Special Olympics

On the way to an all-day new parent meditation class, Jaclyn and I stopped at the Noe Valley Whole Foods to grab a to-go lunch. It was still relatively quiet at 9:00 AM on a Saturday morning, and we saw at least five babies carried around on slings and Baby Bjorns in the produce aisle. Except this particular Whole Foods was in some alternate, “Twilight Zone” universe, since every single baby was carried around by dad. Plenty of yoga bunnies, but not a single mom in sight.

Where was mommy? Or this being San Francisco, where was life partner? Jaclyn was thrilled to see this a sign of feminist triumph. I wasn’t so sure. One of the secret thrills of entering into a new era of being an engaged, active father, is that the bar is set so ridiculously low. Much like a participant in the Special Olympics, I am prepared to receive an inordinate amount of praise, cheers, accolades and “awws” when doing tasks that shouldn’t be considered so hard and wouldn’t get a second’s worth of attention if done by mom.

Pushing the stroller? Isn’t that sweet? Grocery shopping with baby in tow? What a good father! Taking the kid out on an urban stroll? He’s so good! And the ultimate gold medal, changing diapers in public.

Well, not in Noe Valley. The poor schlubs I saw there were doing something unprecedented in the history of manhood, i.e., taking charge of activities that were for the longest time woman’s work, and did they get any positive reinforcement? Far from it – a collective yawn was more like it. No wonder they looked so miserable.

That’s why I’ll stick to doing chores with baby in the Mission District.