“I’m either the trendiest or the quirkiest dad around,” I remark with a grin.
“The wrap is cool, but you’re still a dork,” my wife, Lisa, retorts playfully.
Lisa gently lifts our newborn, Oliver, sliding one of his little legs through the colorful fabric draped over my shoulder. She repeats the process on the opposite side, snugging the soft orange wrap around us both. As I cradle him against my chest, Oliver fusses momentarily before settling in, nuzzling his nose into my collarbone. I can’t help but kiss the top of his sweet head.
With Lisa’s help, the wrap looks neat and secure, but when left to my own devices, I often resemble a cat caught in a tangle of holiday lights. During the week, as she heads off to work, I turn to YouTube for assistance. Typing “Moby wrap” into the search bar, I hit play. A cheerful woman appears, effortlessly wrapping the long piece of fabric around her body while offering instructions. When she finishes, her wrap looks like a masterpiece. I press play again, attempting to mimic her technique, but my creation resembles something fit for carrying a sack of potatoes, not an infant. I hit play once more.
Throughout Henry’s first year, he spends much of his day snuggled in the wrap. I wear him while cooking dinner, commuting on the subway, visiting the doctor’s office, walking the dog, and even exploring the art museum. We often nap together, his weight comforting against my chest.
Strolling through the streets of Chicago with Oliver strapped to me, I encounter a spectrum of reactions, from delight to disdain. I hadn’t anticipated the wrap becoming a canvas for others’ perceptions of parenting. Men often gaze in confusion. “Now, that’s a real man,” one teenage boy whispers to his friend. A scruffy man on the corner points and laughs, while a local police officer leans against the 7-11 wall and inquires, “The first time I saw you wearing ‘that thing,’ I thought you were Middle-Eastern.” It’s a strange comment coming from a pale, blue-eyed guy with a Southern accent.
As Oliver begins to eat solid foods, we venture into the brand-new Whole Foods in our neighborhood. The store gleams under fluorescent lights, showcasing perfectly arranged organic produce and gourmet cheese. We know afternoon samples are abundant, so we seize the opportunity. The wrap allows us to navigate seamlessly through the aisles, maximizing our tasting experience. I pop a sample into my mouth and feed Oliver pieces from the wrap. We share juicy cherries, ripe pineapple, artisanal cheese, tortilla chips, and hummus. Oliver keeps asking for more cherries. We indulge, feeling slightly guilty yet exhilarated. I half-expect a manager to kick us out, but it would all be worth it.
Women seem to admire the wrap. “Did you tie it yourself?” they ask. “Yes, I watched the YouTube video a thousand times,” I reply. While waiting in line at O’Hare Airport, a stylish young woman approaches me to chat about the wrap. For ten minutes, she shares her own babywearing journey, recounting how she proudly dodged using a stroller. It feels like we’re part of an exclusive “babywearing” club, and I nod in agreement.
I don’t wear the wrap to make a statement, but my inner rebel relishes the chance to counteract the macho ideals that dominate our culture. It’s my personal stand against the narrow definitions of masculinity that insist on toughness and self-reliance. I am a man, and I embrace this role wholeheartedly.
Still, I can’t deny feeling self-conscious at times. Despite my desire for equality in parenting, I grapple with how I’m perceived. For someone who values shared responsibilities, it might seem trivial, but going against the grain of a hyper-masculine society is no simple feat. Old beliefs linger.
Messages echo in my mind: You look weak. You look like a girl. You’ve lost your man card. I try to dismiss these thoughts, but they linger in the background.
It’s hard to pinpoint when I truly became one with the wrap. Adjusting it to accommodate Oliver’s weight and daily needs feels like reaching a Jedi Knight level in the babywearing realm. I’m even contemplating creating my own YouTube tutorial.
Now, at 17 months old, I dread the day he outgrows the wrap. I’ll miss the warmth of his body against mine, the way his little arms tug at my face, and the gentle kicks of his feet against my sides. It signals the start of his gradual independence.
Just last week, I placed him in the wrap for a long stroll through the park. Midway through, my shoulders began to ache as the thin cotton struggled to bear his growing weight. The wrap days are numbered, but I plan to cherish every moment until I can no longer carry him.
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In summary, my journey with babywearing has been a blend of joy, self-discovery, and the occasional awkward moment. It has allowed me to bond with Oliver in a way that transcends traditional notions of fatherhood, defying societal expectations while embracing the tenderness of our connection.
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