So recently I've made a transition in my life. I've gone from a job where I leave the house every morning and work usually all day, to a job where I stay at the house all day watching my two kids. This is definitely what they refer to as a “major” shift. The jobs are not at all similar. On the ropes course, I was constantly helping people overcome their fear, learn new things about themselves, do what they didn't think they could do, and generally showing people a good time. At home, I change diapers, constantly help people do simple, everyday tasks, and generally try to avoid frustration.
I don't have a hard time with this type of transition. Really, I tend to look at life like it's one big adventure and this is a new and exciting experience for me. So when my wife asks me if I'm really going to be okay watching the kids all day, doing laundry, cleaning the house, and making dinner, my response is an enthusiastic yes. I believe that life is full of surprises if you're willing to do something outside of the ordinary. Who knows, I may be a master chef, or the world's best vacuum operator, or incredibly skilled at separating the whites from the darks. You never know what kind of hidden skills you have, and if you never try anything different, you'll never find out, right?
No, the transition has actually been a piece of cake. The part that I have a hard time with is people's reactions to me. I live in a community (it's really the way to go), so most people have a fairly good idea about my living situation, which is another way of saying that nothing is ever a secret – not that I want to keep anything secret, I'm just saying that even if I did, it would be impossible. Now, the people who surround me are overwhelmingly friendly and supportive, but for some reason this particular role that I hold right now has triggered an automatic response from nearly everyone I run into. The response that I'm referring to is this:
“Hey, how's it going Mr. Mom?”
Seriously. Mr. Mom. I mean, if we lived in the early 1940's I think I could understand this reaction somewhat. Maybe if it was 1983 and this movie had just been released, or I lived in some part of the deep South where tradition never dies, or I in some sort of freaky alternate universe where the women's lib movement had never happened, I think I might understand that reaction. But I don't. Everywhere I go, it's the same question over and over again, to the point that I start to think someone must be playing a practical joke on me, except that it would be impossible in a community like this because of the aforementioned inability to keep a secret.
“Hey there, Mr. Mom.”
“Oh, here comes Mr. Mom and the kids!”
“Busy day, Mr. Mom?”
“So, how's Mr. Mom doing?”
Annoying, huh? But it got me thinking. How often do people actually consider what they say? I think that most times, they say what they think is going to make them look good. I know I do. So instead of saying something that will be meaningful to me, and make me feel good and important, they instead spout the first thing that comes to mind that they think makes them look clever, or funny, or interesting.
The crazy thing about it is that this sort of thing has been happening my entire life. By virtue of having the name Luke, and also being born in the same millennium that Star Wars came out, every single person who meets me thinks that they need to say the same joke: “Oh, Luke, huh? I am your father! Ha ha ha ha ha!” Of course, my face is either completely blank or has a fake smile plastered on. I have heard that joke probably 754,212 times in my life. But literally every person who says it to me thinks that they are the first one who thought of it.*
Not that I really blame all these people. I mean, I understand the pressure. I find myself in this position all the time – saying something I don't truly mean or wouldn't say normally just because I think it might be the funniest or most interesting thing to say at the moment. Essentially what comes out of my mouth is what I assume will make me look good. But in one of life's funny twists, the things that I say when I am solely worried about making myself look good end up making me look ridiculous.
And you, too. You look ridiculous when you are worried about how you look. Don't call me Mr. Mom. And you're definitely not my father.
*Ironically enough, my own father has never made this joke – a fact that I am extremely thankful for.
