Extra points for having a penis

Various of my friends are apoplectic over the latest reports about the income gap between men and women, the lack of women at top levels of certain fields, and overuse of the word “apoplectic.” I generally don’t address those debates, partly because my field has a fair number of women in the higher ranks, and partly because I actually like working with more men.  They’re much easier to manipulate.

 But there are places where the difference between men and women seem to be harsher, and people don’t comment on those as often.  These can be summarized as follows: situations in which men get extra points for doing the exact same thing as women, presumably because people assume that the presence of a penis somehow handicaps the poor fellows, and thus their heroic triumph over their phallic burden qualifies them for beatification.

 Nowhere is this more evident than in the diaper arena.  A woman changing a diaper is a perfectly normal, almost invisible scene.  A man changing a diaper is often accompanied by the heavenly tones of angels playing trumpets.  Passing women will comment on it: “That’s such a good daddy, you’re a lucky little baby,” and if the woman is of a previous generation, she will stop to discuss this with the baby’s mother, pointing out that her own husband would never have touched a diaper.  Men just didn’t do those things back then.  Sometimes, the woman will go so far as to offer marital advice to the spouse of the man changing the diaper: “You need to hold on to him, honey.”  Oh.  Right. He changed a diaper on the child who bears his very DNA, whom he helped to produce, so I should hold on to him, even if he happens to be a serial killer who recently barbecued our family schnauzer over a bonfire consisting of photos of my mother?  Or is it just possible, madam, that what you’d actually enjoy is a time-travel moment in which I go bitch-slap your fossilized husband for being a sexist bastard?

 This came up again in the oddest of moments.  I was talking to a veterinarian about putting our cat to sleep.  I explained that I had hoped to keep the cat going long enough so that my husband could get home and be involved in the whole decision, because he really loved this cat.  I’m pretty sure I actually heard the vet melt like a Mississippi chocolate through the phone.  “Oh, yes, your husband does love this kitty,” she sighed – I mean, seriously, she SIGHED – “And isn’t it just so sweet when men love their pets?”  Not to get all Freudian on your sorry ass, but why don’t we just admit that it truly touches your heart to see a man express ANY emotion, possibly because your own father was one of those robo-freaks who saved all of his emotional energy for weeping during the National Anthem at the Super Bowl?

 I should include the obvious disclaimer that yes, I adore my husband, and I think it’s awesome that he somehow manages to express the full range of emotions, despite being hampered by a pesky penis.  But I don’t think he should get sainted for doing what’s expected of any woman out there.  Unless, of course, he manages to give birth.  Then we can talk.