I became a stay-at-home dad for one reason: the pussy.
It wasn’t because I’m a writer and am already home all day anyway. No, it wasn’t to save money since daycare costs as much as Notre Dame tuition. And it certainly wasn’t after reading that one study about how kids with a parent at home end up something like 75% less likely to rob a bank.
I volunteered for that most noble of fatherly duties because of its potential to tap some serious ass while my wife’s at work.
Society has told me there is a light at the end of the tunnel of pooped diapers and sticky vomit. And that light is shaped like a vulva.
It’s a fact: women love a guy with a baby.
Pretty much every man on the parental fence knows, in the back of his head, hot girls will magically start flirting once that kid arrives. It’s what seals the fatherhood deal most of the time. In fact, close inspection of the Baby Bjorn owner’s manual shows that the world’s finest uncomfortable papoose-looking thingy was created to specifically aid a stay-at-home dad’s quest for Wednesday afternoon oral.
Or, so I was led to believe.
Now I realize the stereotype of a father’s irresistibility was nothing more than a clever double-fakeout. A ploy for free nannying.
For a long time I just figured our baby was busted. Or worse… ugly.
But that’s not possible.
For starters, Walter has my nose and his mom’s blue eyes and these adorable chubby cheeks. My kid is the Ryan Gosling of four-month-olds. And yet, book-sexy lasses at the library ignore me when I say “Daddy loves you” in that silly voice Walter enjoys and kiss his forehead. Skinny jeaned girls at Kroger don’t even try to make-out after I tickle his chin in the vegetable aisle. Not once has an attractive runner in a sports bra offered a handjob while pushing the stroller down a sidewalk. Even though it’s perfectly good handjob weather.
No, my kid isn’t defective. He’s not sex-repellent. The baby is not the problem.
The problem is society tricking legions of men to stay home and raise their own children.
The epiphany arrived one Sunday morning before the sun was anywhere near up –scooping Similac into a bottle, head throbbing for coffee that’ll have to wait until Junior is fed, changed and chilled out. Women have been lying to me! The promise of unlimited booty was just a mirage. While my wife is off having the time of her life at the office, I’m stuck at the house with no hope of an illicit affair.
How else can I explain this strange lack of extra-marital acrobatics? It’s pretty clear that women never found it adorable that grown men were lugging around kids. This is just a scam that sticks papa with all the responsibility while mom’s probably getting nails painted or some hair waxed while sipping mimosas and laughing about our monogamous genitals.
By my calculations, decades-worth of ladies have been paying it forward, propagating this rumor that “yes, we think it’s sexy when a guy takes care of a baby.” All the while, they’ve had no intention of ever sexing me up. The entire female species has tricked me into caring for my son.
Nice try ladies — I’m on to you.
But it’s your lucky day, this secret is safe. True, I could take this bombshell to Congress or FOX News or the suddenly unsexy dad-n-lad Thursday playgroup. But, I won’t.
Because, single ladies and your vaginas, the joke’s on you. Our fragile little treaty will remain unshattered for now, because I kind of like wearing sweat pants and not shaving and smelling this way.
And, yes, don’t even say it. I know there’s a stain on my shirt. It’s spitup from yesterday’s lunch.
Get one last look, because it’s all for my wife. Tough luck.