Mommies and Nannies

4:58 a.m. -- 3 mos., 23 days old

Reporting on the unseasonably warm January weather, WNYC recently sent a reporter to talk with folks on the streets in Greenwich Village. A young-sounding woman noted the large number of people in Washington Square Park and said, "Today's a great day for mommies and nannies."

Huh, I thought. No doubt she's right: not a daddy in sight. I felt overlooked, invisible -- not a typical sentiment in this culture for an upper-middle-class white man.

Pushing Baby A's stroller around my neighborhood every weekday for the past three weeks, I've seen plenty of mothers, plenty of nannies, and a couple of grandparents. No dads. Amusingly, M encountered a father of twins on a recent weekend stroll. Like M, he was giving his spouse a Saturday child-care break. M said he was a nice guy. I doubt I'll see him any time soon.

I'm hardly unique, I realize. Many people I talked to about my Daddy Day Care semester seemed at least to know some father or other who'd pulled a similar stint. But stay-at-home dads remain aberrational enough to engender pause in most folks I encounter.

When M was pregnant, we decided that her mom would stay with us for the first 10 weeks, and then I'd take the spring semester off; that would take us almost to Baby A's first birthday, and we'd cross that child-care bridge when we approached it. The plan made imminent sense: M's job doesn't allow for extended time off, whereas my school schedule is amenable to a break. Plus she makes about three times my salary. We were lucky to have these options. It wasn't a tough call.

The first time I felt I was tugging against the current was when I discussed M's pregnancy with my program head, my departmental chair, and my divisional dean. When I told them of our plan, I watched them all -- two men and a woman -- experience the same reaction: a second's hesitation, an internal double-take, as the news registered: You're going to take time off? And then, hardly missing a beat, they smiled and said it sounded like a great idea, how lucky I would be to spend time with a growing infant, and we'd make a plan to cover my classes.

The unanimity of this reaction sparked in me unease. The logical side of my brain insisted we were being sensible. But emotionally, I was bugged. I reconsidered my adulthood, my repeated decisions to uproot and move in with sweethearts. I only started teaching when, after ending a perfectly satisfying job to move 500 miles and live with M, I was unable to find a similar job in my field. I don't regret the decision; it led to our marriage and Baby A, the two best things in my life. Yet here I was again, watching people wonder about my decisions to put career second and relationships first. What was it with me? Did I lack drive? Was I somehow -- emasculated?

Since then I've dismissed the feeling, scoffed at it, scorned it. I count myself an extremely lucky man. I treasure my ability to spend several months with Baby A, to track her daily evolution. No one (save Alec Baldwin's character in "30 Rock") ever approached death wishing he'd spent more time at the office. But the nagging is something I've never quite managed to vanquish.

I simply don't know of enough men who've shelved career ambitions to partner and parent. I get long looks from neighbors who must wonder about the unshaven guy pushing a pram past them at 2:15 on a Tuesday. My mother, who postponed her own career for a decade to raise four children, jokes that I'm "lolling about."

Maybe by August, as the fall semester approaches and my time with Baby A dwindles, I'll be more sanguine about kicking it with the mommies and the nannies.