To celebrate our ten year anniversary, we are inviting back former writers back to tpc in order to hear what they’ve been thinking about since leaving the post calvin. Today, please welcome back Bart Tocci. Bart lives in Boston with his wife and two boys. He spends his time taking care of the kids, cooking meals that are too elaborate for this phase of life, and renovating the hundred-year-old house they all live in.
“You’ll use everything you ever knew” – Steve Martin, Born Standing Up
I’m going to Market Basket for groceries, and I’m not alone.
My seven-month-old is strapped to my chest and my two-year-old is sitting in the shopping cart. It’s 10 a.m. on a Wednesday, when most men are working at a job that pays them money, probably.
In the parking lot, we walk toward two construction women. Laborers, covered in dust, trudging back to the jobsite. One of them is telling the other something, and I bet it’s good because there’s a couple smirks. I look at them and smile; they look right past me.
How did I end up here? How did we end up here? We’ve switched roles entirely! I wonder at first, then I seethe. How funny is that?! I think, fuming. Me, a stay-at-home mom. Who woulda thought? I say “mom” because it feels like a nice self burn that also singes women and whoever else might take offense. I package the whole world into this encounter, like any good polarizing politician.
Did I mention that I’ve been a little angry lately?
I’m the nicest angry person you’ve ever met. I’m polite and funny and well-liked and there’s a fist-sized dent in our diaper bin from one of the times my kid was squirming like an alligator on the changing table and I simply had to annihilate the bin.
Most days I’m a delight and a good father and supportive husband. You can ask my wife, who goes to work with a kiss and a coffee. I have a wonderful bond with the boys because I spend so much time with them. Kenny goes down for a nap at 9, Lou and I play and he tries to order me around and I say, “You can’t order me around, dammit! I’m a grown man and also your father, and by the way, I order you around! And he says, “Daddy, no! Top! Top it, Daddy.” Which means “stop,” of course, another order. And when Ken wakes up, we have snacks and go to the library or the park or the YMCA.
At the park, I chat and laugh and vent with the moms and nannies and grannies. There was another dad in the group, but he’s gone back to work. Poor guy, couldn’t hack it.
Sometimes dads ask me what I do for work and I tell them that I’m staying at home with the kids until I find a job, and they say, “That’s my dream job.” And I say, “Sounds like you’ve never stayed at home with kids.”
And sometimes dads will say, “Good for you, I could never do that.” And that makes me feel good, because I believe it is somewhat true. It’s a dismissive comment loaded with pride and fear of others and a rigid view of masculinity…and these are all things that I struggle with, but that I hold in one hand while holding two small children in the other.
In the background is anger, buzzing like a beehive on a sidewalk, waiting for a foot. I’m angry at the world; that a double income household seems to be the only way to thrive in America, that there’s so many bills to pay, that daycare is so hard to find and so expensive, but maybe most of all, I’m mad because I’ve been here before. And not long ago.
The year was 2022. I had just graduated with my masters in journalism and I was in the wilderness, so to speak. For seven months I was wandering, looking for a job, until I finally found one. I became a producer for one of Boston’s NPR stations. Oh there you are, God, I thought. It all made sense now—journalism school, my interest in audio production, everything was clear. And boy did I produce. I became a contributing member of society again, I could see progress daily and I had conversations with adults and then my contract ended, and we had Kenny, and I came home full time, and all of a sudden it’s been nine months.
Maybe more than angry, I’m afraid. I’m afraid that things will be like this forever; this feeling of, what the hell did I do grad school for? Hey God, remember me? Hey, school wasn’t cheap. I ah, I don’t ah—just wanted to know WHY. AND WHAT. AND FOR HOW LONG. And what if I never accomplish anything? And never do what I was meant to do, whatever that was, or is?
My brother wrote me a note a while back, and he quoted Mumford and Sons.
Hold on to what you believed in the light
When the darkness has robbed you of all your sight
Something I believed in the light is that nothing is wasted.
Be thankful for hard things
For things that take too long
And for good things, too.
If you are a former writer and interested in contributing this year, email info@thepostcalvin.com
Bart Tocci (’11) lives in Boston where he writes essays, performs at open mics, and threatens to start taco restaurants. He’s been told that he looks like the kind of guy who stands up for what’s right. And who goes to the store before the party. Read more here: barttocci.wordpress.com
Ah yes. I’m 58, my kids are grown, and I lived the emotions you described. The stay-at-home experience had a way of mixing me up- the best and the worst of me. I am a woman, but alas, your blog makes it a moot point. Those boys are everything. You won’t regret giving them first place. That doesn’t make the stay-at-home gig easy, however.
Thanks, Tavia. I hear you. I imagine that most stay-at-home moms have the same anger topped with judgement. As a dad, I get very little correction from others. Except for one woman who told me that my kid needed a coat, most strangers are very impressed that I can keep both kids alive.