Happy belated Father’s Day

Dear reader,

I’ve nicknamed my two non-milk-producing nipples Intelligent and Design for how useful they don’t make me feel as a father. Hey, you can’t be good at everything.

Here’s something I’m good at. I can answer all of my 13-year-old son’s car questions. Here’s me teaching him how to refill the windshield fluid.

“Is that the engine?” he asked me the other day, pointing at our car’s engine.

“Yes,” I answered, glad I could handle that level of detail.

“What’s the pink stuff?” he asked.

“Coolant,” I replied. Nailed it!

Joking aside, I’m a feeble mechanic. But that ain’t nothin’ compared to how useless I can feel as a father with a vegan chest. Why did my all-knowing creator give me two nipples and zero mammary glands?

“I don’t have The Boob,” other dads have confided in me, as we’ve talked over how helpless we can feel when holding our crying babies. Can someone tell me why humans couldn’t have evolved like the Dayak fruit bat, or the masked flying fox, species in which males can lactate?

Would there have been an issue with giving dads one functional nipple? “A little squirt will do ya,” I could say to my young son. A little nip would go a long way at those times when he’s hungry and exhausted to the point of sobbing.

I stand with all dads who honor and worship moms for their unique ability. However, many moms who have spent sleepless nights nursing a “Velcro baby” will confide that they wish the “honor” could be shared. My heart is willing, but my areolas are puny. I remain the non-dairy option.

As it turns out, the obstacle is the way. “Intelligent” and “Design” are fitting names for two useless organs that end up making me think on my feet. With my firstborn son, my go-to carrier was a wrap that squeezed him against my chest. Our routine was for him to breast-feed with mama, and then I’d wrap him up and sing lyrics from my favorite Bob Dylan album (Blood on the Tracks, 1975) while wandering through our forest. Whether it was my rhythmic walking, the pats on his back, or the senseless lyrics, he conked out reliably.

Somewhat reliably. On other days, other naps, the old tricks would fall flat. I’d have to tune into him more deeply, nurture my patience, and improvise. Nonsense songs? Different walking rhythms? Jogging while holding him extra-tight? Offering my finger as a pacifier? I’d try anything that came to mind, and just as often, one of those things worked. By instinct one time, I cut my song short and wailed along with him, in harmony. He instantly fell silent. Was he listening to see if dad had lost it? Or, as I hoped, did he feel safer knowing that I heard and resonated with him? It didn’t matter. Hearing his chest heave with sleep moments later was enough.

I’m proud of those early days, but there’s no resting on laurels for this procreator. Now, with my second child being bottle-fed from breast milk, I’ve added to my toolbox. I’ve got milk! With mama is busy pumping, now it’s on me to take that crying baby, calm him, feed him, burp him, clean that spit-up, and then glide into that sweet, sweet naptime.

The bottle is an important tool, but Murphy’s Law of Fatherhood dictates that baby will suck it dry without a refill handy, or there was that one time the top wasn’t screwed on right and we both got soaked. Who cried more? I won’t say, but thankfully it’s not all on me—Alison and I are a team. Thank you to all mothers who do the time-consuming, painful, and selfless work of lactating and pumping. I also want to shower some appreciation on the many parents who want to breast-feed but can’t. For all y’all who end up pumping, a tip from Alison—make sure you get measured for the cups. World of difference.

I might be the vegan option for my baby boy, but that only spurs me to think on my feet.

I’ve come to believe that my nipples are both a dad joke from God and a test of my masculine mettle. I feel sorry for the fruit bat dads. They don’t get the growth opportunity of Mother Nature handing us a shrieker and saying “You figure it out!”

Growing, birthing, and nursing a baby creates a unique and singular bond between mother and child. Dads, in contrast, ante up a pinprick of sperm. Whether they stick around is far more optional. I’ve been trained to consider this a shortcoming, but perhaps it is our unique offering. Any caregiver who has no anatomy to offer a crying baby other than his or her open arms becomes the child’s first teacher in unconditional love.

This Father’s Day, let us say a blessing for healthy relationships sparked by those who show up by choice—empty-handed but open-hearted.

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Thanks for reading! This post appeared in Friday's Brattleboro Reformer.

This post in Saturday's Brattleboro Reformer

Our baby's 1st birthday is coming up and we are planning a big shindig. You're invited. Just reply to this if you'll be in the area on July 19th and I'll send you the details.

warm regards,

Tristan Roberts
Quill Nook Farm
Halifax, Vermont

P.S. What are your thoughts on dadding this Father's Day? Hit me up with that, or a dad joke.