by Dan Kolbet
“Dad,” she pants, “I can’t breathe very good.”
She is taking in shallow gulps of air. Her chest is moving in and out rapidly. In my haste to cover her exposed side, I must have wrapped her up too tight.
“Hold on, honey, I got this.”
I pinch the tape under her arm and cut a four-inch slit. She lets out a massive sigh of relief as the pressure releases from her chest.
“That’s better,” she says, sucking in a big breath.
Now we are ready to go in. We aren’t late.
I admire how some children aren’t fully aware of embarrassing situations. At some point in childhood, that changes, right? Anxiety or fear takes over, and they close themselves off, afraid to move forward or try new things—just like adults. Most kids, at least ones Paige’s age, don’t know any better yet and forge head-on into the world. So, my daughter, wrapped up like a little red burrito covered in ladybugs, is oblivious to how ridiculous she looks right now. She should be oblivious because it doesn’t matter, and she’s eight. It’s just something that adults can’t help but notice. Children, on the other hand, have the privilege of not seeing it.
I think she likes being different anyway, so this is okay. She admires her red tape and folds down the corners of the tape and says she’s ready for class.
I turn to hold the door, only to be met by Ms. May herself.
Crap.
* * *
“That’s quite an outfit, young lady,” Ms. May says in that condescending tone that can only come from a large woman who wears a skin-tight leotard and shimmery tights five days a week.
“Thank you,” Paige replies.
“It was an emergency,” I offer. “She’ll have a new, policy-approved outfit by class next week.”
Her eyes narrow in concentration. Her expression is pained but condescending all the same. “Yes, next week. That’s what I’d like to talk with you about.”
“Is there a change to the schedule?” I ask.
“Only for you,” she says flatly.
“I don’t understand.”
“These classes aren’t free, Mr. Bell. You do realize that, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then, we’re on the same page?”
“I’m still not clear what we’re talking about. I know the class isn’t free. That’s why we pay you.”
“As I’ve told your wife several times, I’m a reasonable person, but I’m not here for my health. This is a business, and I require my students to pay for these lessons.”
“Are you saying we missed a payment?”
“Two months of payments,” she says.
My eyes widen. “Two months? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’ve spoken to your wife several times,” she whispers, then glances first left, then right, as if what she is about to say next is a state secret. “I’m not about to get in between a man and his wife. I know your situation is… well, unique.”
I ignore the jab at me for being a stay-at-home dad.
“I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding,” I tell her. “Paige has been coming here for over two years, and we haven’t had any issues before. I’ll get this straightened out right away.”
“That’s all well and good, but I’m afraid I can’t let Paige into class today without payment. You see, this is a business and I require—”
“Payment. Yes, I get it. What do we owe?” I ask, pulling out my wallet.
“Your balance is $425, but I will require you to pre-pay for the rest of your daughter’s Ballet II class.”
“Fine, and what will that be?”
She pulls a folded, moist piece of paper from the bra latched around her massive bosom.
“It’ll be $925 in total.”
“No problem.”
I hand her my faded MasterCard, which I use for all our household needs and purchases. I follow her inside the studio, and Paige frolics over to her classmates on the floor, who have just begun stretching.
Ms. May inserts the card, punches in the numbers, and waits for it to connect.
“Declined,” she growls.
Confused, I say, “Try it again, please.”
This has never happened before. We have never missed a payment on anything that I know of, but I don’t handle the finances for the family. Tina brings in the money and organizes our finances. She gives me a monthly budget to manage, and this was not over that budget. This has to be some misunderstanding.
“Declined again.”
I glance away from Ms. May’s stern look to see that Paige has joined the line with her classmates. She’s twirling around, happy and wrapped in red tape. I pray that Ms. May doesn’t yank Paige out of line and cause a scene. Paige would never forgive me.
After a brief lecture on financial responsibility, Ms. May lets us slide.
“Just this one time. Don’t make me regret it, Mr. Bell,” she says before commencing the class.
Paige’s face is beaming as the class moves through the various arm positions and basic movements. I’ve seen this simple instruction dozens of times, but I smile despite myself while trying to ignore the churn in my stomach about the credit card.
That shouldn’t happen… not to people like us.
An Agreement We Made
CHAPTER 2
I have never been offended by being called Mr. Mom. It would be an insult to moms everywhere if I, a father of three, took offense to being likened to a woman who displays an undying love for her children. Most moms are invisible superheroes hidden away, because when mom’s around, everything works and everyone else’s life is more comfortable. Moms do so much more than they ever get credit for. And yes, I know the irony of me—Mr. Mom—making this claim, but so be it. It’s true.
In my family, the central parental figure, or primary parent, isn’t a mom. It’s me. Yes, I’m a man, and I’m not special because of it. I volunteered for this role as a stay-at-home dad, and I don’t feel stuck—regardless of what most people assume.
When Jaden was born, followed two years later by his brother Mason, I left the “working” world and became a homemaker. This was nineteen years ago. OK, homemaker sounds antiquated. Did I stay at home? Yes. But anyone who says having kids means you “stay home” is out of touch. If you stay home alone with your offspring for too long, you slowly devolve into a madness of PB&J and cartoons on repeat. That’s not fair to moms or me.
The first few years were a breeze, just me and my two boys. We did ‘boy things’ like playing tag, shooting rockets in the park, tossing the baseball around, and building forts out of blankets and couch cushions. We also created one truly epic tree fort in the backyard, then built an addition onto it. It was the envy of the neighborhood, dare I say.
We frequently had peeing-distance contests in the backyard, too. We’re in stay-at-home dad territory here. It’s much harder, but I imagine not impossible for a female to win a peeing-distance contest—sorry, moms. I’d like to see that, but not in a creepy way. Just that it’s a feat I think deserves some special attention, but obviously, some privacy, too. I would sometimes let the boys win the contest, because let’s face it, I had a distinct advantage over the wee lads.
Back then, I was just a cool dad who was super involved. I volunteered in their classrooms and for school committees. I coached their soccer and baseball teams. The parent association usually assigned me tasks like building carnival booths or schlepping a U-Haul full of boxes of purple licorice to be sold to the sugar-deprived children at Columbia Ridge. I didn’t mind; I had found a niche and I enjoyed it.
I was labeled Mr. Mom when Paige came along eight years ago. There is something that people just don’t get about a father being the primary parent of a little girl. I’ve made tutus and painted pictures of unicorns and didn’t bat an eye. We also built birdhouses and flower boxes in the garage. That’s what we do. But the first time I was called Mr. Mom was by Meredith Stonemeyer, who was responsible for the Girl Scout Troop Paige had begged me to let her j
oin.
Meredith had a bad habit of not preparing for the meetings or she would just not show up. She was one of the few moms at Columbia Ridge who had a full-time job outside of the house. Gasp, the horror. Her absence from the meetings occurred twice before I took any action. So, on the third no-show, in front of 13 seven- and eight-year-old girls, I stepped in.
In truth, I was just looking to fill the time, but the girls were excited by the project that I had proposed. We were in the multipurpose room of the county library, and just outside the hall were rows and rows of white cardboard boxes that had previously stored books. I put my construction management skills to the test and challenged the girls to build a small castle with the boxes. Had this build been for boys, it would have been called a fort, but when in Rome, right?
The moms sitting along the back wall snickered amongst themselves as I took charge, but I wasn’t deterred. I enlisted the help of a terrified-looking dad who had to break away from some game on his phone to help bring the boxes inside the room. He did his job and returned to his phone, glad to be free. The moms watched, first for a laugh, but then slowly, they decided this wasn’t the worst idea ever and joined in. Maybe a male could provide some value here.
Someone opened one of those insanely large boxes of colored markers, and soon each girl was decorating a square of our makeshift castle. I tied the boxes together with some yarn and a hole-punch left behind by the last group in the multipurpose room.
Was our castle structurally sound? Not a chance. But we weren’t preparing for hurricane winds; we were just killing time. But then Meredith Stonemeyer abruptly entered the room—twenty minutes late—wearing the sensible business attire of a working professional. I like to call it a costume because people act differently when they wear it. She also wore the strained expression of an over-subscribed adult as she dragged little Maggie Stonemeyer by the arm toward the front of the room.
Displeased, Meredith surveyed our work. I ignored her but couldn’t help smiling at the finished product. It was a fairytale; a lopsided jumble of decorated boxes that might transport young minds into a land where princesses attended elaborate balls and the basic economics of feudal land-holding society was overlooked.
The girls continued working on the project, which was probably what upset Meredith the most. She had arrived, and she was supposed to be in charge. How dare someone try to usurp her?
“I’ve got it from here, Mr. Mom,” she said with scorn. “We have an agenda for the meeting. It’s not just playtime.”
And there it was. “Mr. Mom” was a bad thing, and forever tainted by the icy words of a real working mom who didn’t like a man entering her tightly choreographed world of cookie sales, yoga pants, merit badges, and shaming stay-at-home parents.
I looked at the other moms, who were still actively participating and maybe enjoying themselves at these unbearable meetings for the first time. They looked ashamed and afraid. Was it because they agreed with her, and they were embarrassed for me? Or were they toeing the line as not to offend this Mamma Bear? Maybe it was a mixture of both.
What did Meredith Stonemeyer have that I didn’t have? I can tell you one thing—I’d beat her at a peeing contest, for sure.
* * *
We’re nearly a year removed from the Mr. Mom comment, and I’ve had time to reflect on it, and I get it, somewhat. But I’ll get into that later.
I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself. My name is James Bell, and I am a stay-at-home dad. I haven’t held a steady, paying job outside the house for nearly two decades. I’m in charge of raising the kids and running the place. That’s my job. Yes, it’s a real thing that men do—they just don’t talk about it. When would they talk about it? At the office with their co-workers? Obviously not. At the Mommy-and-Me playdates? Again, no. We don’t get invited to those.
If a man stays home, it means his wife wears the pants. She makes the money, and you—the man—are subservient to her. This is why nobody, especially men, talk about it. But it’s just a gender swap, that’s all. Families choose to have one parent at home quite often; it’s just usually a mom.
Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not here to judge parents who both work full-time. Lord knows we can only afford this lifestyle because Tina works a lot and earns more. She’s always out of town, but her work allows me to be the primary parent to our kids.
This life is not exactly what I had envisioned for myself. I used to be a professional project manager for a construction firm. You might have caught that with the whole castle-made-of-boxes thing. But I have a great life. Sure, it can get lonely, but thankfully, I have Christy to pal around with. And that’s all it is, despite the gossip in the Tribe. We’re providing each other a healthy outlet for human interaction. We’re both married, and our spouses know that we’re friends.
This loneliness is something the stay-at-home moms and dads don’t talk about outside their circle. Who would feel sorry for us? For feeling lonely and needing friendship? You wouldn’t understand until you’re in it. You’re alone, devoid of other adults, except for those loons on TV talk shows, which serve as company and background noise while you work around the house. Trust me, you don’t want to get hooked on those shows—it’s a downward spiral from which you can’t come back.
I’ve heard stay-at-home parents say their kids are their best friends. Um, no, thank you. I love my three crazy kids, but not like that.
Jaden, my firstborn, is nineteen and away at his first year of college. He’s at the University of Oregon in Eugene, which is not far from our home in Lake Oswego, outside of Portland. He’s a full-grown man and on scholarship for the baseball team.
Mason, whose text message I need to return, is seventeen and attempting to finish his junior year of high school. It’s been an uphill battle with that one. There’s always one, right? If video games were graded, I’m confident he’d be a valedictorian. But they aren’t graded, and he’s not on any honor rolls. Having money to provide your kids with a good education doesn’t mean they will automatically get smarter. I think they fight it more. Is it privilege? Possibly.
So, my co-workers at home are my kids. It’s not a manager-employee relationship. We’re on the same team, but I can’t fire them. I read something once about servant leadership—how good leaders serve others to help them succeed, which lifts the whole group—and I think that applies here. Not just a servant. Not subservient. Servant leader.
OK, we are moving on now. This is my life.
End of sample. Please consider reading and reviewing An Agreement We Made by Dan Kolbet.
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