The Passion.

We're not fighting, we're talking passionately...

     First of all, let me apologize for taking such a huge hiatus. Admittedly, it's only been a little over a month and I'm new to this whole parenting thing, but I use to post every day, so it's my own fault for setting up your expectations. Once again, allow me to apologize to all both of my readers. Second of all, I'm working on a book. Haven't shopped it around at all, but I'm trying to make time for it between school and diapers. I've already got the title: Breast Milk in my Coffee and other stories from a stay at home dad. I'm open to suggestions. Thirdly, Evy has helped create and maintain a new level of passion in Catie and I's relationship. Really, she has. Now, it's not necessarily in the way I thought it would happen and it's certainly not the same type of passion I'm use to, but it's there.
     See, somewhere during our maiden voyage into parenting, "talking" about how we're going to parent Evy stopped being an academic discussion on methods and turned into something else. For example, one day Evy was having another one of her marathon crying spells. When the screaming started Catie and I were just trying to make sure Evy was okay. Is she fed, is she hot, cold, sick, gassy, tired, wet, poop-filled, hurt? What?! What's wrong with her? After we'd checked off everything we could think of, we were left with empty brains and an enigma: What do you want?!?!
     Twenty minutes into the wailing marathon, we had about as many nerves as functioning brain cells. I'm throwing out suggestions, trying to calm down a child and empower my wife, but as near as I can tell she's politely ignoring my ideas and doing whatever she wants. Our "discussion" heats up quickly as the decibels rise in an attempt to make ourselves heard over Evy. At the end of this, Evy eventually fell asleep, but there were two adults, wide awake, very mad. Not at Evy, but at each other. The therapist in me had to figure out what just happened.
     After mulling it over, and a few more fights, I started figuring something out. Catie and I weren't getting passionate (read: fighting) about what to do for Evy, we were trying to establish who the better parent was. Turns out, Catie and I were no longer talking about parenting tactics. It had subtly become about who was the better parent. To not agree with my parenting tactics didn't mean there might be a better or different way of doing things, it meant I was a bad parent. That's not something I can handle very easily. That's already my greatest fear and anything that might confirm that is just too much to handle. So if I suggest sitting her up and burping her, and you lay her down and burp her, it means you're a better parent than me. Well, it doesn't mean that, but that's how I internalized it. Once I figured it out, arguing about parenting could just be arguing about parenting. Nothing more. I'm getting better at it, but it's still frustrating when you've tried everything you can and she's still crying. But that's life, isn't it.
    P.S. Don't call me Mr. Mom. Ever. That's like calling Catie Mrs. Dad because she works. I'm not a substitute mother, I'm a father. I'm not second string, I'm the other parent. We're equal, okay? Glad to get that off my chest...