This morning, over coffee and oatmeal:
Me: “I had another crazy dream.”
Me: “We bought a motorcycle.”
Me: “I was driving it and you were sitting behind me. I couldn’t get it to steer straight because my legs were sideways and—”
Chuck: “I was riding bitch?”
Me: [Pause] "Is that what they call it?”
And there you have it. The subconscious mind hard at work again—this time trying to make sense of the new roles in our household: Chuck as stay-at-home dad, me as Superior Gorgeous Wino Queen. The dream nailed it. Especially how Chuck was facing the right way while I was sitting sideways trying to figure out how the hell to steer (Chuck, you said the bitch thing, not me).
Sigh. Coupled with my terrible sense of direction, we are headed for certain disaster.
Kidding—cough, cough—I’m kidding.
It will be fine.
Chuck is rounding out week two as a stay-at-home dad, and he’s handling it better than I handled being a stay-at-home mom. There were days when Chuck would be walking up the front steps, briefcase in hand, and I would open the door, hand Junior to him, mumble something and get in my car—just to drive around alone so I could smoke and swear and try to remember who the hell I was pre-Junior. I keep waiting for that from Chuck, but instead I am greeted with his chirpy “we had a really nice day.”
Granted, he’s had 18 months to transition into this role—in parenting years, that’s a lifetime—but it does make me wonder if Rebeldad is on to something when he asks if dads “are less likely to whine than moms” (for the record, I never whined, I simply bemoaned my frazzlement/fatigue/fever—as in cabin).
Or maybe Chuck is just well suited for being a SAHD. I mean, the man has been jumping out of bed, unloading the dishwasher, picking wet towels up off the floor, making coffee and grocery shopping. He’s abreast of our sundries for Pete’s sake. He even hung a curtain rod for me last night at 11:23 p.m. He hates to hang curtain rods!
There’s a kick in his step, an extra hair on his otherwise barren head. The man is happy.
See, just like I said, it’s fine.
The best part is that I am not jealous. Nope. Not one bit.
But if I were jealous, it definitely would not make me act out or do bad things. Like, I would never intentionally not unload the dishwasher or not pick my wet towels up off the floor. Certainly I would never ask Chuck to hang a curtain rod at 11:23 p.m. then tell him the rod is crooked and make him rehang it.
I just want everyone to know that.