My new alarm clock went off at 6:15 a.m. I wished I could press snooze, but instead I powered off the baby monitor that had begun wailing next to my ear. With one eye open, I glanced over at my husband, who hadn’t stirred. I sighed heavily as I swung my feet over the side of the bed.
Nothing.
I walked as loudly as I could across the floor. Still nothing.
I shut the door—just a little louder than necessary—and trudged towards the nursery. I was the one who needed to breastfeed anyway, but still, if I had to suffer, why shouldn’t he?
After snuggling with my baby and caffeinating a little bit, I forgave my husband for being a heavier sleeper than I was. I decided what this large, open Saturday ahead of us needed was a good ’ol family breakfast. I smiled as the baby contentedly played on her activity mat and my sleepy husband stumbled out of the bedroom to greet us. As the smell of bacon filled our kitchen, I affectionately noticed my husband’s cute pajamas and face stubble.
But no sooner had a feeling of calm approached than it left. The baby started crying just as the toast popped and the eggs needed to be turned. From the sound of the bathroom sink running, I realized this was up to me, so I sloppily wound myself in our baby-wearing wrap and tucked baby in. I bounced up and down while I stirred and chopped. My stress began to rise with the screaming whistle of the kettle.
When I looked across the apartment, I saw that my husband was sitting on the couch on his laptop. Are you kidding me?! I thought, as I set the dishes on the table with extra force. But when he looked up and asked if I needed help, I replied, “I’m good,” and threw another dirty dish into the sink. I stirred, chopped a little harder, and wondered why he wasn’t dressed yet and never bothered to shave.
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