It turns out I didn’t need to be worried at all about leaving Baby Evan for a weekend, since not only did he survive without me, I don’t think he even noticed I was gone. As far as he was concerned, I was just at knitting group or the grocery store or upstairs napping for a minute and would probably be right back. It helps that 16 months is too early to have much concept of time. It also helped that he didn’t fall on his head or break any bones or knock out a tooth or accidentally cut off his arm with the hedge trimmers or something else that might require mama hugs.
As I said when I was still debating the trip, I wasn’t worried at all about E’s ability to handle the baby on his own – he’s a great father. Actually, I don’t think that’s a good enough title – a “Great Father” sounds like someone from a 50’s TV sitcom who provides a paycheck and health insurance, plays catch with his kids, and then maybe beats them occasionally, but only with switches thinner than his thumb. And of course when he does, he says “This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you.”
E might do all that (besides the beating thing, obviously)(at least I hope that is obvious)(by which I mean he doesn’t beat us, not that he uses big sticks) but he’s really just a great PARENT. When he’s not at work, he parents equally as much as I do. He does bedtime and bath time on his own every single night. He changes diapers, even the cloth ones I talked him into, and voluntarily uses them when I’m not here to remind him. He can feed and dress and comfort Baby Evan as needed. He can take the kid to the grocery store or the hardware store or the electronics store and not be baffled by car seat straps and diaper bags and shopping carts and strollers. There is no bumbling or fumbling or oh-silly-man-pretending-to-be-a-mom pitying glances from strangers. And as Baby Evan turns more and more into Little Person You Can Actually Interact With Evan, E gets better and better at parenting.
(As I write this, my boys are actually missing. I think they went to Hartford to buy roller blades but the last time I saw them, E picked the baby up from the ultrasound appointment and just left. I came home to a silent, wonderfully empty house.)
That being said…you know what E is NOT good at? Being pregnant. I mean, my being pregnant. He’d probably be terrible at being pregnant too, but unfortunately science isn’t able to provide that joyous experience to men so we’ll never know. I expect it would go something like this:
Wah, I feel nauseous! Wah, my feet hurt! Wah, I’m hungry! No I don’t want THAT to eat, I want something else. I don’t know what. But I need it NOW! Wah, I have Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction* and it hurts to do everything so I’m going to just lie here on the couch for the next 5 months! Wah wah wah!
No offense to E. I think ALL dudes would suck at pregnancy.
I just think it would be nice if E even NOTICED my delicate condition. When I flop down on the couch and say “Oh man my feet hurt” he says “Why?” When it’s 9 pm and I say “I’m going to bed” he says “Why?” When I say “Honey, it’s too hot to cook and I don’t feel like having chicken tonight anyways” he says “Why?” When I say “Man, I’m really in the mood for a Frosty, any chance you want to go get me one?” He says “Why?” or more accurately, “No frickin’ way. Your legs aren’t broken.” He’s never read a pregnancy book, not even the special chapter in the Girlfriend’s Guide I bookmarked for him and left totally inconspicuously on his pillow. And then in the bathroom. And then on top of his computer. And then literally hit him over the head with. As far as I know, everything he’s learned about pregnancy at all has been from reading my blog.** He doesn’t make a point to take off work for my (admittedly boring) OB visits, but he also doesn’t make a point of attending ANY of my appointments, including the one yesterday where there was a teeny tiny chance the tech would say something scary and turn the monitor away and I would end up alone in an office while the doctor said horrible things like “abnormal” and “physical defect”.***
Maybe I expect too much. Maybe I’ve internalized those commercials where some dude gets up at 3 am and drives all over town to find just the right flavor of chocolate fudgey mint chip ice cream for his pregnant wife. Maybe that – GASP! – doesn’t happen in real life. And I KNOW taking time off of work isn’t exactly easy when the U.S. Government literally owns your ass. Plus I need him to save those off days for things like getting my teeth cleaned and, oh I don’t know, GIVING BIRTH. I’m not expecting constant foot rubs or being waited on hand and foot or a surprise maid service to come in and scrub my floors.
But it would be nice, every once in a while, if someone would just go get me a Frosty.
*I have it. I had SPD last time too, but not this early, so I have no idea just how bad it’s going to get. I also didn’t know what it was called, although shockingly knowing what it’s called in NO WAY makes it hurt less.
**Which might be part of the problem – he often forgets that reading something on my site and then talking about it with guys at work is NOT THE SAME as having a conversation with me. The same way my blog-less friends often forget to call and chat because, duh, they already KNOW how I’m doing.
***The doctor actually said “I don’t know why you’re here” and “I’m sure your office saw something they questioned, but I don’t see anything worth following up.” And to be fair, before E took the baby away the tech did say “It all looks good, nothing serious, the doctor just wants to take a look.”
