Friday, 19 April 2013

Minor rituals, major pain in the...

My partner Mark has been a parent ten years longer then I have. And as a result his patience with certain rituals and routines of parenting is starting to wear thin. Don't get me wrong, he is a fully committed awesome Dad who just organized a freaking fabulous Robot themed birthday party for L. In fact, the extent to which he is a great dad leads me to whining on occasion that "one more wouldn't hurt". So not going to happen. Here is a list of "last time ever":
-maternity & newborn photo shoots. Mark has stated that he is far too old to be lying on the floor dressed all in black while trying to seduce the camera with his sultry good looks and look like a devoted daddy to be at the same time. He is also convinced that his forearm strength is weakening and if he had to balance one more baby in the "hanging tree branch" pose he would drop her.
-cleaning around a newborns umbilical cord stump. I think just the fact that he has to refer to something on his child as a stump adds to the look of mild revulsion on his face at the not so sweet smelling spot. Sidenote: he is a diaper changing dynamo and I rarely have to change a diaper when he's home. From day one. 
-incidentally he's biding his time to rip off the extra water resistant (read: baby pee catcher) cover on our mattress that makes it delightfully hot and extra difficult to put sheets on
-the dinner explosion. When our delightful girls eat, somehow 90% of their dinner ends up on the floor. We end up sweeping breadcrumbs even when there hasn't been a wheat product in the house.
-speaking of dinner, I'm fairly certain my partner would give up a minor digit or appendage for a dining room table in our...wait for it...dining room. Our dining room currently plays host to an all encompassing play area. Mark's deep resentment for this stems in the fact that there are toys in every room in he house but he can't even see me from where his seat is in the kitchen! So a dining room table where we could all sit and actually see each other is pretty f'n appealing.
-those f'n munsch books. The repetition. The redundancy. The idiot parents. The rude horrid children. I swear, there is a backyard bonfire in our future. Symbolic of course. He doesn't advocate book burning. But if he did, he'd use the starter fluid on that bear family book and throw the munsch ones on while jumping up and down gleefully
-And on a related note, constantly being interrupted, like every 3.7seconds when reading to his kids. By his kids.
-public bathrooms and snow suits
-oversized plastic crap pretending to be toys but are singing vehicles designed by grandmothers hoping to drive you insane so they can smother your kids and raise them better
-the zoo. He hates it.
-the diesel fuelled kiddie rides at the CNE
-public swimming pools and swimming lessons.( I'm not sure how he's going to get out if these until baby C is 14 and can bus it there.)Especially given that we have a pool so it's a life saving skill and also the only lesson they take. Mostly because we aren't millionaires but also because large crowds of parents incite rage in him that I get to deal with as "I'm fine! I'm not grumpy!" My understanding is this IS how introverts express their feelings. Particularly male ones. I admittedly don't like swimming lessons either, but for myself, because it means I have to shave my legs and not wax them. TMI, right? Sorry (not really).

In all fairness, I feel like I should reveal some of the rituals as a mama I can't wait to be done with ( and maybe this will help me get over wishing we could have more babies. We can't.):
-nipple biting. I don't care what Dr.Newman; Dr.Sears; and any other doctor, midwife, or lactation consultant has to say, babies do bite when they are nursing. Repeatedly, hard, despite all preventive and concurrent actions taken. With or without a full breast or fast or slow letdown. With of without your undivided attention. Repeatedly. In anger. Breaking skin! 

You know, after that one solid example, I feel like the rest fade in comparison to the threat of scarred boobs. 

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