The day I inseminated my wife is the last day I ever had control of anything. Since then, I traded in my low-paying university job for a no-paying volunteer position as an at-home dad to a C.E.O. whose communication style consists of screaming directly in my face until I figure out what it is she wants, which often times does not exist. I have no lunch hour, no vacation days, and my bank account consists of a dilapidated envelope with a steadily disappearing $27 in it.
I used to rinse out my glass between Chardonnay and Shiraz, now I eat scrambled eggs off the floor. There are days when I can't recall the last time I showered, shaved, or changed my underwear. Moms have been so gracious to tell me how great it is that I am staying home with my daughter, but sorry, I can't join their mom groups. How silly of me to ask. And if you see me at the playground struggling to unfold my baby from the inside of one of those surprisingly complicated slings and want to know where her mother is, she's at work. And so am I. This is my job.
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