical oatmeal. I think I'll call him Old Man Yaga, as in my ball and chain, the one who keeps me from flying off the broom handle, the one who keeps me grounded.

The one who giggles at me when I get all worked up. Old Man Yaga is no longer ______.