Equalizing

I had a lovely time last night. Intelligent, funny ladies, all. At one point, the bride-to-be took a picture of me, highlighting my (ahem) abundant cleavage (no, it wasn't THAT kind of bridal shower, but I was wearing a v-neck sweater, and the girls, they are prolific). She sent it to MOTH, with the message "your pretty woman." Later, she got a message back, saying, "Who is this?" I laughed, figuring her number wasn't in MOTH's phone, but really. Who did he think it was? He knew who I was with that night, it was only going to be one of a few people.

Today on our walk, I asked MOTH what he thought of the picture. Raise your hand if you can see where this is going.

"What picture?"

Yep. The "who is this" was not meant as "who is sending me this message" but as "who is this manic-eyed, Muppet-browed girl with the nice rack and why are you sending me her picture at 8:3o on a Saturday night?!"

I have no idea who the recipient could be, but I am wondering if he/she will be at the wedding and have a weird sense of deja vu when they see me.

***

I had a weird moment last night where I think I said the wrong thing. My friend is pregnant, and I was telling her something I wish someone had told me before I had a baby: if you're breastfeeding, the first several months (or longer) are just going to be unfair. No matter how egalitarian your household, no matter how enthusiastic your spouse about sharing the responsibilities, there are going to be times--a lot of them--when you are going to be the one doing most of the heavy lifting. And it doesn't mean anything negative about any of you, it's just the way it is: Mamas got it rough.

I think my friend didn't want to hear that at that moment, and I didn't present it as eloquently as I could have, and I quickly apologized. But I remember vividly a day when Tankbaby was about five months old, visiting my dear friend Ms J and her saying, "Oh, yes! Those first six months...I remember thinking that if J and I got divorced at that point, dammit, I got to keep the kid. Like, sorry, dude, but I've put in the time. You can have the couch."

I felt so relieved, like it wasn't just that MOTH and I were failing or that we were making stupid choices or that I just couldn't hack it...all thoughts that had been taking up more and more real estate in my head when I would take a shower and listen to Tankbaby wail and feel guilty for those fifteen minutes I was taking for myself. But I would also think, Damn, kid, your dad is right there, and you are not actually ON FIRE right now. And later, when I would be quite literally weighted down by the baby and watch MOTH enjoy an hour on the couch reading or playing his video game, and I'd quietly burn with resentment because HOW DARE HE enjoy some quiet down time when he could be sitting and fretting with me over whether shifting ten degrees to the right would disturb Tankbaby's fragile drowsy state.

I remember reading Dr. Sears' books, which I generally quite like, because they appeal to my hippie, attachment-parenting self. But I also remember reading something at one point about "honoring your partner with his share of the parenting," and having hot, frustrated tears spring to my eyes. It wasn't that MOTH wasn't willing (and in fact, really wanted) to be an equal partner. It was that Tankbaby wasn't having it. He was a boob man, a mama's boy, and while he and MOTH did fine while I was at work during the day, once I got home, he needed to be in physical contact at all times.

As part of my work, I've done a lot of reading about attachment and bonding and temperament, and as such was both a) well-equipped to understand what was happening and thus respond generally with patience and acceptance of my child's needs and b) COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT because what I understood on paper was SO MUCH HARDER in real life and what if it was all wrong, or worse, all right and it's just me who sucks for not being able to hack it, even though I am so well-informed and AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEE. I mean, intellectually I understood that Tank and I had a very strong, secure bond, and that babies are designed to want to be around their mamas and that's what has helped keep the species alive and not have our young wandering off to be eaten by cougars. And after I went back to work, I was gone all day. Of course he'd want to be with me as soon as I returned. On the other hand, I was working all day on five interrupted hours of sleep, commuting during rush hour, and I would get to the doorstep and hear wailing through the door. Inside, an exhausted and frustrated MOTH would explain how little the baby'd slept that day as he handed Squally McSleepless over; I'd hold him in one arm and unpack the breast pump with the other, effectively clocking in for the 14-hour evening shift.

You'd think it'd be helpful to have some professional knowledge to back up your instincts. Which it is, sometimes, except when sleep-deprived, hormone-fueled anxiety starts messing with you, in which case you doubt your instincts and then have the existential angst of your personal and professional belief systems crumbling around you in a moment where you think, "Maybe four months old isn't too soon to teach kids that life is unfair and then you die."

Looking back, I don't regret how we handled it. I think it was hard, sometimes feeling impossible, but clearly we all survived it. I think MOTH had a hard time being constantly the second choice, but his hurt and frustration wasn't always voiced, and I sadly didn't have the extra resources to check on him, because I was so busy feeling overwhelmed and HEY AT LEAST YOU GET TO SHOWER IN PEACE. So I felt resentful a lot and he felt rejected and have I mentioned that we were both. So. Tired?

But we found our way. Our co-parenting became more me-parenting, MOTH-everything else-ing, as he did laundry and dishes and cooking dinner while I rocked and sang and nursed. And eventually it evened out, and he could play with the baby on the floor while I made dinner. I think having that desire and intent to share parenting equally, even in the months where that wasn't possible, formed a foundation that we're now getting to take advantage of. Tankbaby can handle new people, but still has a healthy amount of stranger anxiety. He does great for babysitters. Most importantly, he has a dad who knows all of his words and signs and will often tell me, "Oh, now we're doing x for that" and who is in tune with teething and bowels and vaccinations. And while he still likes mama's boobs, he can go to sleep without them.

And two nights ago, during the cacophonous fire drill that was the 5 am wakeup, while Tankbaby cried and writhed and flailed, at one point he wailed, "Da?" And I immediately said, yes, of course, you can have Dada, and rolled him over next to MOTH, who put an arm around him. Tanky quieted and let out a shuddering sigh and I thought, There it is. That was the first time he'd requested Dada instead of me. I had a rush of feelings: happy (for him that he'd found some comfort, for MOTH for being chosen, for me for getting a break), but also sad that I wasn't able to comfort him then, and a little rejected. (And, because it was still early in the battle, the moment lasted only about three minutes, and then all bets were off and we began to play "Who Put Fire Ants In the Baby's Diaper?" again.)

I know that was the first of many times where I will hear "Dada" as my arms are pushed away. I know that in the future, it will be deliberate, sometimes with purpose (Daddy does the train better) and sometimes just to exert a choice, any choice, because that's how kids roll. And I will try not to get bent out of shape, feeling rejected, all YOUR DADDY DIDN’T CARRY YOU FOR NINE MONTHS/WAKE EVERY TWO HOURS TO FEED YOU FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS/HAVE HIS KEGEL MUSCLES SO STRETCHED OUT OF SHAPE THAT TRAMPOILNES ARE NOW A REALLY BAD IDEA and instead smile, kiss them both, and go sit on the couch with a book.