It's Mr. Peacock's fault. In the conservatory. With the pink t-shirt

Chuck and I had a fight last night. I hesitate to use the word fight because there was no punching, screaming or throwing of plates (I know, we’re so boring), but we did want to murder each other while said “discussion” was taking place. Ergo, it was a smackdown.

The thing is, Chuck has been a stay-at-home dad since January, and now that Junior’s talking and blossoming and blah blah hearts and rainbows, he’s a lot of fun to be around. I feel like I’m missing out. During the miserable winter months, there wasn’t much to be jealous about: Chuck and Junior were cooped up inside. But now that summer is here, every day feels like a beach party I can’t attend. To make matters worse, Junior’s been sleeping until 8, so Chuck’s been sleeping until 8. Mrs. Mullet? Up at 6:30.

For the last few months, life has sounded like this:

Me: “I’m leaving for work.”

Chuck: Yawn. “Eight already? He’s still sleeping?”

Me: “Must be nice to be you.”

And this:

Me: “What did you and Junior do today?”

Chuck: “We went for a hike then got some lunch.”

Me: “Must be nice to be you.”

Yes, I have turned into Mrs. Must-be-nice-to-be-you.

I know, I know. It’s not Chuck’s fault Junior sleeps late and enjoys being outside. It’s also not Chuck’s fault that he:

a) was laid off

b) hasn’t been able to find a decent job in his field (shameless plug: if you need an event planner/audio visual guru/ business developer/ghostbuster/Viking, Chuck is your man)

c) has risen to the occasion and then some (oh horrors, Mrs. Mullet!)

But I’ve been so consumed with jealousy that I’ve been blaming him for everything. The fact that Chuck is too nice and just takes it has only made it worse.

Until last night. Chuck told me he cannot handle any more snarky, guilt-inducing comments. He reminded me that when I was home with Junior for a year, he didn’t say anything about the fact that he was working 80 hours a week while I was enjoying our son. (Side note: I wouldn’t exactly call getting 3.5 hours of sleep a night and dealing with a newborn enjoyment, but I’ll file that under semantics for now.) Then he told me that caring for Junior is a lot of work—and that I should know that better than anyone because I did it, too.

Ouch.

So shit. I’m an asshole. I should know better. I should also appreciate the fact that Chuck is doing a great job in a nontraditional role. I mean, he gets mad when stores don’t have changing tables in the men’s bathroom. The man is such a Mr. Mom that sometimes I feel like I’m in a same-sex marriage.*

In my own defense, a male friend admitted that he has the same jealousy problems. When his wife calls him at work and tells him about the fun things she is doing with their daughter, unsavory comments sometimes slip out. When she, too, reminds him that caring for their daughter is work, he feels like me: I’d choose her/Chuck’s work (playing with offspring) over his/my work (serving on the laborious Breast Pumping Committee).

All of this leaves me in a sticky, unfamiliar setting. Before I had Junior, I believed I’d have the WOHM/WAHM/SAHM discussion with other women. Never, ever did I imagine that I’d have it with my husband. And naively, I never knew fathers might share the same feelings of jealousy I now harbor.

Imagine that!

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. I need to stop being such a jerk, and this blog entry will serve as a reminder. And Chuck? I’m very, very sorry. As an olive branch, I made t-shirts for us:



Oh, snap! Did I mix up the colors? Mrs. Mullet, you are a real piece of work...

*Slight exaggeration.

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.

But.

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.

With words.

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.)