Dear Facebook Moms

Dear Facebook Moms,

Hi there. How are you? Good? Glad to hear it. Things going well? Your little tyke learning and growing still? New adventures every day, huh? That's awesome and I'm excited for you. You've got a hard job there, being a mom and all. It comes with a lot of responsibilities and not nearly the recognition you deserve. Kudos to you for taking an active role in your kid's life.

But here's the thing. I see you on Facebook asking each other advice on a variety of things. Some of them are big things like how to get your kid to sleep through the night. Others are, let's say, less pressing in nature. Where to find the proper bookbag for school or maybe just looking for ideas for where to take your children for a fun Saturday afternoon. Whatever it is, you're on Facebook looking for answers and there's nothing wrong with that.

However, nearly every time I see you ask, you're only asking other moms. In fact, most of the time your posts start out "Ok moms, I'm looking for ...." as though us dads have absolutely no clue what's going on. But I want to let you in on a little secret. Dads know stuff. Not all the stuff, but we have some of it. You don't ask, however.

I realize there's a possibility that there's nothing to it and you're not intentionally ignoring a sizable group of your Facebook friends when it comes to advice. It may just be a language thing similar to how I say "alright guys, come over here" to the soccer team I coach despite it being 50 percent girls. Then again, maybe years of clueless husbands on television have resulted in you believing that dads really don't know anything and asking our opinions would be about as helpful as asking my five-year old to explain the ending of The Sopranos.

As I've said, you've got a difficult job as a mom. You're under-appreciated, if you're appreciated at all for what you do. So don't try to take everything on yourself. You may be surprised to know what us dads know if you'd ask us from time to time.

Thanks for your time,

A Facebook Dad