What did I say?

A friend of mine recently adopted a child and she called me on the DL before the 30 days were up to ask me some questions about the husband's role in child-rearing.  

It seemed that her husband was having a hard time bonding with the baby a.k.a., he didn't really want to wake up in the middle of the night feedings. 

My in-laws have about 10 stories about child-rearing that they like to repeat ad infinitum.  One of those stories is about how when Kevin, who was a premie, thus on a bottle,  would cry in the middle of the night, his dad would kick his mom gradually out of bed, so that she could give him a bottle.  

There is some kind of a weird disconnect with couples and new babies, especially it seems, with the non-nursing kind.  When you are nursing a baby, there is no question as to who gets up in the middle of the night for feedings.  When a baby, like my husband, or an adopted baby wakes up, it seems like this could be negotiable.  Apparently not.

I guess that somehow the mom, in spite of also having to go to work, is supposed to be the one who wakes up in the middle of the night, every night. 

Now, I seem to remember in my wedding vows saying something about sickness and health, richer or poorer, and if times got difficult, eat chocolate.  I do not, however remember, pick up dirty socks, never sleep in once we had children, or figure out all of the logistics of life with two children and a spouse.  

Maybe, when we get pregnant or adopt children, we should take new vows.  something like, "I vow to let my partner sleep through the night at least fifty percent of the time".  

We have it all wrong, we need to take parenting vows and relationship classes instead of just wedding vows and childbirth classes.

One Fine Day

The other morning was one of those typical mornings where my husband had a deadline and I had to get started at 8:30.  

I had lunch plans with my friend in midtown, whom I hadn't seen since the day I gave birth to the second one and I wanted to squeeze in as many cold calls as possible.  At the peak of Summer School selling, somehow I'm supposed to cold call as many schools as possible multiple times in 50 days (1,500 schools divided by 50 is 300 schools a day include trying to find parking and then 5 hours a day which is 60 schools a day=impossible x multiple visits plus the big program visits)  Okay, so my job description is impossible x even more impossible=stressed out=totally inefficient).   

Cut to one typical morning as a mother of two young children married to a freelancer who is in a chair in the apartment but essentially non-existent. Trying to wean the 18 month old is proving challenging because the only feeding left is in the morning AND she has teeth, a lot of them.  Any kind of trying to lay down for a few extra winks on the couch involves  a groping hand up my shirt and my eventual giving in, thinking that somehow this time she will nod off to sleep while nursing.  After 45 minutes of teeth grinding pain, I give up and remove her from my pain.  

What ensues at the ungodly hour of 5:30 is the wailing of one pissed off, inconsolable baby.  Conscious of all of the single men in our apartment building, I try distractions in the form of toys, sippy cups, funny faces, anything.  She flings all objects to the floor and wails at the top of her lungs.  Still wailing, the 3 and a half year old wakes up to the crying and joins the chorus.  It is now 6:30 am, a long hour and a half before daycare begins.  

I sit the baby on a chair near me in the kitchen and begin to make lunch. They are both wailing and then they begin to pick at each other and the screaming gets louder.  I finish up making lunches and then dress both of them while they wail and scream and kick and fling all sorts of loud hard objects to the floor.  Somehow, I managed to dress and put on make-up. 

 Somehow, I managed to put clothes on two screaming children.  I put the baby in the carrier and the older one has to go through her daily ritual of filling her backpack for school.  I have one of those epiphany moments, "choose your battles", and resign myself to the extra twenty minutes of backpack loading.  

I decide to have a seat and wait.  Riiiiip. The only pair of pants that fit me rip in the crotch.  Mind you, I already have my shoes and shirt and baby on.  I have to go in my closet and find a maternity skirt that doesn't match with anything and pull it up, going out the door with two wailing children, down the stairs and of to school in a totally mis-matched, unprofessional get-up.  

While I am dropping the kids to school, my friend calls to cancel.  I leave her a message, holding back the tears, saying this wouldn't be such a good day to meet afterall.