Mr. Mom

So last night Mike offered to change Nathan’s diaper so I could eat dinner. If there’s one thing about marriage I’ve learned, it’s to pick my battles. I don’t say anything when I realize that he’s set the toilet paper roll so that the paper is pulled from under the roll instead of over the roll. Or when he drives twenty minutes out of the way because he hasn’t learned the short cut yet. And last night, I bit my lip while I watched my husband loosely secure the diaper and miss one of the snaps on the footed romper. He returned Nathan to my arms, beaming proudly as if he had delivered the child himself, that this act of love had freed me long enough to eat a non-lean-cusine meal.

Oh husband, how I do appreciate your help. But you should know I tightened the tabs of the diaper so our son wouldn’t do the inevitable: pee all over me.

Random conversation:

“Do you think if I skip the lullabies and play Pink Floyd my son will turn out to be a stoner?”

“Well, I grew up on the lullabies and still turned out a stoner.”

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