By Michelle Riddell
Ever wonder what your man is thinking about? Constantly? Never? Me too. And though I’ve asked him repeatedly, the true thoughts behind those pensive-glassy eyes remain a mystery. The only thing I can be sure of, after conducting my own process-by-elimination research, is what he’s NOT thinking about.
He’s not thinking how grateful he is that his wife agreed to “babysit” the kids while he goes out with his buddies. He’s not wondering if she is available to “babysit” them again tomorrow so he can hit the gym on his way home from work, either. While he’s out and she’s “babysitting,” he is not wondering how bedtime is going or whether he should call to check in.
He doesn’t factor in the length of his leg hair when debating whether or not to wear shorts; he just wears them.
Unless he’s a crier or has a cold, he doesn’t think about various parts of his body leaking. He doesn’t have to pump, plug, or pad anything on a routine basis. He doesn’t have to pretend the leaking isn’t happening or conceal the supplies needed to address the leaks. He doesn’t learn that he’s supposed to be ashamed of, and thus never mention, his cramping uterus or engorged breasts.
He doesn’t think he looks like a completely different—unrecognizably different—human being when he’s not wearing mascara.
When he’s in line at the grocery store, he’s not using the Mental Memory Palace technique of visualizing the pantry shelves, trying to remember if he needs oatmeal and coffee filters, and he’s not calculating the length of the line vs. the distance to the condiments aisle to see if he could run and grab those pickles everybody likes and make it back in time. He also isn’t thinking what a luxury it is to grocery shop alone because his wife generously offered to “babysit.”
He is not confused about female “empowerment,” as in, does he love his body the way it is now?—or is he still supposed to lose 15 pounds first, then OWN it?
He doesn’t dread the question, Are you expecting again? when he wears a blousy top.
He never worries if his health insurance will cover prescriptions for his E.D. or if the pharmacist will refuse to fill it, citing moral objections. He doesn’t think about his private medical history becoming a public debate, allowing businesses to opt out of coverage because he can’t get it up. He doesn’t think about the undue burden of being both accountable and blamed for unwanted pregnancies.
He is not trying to remember which last name he used for his library card password: maiden or married?
He’s not thinking Rapist! when he hears fast footsteps coming toward him in a parking garage, or on a poorly lit street, or when a windowless van pulls into the spot next to him at the mall. He isn’t intuitively afraid for his safety when he is alone and isolated and approached by a man. He doesn’t need another man with him to be left alone.
He isn’t thinking about what to get the kids’ teachers for an end of the year gift.
He isn’t thinking the What to Expect When You’re… book knows better, because no one issued him a 1,240 page childrearing handbook as a “gift.” He isn’t stressing about writing a thank-you note for it, either.
He doesn’t lie awake at night thinking of all the ways he could have been better during the day, how he should learn to let things go, and if he can’t learn to let things go, how he at least shouldn’t drink coffee after 6 pm.
He’s not thinking he should throw some sliced cucumber or baby carrots into his kid’s lunchbox so the lunch lady thinks he’s a good dad.
He does not wonder if his polishing off the last cookie/bagel/milk/banana/etc. will affect anybody else in the household. He doesn’t worry that his ricotta cheese binge might compromise his wife’s plan to make lasagna for an upcoming family dinner. He has no qualms about finishing the Juicy Juice and doesn’t sweat the fury of nap-deprived toddler.
He doesn’t think about Sharron Stone when he sits down somewhere in public and tries to keep his legs from splaying.
He doesn’t think about the crushing weight of being needed so desperately by other creatures. He doesn’t automatically think about their needs before his own. He doesn’t become wistful when he gives away clothes they’ve outgrown or finds their baby teeth in his sock drawer. He isn’t convinced, at points of severe exhaustion, that his child will never learn to walk, talk, or drink from a cup and will wear diapers forever and that it will be entirely his fault. He doesn’t think he is going to die of grief during a P&G Olympics #ThankYouMom commercial.
I could go on endlessly listing the thoughts he isn’t having, but like Stonehenge and the pyramids of ancient Egypt, we might just have to accept the unknown. Our efforts to figure out what our men are thinking would be better served fighting poverty or curing cancer or upholding Title IX.
Besides, remember the hype and subsequent let-down after they opened King Tut’s tomb? The bigger the mystery, the bigger the disappointment.
*****
About the Author
Michelle Riddell lives with her family in rural mid-Michigan, twenty miles from a Starbucks. She writes, edits, and teaches elementary school. Her publishing credits include Club Mid, Mamalode, The Good Mother Project, and MomSense Magazine. Her proudest recent moment was when her daughter told everyone that “ovens are for storing stuff we don’t use.” Connect with Michelle on Twitter (she doesn’t buy followers) @MLRiddell and on Facebook at I Need a Cleaning Lady.