Little Children

Even in somewhat liberal almost-Southern California, being the dad at the playground is very odd. First, that I'm the dad, usually, at the playground is odd. Many of the families in family housing here are desperately trying to live out a 1950s fantasy in which the woman stays at home while the man works. So the playground is lots of mothers, and yours truly. The mothers regard me with skepticism, and no one has tried to talk to me; when I try to talk, they mumble politely and ignore me. One mother, as I stood holding Emily so that she could watch the bigger kids play on the monkey bars (she's taken an intense interest in other children now), made a comment so bizarre that I could only conclude, later, that she suspected that I was a pervert. They won't even make eye contact with me. The atmosphere here is so weirdly stifling that sometimes it feels like a John Cheever short story, but unfortunately without the booze.

Anyway, you read about men staying home to take care of the children, but where are they? Maybe I should try a different playground. This is one of the few times in my life in which I would actually be relieved to talk to another man.