The early weeks of pregnancy are fragile—and confusing. Here, the answers to your questions.
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I haven’t always been a fan of Hallmark holidays, for all the usual reasons (they seem forced, and mostly inspired by capitalism). But this Father’s Day cannot pass without fanfare. Aaron has worked so hard this past year, and loved me and Leo so steadfastly, and grown so much as a Dad and husband, that the only regret I have about celebrating Father’s Day is that I should need a reminder to shower my husband with appreciation. But I do. I definitely do.
I used to keep tabs in my relationship. I think maybe we both did. Like: You cooked, I’ll wash the dishes. Or: We’re hanging out with my family, I’ll do the driving; I shopped last week, it’s your turn. Then came pregnancy: I’m carrying the baby, it’s your turn. Still carrying the baby, still your turn. Just pushed the baby out of a small orifice, must be your turn. Breastfeeding. Newborn care. Freelancing and full-time mothering. A No-Nap day. I could keep listing reasons why it’s been Aaron’s turn (to: insert odious task).
And Aaron could probably do the same. Working full-time at the office, staying up late to finish a composition for an upcoming rehearsal, carrying all the bags, cooking and cleaning, taking care of the baby and the mommy… The point is, it’s not either of our turns. The system has broken down. We still use it, stating "I’ll clean the cat box while you take Leo to buy milk," or "I just changed a diaper, can you get this one and I’ll scrub the tub?" There’s not a lot of down time to spread around, so it’s sort of a moot point.
In this new scenario, Aaron still manages to make me feel looked after (a skill he developed when I was pregnant). He’ll get in from work just as Leo is finishing dinner, throw off his tie like a superhero and encourage me to lie down with a book while he bathes Leo. How does he do that? Me, I’d probably come in, sit on the couch and wait for someone to bring me a glass of water. So thank you, Hallmark, for reminding me to stop kvetching for long enough to appreciate that I reside in the glow of a wonderful, inspiring man who deserves to come home to his favorite brisket (my mom’s recipe).