Behind every serene, contented mother there is a fantastic husband

Iain is changing Owen’s stinky butt right now, and after that he’s going to clean the bathroom.

I hate to sound smug, but I have the best husband ever. I feel bad for all those mothers in Parenting Magazine [“What Really Matters to Moms,” note, not “parents”]. Their husbands never help around the house, are incompetent when it comes to cooking, leave their children behind at airports, and are clueless when it comes to doctor’s appointments or car seats or dinner. They expect sex every five minutes and pout when they don’t get it. They laze around on the couch watching ESPN and expect Wifey to do the dishes.

At least, that’s what their letters to the Editor would have you believe, and I can only take them at their word.

I feel lucky sometimes that Iain is so competent. Isn’t that horrible, that I should count myself lucky for that? That he has his head on straight and his shit together, and he’s not a bumbling idiot like so many American dads are made out to be. He knows his ass from a hole in the ground, thankyouverymuch.

There is no reason why he shouldn’t. There is no reason he can’t feed the baby or change his butt. No reason he can’t boil the bottles or toss the laundry in the dryer. It’s not rocket science, guys. And I have no more instinct when it comes to that stuff than he does.

I’d say we have baby duties and house chores pretty evenly split, taking into account that I am staying home right now and he’s working five days a week [when it’s not snowing, anyway]. And we both have the attitude that if something needs done, we’ll do it. But television and Parenting and various blogs lead me to believe that Iain’s a veritable freak of nature for knowing how to mop a floor, and no one else has a man about the house who is nearly so competent.

Why the hell is that? I can’t imagine putting up with shouldering the whole load — housework, child AND employment — for no reason other than that I have the sole vagina in the house. And more importantly, I can’t imagine living with a man who would tolerate being thought so stupid and helpless. Perhaps that is a result of living with Iain for three years; he possesses the highest concentration of common sense I’ve ever seen in a single person. Annoying sometimes, I admit, but eternally helpful.

He also balances a high level of masculinity [dare I say machismo?] with a dazzling level of care and compassion. He’d just as soon stick a kayak up your ass for whining, but he’ll also march around the house for hours on end singing the Stegosaurus song to get Owen to fall asleep.

He’s the reason why I can feel so successful as a mom — he’s got my back, big-time. I know it and I want him to know I know it. I wish a man like this on every one of you ladies.

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