Fatherhood cuts testosterone, according to a recent study. The more a parent cares for his kids, the lower the level of his manly hormones drops, apparently.
Fascinating. That means that the greater effort I put into being there for my daughter, the greater the chance will be that I’ll turn into Ken, Barbie’s anatomically incorrect companion.
I don’t feel particularly like a gelding. But who knows? Maybe it’s an imperceptible though inevitable loss. By the time you realize you’re Neutered Ned, it’s too late.
As I look back on the last week or so, I was particularly involved with my daughter’s soccer game; her still messed-up after-school schedule; her inability to sleep one night because of grief about a dead pet; her imperfect eating habits; her baths; her hair; her clothes; her lunches; and on, and on. In short, I was all up in the job of being a parent.
That means that -- according to science -- come Saturday night, I won’t be able to dance the Lambada, or whatever.
To a degree, this makes sense. Nature needs men to barrel through life, kill the sabre-tooth tiger on the savannah, then mate and propagate the species.
But once the offspring are born, nature needs the dude to chill so he’s around the cave and the home fires more often. The rocket fuel hormones that got him his mate and family becomes too potent a cocktail to swill daily.
So it leaches away, gradually. And Ken is born.
I’d like to think that being an Italian guy from Brooklyn, I may have been born with a touch too much testosterone. So now that the Little Girl is causing me to lose it, I won’t drain completely.
Just in case, I’m having provolone and hot peppers for lunch today.
Don’t count me out just yet.