The man, the legend...

So I was thinking about the roughly bajillion things that are giving me the b-day jitters-- just the word "episiotomy" starts me twitching-- and it occurred to me that there is one thing that I'm not completely freaked out about: Mr. A. From boyfriend to babydaddy to husband and sole breadwinner, there hasn't been a title that life's thrown at him that he hasn't taken on with freakish enthusiasm and complete dedication. Seriously, there are guys twice his age who can't get their shit together when it comes to impending fatherhood ("Scott Baio is 46... and a Complete Idiot", anyone?) and here's Mr. A talking strollers and health insurance and Braxton-Hicks contractions like this whole thing didn't just come barreling down the pike at him fifteen minutes ago. And on top of all that, he still rolls over in the middle of the night and says, "You two are the best thing to ever happen to me." (True story. And then, I cried like the puddle of hormones I've become, natch). Anyway, suffice it to say, he's a legend and I'm impossibly lucky. But shameless husband bragging aside, the point I really wanted to make when I first started this post was that I really think that Mr. A is going to make an incredible father. Oh wait, I'm still gloating, aren't I? Whatevs. Deal with it. Besides the fact that he's one of those people for whom "good with kids" isn't just a throwaway line in a personal ad-- after spending less than 24 hours with my 9 year old sister when we visited new york last christmas, she's been known to call him on my cellphone just to chat, the little traitor-- the other thing working in Mr. A's favor is the loads of daddy training he's been getting just taking care of me. Turns out, infants and pregnant women are a lot alike.

For instance, they both whine and fuss when hungry and, occasionally, for no discernible reason at all. Ditto for when sleepy and/or in desperate need of a poop. Both preggos and babies also have serious difficulty sleeping through the night, often rousing at all hours to alert the entire household that they have to (or just did) pee again. Then, in order to make up for their lack of sleep, both are known to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, many times in the middle of eating. Also, both are at stages of almost complete vulnerability. Infants due to their lack of basic control over major muscle groups, preggos due to their inability to walk more than six steps without tripping over their own swollen feet.

So, judging by the way Mr. A's been handling me-- colicky, needy, sleepy me-- I think it's pretty safe to say that by the time Little Lord Anglim gets here, he'll be an old pro. Okay well, he'll still have to figure out the whole diapering thing on his own, but methinks even bathtime will be a cinch. I mean, once you've mastered shaving someone else's slippery legs in the shower while they threaten to tumble over and crush you with their newest thirty pounds at any moment, wiping down a grimy baby is nothing. Sort of like learning to pacify a wailing newborn when you've been consoling your wailing wife for the past nine months. It's easy. I'm pretty sure babies don't need to be snuggled and reassured after bursting into tears when they realize they've outgrown the onsie that "I swear to God, fit last week!!!"

It's nice to know that while there may be a million and one things to freak out about between now and when Ian graduates high school, there's one thing that I've got all the faith in the world in-- his father.


With love and one hell of a lucky break,
a.