We all know the proverbial mamahood is rampant with controversial topics: co-sleeping, bottle feeding, c-section births—everyone has an opinion.
And, of course, feels the need to share it.
*cough* …every mother-in-law ever… *cough*
Even so, I had no idea when I brought home our teeny tiny bundle that the biggest controversy we would encounter was how my husband and I chose to handle nighttime feedings. As in, we’d both be up taking care of our son.
Crazy, right? At least, that’s what I’ve been told. That I’m forcing a crazy feminist agenda on my poor husband. That said husband is completely whipped. That, in no uncertain terms, his sleep is far more valuable than mine—after all, he’s the one with the job. (Because we all know being a full-time mama isn’t the most demanding job on the planet…)
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But trust me when I tell you that my husband’s loss of sleep isn’t coming from an obligation to support the equal rights of women. Rather it stems from his love for us and an understanding that we share this burden of parenting equally as mom and dad.
Yes, my husband helped create that little insomniac of ours and genuinely feels a sense of responsibility in taking care of him. Even. At. Night.
So can we talk about this for a minute? Why are my husband and I having to justify his waking at night to help with the baby instead of celebrating it? Why do people still believe nocturnal baby business is only for moms?
I keep hearing the argument that if mama is breastfeeding, there isn’t much for Daddy Dearest to do. Except there is. Like grabbing a snack for the starving woman whose breasts are being sucked dry day and night. Like rocking and shushing baby after a feeding hasn’t quite done the trick. Like changing a midnight pooper. Like tracking down that dang burp rag after the burps have turned to projectile vomit.
Oh, the projectile vomit…
Anyway, I promise, that next time my husband and I are both up come 3 a.m., it’s not because misery loves company. It’s because, though our roles in parenthood are different, they’re pretty much split down the middle, just like the genes of our perfect baby boy.
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