Fallen

I pretty much think my husband is the most awesome in the history of ever. He's funny and smart and absolutely devoted to me. He's the first to apologize after a fight. And his apologies are amazing. Even if I want to stay mad at him, I rarely can. He has a huge heart. He doesn't want anyone to ever be upset if he can help it. He's an amazing dad. He loves his kids totally openly and without self-consciousness about his feelings.

But.

I've been feeling for a while that things are just different this second time around. I don't know if he's really been different, or if I've been different, or if the perspective has just been different. There's not just one kid now, our first, with nothing to compare to, nothing to measure against, both of us feeling things out and groping through parenthood together. Little man is our second, and as much as it hurts me to think about or admit, in watching my husband parent him, I no longer see my husband as the ultimate be-all, end-all of parenting.

Again, I don't know if it's because my own patience, my own confidence this time around is so much greater, but it seems like TH loses his cool so much more quickly with little man than he ever did with baby girl. (And maybe it's that wonderful mom memory, that makes all objects in the rear-view mirror seem rosier than they actually ever were.) I trust him less with little man. I trust myself more. Where once I was happy to hand off the baby and get a break, now I'd rather keep the baby and give TH a break. And not out of some sense of sacrifice on TH's behalf...it's out of a sense of love for my son, a sense that his needs would be better served and met with me than with his father.

Last night, little man woke up only two hours after going to bed for the night. That NEVER happens. And he woke up crying. Not fussing, but full-blown crying, arching his back, screaming. I was in the middle of pumping (I pump to empty before bed) and couldn't readily detach myself, so I sent TH in. I don't know what happened in the room in the next 20 minutes, but by the time I was done pumping and had brushed my teeth, little man had been quieted (rocked back to sleep, I was later told) and then wound up crying again about three times. TH was in our room, eyes wide and panicky. I told him to remember the checklist--poopy diaper? gassy? too hot or too cold? teething pain? TH went to get him (he was screaming again) and I went to get some gas medicine. I was heading back to the nursery to give little man the medicine when TH emerged from the nursery, carrying the crying baby, telling him to "shut UP!" He went into the guest bathroom (this is where we often calmed little man when he was a newborn...the loud vent fan works as great loud white noise) and I caught a glimpse of him start to rock little man too hard. It's not that he was going to hurt little man in any way. He was holding him cradled in his arms, all body parts fully supported. But it was the frustration and anger in the movements of his own body that crossed the line. I banged my hand on the door as loud as I could and snapped at TH, "He's a BABY. He's in pain. Get a fucking GRIP." I gave little man the gas medicine and then took him myself.

For the next thirty minutes, I barked orders at TH and cuddled a screaming baby. "Bring me a thermometer. Bring me a pacifier. Get some infant's tylenol." With every scream, my heart broke and my nature was to hold little man more gently, speak to him more soothingly. I didn't understand then and I still don't understand now why that wasn't TH's reaction to those same screams. I thought he might be hungry, but I had just pumped. The fresh milk was made into a bottle, but I couldn't give it to him--he won't take a bottle from me, he just wants to nurse. TH told me that he would give him the milk, and I snapped "No fucking way. You don't get to touch him right now. I don't trust you." I was livid.

Eventually, he proved that he had calmed, that his head had cleared. I gave the baby back and stood two feet away, watching like the overprotective mother bear I am. Little man twisted and squirmed. He wouldn't settle with me there, so I had to leave the room. I went and laid next to the monitor. After a few minutes, little man settled, and we all eventually slept.

I used to think my husband was a better parent than me. Or, at least, if not better, a totally equal partner. Like I said, I don't know if he has really changed, or if I have changed. All I know is that I find myself more and more unhappy with the amount of patience TH has with little man, with the expectations he has for his behavior, with the amount of work he puts in before giving up or becoming frustrated. I hate that my husband seems to have infinitely more patience with our screaming 2-yr-old, whom we can communicate with, who is old enough to reason with, than our screaming 5-month-old, who is helpless.

For those of you who have read my blog and have some idea in your head that our lives are easy, that we are somehow perfect parents, have perfect kids, have a perfect marriage . . . please know we are just like all of you. We struggle. We have our moments of doubt, our breakdowns of trust in others and in ourselves. And this post is in no way meant to indicate that I feel like I'm perfect as a parent. I have had my share of moments when I didn't know what else to do with my crying child, didn't know how else to get him to sleep. In those moments I'd put the baby in his crib and walk away, crying myself, to give TH a turn. But I always believed that I had a solid partner I could rely on, and right now I can't honestly say I do.

All I can do is hold out hope that this won't always be the case. That I won't always feel like my husband has fallen from the pedestal I used to hold him on.