The “Dad Bod” Reclaimed: Why Your Bench Press Won’t Help You Install a Car Seat

My left hamstring cramped violently while I was upside down in the back of a Honda CR-V. I wasn’t doing yoga. I wasn’t attempting a new CrossFit modality. I was trying to thread a seatbelt through the back of a “safety-rated” plastic shell that seemed designed by engineers who hate human hands. The toddler screaming in the driveway added a nice texture to the panic.

At that moment, my ability to bench press 225 pounds meant absolutely nothing. Zero.

The fitness industry lied to us. It sold us a bill of goods about aesthetics, V-tapers, and vascularity. Then you have a kid, and you realize that “fitness” isn’t about looking good shirtless at a pool party you no longer have the energy to attend. It’s about structural integrity. It’s about surviving the physical onslaught of raising a tiny, suicidal human being without blowing a disc in your L4-L5 vertebrae.

This isn’t about getting rid of the “dad bod” because you want abs. Nobody cares about your abs. This is about reclaiming the dad bod as a machine built for awkward, asymmetrical, exhausting labor. We need to train for the job.

The Myth of the Aesthetic Father

Let’s look at the standard definition of a “dad bod.” The internet says it’s soft. It implies a guy who gave up, who traded the gym for craft IPAs and pizza crusts left on highchair trays. I hate that definition.

Real dad strength isn’t soft. It’s tired. It’s worn down. But it has to be incredibly resilient.

If you follow a standard bodybuilding split—chest on Monday, back on Tuesday—you are training for a life you don’t live anymore. Isolation exercises are useless when your daily load is a wiggling, twenty-pound sack of potatoes that decides to go “boneless” in the middle of a Target parking lot. A bicep curl is a linear movement. Parenting is rotational chaos.

I stopped training for the mirror three years ago. I started training so I wouldn’t groan every time I stood up from the carpet.

The “Car Seat Carry” and Asymmetrical Hell

Have you ever carried an infant car seat? It is the most biomechanically offensive object ever created. It bangs against your knee. It forces you to lean sideways, putting massive shear force on your spine. It’s heavy, but the handle is always at a weird angle that destroys your forearm.

Doing perfectly balanced dumbbell farmer’s carries won’t fix this. Life is rarely balanced.

The Fix: Suitcase Deadlifts and Offset Loading

I started doing heavy suitcase carries. Grab a heavy kettlebell or dumbbell in one hand. Stand up straight. Walk. Do not let the weight drag you down to that side. Fight it.

This targets the quadratus lumborum—a deep muscle in your lower back that usually spasms when you pick up the diaper bag and the baby simultaneously. Since I started loading my body unevenly in the gym, carrying the car seat feels manageable. It still sucks. But my spine doesn’t feel like it’s being twisted into a pretzel.

Floor Play is Just Mobility Work That Smells Like Spit Up

“Get on the floor and play with the blocks!” they say. It sounds sweet.

It’s actually a mobility nightmare. You have to get down. You have to sit in a deep squat or a cross-legged position for forty-five minutes while a toddler explains the complex geopolitics of PAW Patrol. Then, the hard part: getting back up.

Most men over thirty have the hip mobility of a rusted gate. We sit at desks all day, shortening our hip flexors, then we sit in cars, then we sit on couches. When we try to sit on the floor, our lower backs round, our knees scream, and standing up requires a grunt and a nearby piece of furniture for support. It’s pathetic. I’ve been there.

The “Toddler Get-Up”

You know the Turkish Get-Up? That complicated kettlebell move where you go from lying down to standing up with a weight over your head? Do it.

I don’t care if you use a shoe, a kettlebell, or a stuffed animal. The ability to get off the ground without using your hands is the single most useful skill for a parent. It preserves your dignity. It saves your knees. I force myself to sit in a deep squat (the “third world squat”) for five minutes a day. It hurts. My ankles protest. But now I can build a Magna-Tile tower without needing a heating pad afterward.

The Deadlift vs. The “Boneless Child”

A barbell is predictable. It has a center of gravity. It has knurling for grip. It behaves.

A toddler does not behave.

When a child throws a tantrum, they instinctively know how to become dead weight. Picking them up requires a type of strength that standard deadlifts doesn’t cover. You aren’t in a perfect stance. Your feet aren’t shoulder-width apart. You are usually twisted, reaching over a baby gate, or reaching into a crib at a mechanically disadvantaged angle.

Enter Sandbag Training

I bought a heavy sandbag. A canvas bag filled with shifting, annoying sand. It has no convenient handle. The weight moves. It fights you.

Bear hugging a 100lb sandbag and walking fifty feet is the closest simulation to carrying a sleeping six-year-old up the stairs to bed. It requires “awkward strength.” Your biceps have to squeeze, your back has to round (safely), and your core has to brace against a load that wants to slide out of your grip.

If you only lift barbells, you are strong in a straight line. Dads live in the margins. We live in the rotational, the awkward, the “don’t drop that” zone. Zercher squats—where you hold the bar in the crooks of your elbows—are another staple. It mimics holding a kid against your chest perfectly. It hurts your arms. Good. Callus your soul.

The Core Stability of the “Stiff-Arm”

I have a distinct memory of holding a screaming child away from my face to avoid being headbutted, while simultaneously trying to unlock the front door. This is an isometric hold that rivals any Olympic gymnast’s routine.

Your core isn’t about crunches. Crunches are trash. Crunches are for people who want to look good in a crop top. Your core is meant to prevent motion. It’s meant to stop your spine from snapping when you get tackled by a sensory-seeking kindergartner.

Pallof Press and Anti-Rotation

I do Pallof presses religiously. You use a cable machine or a resistance band, pull it to your chest, and press it out while standing sideways to the anchor point. The band wants to twist your torso. You say no.

This is “anti-rotation.” It builds the strength needed to hold a child on one hip while stirring mac and cheese with the other hand. It stabilizes the spine. If you ignore this, you’re just waiting for a herniated disc.

Sleep Deprivation: The Ultimate Pre-Workout Suppressor

We can’t talk about dad fitness without talking about the exhaustion. It is a tangible fog.

Training when you’ve had four hours of broken sleep requires a different mindset. You aren’t going to hit a PR (Personal Record). Your central nervous system is fried. Your cortisol is high.

I learned to embrace the “minimum effective dose.” I don’t spend ninety minutes in the gym. I don’t have ninety minutes. I have thirty minutes between a nap and a grocery run.

I go in, I lift something heavy, I sweat, I leave. High intensity, low duration. It regulates my mood. If I don’t lift, I’m irritable. The iron is my therapy. It’s better than yelling. It’s better than doom-scrolling.

Nutrition: Eating the Crusts

The “Dad Bod” usually comes from the diet, not the lack of exercise. It comes from “garbage disposal syndrome.”

You finish the nuggets. You eat the half-eaten grilled cheese because you hate food waste. You drink the extra milk.

I had to stop being the family trash can. It’s a hard habit to break. I realized I was consuming an extra 500 calories a day just in toddler leftovers. Now, I scrape the plate into the trash. It hurts my frugal heart, but it helps my waistline.

Also, beer. Look, I love a stout. But drinking 300 calories of liquid bread every night while sitting on the couch is why the pants don’t fit. I didn’t quit drinking, but I stopped drinking on weekdays. Radical? Maybe. Effective? Absolutely.

The “Ready for Anything” Mindset

Here is the reality of functional fatherhood: You are the protector. You are the jungle gym. You are the mule.

When the family goes to the zoo, guess who carries the cooler, the backpack, and eventually, the child? You. When the car breaks down, who is pushing it? You. When there is a noise downstairs, who goes to check?

You need to be capable.

Capability is not about how much you can bench. It’s about work capacity. It’s about grip strength. It’s about having a back that is bulletproof and knees that don’t sound like Rice Krispies.

Stop Training Like a Frat Boy

If your workout routine hasn’t changed since college, you are wrong. You aren’t 21 anymore. You have responsibilities that weigh more than plates.

Switch to movements that matter.

• Carry things: Farmers walks, suitcase carries, sandbag carries.
• Squat deep: Goblet squats, creeping lunges.
• Get up: Turkish get-ups, burpees (yes, I hate them too).
• Crawl: Bear crawls. It looks stupid. It strengthens everything.

I don’t care if I never have a six-pack again. I really don’t. But I want to be able to toss my grandkids in the air without my shoulder detaching. That’s the long game.

Reclaim the dad bod. Harden it. Make it useful. The mirror doesn’t matter, but the car seat installation does.

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– Best, Stable Grace Staff Writers & Editors