Is It Fun Staying At Home To Raise Your Son?

          Is It Fun Staying At Home To Raise Your Son?

“So is it fun?” Lilly’s friend asked of me about staying at home to raise my boy with an excitement only a non-parent could have, as we all huddled around her modern Victorian era living room.

“Fun? Oh yeah, it’s fun. Fun like shopping with your girlfriend fun. Fun like spending the day with my in-laws fun. That sort of fun,” I expressed with wicked sarcasm. I think I scared her. The look on her face was one you might find at a cheap horror movie. I’ve only met this chick once so I don’t really know her. And after revealing to her the full force of my brand of sarcastic humor, she didn’t look at me right the rest of the night.


The above scenario is often how I respond to people when they ask about me raising my boy. I can’t help it. Whenever I run into my neighbor, I don’t even wait for him to ask, I just spew forth some form of sarcastic comment about Mr Pants keeping me up for a week straight because his toofs were coming in, or how I have to chase him all over the house all day. Or about how he fell head first off my bed and now we’re worried he’s got mental problems. Or how I’m forever banned from surfing because my boy just won’t stop sinking to the bottom when I take him out with me, or how strangers call child services when they see an eight month old sitting in the sand along the shoreline by himself when his pops is out in the water surfing. I feel tied down. Daddies got a brand new bag baby. And it sucks. A ball and chain hooked to my ankles, and bighting down hard with his two toofies. Save me.


Last weekend I expressed my frustration about raising my boy again to another set of friends. I tend to leave people with their mouths hanging open after conversations. A night out on the town while Mr Pants stays home with his Aunt is a rarity around these parts. We visited The Melting Pot, it’s a new gimmick of a restaurant. Having to cook my own meet in a bowl of hot water is not what I want to spend sixty bucks a person on. Of course the cheese and chocolate fondue was good, but so what. I have cheese whiz at home in my kitchen. Okay not really, I don’t eat that toxic waste, but you get the idea. Well, the company of our friends was fun, even if that place won’t last through this depression.

Sipping on a swirling glass of Seven Sins red, with a stained purple mouth, my friend asked me from across the fondue set, “So how do you like staying at home with Mr Pants?”

Without a hesitation or waver in my voice, without having to stop and think about my answer for a second, I smoothly said with surety, “It’s a pain in the ass.” It seeped out as if I had been rehearsing it ahead of time. A flawless execution, right on cue.

I glanced to my side at Lilly and noticed the sudden yet hidden shock in her face. She’s heard me say this before, and yet the way in which I said it this time, the confidence and lack of humor in my statement this time was what shocked her. A twinge of guilt rose in me for an instant. But not because I don’t feel it really is a pain in my ass, but because I said it here to everyone and in the way I said it with confidence.

After exchanging brief uneasy and consolatory smiles across the table my friend then said,”Well, then let’s concentrate on the positive aspects of it. What is your favorite part about staying home with him?”

I’m glad she asked this. I needed to redeem myself and steer clear from being negative during our much needed night out with friends. For an instant I didn’t know what lie I was going to concoct. But then, not as quickly as my former answer came to me, but quick enough, it dawned on me. The best part about having a son, one of the warmest and most exciting parts of my day is when my son wakes up happy. I creep into his room, calling his name as I near the door so he knows I’m coming. If I just pop in he sometimes gets scared. When my head rounds the corner and peers down into his crib at him usually standing up holding onto the railing, his whole face lights up with excitement. It’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time in a long time. He smiles and laughs, his limp epiglottis flapping with is breath as snorts and exasperated exhales escape him through the excitement. He tucks his chin down to his chest while smiling, head bobbing up and down. The sheer joy he expresses at waking up to his parents comfort is by far, the best part about staying at home raising my son. I expressed this to them, sitting there around a pot of melting cheese whiz. Lilly jumped in and offered her complete agreeance. She told them how we sometimes battle over who gets to go get him from his naps when she’s home. Of course, when it’s after midnight, I’m kind enough to let her do it.

“Doesn’t he cry when he wakes up, my nephews always do?” My friend asked.

“Well, sometimes sure. But luckily for us, not usually. And when he doesn’t, he’s all gooey and happy when he sees us.” I said. “So yeah, there are a lot of great things about staying home with him. But overall, it’s pretty tough.”

Being an at home dad does not come naturally to me. Not much does come naturally to people I suppose. We have to constantly strive to better ourselves, educating ourselves and learning from experiences along the way. I cannot force myself to say life is great staying at home. I cannot will myself to thoroughly enjoy this, although I try. One of my concerns is that Mr Pants may suffer because I don’t completely enjoy staying at home with him. Because of this I may not take him outside as much as he needs to be. Perhaps I won’t include him in social activities with his peers quite as much as I should. Maybe I don’t spend enough time holding him as I should. I know I don’t as much as Lilly does. I do love him to pieces, and I don’t totally neglect him. So what I am admitting here, is that I struggle every day. I don’t always like waking up to a baby. I want to go surf, or make money, or just veg out. So I am working on it.