I was just outside the Canadian border in a Cracker Barrel men’s room soothing my shrieking three-month-old daughter as she covered her diapers, clothes, and changing pad with pee when I received my first Dad Nod.
“Been there,” said the middle-aged stranger with a snort and a laugh before unzipping his pants and urinating three feet beside me. My initiation was complete.
I would’ve been overcome with emotion if I weren’t too busy texting my wife Jenny for help.
I’d heard of the mythical Dad Nod – the subtle affirmation men share with each other while performing fatherly duties – but this was my first.
It felt like being simultaneously hugged by Tom Hanks and fist-bumped by The Rock. As if the heart and soul of American masculinity were coming together to support me as a dad.
Since then I’ve tried to pay it forward but struggle with initiating Dad Nods of my own.
My first attempt was with a dad I met while visiting Mystic Aquarium on a weekday. He was sitting comfortably at the sea lion show with a five-year-old daughter and one-year-old son.
He overheard us speculating who the VIP seats were for (kids having a birthday), and gave us some spoilers. I wouldn’t have pegged him as a stay-at-home dad until he said that he came there every week.
I was shocked. He seemed normal yet laughed at all the awful puns and basic sea lion tricks he’d just admitted seeing countless times.
He had a genuine joy that came not from the show itself but from his children’s enjoyment of the spectacle.
He seemed to live a truly blessed life. My soul tingled with happiness wondering if I was destined for a similar fate once my wife went back to work.
I nodded at him as we exited the theater (hoping to absorb some of his paternal strength by association) but failed to connect as he chased his daughter out of the yellow splash zone.
Our eyes met once again later that day by the stingrays but the moment had passed.
The second stay-at-home dad I tried to connect with didn’t seem as blessed. I found him inside a Dunkin Donuts at 9:45 AM on a Thursday.
He was wearing his year-old daughter in a harness while bickering with his three-year-old son to finish his milk. He was formidable and covered from head to toe with tattoos.
I was particularly drawn to the large-busted woman holding a harp on his calf. It intrigued me because his boot obscured the woman’s lower half.
She could have been an angel or a mermaid – a siren perhaps if he sailed the seven seas.
Despite having the intimidating look of a Special Forces Operative ready to cliff dive into an Al Qaeda stronghold, he was rendered helpless by his tantrum-throwing toddler.
When I left they were in the parking lot with the toddler firmly sitting on the blacktop next to their Jeep Wrangler Sport refusing to climb on board. It was clear this man never envisioned a life “sporting” two car seats around town at 9:45 AM on a Thursday.
I tried to conjure the confidence of the Cracker Barrel Urinator when I went to holla atch him, but my daughter was with Jenny so my nod just made me look like I had to sneeze.
He was clearly in no mood for encouragement so I lowered my gaze and continued home thinking to myself “been there” although, of course, I haven’t. I just don’t know what else to say.
It isn’t likely that I’ll have mastered the Dad Nod by the time this runs so allow me to say here what I cannot yet properly communicate in public.
“Holla atcha dads. I see you.”
Happy Father’s Day!
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