House husband six – reality

After getting back from Yamba we went to visit a friend, Anne, for coffee.  Angus had milk.  After the feed, Kristine held him out.  During the handover, he leaked a small amount of milk down his chin, onto my fingers. 

 

‘Oh no,’ I said.  ‘He threw up on me.’  Kristine and Anne laughed. 

 

‘It’s only vomit,’ Kristine said.

 

‘It feels like acid,’ I said, thrusting Angus at her.  ‘It’s eating my fingers.  I’ve got to wash my hands.’  As Kristine and Anne laughed, I hustled to the kitchen, washing my fingers and sighing.

 

Maybe I’m not capable of doing this, I thought.

 

For years I wanted to be a stay at home dad.  It was a fantasy often repeated to friends and family.  With that fantasy a chance at becoming reality, I was panicking.

 

Looking after a baby is intense.  A few weeks ago I likened it to looking after mates when they’re drinking.  You have to make sure they are happy, well fed and they behave.  Poor behaviour often can’t be explained when you’re drunk with your mates, but it’s not tolerated and must be dealt with.

 

Looking after Angus is much different than looking after mates.  He doesn’t respond when I try to feed him pureed vegetables or milk from a bottle.  The only time he humours me is when I give him water.  Otherwise it is Kristine, exclusively.  She has the breast milk and the attitude to get him to eat.

 

I like to work the garden, write and read about sport.  Two of those three tasks are selfish.  If I became a stay at home dad, Angus would be my focus.  I couldn’t mow lawns, work the veggie patch, make beer or write while he was awake.

 

I can barely look after Angus for ten minutes if Kristine is home.  When she’s out I watch the clock.  She adapted to motherhood brilliantly.  I think I have adapted well to fatherhood because I always have back up.

 

My argument, who is going to mow the lawns/fix the gate/make beer/clean the pool is sound.  Kristine doesn’t do that because she doesn’t have to.  Right now we are a team and I like it that way.

 

I don’t complain about cooking or washing clothes.  I don’t mind doing dishes or vacuuming.  I will do what I can to make things easier for Kristine and Angus.

 

She’s offering to go back to work to make things easier for me, to fulfil that fantasy.  I love that and I can’t kiss her because of this damn cold sore.

 

Last night our dinner chat was about the mother’s group she is involved with.  Once a week she meets up with a few women and their kids, making new friends, talking about babies and learning things I never would’ve figured out.

 

‘If I go back to work you can join the mother’s group,’ Kristine said.

 

My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.  ‘Why would I want to hang around women and babies,’ I said.

 

Kristine smiled.  I ate chicken. 

 

‘After having all this time off you might struggle when have to go back to work.’

 

‘Yeah, but I might be ready to go back.  It’ll feel like a holiday.’

 

I didn’t tell her, but I’d read a story about a cold case murder in Sydney.  A woman was killed when her son was eleven weeks old.  Her husband became the sole carer of his baby.  He worked and raised his son, a remarkable effort.

 

Kristine sat opposite, eating roast chicken.  I couldn’t imagine raising Angus without her.  The only real time we spent together was when he was in the harness or I held him during a shower. 

 

He loved showers, more daddy time as Kristine called it.  After the shower Angus went straight back to Kristine.  As she fed him and she nursed him to sleep, I was writing.

 

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