I don't let it hurt my ego (much) that my husband has been Boss' favorite since almost the beginning. At least I had the edge during my maternity leave when Boss and I were home all day together for three months, taking walks, nuzzling and becoming bosom buddies, so to speak. In fact, I may have kept the lead even longer since I nursed for eight months. And let's not forget pumping, whipping out the udders twice a day at my desk, e-mailing single-handed while holding those cozy plastic funnels in place. True, Boss didn't know about that, although I did my best to tell him via a few loud nursery songs and stick figure diagrams.
Anyway, whatever status I had as tops faded fast when I got pregnant with Stinker. The fertility docs banned me from picking Boss up for three long months, and told me to limit heavy lifting until Stinker arrived. While I threw in extra cuddles and only cheated as needed (which was a lot; I mean c'mon—not pick up my kid?), Hubbo ramped up his parenting duty. He was already very hands-on, and Boss lapped up the added dad time like an eager little puppy. I didn't sulk or pout—any more than any normal stressed-out, bloated pregnant lady would have. Ahem.
Once Stinker joined our family, I was nursing again and, well, Hubbo and Boss may as well have been immersed in poker games, Fantasy Football and testicle scratching with all the male bonding going on. But for each sliver of my envy, I was a thousand times more grateful. After giving birth, it was a rough stretch with Stinker—he was losing weight, crying nonstop, and the effects of his shoulder dystocia (he got stuck coming out) weren't clear. Without dad, I would have tripped over my own toenails and limped back to the hospital to check MYSELF in. On purpose!
That's the back story. The current story is: During the weekdays, Boss, Stinker and I enjoy our own brand of bonding—blowing bubbles, playing tug-o-towel, reading books, licking sandy Popsicles, enduring time-outs, grocery shopping, finding a “venture” outside the house, and searching for other fun stuff to fill our time. Life is like a lollipop—wonderfully sweet (candy in mouth), and only rarely a sticky mess (candy in hair).
Then come nights and weekends when it's DAD time! Because DADDY's home. Marcia! Marcia! Marcia! I mean, DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!
I say that with a grin, though, as it also means break time for momster! Who cares if Boss's first words every SINGLE morning are: “Where's Daddy?” I get to snicker at Hubbo when I try putting “Bob the Builder” on, and Boss yells, “No, DADDY have ma-mote!” Or I try pushing the stroller, and he shouts: “DADDY do it!” During dinner, it's Hubbo's “yap” he wants to sit on, not mine. (Tee hee hee.) And tonight when I tried horning in on tuck-in time, I got blasted out of the room with some mattress kicking and a, “Noooo, DADDY tickle back!”
Oh, fine, fine, fine, my sweet little nutball. I'll take the extra “me” time quite happily. Because when I hear you inadvertently call Hubbo “Mommy,” which happens to be about three or more times a day, I know where I really stand.
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