Note: This post is part of Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs, where all the cool kids are hanging out. (Moms are welcome over there!) Welcome to my visitors from DB; thanks for stopping in!
If you’re a long-time reader, you know that Jim and I are equal partners in everything. We run our house like a well-oiled machine about 99.9% of the time. I am “lucky” in that he has no qualms about doing laundry, washing dishes, vacuuming, or any of those “traditional woman jobs”, and he is “lucky” that I have no qualms about cutting the grass, taking out the trash, being his ever-ready assistant with home repairs, or any of those “traditional man jobs”. We run the household equally, and one of us isn’t feeling good or is busy with work or other outside obligations, the other makes up the difference at home.
We even shared the job of talking to our boys about the birds and the bees; it became more like a family meeting. (A note to parents who are scared of having to handle things like that with their opposite-gender kids: if you can get your fear to subside just for that first 15-minute chat, you will be so happy you did it! After you stop the cold sweats, that is.)
There are TWO areas, however, for which Jim and I each took sole responsibility ages and ages ago, when the 16-year-old was still in the womb. We made a pact, a pact that remained intact until the boys were able to handle these two things independently.
It has to do with nails and vomit.
When I was pregnant, Jim had read/heard somewhere that if you’re not careful when trimming an infant’s nails, you could cut the tips of their little baby fingers off. It totally freaked him out.
One day he said to me, “I’ll tell you what. If you promise to cut the baby’s nails, I will take care of the puking. Forever.”
Without hesitation I exclaimed, “YOU’VE GOT A DEAL, BUDDY!”
It was that easy. From that day forward, I cut the nails, and he handled the (rare, thank goodness) occasions when a boy would get *that look* on his face and run to the bathroom to wretch.
Did he get the short end of the stick? Nah, I don’t think so. Luckily Jim and I are both Non-pukers. In fact, I can count on my fingers the amount of times I’ve thrown up in my entire, 40-year-old life. Amazing, huh? Thank goodness our kids are made of the same, strong-stomached stuff.
Now that the kids are cutting their own nails and can toss their cookies unassisted, we’re both off the hook. But it was “fun” while it lasted.