About me: My husband Chuck, our six-year-old Junior, our three-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
If I start to grow facial hair I'm gonna be pissed
I’d like to switch gears and talk about a serious matter—a matter called “What happens when you and your partner switch roles so completely you no longer know if you should pee sitting down or standing up.”
Let me be clear: I am in no way suggesting that my husband is any less of a man because he is the one who’s home full-time with Junior. He’s 100% certified man beef.
Chuck’s going into month #3 of being a stay-at-home dad, and some days I feel like the dude. Take yesterday. I called home to see if he and Junior would be up for a lunch date. When Chuck told me Junior was still napping, I said, “Well, I guess it’s silly to come home.”
To which Chuck replied, “So I guess it’s silly to come home on your lunch hour just to see your husband. I made stew. Harrumph.”
(I waited for him to try to lure me home with sexy attire, but he wouldn’t take the bait).
And that night! I walked in the door, ripped off my shoes and just Wanted.A.Beer and he started telling me about the utility repair guy and Junior’s new word and the weekend forecast, and when I told him I needed a minute, he got all hurt and said he was sorry: He hadn’t had any adult conversation all day and just wanted to talk.
My husband wanted to talk.
Oh, you sneaky universe you! You just handed me a big ass plate of What I Wanted in a Husband and well, honk my hooters, I think—heh heh—I’d like a side of This Feels Somewhat Strange to go along with it.
The thing is, I like Chuck as a stay-at-home dad. When we’re home together, he’s quicker to pitch in because he knows Junior better (and I don’t mean better than me, I mean better than the Chuck who worked 65 hours a week). He’s made dinner a few times. He even did a load of laundry (I said one; let’s not call in the clowns just yet). But he catches me off guard with his mommyisms. Like when he tells me we need to monitor Junior’s poo because it’s a little too pellet-like (duh, he has CMD). Or when he recommends we go to the other grocery store because they’re having a special on grapes.
Not to say that only mommies know about their kids’ turds or weekly circulars but, let’s be honest, for a long time they have been the ones at home in the throes of, well, turds and weekly circulars.
And last year at this time I was the one who was home full-time and I was the one who wanted to talk. So there's a little bit of See, this is how it feels to be cooped up with a kid all winter. But now I know how Chuck felt when he walked through the door after a long day at work and he didn't want me to hand Junior to him before he'd gotten a chance to take off his coat.
Blah, blah, blah. If you’ve nodded off or clickety clacked elsewhere already then good, I can say something private to my husband:
You’re doing a great job. You’re the best dad in the world. I’m sorry the moms at story time won’t let you into their circle, but I don’t want you talking to other women anyway.
(This post was 100% certified by Chuck. I didn’t want him thinking his manhood was under attack by me; he gets enough of that from this man.)