by Erika Matic – on equal parenting, inconvenient standards, and a man who ruined all future comparisons
This week is Father’s Day.
Which feels like an appropriate time to publicly acknowledge something that has been quietly inconveniencing me for years: My husband has set the bar for fatherhood so high it now feels less like a standard and more like a personal attack on the general population.
Because here’s the thing.
I was prepared to be a great mother.
I was not prepared to co-parent with a man who would be just as involved, just as capable, and (this is where it gets uncomfortable) occasionally better at certain parts of parenting than me.
No one warned me this was an option.
The Myth of the “Helpful Dad”
When we had our daughter, I expected what society had trained me to expect.
A “helpful” partner.
- A man who assists.
- Who “babysits.”
- Who deserves mild applause for knowing where the socks are.
Instead, I got a co-parent. A fully operational, emotionally invested, diaper-changing, night-waking, decision-making adult who did not once ask, “What do you need me to do?”
Because he already knew. Or he figured it out. Or he Googled it like the rest of us.
From day one, there was no default parent. No invisible job list assigned to me (ok, except for breastfeeding). No silent assumption that I would carry the mental load while he occasionally lifted visible objects and called it contribution.
We split nights.
We split responsibilities.
We split the invisible labor – the remembering, the planning, the noticing that we are somehow out of wipes again despite buying them in what felt like industrial quantities.
It was equal.
Which, I’ve learned, is still considered revolutionary.
The Radical Act of Knowing Your Own Child
He doesn’t “help with the baby.”
He parents her.
He knows her routines, her preferences, her moods. He knows which snack will be accepted and which will be dramatically rejected as if personally offensive.
- He dresses her.
- Bathes her.
- Brushes her teeth with a level of patience that suggests either sainthood or a very advanced coping mechanism.
- He kneels to talk to her.
- Explains things.
- Listens.
Not in a performative, “look at me being a modern dad” way – but in a quiet, consistent, this-is-just-who-I-am way.
Because it’s not occasional.
It’s not situational.
It’s every day.
Feminism, But Make It Practical
My husband is a feminist. Not the kind that announces it in debates or uses it as a personality trait.
The kind that lives it.
Which means:
- He doesn’t believe he’s “helping me” by parenting.
- He believes he’s doing his job.
- He doesn’t “allow” me space.
- He assumes I deserve it.
- He doesn’t see my time as more flexible, my work as more interruptible, or my energy as more renewable.
He sees me as an equal.
Which sounds basic. And yet.
The Problem With Raising a Daughter Like This
There is, however, a long-term consequence to all of this. A concerning one. We are raising a daughter who will grow up thinking this is normal.
- That men show up.
- That they communicate.
- That they take responsibility without being asked.
- That they treat women as partners, not project managers.
Which means one day, when she starts dating, she will look around and think: “Where is the rest of this behavior?”
And I will have to sit her down and explain that her father is not the average. He is the exception.
The gold standard.
The reason her expectations will be considered “too high” by men who have never once questioned why they were set so low.
So yes, we are raising her well. But we are also, unintentionally, making her future dating life extremely inconvenient.
You’re welcome, society.
The Quiet Consistency of a Good Man
What makes him extraordinary isn’t grand gestures. It’s repetition. He shows up when it’s easy. And more importantly, when it’s not.
When we’re tired.
When we’re overwhelmed.
When parenting feels less like a calling and more like a logistical marathon with no finish line and questionable snacks.
He doesn’t disappear into his phone.
He doesn’t clock out emotionally.
He leans in.
Again.
And again.
And again.
There is no applause for this. No audience. No visible reward.
Just a child who feels safe. A wife who feels supported.
And a home that works because two people are carrying it – fully, intentionally, together.
Conflict, Parenting Edition
We don’t always agree. Of course we don’t.
We’re raising a human, not assembling IKEA furniture (although honestly, sometimes it feels equally complex). But even in disagreement, he remains… reasonable.
Which is deeply inconvenient when you are trying to make a very passionate point at 20:47 while slightly sleep-deprived.
He listens.
Responds.
Adjusts.
He doesn’t need to win.
He needs us to work.
Which, again, feels unfair when I have clearly prepared a compelling emotional argument.
The Part Where I Stop Being Funny
Here’s the truth underneath the satire: He is the best father I know.
Not because he’s perfect.
Not because he never gets tired or frustrated or overwhelmed.
But because he chooses to be present.
Fully.
Consistently.
Without needing recognition.
He didn’t “become” a good father. He revealed that he already was one.
In the way he cares.
In the way he loves.
In the way he treats both me and our daughter like people who matter – not roles to be managed.
What He Gave Us
He gave our daughter a blueprint.
Of what love looks like.
Of what respect feels like.
Of what she should never have to negotiate for.
And he gave me something equally important: A partnership that doesn’t feel like survival. A life that doesn’t rest on one pair of shoulders. A love that is steady, safe, and deeply real.
Happy Father’s Day
So this week, while the world celebrates fathers with mugs, tools, and mildly offensive “World’s Best Dad” merchandise, I’ll be here – quietly aware that we somehow got the real thing.
Not the loudest.
Not the flashiest.
Not the one asking for credit.
But the one who shows up.
Every day.
Without fail.
Happy Father’s Day, my love.
You didn’t just become a father.
You became the example.
And while the world may not fully understand how rare that is: We do.
And we always will.
Erika Matic writes about motherhood, partnership, and the quiet revolution of raising children in homes where love is shared, not delegated. She believes equal parenting shouldn’t be impressive – but until it’s normal, she will continue to document it with both gratitude and mild disbelief.
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