Parenting is tough work no matter what. Whether you’re at home planning arts & crafts and doing all the cooking, cleaning and childcare, or rushing home to parent after punching the clock following a full day at the office, we all work hard and face uphill battles. Stay-at-home parents (and I know and love a ton of them) often sacrifice their careers to make sure they can raise their kids right. It’s tough going days without adult contact and dealing with some ignorant people who look down their nose at you because you’re not working 9 to 5 (this is especially true for stay-at-home dads). I’m not sure I could hack it and that’s why I praise all the men and women who choose this route.

But one of the perks of being a stay-at-home parent is exactly what I just mentioned: praise.

Moms who choose to stay at home have long been looked at as heroes. They call it “the toughest yet most rewarding job in the world,” and bloggers fill up virtual tomes with flowery prose about how much work stay-at-home parents do, how it’s non-stop, how they’re under-appreciated, how they make the world go ’round, etc. And even stay-at-home dads—although fairly new on the scene—are now escaping the initial public backlash to their new roles. Public sentiment is shifting in their favor as more men than ever are staying at home with their kids, and these dads are rightfully being celebrated for their contributions on the home front.

But let’s face it, there are certain perks to staying at home.

First of all, there’s no commute. Second, you’re working from home in a non-office environment. And while I totally get how watching Caillou for the billionth time or dealing with a screaming child(ren) can be super annoying, the fact is you’re still watching TV and playing with your kids. Kids who (probably) take naps during the day, allowing you to either catch up on other chores in peace or take a nap yourself. You can leave the TV on, play the radio loud and spend all day in your PJs if that’s what you want. This isn’t me calling stay-at-home parents lazy—not by a longshot. It’s just the truth of the matter.

But working parents don’t have that luxury. My commute isn’t as bad as it used to be, but it still takes up anywhere from 2-3 hours a day. I leave before the sun comes up and get home long after dark. And in between those two occurrences, I’m at the office. I’m dealing with bosses, deadlines, trying to get promoted, trying to make more money and constantly under enormous pressure to produce. Not to mention the pressure that comes with being the primary breadwinner and knowing that if I slip up at work and lose my job, we’re totally screwed.

Then, when I come home, I have anywhere from 60-90 minutes to play with my son. Talk to him about his day, play dinosaurs with him, give him a bath, read him some books and put him to bed.

But guess what? Just because I’m home doesn’t mean I’ve stopped working.

Smartphones and the Internet have created less of a Work-Life Balance and more of a Work-Life Blend. Essentially what that means is to be successful in this day and age, you can’t just check out after 5 p.m. Emails follow me on my phone, my social media responsibilities pop up via Twitter and Facebook notifications as I put out fires and respond to customers in real-time and I take occasional work calls late into the night. All while trying to remain as involved a dad as I can and retain some semblance of being a husband.

The real beauty of being a stay-at-home parent, at least in my opinion, is being able to totally give yourself over to the task at hand. Those who stay at home are doing great work and they throw themselves into it. I know full well the stay-at-home parents in my life give 110% and are absolutely terrific.

But compare that to working parents. We’re still giving 110%, but it’s split between work and home. But you know what happens when you give 55% at work and 55% at home? You constantly feel like you’re not doing enough in either role and you’re perpetually torn between the two. While stay-at-home parents can say with complete certainty they’ve devoted themselves to their kids, working parents are in limbo. They have to work to bring in money so their spouse can afford to stay at home, but they can’t work so much that they become strangers to their families. But the line between work and home is constantly shifting or being redrawn in the sand.

Meanwhile, how many times have you read an article calling for working parents (usually it’s aimed at dads) to spend less time at the office and more time at home? To create more of a work-life balance? To come home after work and immediately go into father/husband mode, taking over chores and childcare duties for the mom who has been at home with the kid(s) all day? I’ve read countless pieces calling for working dads to do all these things, lest they be thought of as slackers compared to stay-at-home moms.

But why doesn’t anyone suggest these stay-at-home parents go work part-time jobs and contribute financially once they’re done taking care of the kids for the day?

That clicking noise you just heard was the collective sound of stay-at-home parents everywhere cocking their proverbial guns in preparation for my execution. I know no one is supposed to say anything that even remotely criticizes stay-at-home parents (especially moms), and that’s really not my intention. I understand every family situation is different and no two circumstances are ever the same. I get it. Decisions to work or stay at home are most often a joint decision based on what’s best for the particular family in question. And I’m not knocking that decision either way.

But it just really irks me how stay-at-home parents are afforded sanctuary from criticism and are seemingly beyond reproach, while working parents are automatically expected to simply suck it up and pull double duty.

Stay-at-home parents are celebrated for their devotion and self-sacrifice. And if those parents do decide to enter the workforce, they’re celebrated again. Moms especially, as more and more studies show women have a stronger desire to take on more responsibility as they become breadwinners. And while dads who decide to be full-time stay-at-home parents certainly face some discrimination and snide looks, the tide is turning and public sentiment is in their favor. They’re being rightfully praised as progressive and involved.

But when it comes to working parents (again, I’m focusing mainly on dads here), I read articles like this one that bash working dads who come home and don’t immediately do the laundry, the dishes and mop the floors after a full day at the office. They even advocate women withholding sex as punishment for not helping out. You know, because sex between married people should totally be used as a weapon.

Then there’s statistics like this one from Salary.com (where I work full-time as a content manager for full disclosure), in which 2,000 people were surveyed. While 2/3 of all men said they’d be willing to support a stay-at-home parent, only 35% of women said the same for men. And nearly 1/3 of all women said they would flat out refuse to support a stay-at-home husband.

Talk about your mixed messages. Some people are saying we’re working too much, yet the age-old pressure to be the breadwinner and provider is still very much in effect.

And while being with my son is my top priority when I get home from work at 6:30 p.m. before his 8 p.m. bedtime, the dishes are not. The laundry is not. Vacuuming is not. Because you know what? If you’re a stay-at-home parent that stuff should be mostly done already. Yeah, I said it. And I don’t feel bad about it one bit. When you choose to be a stay-at-home parent you’re committing to taking on the bulk of childcare duties and household duties. The cooking and the cleaning. Case in point, MJ is out of work right now and stays at home while going to school once a week. Assuming she didn’t have anything out of the ordinary going on, should I expect her to have dinner prepared, the laundry done and have the house in order? Hell yes! Why shouldn’t I? I’m not talking about sparkling floors or building an addition on the house mind you, but stay-at-home parents should absolutely be taking care of household duties.

Working parents should pitch in and do their part, no question. But if a working parent is expected to earn 100% of the money, why is it out of line to expect the stay-at-home parent to do 100% of household duties? It’s the very definition of a double standard, but no one ever addresses it because it’s not politically correct.

And before you get on me, it would be the same for me if I was at home and she was working. This isn’t about gender, it’s about a division of labor and responsibility. I just find it highly questionable that working parents are fully expected to come home and “relieve” the stay-at-home parent, but if you suggest to the stay-at-home parent he/she should find a part-time, paying job at night, you’re suddenly an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense.

The point of this post is not to cause further division between the two sects or diminish in any way what stay-at-home parents do. My mom was a stay-at-home mom, my wife is now (at least for the time being) a stay-at-home mom and I’ve connected with so many wonderful men and women who have chosen this route. You all work hard and your efforts are unbelievably appreciated.

But my point is I’d like to see a little more love for working parents. Instead of telling us we don’t do enough, how about the media and the blogosphere thanks us for the contributions we are making. The money, the security and providing the opportunity for one parent to be home in the first place. Working parents are feeling the squeeze both at the office and at home, stressing themselves out at the thought of having one foot in each world at all times and worrying we’re not doing either to the fullest extent.

Anyone who can walk that tightrope is just as worthy of being celebrated as the esteemed stay-at-home folks.

My commute is slightly shorter now, but I’m still driving a total of three hours a day and working full time. Will used to wake me up everyday at approximately 5:30 and I’d cuddle with him in the morning. But for some reason, ever since we moved he has been sleeping in. Which means he’s still slumbering away when I take off for work and I spend zero time with him. Then, after I get home, I have 90 minutes to eat dinner, give him a bath and then put him to bed.

He’s been acting out lately too. I get it though. After all, we pulled him from his house, his school and took away his pets. I think he’s rebelling a bit and rightly so. But that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with him and the frustration level on both sides has been high.

But I missed being in a groove and connecting with him. I felt like all I did was work, get home and then discipline him for acting out. Not fun.

It was looking like more of the same tonight after work. I got home, he was being a little shit and I had to send him upstairs. When he stopped crying, we talked and I let him come in my room as I changed out of my work clothes and into shorts. He was pouting and looking the other way, so I nudged him with my foot. He kind of half-grimaced, half-smiled and pushed me back. So I tickled him under his armpits. He giggled and pushed me away.

And then—as we stood staring at each other—he farted.

The look on his face was priceless. He laughed, but then clammed up because MJ reprimands him heartily when he farts or burps in front of her. Even though he desperately wanted to crack up, he was simultaneously petrified that he was in trouble. He just stood there, waiting for my reaction.

“William,” I said with an expressionless face. “I want you to listen to me and listen good, OK?”

“OK dada,” he whimpered, expecting the worst.

I walked over, looked him right in the eye—and let one rip.

I’m not sure what exactly it is about guys and our amusement with bodily functions, but the two of us laughed like hell. Seriously. I don’t remember ever laughing so hard, and Will could barely breathe with all of his belly laughs. For a good two minutes we just cracked ourselves up over and over again. We had just about stopped when Will told me to be quiet, scrunched up his face and farted again. Which started another round of irrepressible laughter.

Then he wrapped his arms around my neck and said “I love you Dada.” And just like that I was out of my rut and back in the groove.

Behold the power of flatulence.

What’s the secret to a happy marriage?

I hear that asked a lot. That very question can often be seen splayed across glossy magazine covers, along with surefire tips to keep your partner happy. Countless books, articles and talk shows are dedicated to nailing it down. And couples spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on marriage counselors and shrinks, who are supposed to lead them like horses to water to find the elusive answer.

So I guess I’m lucky to have accidentally stumbled across the answer in the unlikeliest of places.

MJ and I love camping. But, truth be told, I’m not much of an outdoorsman. I don’t know my knots, I don’t fish, I can’t drive a boat and—most embarrassing of all—my campfire capabilities are dubious at best. In fact, when MJ and I were still dating, we went on our first camping trip and she told me to start the fire. I couldn’t do it. I put the wood in a pile, got one scrap of newspaper and wondered why it wouldn’t catch.

You don’t really know true humiliation until the guy camping next to you is laughing at you as your girlfriend has to keep you warm with a fire of her own making.

I remember the next time we went camping, I thought I came prepared: I brought lighter fluid. I calmly told her I would take care of the fire and I proceeded to douse the ever-lovin’ shit out of the wood. As our cooking fire turned into an inferno, it’s safe to say there were a few eyebrows raised. Not mine, of course, since I inadvertently torched them right off my face. But as anyone who understands fire knows, my chemical attempt also fell flat and my buddies had even more ammunition against me.

I’m a passionate guy. Usually this is a good thing, but prior to dating MJ it was also a big problem.

When I liked a girl I jumped in with both feet and never hesitated. I fell hard, I fell fast and I fell head over heels. I was madly in love (madly being the key word) and every girl was “the one.” Or, in other words, I started every single relationship by dousing it in lighter fluid and reveling in the white hot flames of new romance. And make no mistake, that shit was intense. The first couple of months of a relationship were my specialty. As long as the accelerant still had things burning bright, I was all in. The beginning of any relationship is new and exciting and I thrived in it. Craved it.

But that kind of intensity is bound to fade. It’s impossible to maintain that heightened level of insanity over the long term. And because I began things by doing nothing more than lighting a match and throwing it on a pile of lighter fluid, eventually the fire would go out and I’d be left with a charred pile of wood that never really stood a chance.

Until MJ.

She showed me the importance of doing things right. She showed me how to prepare the fire and set it up for prolonged success. I discovered that searching for kindling and using it as a hotbed would not only get me an initial inferno, but also keep the fire burning hot for as long as possible. Once you’ve built the foundation, the embers on the bottom will keep things warm.

Sometimes it rains and dampens things. Other times you both get busy and forget to tend to the fire, to the point it goes out and all is extinguished.

This happened while I was camping. I had been busy and the fire died on me. I went to bed all pissed off for being so stupid. But an hour later, after I had fallen asleep in my tent, I woke up and looked around confused. The pitch blackness of the Maine woods was suddenly filled with flickering light, bouncing off the leaves on the trees. It took me a minute, but I realized it was our fire.

What I thought was dead turned out to simply be dormant. Despite having neglected the fire and poured water on it, the unseen embers were still burning hot. Hot enough to reignite the fire when neither of us thought it was possible, all on its own. But only because we took great care in making sure it was built right. Built to last. Built to burn not with early intensity which ultimately fizzles, but a long, slow heat that will see us through the rain and the times we don’t tend to one another properly.

Keep the home fires burning everyone, and trust that your embers are still burning hot even if you think all has been extinguished.

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My wife bought a new purse a month ago. Then, last week, she suddenly told me she needed another one. Silly me, I thought it was perfectly reasonable to question why the hell she would need a new purse when she JUST bought one a few weeks ago. That’s when she told me—well, see for yourself.

First of all, I do not understand the concept of taking the time to purchase something and then all of a sudden not liking it. Whether it’s accessories, clothes, gadgets, etc. it just doesn’t make sense. If I buy something it’s because I’ve researched it, compared it to other items and decided that’s the one I want. So the idea of my wife looking at purses, searching for one with specific characteristics, finding it, buying it and then NOT liking it, is just foreign to me.

As a guy, I find something I like and stick with it as long as possible. I just got a new wallet but I had my old one for seven years. It had holes in it (not really a problem as I never had any money to lose) and the only reason I replaced it is because MJ said it was no longer acceptable. The same goes for my shoes and clothes. I wear them out until there’s barely anything left, and then I still try to wear them after that.

I call it “maximizing value.”

And before you start, it has nothing to do with money. One of those purses was $10 and the other was $20. It’s not about the money. It’s about the principle of the thing. And I’m sorry, but MJ’s explanation just does not make sense.

Both purses had three compartments. Both were roughly the same size. Saying that one was more difficult to find things in is just ridiculous, as the video proves. Not to mention she’s got SO MANY other purses. Small purses, big purses, red purses, blue purses. You can fit Horton and every single Who in her collection of purses. I’ll never understand the female need to stock up on purses and shoes. It’s utterly ridiculous.

People talk about needing different accessories and clothes for different occasions. Bullshit! I have one suit, one tie and one pair of dress shoes. I wear them to weddings and funerals, baptisms and burials. I have one watch and I never worry about matching it to my belt, which is my fanciest accessory because the belt can be either brown or black depending on which way you adjust it. I work in a corporate environment so I wear slacks and button-down shirts, so I understand it’s important to look presentable. But that’s where it ends for me.

And furthermore, even if I did screw up by buying something I didn’t like (excluding clothes that don’t fit), I wouldn’t return it or get a new one. I’d just make do with what I had because that’s the only thing that makes sense.

I love my wife. I love women. But when I brought this up on Twitter recently, I was met with criticism from women while my wife received support. Which leads me to my long-held assertion that women simply don’t make a damn bit of sense when it comes to this shit. However, when I try to combat this lunacy with logic I’m met with condescending stares and comments about “just not getting it.”

You’re right. I don’t get it. Because I’m sane.

My wife, however, told me she can think of at least one other thing in her life she’d like to trade in for a newer model.

In case you missed Part I of my camping saga, you can read it here.

Last Saturday, after completing our hike up Mt. Cutler in Maine, MJ and I were on top of the world.

We were sore and our muscles ached, but we were proud. For the first time in a long time we felt victorious. Like conquering heroes. And the best part was we completely reconnected and plugged back in—to each other. We ate a delicious lunch at a cool little dive place on the way back to camp, and spent most of the meal smiling and just grinning at each other across the table like newlyweds.

I was deliriously happy. And the only thing that could make me happier was the thought of a refreshing swim in gorgeous, spring-fed Granger Pond.

MJ and I changed into our bathing suits, grabbed some towels and hopped in the car to get to the lake. Yup, that’s right. We needed the car because the road to the lake is INCREDIBLY steep. We found that out the first night when we ignored recommendations and walked to the lake. At first it was cool because it was a full moon and there’s some kind of mineral in the gravel road that sparkles. The end result was us feeling like we were walking on a diamond-encrusted road in the moonlight. But eventually we started to wonder if we were on the right road.

Then, all of a sudden, the lake just opens up in front of you and it’s stunningly gorgeous. The walk back up that hill? Not nearly as much fun.

So anyways, we drive our car down to the lake and I’m so excited. I’m hot, sweaty, tired and oh-so-ready for a cool dip in a Maine pond. I took off my shirt, threw my towel on the beach and waded in to what might’ve been the most refreshing dip of my life. The water was on the colder side with just the slightest shock after you submerge yourself. But after our hike it was exactly what I needed. I eagerly dove in and started swimming out towards the middle where there was a floating dock.

Like an excited little kid I proceeded to do cannonballs and dives off the floating dock, feeling absolutely glorious in the process. I was alternately swimming around, floating on my back and splashing MJ (who was slightly pissed because the water was too cold for her). When she wanted to get out I pouted like Will when we cut playtime short.

As I exited the water I smiled broadly. Absolutely exhausted but simultaneously refreshed, I was just looking around at our pristine surroundings and taking it all in. I grabbed my towel, dried off, put my sandals on and began walking towards the car in complete bliss. Until…

Suddenly a dark realization descended upon me with the force of an F-5 tornado. The color drained from my face and my heart sank into my toes. My entire body seemed to freeze and enter into a full-blown panic all at the same time. As my right hand desperately patted my right thigh, a sinking feeling set in and I knew, in that instant, I was sunk.

I had gone swimming with MJ’s car keys in my pocket. And now they were gone.

Unless you’ve ever lost your wife’s keys while four hours from home in the deep woods of Maine with no spare set, I’m not sure you can understand how idiotic I felt. Not to mention scared because I had to tell MJ. Except when I told her, she didn’t believe me. Which actually makes everything 100 times worse because I had to repeatedly persuade and convince her that I’m that inept.

“Baby, your keys are gone. I’m so, SO sorry.”

“Bullshit. You’re kidding. The keys are in the car right?”

“Honey, I know I screw around with you but I’m serious. I lost the keys. We’re totally screwed.”

“No, no, no. You’re kidding. I know you’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding, I swear. Why do you think I’m kidding?”

“Because if you’re not kidding, you’re fucking dead!”

I immediately began looking for the keys in the water. But when I couldn’t find them in the shallows I looked despondently out towards the dock off of which I jumped, that sinking feeling growing exponentially. I asked Paul, the owner of the camp, how deep the water was out by the dock. The look on his face told me all I needed to know.

“Well, it’s about 40 feet deep out there. But that’s the least of your problems. A few years ago we sunk a radiator and tied the cable to it so we could hold the dock in place. When the cable broke we hired a guy with SCUBA gear to reattach it. But when he swam down there, he couldn’t find the radiator because the bottom is so soft.”

Great. The lake swallowed an entire radiator. There was no way I was getting my keys back. The only silver lining was the help we received from the TREMENDOUSLY nice people at the campground.

Frank took us up the hill in his golf cart to call AAA, but not before the other campers and their kids began scouring the pond for us. Triple A tried to call a locksmith, but couldn’t find one who would come out. Surprise, surprise seeing as we were in an area where the moose out-populate the people. When we searched on our own, we were told it wasn’t possible to make a new key because MJ’s car key has a fancified double-sided thingamabob component that couldn’t be duplicated.

That left us no other choice, and I had to make the phone calls I was dreading.

And so it goes that my unbelievably nice mother-in-law had to go to our house, find the spare key and drive it 40 minutes up to my dad. From there, my saint of a father drove 3.5 hours up to Maine to drop it off. And then he declined our invitation to stay in the tent while we slept in the car, and drove 3.5 hours back to his house.

Now those are great parents!

I’m such an idiot. Only I can turn a great weekend into a drama-fest. We had this amazing time on the mountain and then I lose my keys to a radiator-swallowing lake, which not only murders our Saturday, but also the Saturdays of my in-laws and my parents. And I wasn’t done there.

The only stroke of luck we had was that MJ had left the passenger side window down so we could retrieve our things. Clothes, food, gear…all inside the car. Except I had turned the alarm on before I lost the keys. So when I opened the door, the serene Maine woods was suddenly polluted with a jarring horn blasting away repeatedly, wrecking the experience for dozens of people trying to enjoy their weekend.

Frank was nice enough to drive me up and down in his golfcart to the car, which was parked down the huge hill. But in my tradition of screwing up, I had forgotten a few things. And since I had bothered everyone enough, I decided to walk back down to the car.

When I made it down there, I couldn’t bear the thought of setting off the car alarm again. So I decided to go through the window.  Faced with the problem of having to get my 265-pound body through the window, I did what every red-blooded American male would do.

I decided to go Dukes of Hazzard all over that bitch.

As you can imagine, it did not go well. I took a running start and jumped as high as I could. Halfway up I realized I was nowhere near the level of Bo and Luke, and ended up doing this weird half-jump, half-dropkick thing as I thudded against the car door. With my career as a TV stuntman dashed, I decided to go in head-first. It only went a little better than my Dukes attempt. But I did manage to get everything I needed out of the car. Except myself.

To exit the car, first I tried go feet first. Didn’t work. So I went out head-first. I managed to wiggle my fat ass to the point my hands were on the ground but I was stuck halfway out. Completely upside-down doing a handstand with half my body in the car and half out, I flailed wildly and ended up kicking the steering wheel and laying on the horn in the process. Then, just for good measure, I suffered the indignity of my shirt falling down exposing my gut. Finally I wriggled my way to freedom, collapsing in an overweight heap next to the car.

As I stood up, it was just in time to see a teenage girl—frozen in place and staring at me in horror—while on her way down to the waterfront.

“Car trouble,” was all I could think to mutter. She quickly walked away. I don’t blame her, I would’ve too.

So I owe my mother-in-law and my dad big time. Not to mention MJ, who was (for the most part) very understanding about the whole thing. I still think I was helped immensely that there were witnesses so she couldn’t kill me right then and there. And I think I just need to resign myself to the fact that I will never have a normal…well, anything. Stories are great and weird stuff is wonderful for blog fodder, but I’ve had my fill. Just one normal weekend is all I ask.

So remember, practice safe-swimming everybody. And keep your keys on shore.