Children

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“Why aren’t you helping me?” I cried.

“You didn’t ask me to.”

It was true. I hadn’t asked him to. I’d wanted his help to come naturally. I’d wanted him to read my mind, to know when to take the baby from me, to send me out of the house to get some fresh air, to take a shower, to eat food with a fork instead of my fingers. That was where I failed. My husband needed me to tell him what to do.

It made me uncomfortable at first because asking for help, especially from men, doesn’t come naturally to me. But I forced myself to do it. I made myself ask for help.

In order to help him feel less helpless, I had to be a little helpless — something else that didn’t come naturally. I like being good at things. Very good at things. But I needed to make Nick feel like a damn champion at being a dad.

In the early days of parenting I pretended to be confounded by swaddling. I overcomplimented Nick’s ace abilities to wrap our baby like a burrito. This paid off in spades. His confidence in swaddling led to his dominance over bedtime and allowed me to start reading novels alone before bed again.