As soon as my girlfriend and I told people we were having a kid, they started in with “Hey, Daddy.”   Who are they talking to?  I thought.  Daddy is a guy who looks like me, but older, and lives in Florida.  Daddy is a grown man.  A man who knows things, like why the Roman Empire collapsed, who was on the Warren Commission, and how to invest in the stock market.  Daddy’s the guy I call when I need tax advice.  That’s Daddy.  I have no idea who these people are talking to.

 

And, then it occurred to me: really, really, really soon, I’m gonna be “Daddy.”  This little person is coming into the world, and he or she is going to look up at me with those innocent little eyes seeking advice and protection.  Because that’s what Daddies do.  Explain the world.  Deconstruct its infinite wonders, and provide protection.  In fact, some would argue that protection is Daddy’s number one role.

 

But, Daddy does other stuff too.  All the little things that aren’t glamorous.  The stuff no one sees.  The in-the-muck, role up your sleeves stuff.  Daddy, for all the jokes, he’s the one who takes it for the team.  No one even really knows what Daddy does.  He’s just out there scrapping, getting dirty, taking it “like a man.”  Daddy is like the Offensive Line.  He’s just blocking, creating opportunities for the kid — the star, rookie running back — so the kid can make it out into the open field and make a big play.

 

And, who’s Mommy?  Mommy’s the quarterback.  She’s got the glamour job.  It’s a tough job, too, no doubt.  She has to have her head on a swivel. She has to know what’s coming before it happens.  She has to sense danger before anyone else.  As a result, she calls the plays.  She tells people where to go, lets them know when they flubbed the play, and gives them the pep talk when they erred so they’ll re-focus and get back in the game.  She’s the hub, the nerve center.  The engine that drives the train.  So they have special rules to protect Mommy.  No roughing the quarterback.  And, when Mommy does a bad job, no one will blame Mommy.  Oh, maybe a little, but usually it’s the Offensive Line that’s to blame.  Mommy would’ve done a better job if she had more protection from the Offensive Line.  Yeah,  Mommy can’t stay in the pocket because the pocket collapsed.  The Offensive Line – Daddy – he’s a deadbeat dad.  So, now, Mommy’s scrambling.  She’s calling an audible, and somehow, someway, even though there’s a field full of big meanies ahead of her, Mommy makes miracles happen.  Mommy is a superstar.  Mommy always gets the nod for MVP.  Mommy’s like Michael Vick, except she doesn’t beat the dog.

 

But, people who follow this stuff — experts, pundits, Mommy — they know that for the team to do really well on a consistent basis, Daddy’s got to do his job.  Oh, sure, you can win even if Daddy doesn’t.  Single Mommies do it all the time.  The list of Single Mommies in the Hall of Fame is long indeed.  But that’s a tall order.  That’s asking the quarterback to do an awful lot on her own, leaving her open to the possibility of a really bad career-ending injury.

 

Truth is, for the team to be a consistent playoff contender, Daddy needs to do his job, and he needs to do it well.  And, tough part for Daddy, when he’s doing a good job, no one really notices.  Truth is, that’s usually the sign that he’s doing a good job — when things are going along smoothly.  You show me a well-oiled family unit, and I’ll show you a Daddy who looks and acts like he got hit by a car and has nerves so frayed, little sounds make him jumpy and petty irritations cause him to go ballistic.  But you ask that Daddy if he’s okay, he’ll smile through his grimace of pain, give you a thumbs-up and say “You betcha!  A-Ok!”  That’s not to say Mommies don’t play through pain — they do.  But when they go to the trainer’s room, it’s Mommy’s health people are worried about, not Daddy’s.  ‘Cause you can block with a broken arm, but you can’t throw with one.

 

Meantime, when the games are played, and the season is over, and the team has done what it came to do, Mommy’s the one getting high-fived, receiving trophies and accolades, and being interviewed about all the great plays she made.  Daddy just sinks down into a comfortable chair and unwraps the tape around his aching body.  And when they ask Mommy what’s she’s gonna do next, she smiles and says, “We’re going to DisneyWorld!”  At which point, Daddy gets his Ace Bandages, his aspirin, and a double-martini, so he can do the heavy lifting for the trip.  And the one thing Daddy’s really stoked about is that he doesn’t have the Flintstones car that you have to drive all the way to Orlando with your feet.