10Q QT

I'm in the media room and Simon just called to me from the bedroom to please bring the "sucky mouth thing" (nasal aspirator) because the baby just burped up some of his dinner. ("Milk again?!") It had been a particularly trying day for me and Wombat (he's certainly a fan of "attachment parenting" whereas I'm equally a fan of "getting things accomplished"), so Simon had volunteered to put the kid to bed early tonight while I spent a blissful X minutes doing whatever I wanted before the call of the wild (it sounds like this: "booooooob!") summoned me again.

I think Simon's more exhausted than the baby, though, so when he suggested he and Wombat call it a night, maybe I should have chalked that up to his own desperate need for sleep rather than give him brownie points for his outstanding sensitivity to my needs. I seriously don't know what's more heartwarming--him taking the baby because he LOOOOOVES the baby, or him taking the baby because he can tell I really really really need to just not hold the baby for a second--but whether it's either or both, it's all good just knowing I have his support and help, no matter the motivation.

One thing I fully expected to get as a baby shower gift but didn't was this book, which we've seen all over the place lately. Our favorite page is the one with the guy in bed saying something like, "Let's not have sex tonight, honey. Instead, how about I give you a foot rub while you tell me about the baby's day?" Reciting this line or a variation thereof has become part of Simon's coming-home-from-work ritual, and we laugh about it every time because it's one part ridiculous and one part totally true, at least for us. Simon is the guy who will throw himself across a freshly made bed and, with a sultry look, ask me how many diapers the baby had and what were their contents and which massage lotion would I prefer tonight, raspberry or mint? Everyone should be so lucky.

If you read the comments in yesterday's entry, you caught Simon chiming in with some nonsense about how sexy I am with regurgitated breastmilk in my hair. That's more or less what he told me right after it happened, at which time I felt it my duty to point out that it was 8 p.m. and I was still in my saggy p.j.s (I showered and then put the dirty ones back on!) and that if he thought I was sexy, I thought he was insane. And yet, even though I know there's some falsehood to his flattery, I'm damn glad he's willing to lie to me about these things because sometimes I need to believe in that alternate reality where spitup is the new black. Also, there's definitely something attractive about someone willing to talk the gross-out talk and walk the gross-out walk, if only because it means I have someone by my side to hold my hand while I talk and walk through all the grossness myself.

Parenthood is often considered a thankless job; kids are either too young to recognize the work we do or too surly to give a crap. We can't blame them, though. After all, they didn't ask to be born (as the surly ones are quick to remind us), and it's not like any of us got into this primarily for the awards given out at the annual Fancy-Dress Thank-Your-Parents Gala. Still, just because we're not in it for praise or gratitude doesn't mean we won't take it where we can get it. Kids don't often appreciate how they're parented, so it's extra nice when other people do, particularly those who are on the front lines when we make mistakes, lose our tempers, and are otherwise imperfect parents.

So, mothers, thank the fathers. Fathers, thank the mothers. The job is big and thanks is small, but every bit counts, even if you have to lie a little and occasionally hold your nose while leaning in for a kiss.

***

Dear Simon,

Thank you. I love you. You have poop on your sleeve. Wanna make out?

Yours,
Wombat's Mama

wrote Leah at 6:37 AM | Comments (11)