Mr. Mom on Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day is coming up, and I sure hope you’re all going nominate me in the “Mr. Mom” division of the “Celebrate Mom For Who She Is Contest” from a national flower delivery service:


Now where did I leave my chef’s hat?

They’ve got me pegged, huh? Except I haven’t found time to watch a ballgame in, well, decades. And I am deathly afraid of changing diapers — I work through the fear. Oh, and I’m not super-clear on how to "have a catch with the kids" [sic], but if that means sharing fish sticks, then I do that with Boobaby all the time.

They got one thing right, though: Working Mom and I totally switch holidays. She gets me pansies and breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, and I get her a power tool on Father’s Day. (I’m thinking of a tile saw this year.) Oh, and all our gay parent friends do about the same, except that they pick one parent to play "Mother" and "Father" each year.

Sigh. When will they get it? I’m not a quotation-mark-Mom-quotation-mark any more than my wife is a quotation-mark-Dad-quotation-mark. Fabulous fella, though?

She sure is.