The shock of losing the life I worked hard for quickly pushed my feelings of inadequacy into the realm of depression and self-loathing. Fortunately, this period of intense, awful feelings didn’t last. In fact, it may have been my reflexive distaste over how society seemed to perceive stay-at-home Dads that made me increasingly at ease with the situation. Where I once answered the “Daddy’s day with the baby” question by just saying yes, or “Something like that, yeah” – anything to terminate communication and get the hell out of the store – it wasn’t long before I began rolling my eyes at such thoughtless dipshittery.
Simply put, I got used to being a stay-at-home Dad. While I am not one to regularly express self-confidence outside the kitchen and the bedroom, I realized I was doing a really good job. Where I once felt too self-conscious to leave the house with the baby lest some rando criticize some aspect of my parenting – which is something that did happen – I eventually reached a point where I had no problem taking her on multiple necessary errands, or even elective outings to the park, the library, or anywhere that crossed my mind.
Yes, things would happen while on these outings, but I knew I could handle it without my daughter suffering permanent damage. There would be explosive diaper blowouts. Hourslong crying jags (hers, not mine). I’d forget necessities at home. She’d drop her pacifier into the gutter two minutes into a walk. She’d spit up in the worst possible places. In fact, I’m reminded of the time I cleaned up such an eruption at a restaurant. Trying to hide my mortification as we left, I told the employee at the counter, “Sorry about the mess.” In my mind I was Han Solo leaving the Mos Eisley Cantina, but I’m sure to the staff I was just some asshole whose baby puked like a tiny Mr. Creosote.
Furthermore, I didn’t worry about the local equivalent of Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched – or Marie Barone, if you need a reference from this century – sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, because by this point I knew I was nailing it and if anyone felt compelled to tell me I was doing it wrong, I had the confidence to know otherwise.
That’s not to say that I wasn’t open to outside input, at least in theory. Nor is it to say that I knew everything there was to know about raising a child, or even taking care of a baby. But just a few months into the gig, I could handle routine operations as though I’d had the job for years. At the time, my social anxiety wasn’t as bad as it would become five or six years into stay-at-home-fatherhood; I had no trouble walking her to my favorite by-the-slice pizza joint. I’d wheel her in, detach her carrier from the stroller, fold up the stroller and leave it in an empty corner of the lobby, then order myself a slice of whatever struck my fancy that day and take a seat at an unoccupied table.
While I waited for my pizza, I’d make her a bottle if she didn’t already have one. She’d sit in her carrier and drink while I ate my lunch. One day as I ate I got props from another Dad, who told me that when his kids were babies he could never achieve the state of calm he apparently saw in me. And for that matter, his kids were never quite as chill in their carriers as mine was.
I appreciated the encounter. It bolstered my confidence and further inflated my ego. Today I suppose the insidious voice in my head would tell me that if the guy really knew me, he’d know what a fraud I was, but back then I sure as hell didn’t see myself that way. I was enjoying my new role, and I still had a thriving business that I didn’t even have to manage on a day-to-day basis. My friends had yet to distance themselves from me, so as isolated as I felt, I still enjoyed regular social interaction. I had a loving relationship with my hot wife, made even closer by the new addition to our family. Why wouldn’t I feel like I had life by the balls?
Up next: I Don’t Belong (Anyw)here, wherein my imposter syndrome makes its presence known.