WHAT THE HECK ARE DAD ARMS?
Has anybody heard of this? Am I just wildly out of touch? I teach high school, so I do rely on teenagers to keep me in the loop with trendy lingo. I suppose it’s a good thing they haven’t introduced me to this particular nugget.
I’ll admit, the first time my forever date said that I had dad arms, I couldn’t tell if she was insulting me or flirting. Of course, my arms have received a lot of attention over the years, and most of it wasn’t positive. Here’s the gist:
From an early age I was aware that my body was, for lack of a better word, odd. My legs were impossibly short. So short, in fact, that I still cannot find slacks with the appropriate inseam. To make things even more difficult, my calves and thighs are quite thick, which means I can’t wear the trendy new skinny pants with tapered cuffs. I’m destined to drag my cuffs or hem every pair of pants I own.
Rewind. Here’s a brief history of the insults my peers latched onto: “ape arms;” “midget legs;” “you could show a movie on that forehead;” “forehead like a ski slope;” “pig nose;” “fat lips;” “black lips;” “lips look like they got stung by a bee;” “gorilla forehead;”
The list goes on, but these were the favorites. I was, to say the least, structured a bit differently than my friends.
Fast Forward. I’m in my third year at the U of A, taking Biological Anthropology with my best friend. The course tracks the evolutionary changes of bipedal species. For lecture, approximately four hundred students follow along as the professor cycles through slides detailing skeletal remains and the impact of environment and lifestyle on bone development. In lab, we measure artifacts and compare the results to the information in class.
During one lab, we were tasked with measuring our entire bodies. Now, I’m not particularly fond of being touched, and these measurements included things like circumference of the head and inseams. Naturally, I paired myself off with my best friend. If anyone was going to run a measuring tape along my limbs, it was going to be her.
Before we began, we were asked to fill in the measurements we expected to find based on our height, weight and ethnic background. Next, we would take turns measuring each other and record our findings next to our estimates. I balked at the notion that my arm span would roughly correspond to my height, joked that my legs would be closer to a child’s than an adult male’s.
And of course that’s exactly what my friend discovered. None of my measurements lined up. My legs were too short, my arms too long, my head too big and brow protruded too much. We completed the lab, calculated our ratios, and waited for the lab instructor to check our work. As he glanced over the measurements for my friend, he checked her off on the roster. Then he turned to my results.
At first, he skimmed, moving down the page quickly. Something caught his eye, so he went back down the page. “These measurements aren’t right,” he said. “Do them again.” So, we did. The measurements were the same. Most of the students had already been dismissed, and we were anxious to finish up the lab. We called him over and explained that our second attempt had yielded the same results. He muttered something under his breath, then told me that he would measure me himself.
I was annoyed, but I complied. He measured my legs, looked at the page, and measured again. He continued this process all the way through. Finally, he accepted that his numbers were the same as those on my sheet.
“This is very odd,” he said.
“I know. I’ve been made fun of all my life, but at least I can reach the top shelf, right?”
“I suppose that’s true,” he laughed. “Well, your measurements are…accurate. It’s just that they don’t correspond with homo sapiens sapiens.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your measurements are more in line with…homo neanderthalensis.”
And there it was. The entirety of my adolescent turmoil in a single sentence. I was a Neanderthal.
Okay, perhaps that’s a bit hyperbolic. To be more specific, my frame and skull structure were akin to a Neanderthal. I was even of average height for a Neanderthal.
So what does this have to do with being a dad? It’s simple, really. For the better part of thirty years, I was aware of my body, but the differences didn’t seem to serve any purpose. Sure, I was able to get things for my mom at the grocery store (she’s only five feet tall) from an early age, and I put on muscle quickly. Still, there was no real reason for me, barely five and a half feet, to have an arm span just over six feet in length. My stature came in handy when friends were moving or I needed to carry something awkwardly large, but that’s about it.
Four months shy of my thirtieth birthday that changed. I learned that I would be having twins. That’s right...twins. Double the fun. A baby in both arms. From the moment we left the hospital, I was loaded down like a pack mule. I had a car seat in each hand.
To be honest, the first months were easy (at least physically). My daughters (Helen and Molly) have always had long, narrow frames. After just a few months, I had mastered how to cradle a baby in each arm and position a bottle with each hand. Baby feeding like a boss. I even made a game of strapping the girls into their seats and doing bicep curls with them. Once they were old enough to talk, the task became much more daunting.
Confession: I’m a helicopter dad. I have BPD and social anxiety. What this means is that I see, vividly, every traumatic outcome my children may encounter. This is normal, right?
I mean, in every parking lot, my mind played scene after scene of them being crushed by cars. So I scooped them up. One in each arm. They feared the rain, but couldn’t run. I scooped them up. They wanted to be held after bath time. Scoop. Cuddling in the arm chair on rainy days. Scoop. Really, is there such a thing as too much snuggling with your kids?
I gave them freedom, of course. And boy did they exploit it! Within a month of learning to walk, they mastered running. In opposite directions. The only reason they ever ran together was to escape me. Cue my short legs and long arms all over Target. The zoo. Museum. Aquarium. (Don’t get me wrong – my daughters are excellent listeners and they’re remarkably well-behaved – it’s just that curiosity overtook them at every turn and they forgot everything but the miraculous new thing in front of them.)
Now my daughters are nearly three years old and wildly independent (usually). Their mother and I are divorced, but we share custody. So, while they love to entertain themselves and stay close in the store, they also get excited when they come back to my house after a couple days and want to cuddle. They let me carry them into the house from the driveway.
The task is more difficult - they’re still long and lean, over three feet tall and just under thirty pounds each – but I’ve learned how to make a seat of each arm and they hug my neck. I try my best not to squeeze them too tightly. I’ve never been so happy with my body, my ability to carry my hearts.
And I have so many hearts these days.
There’s my forever date and her littles, an eight-year-old girl (Audrey) and a six-year-old boy (Noah), and of course our brand new baby boy (Grayson). I say baby, but the kid is a mammoth (he’s just now four months old and almost too long for his 6 month clothing!). And yes, I have learned how to feed him while holding my twins. I’ve also learned how to carry Noah up the stairs when he refuses to go to bed, and I can lift Audrey high enough to touch her head on the ceiling.
When my forever date told me that I had “dad arms,” I thought maybe she was referring to my muscle definition. It’s true, I enjoy the gym. But it’s also true that I slacked way off while she was pregnant and lost most of that definition, yet she still refers to my dad arms often.
She doesn’t mean muscle at all. She loves the way my arms hold everything I cherish. How freakishly and perfectly long they are.
In college, I thought the only bright side to looking like a Neanderthal was that my brain is (physically) about 1/3 larger than most people due to my enormous, sloped forehead. I spent every season change lamenting the curse of my 28” inseam. Oddly, I never complained about my arms, even though it was incredibly difficult to find long-sleeved shirts and jackets that fit. I suppose, on some level, I understood even as a kid that the endless jokes would pale in comparison to everything my arms can encompass.
All this to say, hey there. Welcome. I’m built a little differently. How about you?
Let’s trade stories.
