The first one came out of a good old-fashioned marital argument. After interrupting me 7 times in 15 minutes during my "no interruptions" hour of dissertation work and receiving death glares and sighs of contempt to his admittedly legitimate questions, he scooped up Henry in a huff and headed to the grocery store. After they fled the house, I began to feel guilty about my impatience, knowing that Nate had just put himself in a potentially disasterous situation: no diaper bag. no extra pacifier. a half finished shopping list. I also knew he wouldn't call even if things were going really badly, because he believed I would shout into his ear, "No! I don't know why he's crying because I'm not even in the bleeping grocery store." I had to simply hope that his anger could sustain him through the trial ahead. When he came back, grocery trip completed and Henry asleep, he was nearly giddy with success. He reported the following: "I had to stuff Henry in the front pack and sprint for the door because its November and I didn't have a hat, coat, or shoes for him. When we got there Henry spit his binky onto the gross muddy entranceway. A mean old lady told me it was too cold outside for a little baby to be without a coat and I didn't even swear at her. I knew I'd have to lick that disgusting binky clean before I put it back in his mouth if he started crying again, but he didn't. That was the fastest shopping trip I've ever made. I just bought everything I saw. Both his socks stayed on."
I'm still in awe, and have to prepare myself to meet this parenting challenge my husband has recently laid at my feet. I'll report back.
The second Daddy/Son adventure came out of pure parental sauciness. The other night, Nate decided he would take Henry to his private school's staff holiday party. I packed him a full-size cooler full of milk and enough emergency formula to feed everyone at the party (if they so desired) as well as Henry, and waved goodbye. Not sure what to do with myself, and imagining that they would be back in record time, I puttered around the house and got some work done. By hour four, my chest making me feel like an Oxygen-channel, mammary-gland version of the Incredible Hulk, I was wringing my hands and repeating the following mantra to calm myself: I trust my husband. I'm sure he knows the baby isn't the white elephant gift I sent. I'm SURE he knows the baby isn't the white elephant gift! I trust my husband . . . If he doesn't come back here with that baby AND my entire war chest of liquid gold I'll kill him!
Just when I'd imagined both Nate and Henry too sloshed on eggnog to find their way home, they arrived, cheerful and intact, in spite of the fact that Nate had this to say about the evening: "I sort of made a mistake. It was the wrong kind of rodeo." No other teachers brought spouses. No other teachers brought children. It was a formal, catered, sit-down meal in a very clean house. And yet, still a major public-outing success. Apparently Henry only made two noises, both cute and neither diaper-related, and everyone remarked that he was a) a beautiful baby and b) a really good, well-behaved baby. Nate tells me that he discovered the benefits of taking a 2 month-old to a holiday party--you can't accidentally drink too much during awkward conversations, and its hard to likewise indulge at the snack table when you're holding a wiggling 12 pounds of baby.
Grateful to have my son returned, I did a cursory inspection and discovered that besides smelling like gingerbread body lotion and wearing five different shades of lipstick on the top of his head (something that bothered me only slightly less than if Nate had come home wearing them), Henry was fine, and only a little hungry. Apparently he can survive without me, for a little while at least. I indulged my maternal insecurities a little, wondering if Henry liked the make-up wearing, gingerbready-smelling lady more than me, if her ample bosom made him think that he belonged with a different family, as I had adamantly believed when I was little that my true family was a bunch of rich racehorse owners in Virginia. But Henry gave me a giant smile and fell asleep in my arms, so I'm pretty sure he's forgotten all about the ladies who kissed him at the party. As for Nate, he declared the whole evening a breeze, and said it could only have been made better if he'd managed to snag me the slippers/foot loopha/foot lotion gift set for my gross feet during the present exchange. Still, he's not sure he'll break the rules of the rodeo again next year. It was a really, really clean house.
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