From the category archives:

Surviving Co-Parenting Together

The New Dad’s Guide to Surviving Your Wife

The New Dad's Guide

 

1. If you’re going to be late coming home don’t wait until the last minute to tell her. Remember when you’d have to do chin ups and you knew you had to do 20? You’d get to 18 and think “I only have two more to go, I can make it” then some asshat comes along and says “Gimme 10 more”. How much do you like that guy? Not so much. 

 

2. Come home and get in the house. When you get home this is not the time to chit chat with the neighbor over the fence about how it’s gong with the new baby. Assume that it is always Lord of the Rings orc war in the house and get inside to relieve the day shift because your wife has probably been walking around with that baby thinking “I only have to hang in there 30 more minutes….29…..28.” (see point above).

 

3. Get excited about the baby. I know, I know, you love that little weeble more that anything, but most new mothers are wired with this demented sense of responsibility so even if their baby is screaming like a rabid howler monkey they don’t want to leave it. So if you go in and say something like “take a shower, I’ve missed him all day and I can’t wait to hold him” she will be more willing to go bathe, eat or generally reset to be less crazy. It’s win-win.

 

4. Don’t ask “What’s for Dinner” If everyone in the house is alive when you get home that’s a successful day. My friend’s husband asked her why dinner wasn’t ready because “she’d been sitting at home all day doing nothing”. Aw, Buddy, c’mon. If you ask “What’s for dinner?” the answer may very well be “Your left testicle”. Eat cereal, order take-out or drink pumped breastmilk. Wing it.

 

5. Don’t go on about how hard your day was. Even if your day consisted of being gang raped by angry silver back gorillas, she can probably trump you. Not only can she trump you but it may include details that you otherwise wouldn’t have known about and don’t want to hear. You’re tired. You’re stressed. But it will just open Pandora’s box and it ain’t worth it. Also consider that this is someone who is up all night looking at your peaceful, sleeping vulnerable body. Don’t give her a reason to smother you with a nursing pillow. She’s probably already plotted your death a couple of times by now so don’t push her over the edge.

 

6. Don’t say you’re babysitting. The mother of your child may be too tired to catch this slip but any woman who has had more than 20 minutes of consecutive sleep is going to do a slow, Chucky-head-turn and hiss “You’re not babysitting. You’re parenting.” In your defense, I totally understand this statement. If you’re not the primary caregiver and you’re stepping in to take care of the baby then you are technically babysitting. Terms like “Daddy Duty”, “On call” and “At the helm” are always safer alternatives.

 

7. Don’t lie on your back and hold the baby above your head facing you. They puke. It’s the infant equivalent of the Funny Home Video guy pitching to the kid with the baseball bat and getting squared in the pills. Everybody likes lying on their backs, holding the baby in the air and fly them over their face. Babies LOVE this and this joy often sends a surge of yak right into your who’s-daddy’s-airplane-open-mouth. They give no warning. They are vomit grenades.

 

8. Be CIA guy. Too often I think fathers get shoved to the side and it’s all about the baby, and to a lesser extent, the mom. Don’t worry about it and just be a gazelle in the grassland because you’re in the trenches, and there’s no glory in the trenches. Be like those awesome CIA guys with the silly putty in their ear who silently, seamlessly gets the odd glass of water, loads the dishwasher and does that slow motion body block when your dirty cousin with the cold sores tries to stick her finger in the baby’s mouth. Your work will go unnoticed at first but when the dust settles you’ll be revered and adored.

 

Your job at this time is really important. Some guys totally get it right of the bat, and to you I say, “right on”. You’re the voice of reason, the pillar of strength and the cavalry wrapped in to one. You need to be there for your partner because she’s probably like Newt when Ripley first finds her in Aliens – terrified, tired, dirty and overwhelmed and the worst time is mostly at night. Mostly.

 

It takes a great guy to step up and dig in during those first few months, but a guy who says “I’ll be home early, I’m bringing dinner and I want to take the baby for a walk as soon as I get home”, now that’s a fucking man.

More from Scary Mommy

Around the web

When Mother Knows Best, It’s the WORST


 When Mother Knows Best, It’s the WORST

 

When you’re pregnant or a new mom, people like to bestow all kinds of useless advice on you. Pearls of wisdom like “enjoy every moment” or “sleep when the baby sleeps.”

 

Please. I don’t know much, but I have one piece of advice that I think might actually help some new mommies out there. This is what I sorely wish someone had said to me when that little one arrived: You Don’t Want to Be That Mother Who Knows Best.

 

I see you over there, Control Freak New Mommy. You’re just like I was, reading and Googling and list-making. You’re figuring that with all this knowledge you’ll know pretty much what the hell to do with your baby, but take it from this mentally exhausted, overwhelmed mom of five: you’re setting things up all wrong.  Whether you have one or five babies, YOU DON’T WANT TO BE THE EXPERT.  Here’s why:

 

Let’s take a little trip down memory lane back to when I had my first baby. There we were, yours truly and my dear husband and our precious baby boy. The hubs was home from work for two weeks as we got settled, but I was generally the one caring for the baby. I spent more time with him and knew better what to do, you know what I mean? Plus I’d read all those nifty books!

 

So I would change him, and burp him, and feed him, and decide what he needed to do and when, and make all the little plans for his little life.  If my husband picked the baby up, I’d usually give him some “helpful” pointers about how he was holding him wrong or burping him wrong and oh, now he’s crying…better give him back to me.

 

Now let’s fast forward, shall we, to last Saturday morning, chez moi.

 

Mommy wakes up (very early).  She puts out breakfast because only she knows what the kids eat that day. Mommy tells the chitlins what to wear, because only she knows what they are doing that day (soccer), even though they have been playing soccer for two months.  And only she knows where each kids soccer clothes are (including shin guards, cleats, uniforms).

 

Time to head out? Mommy crouches down tying all the shoe laces while Daddy catches up on the iPad because Daddy doesn’t get the kids ready because he doesn’t know all the ins and outs.  Mommy hands Daddy the bag with the change of clothes, lunch and the water bottles.  The kids are firing questions at Mommy and she’s fielding them like a catcher during bating practice.  “Can I do this?”  “Why did he get that?” It’s only 9 a.m. and you’re so drained from the excess of planning, details and decision-making that you’re ready to head back to bed.

 

The afternoon?  Mommy’s spends her “downtime hour” answering emails from schools and coaches and teachers and PTA groups all starting with the refrain “Just a friendly reminder!”  Picking a library hour for each of her kids. Deciding which insipid birthday party we are going to have to go to and trying to find a creative way to lie her way out of at least some of them.  Oh, summer is around the corner — better start researching camps!  Meanwhile, the kids are parked in front of the TV which leaves Mommy guilt-ridden …and what’s Daddy doing? Downloading music onto his iPod!

 

Oh wait, it’s time for dinner.  Time to order the Saturday night pizza.  This is “Daddy’s job.” And even though we’ve ordered exactly the same pizza from the same restaurant every single Saturday night for around 6 years – that’s about 336 times – Daddy still waits for Mommy to TELL HIM to order the pizza and TELL HIM what type of pizza to order because she has trained him NOT TO MAKE ANY DECISION WHATSOEVER REGARDING THE KIDS.

 

So, who would you rather be? The 1-800 Call Center or the pinch hitter brought in to do the only task that is actually fulfilling as a parent: having fun with the kids?

 

I thought so. But if you aren’t careful, you’re going to turn out just like me.  And if this happens to you, you might bitch and moan, sister, like almost all of us mommies, but fact of the matter is that it’s pretty much your fault.

 

You told the hubs the second that baby came to let YOU be the one.  You told him NOT to make the decisions, nor to sweat the details but rather to be instructed and guided by your wisdom at every turn.  Now he’s been well trained, for years, in WAITING IN THE WINGS TO BE ASKED TO APPEAR.  Go Mom!

 

So STOP. Nip this baby in the bud. Stains, mismatched outfits, missed naps, unfinished bottles, leaking loose diapers, letting the baby watch TV on his lap while he downs a beer during the game …BRING IT ON.

 

Get the hell away from that baby and let Daddy do his messy, sloppy, imperfect, thing.  He’s setting you up to be happier with every mis-hap.  You might actually get a shot at enjoying something once in a while and having one moment’s peace.  And when you get home, zip your mouth shut and don’t say one single critical word when you see spit up on the carpet!!

 

I’m trying to change my ways, but I have to be honest, it’s too late for me. So I’m trying to save you.

 

You’ll thank me later.

More from Scary Mommy

Around the web

The Better Parent Contest

I Am A Better Parent Than My Wife

Michael Ian Black is an actor/comedian. He is also the author of the hilarious memoir, You’re Not Doing It Right.

 

My wife and I have two children, and by every objective measure, I am the superior parent. More patient, more even-tempered, more punctual. I am a firm keeper of bedtimes and a strict enforcer of television viewing times. I am forceful, yes. A disciplinarian, yes. Yet I am also a boon companion when wrestling is to be done or tickling to be had. If one were to devise a method by which to keep score on parenting, and pit my parenting skills against my wife’s, it wouldn’t even be a fair contest. I would win said competition without even breaking a sweat.

 

Actually, such a scoring system already exists. In fact, I keep a running point tally in my mind of all the times when I have displayed worthier parenting acumen. By this system, I am kicking my wife’s ass. She is too much of a pushover, too willing to buy the children Gummi worms regardless of proximity to dinnertime, too lax when a new episode of Adventure Time is on EVEN THOUGH IT IS AFTER THEIR BEDTIMES. When the children claim to be sick on school mornings, she is too willing to believe their lies. For all these offenses, and more, she loses points.

 

And yet, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, my wife sometimes acts as though it is she – not I – who is the better parent. Laughable, I know. How dare she inform me, as she did this very evening, that I am a “birdbrain” for not making my son’s bed in her preferred manner, which involves some sort of bed sheet origami known only to her and the ancient emperors of Japan’s Asuka period.

 

I know there are “experts” out there who say parenting should not be a competitive endeavor, but I suspect the only reason those experts are saying such things is because they are losing their own child-rearing wars at home.

 

Let me be clear: parenting is a blood sport. Mother and father fight to the death to raise their offspring in the best possible manner (ie: as much like themselves as possible). How else to ensure that we pass on, not only half of our genes, but A HUNDRED PERCENT of our manga, or “fighting spirit”?

 

An example: while putting my son to bed last night, my wife and I got into a small dispute over which of us is “more stubborn.” I, of course, insisted that she is the more stubborn of us. Because she is so stubborn, she refused to accept my verdict, and, unbelievably, insisted the opposite to be true. An impasse. To resolve the issue, I asked my son. “Which of us is more stubborn?” I asked.

 

He demurred, perhaps not wanting to be forced to choose between his parents. Nonsense. Twaddle. I persisted. “Which is it?” I demanded.

 

“You are,” he said, looking at me.

 

“I told you,” smirked my wife as she exited his room.

 

“Thank you,” I said to my son, kissing him on the forehead.

 

For proving my point, young man, for proving my point.

 

Allow me to explain: were she the better parent, my son would have pointed the accusatory finger in her direction, knowing that a truly great parent will be more forgiving and understanding when indicted. But because I am the better parent, he, rightly, risked my wrath secure in the knowledge that I would instantly forgive him his obvious lie for the sake of keeping harmony in our happy home.

 

My son instinctively understood what I have done a masterful job of articulating herein, namely that in the death match known as “raising children,” I am the clear cut, undisputed winner.

 

(Please don’t show this to my wife.)

More from Scary Mommy

Around the web