Bishop Absalon never took paternity leave
On an ornate pedestal in central Copenhagen stands a majestic statue of a man on a horse. The man is Bishop Absalon, a mythical figure in Denmark’s history. I do not know the identity of the horse.
Although Absalon was an archbishop and the closest adviser to the king, he spent much of his life protecting Danish land and trade ships from pirates. First he built a much-needed fortress on the shores of Denmark, in effect founding the modern city of Copenhagen, which has been 100% free* from pirates ever since (*Note: highly dubious, unsubstantiated claim). Next, he sailed across the narrow sea between Copenhagen and mainland Europe to fight the pirates on their home turf, and baptize their women and children. He was so successful in this venture that by the time Absalon made it to the stronghold of the Wendish pirates, they were so terrified of him that they surrendered unconditionally, becoming willing subjects of the Danish crown and converting their religion to Christianity. By the time Absalon retired from the military, Denmark controlled the entire Baltic Sea — and would do so for the next three generations.
A cold winter day found me on the opposite side of the square from the medieval war hero with my infant child and a Venti cup of coffee sitting, staring and pondering. There was much to ponder. How did Absalon have time to become an expert clergyman, statesman and warrior? How did he battle pirates for over 25 years and live long enough to retire? And most importantly, how would I navigate my own meteoric rise from over-educated full-time live-action baby toy to mythical statue-deserving bishop warlord?
It was the last question which irked me most. My wife returned to work on Monday after a cherished six months of paid maternity leave, leaving me with a six-month-old baby and nearly six months remaining of our shared parental leave. For the next half year, I was the sole caregiver for our baby between the hours of eight and four. As an American father, it was practically heretical to take so much time off work after the birth of my child, and I was thrilled for the opportunity to share these months bonding with the little human. Along with sugary pastries and Hans Christian Andersen, Denmark has a reputation worldwide as an excellent place to raise children so when my wife (who is Danish and American) and I decided to start a family, it was a no-brainer to do it in Denmark. My workplace was also extremely supportive. As part of a larger effort towards gender equality, they encouraged my colleagues and me to split the year of parental leave equally with our spouses and promised not to forget about us while we’re gone.
But even with the full support of my wife, my company and the Danish state, I still had my niggling doubts. Was society really ready for me to stay at home for six months and play dress-up with my baby? I knew the Danes were supportive, but what about my American friends? Wouldn’t they see my “time off” as lazy, unnecessary, and downright immoral? I pondered. Didn’t I see it that way, somewhere deep down? I’d never been away from work or school for anywhere near six months. Would the never-ending diaper changes turn my brain to mush? Would I miss the pace, the impact, and even the stress of my job?
But most urgently, I wondered about the massive difference between me and that Danish war hero, up there in the snowy air on his horse with no name. He rode a massive horse and I ride a bicycle with a little bell on it. He charged into battle to save a nation from marauding outlaws and I write a blog about taking care of my baby. He had a glorious beard and — well, that’s a sensitive subject. The point is, this Danish dude was a real man. How could I call myself a man?
I looked down at my daughter, sleeping soundly in my arms. Her cheeks were rosy and I could see her breath as a stream of tiny white puffs in the cold air. She must have felt my gaze because she woke up, eyelids fluttering and blinking until her eyes met mine. “What can I do, little girl? How can I be more of a man?” I asked her.
Her pretty blue eyes seemed to speak to me. “Conventional masculinity is nothing but a social construct,” they said, “and its prescribed behavior varies culturally, geographically and sociodemographically. Consider the bonobo. They live in a matriarchal society where males derive their status based on the status of their mothers. Moreover, if a male wants to achieve alpha status, he must first be accepted by the group’s alpha female.”
I nodded, soaking in her baby wisdom. “I think I see what you mean. I guess the males play a major role in raising the babies too, right?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not right. Male bonobos are not involved in childrearing due to a high degree of paternal uncertainty, arising as a result of excessive promiscuous copulation in bonobo society.” I stared at her blankly.
“But that’s not the point,” she continued. “I’m trying to say that the predominant definition of masculine behavior is highly fluid, even among fellow primates. If abandoning aspects of that behavior leads to a safer and healthier world, you should not judge yourself harshly for being at odds with the norms of traditional masculinity. It is the norms themselves which must change to meet the needs of a progressive, evolving society.”
I stared at her blankly again. “I don’t get it.”
She wiggled exasperatedly and explained herself more slowly. “You can’t compare yourself to a medieval hero. We live in a different time with different societal needs. The marauding war hero has no place in today’s society. What we need are good dads. You’re defining a better form of masculinity every time you change my diaper. You’re the modern man, Dad.”
I looked back over at Bishop Absalon, then back to Sophie. “You’re right. I am masculinity,” I said, and gave her a hug. “Thanks.”
Satisfied with her baby wisdom, I tossed the rest of my Pumpkin Spice Latte into the trash and headed home. The whipped cream always upsets my stomach anyway.
