At mid-morning at the neighborhood playground, I stood where the recycled-rubber mat meets the grass, across from a group of mothers gathering and chatting and locking their stroller brakes. I sipped my coffee as they sipped their coffee, and we listened to our children scream in the tunnel slide and then watched them inch off the end.

I remained on my side in my yogurt-stained gray sweatpants and they remained on their side in a yoga pants semicircle. I made no attempt at conversation because my past attempts had fallen flat, never getting beyond greetings. They made no attempt to speak to me not out of ill will, but rather because we all knew that when a dad joins the mommy circle, it kills the vibe. This is simply the practical observation of an at-home dad orbiting the rings of a mom planet.

Full article appears on The Washington Post.

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