The Sonia Show

Writer. Podcaster. Beer drinker. Old movie watcher. Mother. Goober.

Daddy, oh


Yeah, so, one of the things I hate about being a mom is the bad rep that dads seem to get.

I don’t know how many articles I’ve read that assume the dad is a clueless dope when it comes to his baby. Almost everything we read about babies or products we buy for the Spawn is marketed towards moms. Every box has a happy baby and a smiling mom. Where the hell is dad? There is an assumption that dads don’t care or not involved. Everything looks like this:

There’s a group on Amazon that you can join for special deals on baby stuff. The group is called Amazon Moms. I know, right? Why not call it Amazon Parents? David joined anyway. David is an Amazon Mom. Hot!

This week, we ordered a jumperoo for the boy. (A jumperoo is a contraption that allows the Spawn to stand up, bounce and play with toys at the same time. Multitasking: You’ve got to teach them early.) Since I’m a complete jackass that cannot be trusted to follow instructions, David put it together. I would probably just end up with leftover parts and using duct tape to hold it together, turning it into a death trap. So, mighty, mighty good dad David spends his evening assembling this thing for his son, and what does it say on the side of the box?

Better for moms? Yeah. Fuck you, dads. This is better for moms!

Seriously, would it take too much effort to say “better for parents,” Fisher Price?

OK, sure, I get it. Back in the day, moms were the primary caregiver. They stayed home while dad went to work. But now, I hardly know any moms that are stay-at-home moms, and dads are just as involved in taking care of their babies as the mom. I think it’s time for all these baby products and parenting articles to reflect that fact.


Author: The Sonia Show

I'm a writer/podcaster/mother/goober in San Francisco who likes to drink beer, shop, laugh and make other people laugh, watch old movies, feed my unhealthy obsession with pop culture, kick breast cancer's ass, go on adventures with my mighty, mighty good man David and my awesome autistic son, Calvin, wear orange and root for the San Francisco Giants, participate in general jackass-ery, talk about TV, eavesdrop on strangers' conversations, make nerdy “Star Wars” and “Simpsons” references, and post personal things about myself on the web for all to read, which makes me some sort of literary exhibitionist.

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