Tony Cesare: The New Mr. Mom

During a recent bout of insomnia (always happens when the Blackhawks play on the West Coast and they get their butts kicked) I found myself channel surfing with my buddy Sam Adams, looking for something mildly entertaining or somewhat amusing—preferably a movie I’ve seen a dozen times before. Movies I can quote while blindfolded are a better sleep aid then Ambien with a Knob Creek chaser.

I settled on AMC and the 1983 Michael Keaton movie Mr. Mom (it was either that or Scarface but machine gun fire and chain saw amputations are not conducive to a restful sleep).

It’s a classic. Everyone knows the plot: Dad loses job and stays home to take care of the house while Mom puts on a pantsuit and tackles Madison Avenue. Since he’s a ‘man’ he has no idea what he’s doing but figures “how hard can it be”? Hilarity ensues. If you haven’t seen it lately, you should. The scene where Jack (Keaton’s character) is sucked into the world of daytime soap operas is one of the greatest ever written. “Come on, wake up man! She’s already buried three husbands!!”

After watching the first half hour I was immediately struck by two things: 1. Ann Jillian was hot. 2. The cliché of the clueless Dad stumbling his way around the kitchen and botching the housework simply doesn’t work anymore.

Granted, the idea of a stay-at-home Dad may have been so foreign in 1983 that it naturally made for great comedy fodder, but watching it now really drives home just how much the family dynamic has changed.

My wife works outside the home. Like most women of her generation, she has never been a full-time home maker, (apparently ISU didn’t offer that degree) and save for the generous 12 weeks paternity leave her employer graciously paid eight weeks of, she has never been fortunate enough to be a stay-at-home Mom. Moreover, it’s another cliché to think there is some inherent June Cleaver biological code stamped in her DNA that makes her a better “homemaker” than I am just because she’s a “she”. If anyone wears the house-dress and pearls in our home, it’s me. Not literally of course, but you get the idea.

I’m good at this domestic thing, and I proclaim that without a trace of shame or irony—I’m damn proud of it. In fact, I can say without any bias (or maybe just a hint...) that most Dads are every bit as good at running the household as Mom. Dare I say, maybe even better?

For one thing, men aren’t burdened by the domestic expectations of our Mothers like our wives are. I only have to live up to the example of my father, who wouldn’t know a colander from a spatula or how to turn the vacuum on. When little is expected of you, your every domestic triumph (pack the kids lunch, clean the oven, remember to defrost ground pork and beef for your signature pasta with meatballs that you penciled in for dinner on Tuesday) looks like a victory lap at Indy. At least it does in the eyes of your mother-in-law, and isn’t she the most important person to impress?

My domain is the kitchen; I allow my wife passage reluctantly and only to sample dishes I’m preparing or to load the dishwasher after the meal (which she insists I do poorly because I hate doing it, and she’s right). Occasionally she will endeavor to “put something away”, such as a whisk, which inevitably ends up somewhere I don’t typically put it, which means I can’t FIND it when I need it, which are grounds for me to revoke her kitchen privileges for a minimum of one week.

You know what? She’s fine with that. Truth is she never learned to cook from her Mother and has absolutely no desire to learn. Why should she? That’s Dad’s job. That’s right: Dad. She has never once seen it as an affront to her femininity that I can whip up hearty Sunday roasts or weeknight family dinners that don’t involve hamburger helping anyone while she wonders why the water she put on the stove to boil is only simmering. You see that knob honey? Turn it all the way to the right next time.

The reality of the two income household dictates that today’s Dads have to do it all the same way women entering the workforce in the 70s and 80s had to learn to juggle domestic chores with working outside the home. The difference these days is Dad pitches in.

I am perfectly capable of washing clothes. I handle the grocery shopping and I’ve even been known to whip out a coupon or two (side note: did anyone actually win anything collecting those stupid Jewel game tickets? Me neither, what a scam). Our Dyson and I are on a first name basis and there is nothing better than cracking open a beer on a Saturday afternoon and vacuuming the downstairs carpet. The secret is you have to get on your hands and knees in order to scrape all the dog hair up that accumulates against the baseboards. That’s the difference between Mom clean and Dad clean.

Now I know what you’re thinking: “Man, sure hope his wife doesn’t read his column.” Well, she doesn’t, which is one reason I can afford to be brave while writing this. The other reason is that many of the traditional “Dad” tasks are handled by Mom in our home.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a bill in our mailbox. It's not that we don’t get them, it's that all matters relating to financial stability, bill paying and the distribution of our combined income is the strict province of Mom, which is another roll reversal from days gone by.

My paycheck is direct deposit (I think) and I have no idea how she allocates the funds after they arrive. For all I know she’s setting up an account in Antigua and planning on running away with her Yoga instructor. I don’t even know where the checkbook is.

To date we haven't had a creditor hound us with phone calls or a sudden unexplained loss of electricity or heat. To the best of my knowledge neither Visa nor MasterCard has a hit man out patrolling Downers Grove with a photo of me in his vest pocket so I’ll assume she’s doing something right and stay out of all matters financial.

So Dads, hold your feather duster high because times have changed and so have we. Be as proud of your domestic chops as you are about changing your own oil or mowing the lawn. Being a Domestic God is nothing to be ashamed of, just think of the example you're creating for your daughter. By the time she gets older she’ll insist on marrying a man who can cook and clean just as well as her Dad did. Mission accomplished.

Drop me a line at rigatony43@yahoo.com and I’ll send you a copy of my Sunday meatballs and sauce recipe or my Roast Chicken and root vegetables. And remember, save the chicken carcass in the freezer, when you have enough you can use them to make stock.