Confessions of a Mr. Mom

NOTE: This piece was written back when I was married and earning my degree at Weber State University.

At first it seemed like a perfectly sound idea but now, a year later, I'm beginning to feel the decision to do it was a terrible mistake. The doctor said it was a necessary procedure and in time I would be glad I did it. But was it worth losing my identity?

In support of, and to encourage all men who find themselves in similar circumstances, I've decided to come out of the closet and admit to the whole world, I'm . . . a house husband. That's right. I'm what's referred to as a Mr. MOM.

On the advice of our physician my wife and I decided I should leave the labor force and return to college to finish my education. The route we chose to accomplish this was to reverse our roles at home; she would work full-time, I would care for the house and children while earning my degree. After all, I only had a couple of years left in college, how bad could it be?

LITTLE DID I KNOW! Not only have I found that it takes me three times longer to do house chores than it does my wife, but I'm also beginning to sound like my mom when I was a kid.

"Get off that kitchen floor. I just mopped it and it's not dry yet!" Or, "Who left this mess on my clean counter?"

Oh yes, I've even used that favorite super stand-by: "If you don't like what I've fixed for dinner you can go hungry. I'm not running a restaurant!"

What worries me more is I once caught myself saying to my wife, as I bolted out the door, "The kids are all yours; I've got to have a break or I'll lose my sanity.

"Now when we argue over how to raise children it's my wife who says, "You need to be more patient," and me who says, "You haven't had to put up with their nonsense all day. You've been at the office."

I went to the doctor a while back for knee trouble. He told me I had what is known in layman's terms as the House Maiden Knee Syndrome from too much kneeling and squatting while cleaning the home.

I've started examining my physic in the mirror before I step into the shower--just to make sure I still look desirable.

When my wife speaks of her male co-workers, jealousy strikes like a ten pound hammer. When she's really late coming home from work I become suspicious of her explanations, yet don't pry too hard for fear of what I might learn.

Recently it dawned on me that each morning I anxiously await the arrival of the mail; walking to the mailbox has become the high point of my day.

It's turning out that I'm now the one who's too tired at night for romance. And it seems every 30 days or so I'm easily provoked and I swear, I bloat and gain a few pounds for the better part of a week.

Finally, I knew I was going through an identity crises when I realized I was able to converse intelligently with my friends' wives about the topics discussed on the Oprah, Geraldo, and Donahue shows. I only hope I'll graduate before the temptation to watch soap operas overpowers me.