That time I was a stay-at-home dad

A bit about parenting, partnering, and resting so I don't lose my freaking mind

I’m taking a brief break from writing about the church, having wrapped up a series of posts on Christ-centered community. I’ve shared a bit in the past about how I like to share stories from my own experience, so I am going to jump into one here that touches on parenthood and partnership.

Since our daughter, Raya, was born in 2016 (and our son, Johnny, later in 2018), I’ve spent the bulk of my time as dad at home with the kids, and Christa has either studied or worked full-time. Like most new parents will probably tell you, being home with small children is emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausting. For what seemed like forever, I’d feel that way before 9 a.m. Literally every day.

But, we’ve made it to our kids being eight and five now, and though far from perfect, I’d like to share a bit about how this journey has gone for us. I’m hopeful it might offer a different perspective for some of you and help others feel seen.

“Two lines!”

When Christa told me she was pregnant with our first child, I remember pacing in our bedroom, frantically thinking through how our child would grow up in this world and navigate its challenges. Seven years into marriage at the time, we had just experienced a wild year of God turning our hearts toward what we describe as a “call” to have kids. For us, having kids wasn’t a strong desire for much of our marriage before then, but the year prior to Raya being born was a roller coaster of emotions and altered expectations (ovarian cancer, surgery, and a lot for another blog later). I wouldn’t normally describe myself as someone who hears from God in dreams or sees visions, but I’d been having intense and striking dreams of being woken up by a child coming to my side of the bed whispering, “Daddy,” in my ears. These happened most nights for weeks. Visions of having meaningful conversations with my future children filled my mind at random moments, and Christa’s heart was changing alongside my own in different ways.

But, when the moment came where Christa told me, “Two lines!” a tsunami of anxiety and excitement shattered me.

With all the thoughts and emotions, I felt like an hour passed before I spoke again. In reality, it was only a few seconds. The first thing I said was, “If it’s a girl, she’s going to be strong. If it’s a boy, he’s going to treat people right.” My first reaction was to project a world for my unborn child that was different than the one I grew up in. A world where boys didn’t believe they were better than girls, and one in which girls could grow up believing they could do anything.

So, when the opportunity came up for Christa—while she was still pregnant—to apply for a PhD fellowship in St. Andrews, Scotland, we jumped at the chance. The program was a perfect blend of Christa’s strengths and passions at a premier university, and I knew it would provide opportunities for her that couldn’t be passed up. So she went for it, and about a month prior to Raya being born, got accepted.

Shortly after, I quit my job and started preparing for being a dad and taking care of our daughter so Christa could crank out her degree. I was going to be stay-at-home-dad, having no clue about the demands of keeping a tiny human alive, but excited nonetheless. I knew it would be difficult, but I assumed I’d figure it out. Lots of people have kept kids alive, so how hard could it be? I thought, naively.

My daughter at around 7-8 months—a rather on the nose metaphor for how my life felt early on….

Nothing made sense

The six months from Raya being born to us setting foot in the UK were a whirlwind of every feeling known to humanity. Sleep deprivation has a way of accentuating things, turning anger to rage, frustration to distress, and confusion to delirium. I’ll never forget early one morning, waking up and being hungry. So I went downstairs to make a bowl of yogurt and granola. Without even turning on the lights, I poured the yogurt in a bowl, chucked some granola in, and squeezed a heaping portion of honey on top. I put a spoonful in my mouth and nearly threw up.

When I turned the lights on, I was shocked to see that the bottle of honey looked strange. It said, “Dawn dishwashing liquid” on the side. I spat the soap into the sink and flailed about trying to rinse my mouth out. One of our dogs had followed me downstairs, and stared at me with her ears perked and head turned sideways—like I was crazy. The other dog stayed upstairs in bed because she knew I was. Then I realized it was 2 a.m., I didn’t know what day it was, and I’d just wasted precious time not sleeping when our baby actually wasn’t awake. This isn’t the only time something like this happened...

Of course there were amazing times in those early months. The pure and inexplicable joy seeing the first non-gassy smile, the giggles, and seeing your partner be an actual superhero. But even after six months, I had no idea what I was going to do when more fell on me. Each day, it seemed, things would change, and as soon as I felt I had mastered something, Raya was on to a new developmental stage with new things to learn. I felt like I was constantly lagging behind in competency, and I was woefully unprepared for what I had agreed to become as a stay-at-home dad.

The first Monday we were in St. Andrews, just settled into our flat, with all our suitcases freshly unpacked (the amount of stuff we travelled with was really quite something to behold), was the first day of my new life. Christa dressed up in all her waterproof rain gear to walk to her office in town. She waved at the end of the driveway, with me holding Raya as we stood inside. I turned to my six-month-old daughter and thought, “Oh sweet Jesus. What am I going to do now?”

Why wasn’t my story fitting?

There were no narratives growing up to tell me it was normal (or good, even) for a man to stay home with the kids. Quite the contrary, really, because I distinctly recall hearing and seeing that was what women do. I thought I would be a pastor one day and even recall talking through that with people I looked up to. I thought I was “called” to that, and others told me I was. I spent my college and early young adult years pursuing that call and never thinking about having to care for kids, much less being the primary caregiver and doing seemingly little else with my time but being around them. Nothing could have prepared me for all the loneliness and frustration I would experience.

In St. Andrews, I spent a lot of time at song-and-dance groups for toddlers. Most took place weekday mornings, and the vast majority of adults there were moms whose husbands were studying at the Universty, like my wife was. Despite their consistent kindness to me, I felt like I was a bit of an outsider. And I was. I couldn’t relate to conversations about breastfeeding, or what happens to female bodies after they give birth, or what it’s like to care for toddlers while pregnant. So, I’d hang out on the edge of some of these spaces. Occasionally, I’d run into another dad who would come to a group, and I’d probably freak him out because I was so interested in talking to him and being best friends.

It was hard to schedule play dates with moms, and I often felt weird asking many of them if our kids could play together. I never knew if it was ok to invite them to my house, or if we should meet in public spaces. And for the ones who reached out to me, I would struggle with how to reciprocate well, even though I desperately longed to have a place of consistent belonging. There was no good reason for any of this to be awkward, but it was nonetheless.

The regular feeling of not belonging was amplified by being different in so many of the places I went regularly. I remember getting so angry once when I had to change an explosive poo at a cafe with the only changing table being in the women’s toilet. I was furious that there wasn’t a space for me and later went on an indignant tantrum about how discriminated-against dads like me were.

Then I remembered patriarchy.

While definitely NOT oppressed, nothing in those first few years was normal for me, and very little convinced me I belonged. I was in a new, stressful stage of life, in a different country, trying to actualize unwritten narratives. And it was hard to find the space to process and reflect.

Me during my last of 150+ rounds of golf in three years in Scotland.

Scheduled moments of reprieve

You see, I was breaking down (as if my self-righteous toilet rant didn’t make that obvious enough). Maybe I never articulated it that clearly at the time, but I think Christa knew I needed some me-space. Space without having to change diapers. Space where I wasn’t being screamed at for forgetting the only flavor of yogurt squeeze packs my daughter would eat. Space where I didn’t have to worry about cooking dinner. Space to just be alone.

For me, one of the benefits of moving to St. Andrews was that it is “the home of golf,” with seven courses including the world-famous Old Course. As a person who loves to golf, I hoped I might get to play a time or two while we lived there. Turns out, since we lived in town, I was able to buy a pass to play all year, for less than it cost a tourist to play once. It was like being in heaven, but I didn’t have to die to get there.

Christa deliberately scheduled time during normal work hours to be home with Raya (and later on, our son, John, too) so I could go play. Even in the winter, when daylight was scarce, and weather unpredictable, she’d be flexible so I could hit the links. I started to play just about every week, sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own. Over the course of three-plus years of living in St. Andrews, I played more than 150 rounds of golf.

But those four-to-five hours of leisure each week did something for my soul. I’d anticipate the time away, and come back a little less crazy, even if I played poorly. It helped me not only survive, but actually feel like I was a better-than-decent parent, at least some of the time. It gave me space to make friends, many of whom were husbands (who studied alongside my wife) of the women I hung out with at play groups for our kids.

It wasn’t lost on me, however, that I lived an enviable life among most at-home parents in that space. I’d regularly talk to moms who were far more exhausted than I was, moms who did a lot of the same things I did during the day (and often more!), but didn’t have the weekly round of golf that I did. Moms who woke up at night to feed their kids, went into town during the day with prams loaded, went home at nap time and prepared dinner for when their husband got home, and then put the kids to bed while he went back to work after. They were all burnt out too, and most of them were just trying to get through the grind of a hectic stage in life.

But, life is no less hectic now. We’re in another new country (New Zealand) and having to find new ways to reset as we learn to find a space where our family can flourish. Christa and I have to work hard at both being present with whatever is in our tanks each day, but it’s part of our regular conversations. While I realize that our story includes some significant privileges, it’s my hope that unsettling and providing new narratives is good for everyone, no matter where we find ourselves.

Thanks for reading!