Over the last months, you’ve heard a lot about me. Twice each week, you get the lowdown on just about every up-close-and-personal detail of my life, from my hemorrhoids to my hair loss. Basically, we’re best friends without regular coffee outings and annual birthday calls. (e-BFFS?)
But, I think it’s time to say, “Enough about me, let’s talk about you.” Unfortunately, my supersonic hearing is on the fritz, so I won’t be able to hear anything you say. Still, feel free to continue talking, or better yet, invite me on a coffee outing or give me a belated birthday call to fill me in. (Belated birthday presents also accepted.)
In the meantime, since you’re my e-BFF, it’s my job to look out for you. And, I think you deserve to finally read about someone who is infinitely more interesting than me. (What’s that? “Impossible,” you say? I knew you were my best friend. Flattery will get you everywhere.) For that reason, today’s post is dedicated to my husband Tom.
He’s hilarious. He’s handsome. He’s the world’s greatest husband. He does one heck of a monkey impersonation. And, last but not least, he’s Jacob’s favorite father.
As a mom, you hear a lot about the special bond between you and your baby. But the connection between a baby and his father is just as notable, mostly because it is fraught with animal noises, acrobatics and Serious Talks.
If Tom isn’t flying J-cub through the air with the greatest of ease or introducing him to the real life sounds of the Amazonian jungle, they are probably having a Serious Talk. Since J was in the womb, the pair has been having these father-to-son heart-to-hearts (formerly mouth-to-stomachs). Of course, they’re always filled with sage advice and age-appropriate wisdom.
First, there was the talk about why he should choose a brunette wife over a blonde. Then, there was the one about why beef jerky is the world’s most perfect food source. Of course, they always have these Talks while doing manly things like lifting heavy objects and spitting. (It’s a team effort—Tom picks up Jacob and Jacob drools, which is close enough to spitting when you’re only three months old. )
Also on Tom’s list of credentials is master baby soother. When J is crying, I can walk and rock and bounce to no avail, but when Tom takes over, it’s instant quiet. Maybe it’s because his chest doesn’t double as a feeding apparatus. Maybe it’s because he sings to him in chimp. (True story.) Or, maybe it’s because refusing to cry in front of another male is part of the Guy Code. Either way, it’s awesome. (Make that awesome, capital letters, bold-faced type.)
Since Tom is so great at making babies—I wasn’t going to share, but we ARE best friends, after all—it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s equally great at caring for them, but in a lot of ways, it has been a surprise. Before Jacob arrived, Tom wasn’t always the postcard perfect image of maturity, but all that has changed. (Okay, minus the monkey sounds.) Lately, he’s started to sport the oh-so-adult tuck-in and has recently even begun doing his hair in a comb-over. (The kind popular with dapper 1950s ad execs on TV, not your balding uncle.)
While I know there are tons of women out there who can care for their little one without the aid of a man, I’m not one of those women. Without Tom, Jacob and I would cease to exist. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but we would have to live without daily monkey medleys, and in my book, that would be just as tragic.