It seems totally crazy to me that, in most average cases, it takes two to have children.
This is due to the fact that most of the time I don’t agree at all with my husbands way of raising children. I am not sure he should even be left alone with them sometimes. If I wasn’t so desperate for a break once and awhile, he wouldn’t be. This judgment, of course, is based mostly on the way they are dressed when I come home from being gone early in the morning.
Seriously, if you can’t put a matching outfit on a three year old how am I supposed to be sure they even eat while I am away?
The only thing we ever fight about, and I wouldn’t really call it fighting, is what is the proper way to be rearing our offspring. I don’t think they should watch anything but Clifford and Curious George, he seems to think those blow up everything techie geeks on Mythbusters is appropriate. I hate any and all forms of video games, and he calls me a helicopter Mom because I think his driving game is too aggressive for a five year old. I don’t really care when they go to bed as long as it is sometime before nine, eh…9:30, he wants 8:30 on the dot, and not a moment later. He wants potty training, mostly because he isn’t here to do it, I say wear a diaper until your three and a half, we will begin then.
This my friends…is just the beginning. I promise you it doesn’t stop there.
Even worse, I am always the one up in the middle of the night when a child is sick, online checking WebMD to make sure our little angel doesn’t have some weird thing I should be worried about. I go to every doctors appointment alone, even the big ones where things like surgery are discussed. And historically in my house, I get stuck with all the messy things. When I am referring to messy, I mean vomit. My husband once left me home with a vomiting two year old to go snowboarding.
I had yet to forgive him for that one…until Friday night.
My son had a tummy ache, and somehow Mamma intuition told me to lay out towels and bathroom trashcans next to his bed. Just in case of course. When a half hour later he came whining into my room, I was sure glad I did. As soon as I got him back to bed, he asked for a sip of water and started to whimper.
Uck. I grabbed the trashcan just in time, as a force I had never expected with a weight behind it I wasn’t aware was possible of five year old stomach, hit that plastic trashcan and didn’t stop for five minutes. Then there was the smell.
As soon as my little prince was done I carried that half full trashcan straight to my husband who was in the bathroom getting a washcloth and said, “It stinks”. I just stood there, holding this specimen high above my head, eyes wide, frozen to the spot. He took it, not without a look of disgust too mind you, and cleaned it out.
I then informed my husband that I wouldn’t be sleeping with our whippersnapper, that he would. Bile I can handle, stinky from the bowels vomit…not so much.
And he did. And he rubbed his back with one hand as he held the trashcan with the other every time my son had to vomit. He didn’t complain once. Care and concern for my children can be sexy on a man.
Of course, the play by play day after remarks about what he saw in the trashcan, I could have done without.Tweet