On Fatherhood: Time to Rethink What It Means To Be A “Basic” Man?

My ego eats it up, but deep down it makes me uncomfortable — and sometimes it even feels unfair. That’s my instinctive reaction to the praise I’ve received over the past six years for being an “involved dad,” taking care of Lorenzo and León while Irene brought in most of the family income.

I know I put my career on hold for a relationship and a family project that turned traditional gender roles upside down. While I raised two kids and ran the household, Irene pursued her professional growth.

I do appreciate when people recognize the time and energy I devote to my kids. It’s happened more than once — like a few weeks ago in Barcelona, at an event organized by Men Out of the Box where I presented Lucía Lubarsky’s documentary El silencio de los hombres (“The Silence of Men”).

I talked about the newsletter I’ve been writing for the past three years. I explained what Recalculating is and shared how quitting journalism to care for my children shook up my sense of male identity. “Who am I if I’m not working?” That question was born with fatherhood. At the end, I got a warm, unexpected round of applause. I liked it — but it also made me think.

Praise can be flattering and uncomfortable at the same time. Why? Because even though I know what I’m doing matters, it doesn’t feel all that admirable or exceptional — although maybe it seems that way because of the context. Just read the essay by Catalina Ruiz-Navarro about the absent fathers of Latin America. 

Backed by official stats, the Colombian journalist points out that Latin America has one of the highest rates of absentee fathers in the world, that single-mother households are widespread, that many men fail to pay child support, and that — even when fathers are present — they spend a third of the time women do on housework and caregiving.

Fatherhood in crisis

Let’s be clear: the fact that I’ve been the main caregiver at home for the past six years doesn’t make me some sort of model parent — or even mean I’m doing a great job. I feel full of flaws. Every day, I learn something new about myself — my temper, fears, insecurities — and about my family, both the one I’ve built and the one I come from. In some ways, I feel lucky that fatherhood forced this identity crisis on me.

I hadn’t really thought about gender bias, equity, the sexual division of labor, caregiving, or any of that — until it happened to me. And once I did, I started seeing it everywhere.

To be honest, I had no idea what I was getting into. The decision to prioritize Irene’s career over mine wasn’t some noble sacrifice — it just seemed like the logical choice. I didn’t set out to reverse gender roles, nor was I even fully aware that’s what we were doing. I only realized it when I was already living it.

What I mean is, I hadn’t really thought about gender bias, equity, the sexual division of labor, caregiving, or any of that — until it happened to me. And once I did, I started seeing it everywhere: in conversations, in movies, books, ads, stores, preschools…

Suddenly, I noticed things I’d never seen before — and likely never would have. Like how a dad gets congratulated for taking his kid to the park (while no one bats an eye when a mom does), or the mental load women carry, or the invisible labor of care. When I took Lorenzo to get vaccinated, they asked me where the mother was. Baby changing stations were — and still often are — mostly in the women’s bathroom, because it’s assumed that’s who handles it.

Puke and poop

Early on, I worried I’d made the wrong call — setting aside a 20-year journalism career to take care of our first child, who barely went to preschool before age three. A friend, A., said something that comforted me: “Lorenzo needs you more than journalism does.” I want to believe that — for my kids, the time I spent with them will matter.

Also worth noting: I was never particularly fond of kids. But becoming a father to Lorenzo and León unlocked a part of me I’d never explored. It forced me to stop putting myself at the center of everything — to put my own wants aside, which isn’t always easy (especially for a man). It helped me realize that my desires aren’t the only ones in the room, and certainly not always more important than what my children or Irene desire.

Fatherhood pushed me to do things I never thought I’d do: dancing with my kids, cleaning up puke and poop, stretching my patience, catching myself reacting with outsized anger to something trivial — and then wondering what’s really behind that.

These days, I see my mother’s old outbursts in a new light.

It’s an ongoing process of discovery. Sometimes I still insist things should be done “my way,” forgetting that what works for me might not work for Irene or the kids.

These days, I see my mother’s old outbursts in a new light — like when she’d yell after I would break a glass. I used to think it was no big deal; for her, it was the last straw. How much stress, pain, exhaustion was behind that scream and scolding?

I also question my own outbursts now: Am I overreacting? Can I teach and care for my kids without yelling, “Enough! Cut it out!” or threatening, “If you don’t behave, no ice cream”?

Room to shine

Our decision about how to structure family life gave Irene room to shine in her career — which only made me admire her more. The latest milestone came just a few weeks ago: she was awarded the Nieman Fellowship, one of the most competitive and prestigious in journalism. Her success is our family’s success.

It hasn’t all been smooth sailing emotionally.

We don’t know yet if it will work out, but the plan is for all four of us to move to Cambridge, MA, near Boston, for ten months. I’ll also get the chance to attend classes at Harvard and MIT.

It hasn’t all been smooth sailing emotionally — for Irene either. When Lorenzo wasn’t in preschool yet, she felt guilty about the balance we’d agreed on. That guilt still lingers — not just because I put my career on hold, but because she missed out on time with her kids.

Strangely enough, I still hear men — never women — telling me they don’t agree with my choice to stop working to care for my children. Yet I’ve rarely, if ever, heard someone criticize a woman for staying home with her kids.

Changing the narrative

One last thing I find important: I know men who are more involved in parenting than I am, but who choose to keep quiet about it. Sometimes I get the sense they’re afraid of being mocked or judged: “If you’re just doing your job, why talk about it?” That attitude feels like a double-edged sword. Society wants more engaged fathers, but often expects us to do it silently — just like women were expected to for decades.

But there are also voices urging men to speak up, to share our experiences — flaws and all — and help show that there are alternatives to the traditional provider-only model.

I’m not saying we should throw a parade for doing the bare minimum — but we do have a chance to normalize this shift and expand the universe of committed fathers as this kind of fatherhood.

It’s true: women have been caring and nurturing for generations, carrying the costs of motherhood, and they still do far more than men. But it’s also true that more men than ever are stepping into the world of caregiving. I’m not saying we should throw a parade for doing the bare minimum — but we do have a chance to normalize this shift and expand the universe of committed fathers as this kind of fatherhood — literally — reshapes our brains.

Maybe it’s time we rethink what it means to be a “basic” man.

As Spanish writer Nicko Nogués puts it, maybe it’s time we rethink what it means to be a “basic” man: “To name and showcase men who are already caring — for themselves, their homes, their kids, their relationships, or the planet — as something fundamental in their lives, not exceptional or extraordinary. It’s not about patting ourselves on the back for doing the basics. It’s about normalizing what sustains life (…) and building a new story (…) that breaks the mold and rewrites the stereotype of the ‘basic man.’”