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Main Page Site Index Getting Pregnant Pregnancy Parenting Pregnancy and Parenting Journals Fertility Nutrition Pregnant Moms Morning Sickness Women's Health Child Health	ANYTHING I CAN DO YOU CAN DO BETTER? by Julie Ames Frankly, I'm used to it. The lead role I've snagged in this play called "Our Family". My husband is a strong supporting player but I've definitely got the most lines. I'm in practically every scene, too. Fortunately I've learned to hide myself from the paparazzi by dressing down considerably in public as well as everywhere else. In fact I'd be hard pressed not to find a shirt without a vomit stain on the left shoulder. Early on in this drama, when I was a neophyte with only one infant child and actually wanted advice from other mothers, I was involved in a play group. It's a funny phrase, actually, because there is very little play involved. In my case, 4 children from the ages of 5 months to 7 months, each strolled under the watchful if dark-circled eyes of their mothers to a different apartment each week. We would schlep our strollers up the lofty stoops of Brooklyn Heights each Monday for the better part of an afternoon. We'd all heartily greet each other at the door and then up and down each other to see if one was losing their baby weight faster than another. Satisfied that no one had (except the disgustingly skinny woman who had only gained 20 pounds to begin with), the schmooze-fest would proceed. And really, nothing terribly earth-shaking was said. The four of us moms spent a few months of these Mondays together, in a fog of fatigue, bound by our lowest common denominators and the unending ways they had of turning our lives into utter and complete chaos. Then one day I found out through the park grapevine, from which any major news organization could learn a few things, that one of our play date moms (whom I'll call Libby), was going back to work. Full time. She and her husband realized that a nanny would be unaffordable and that day care was unavailable in the area, so they made a momentous decision: Daddy was going to stay at home with Kelly full time. We all applauded their news but whispered to each other that if our husbands were any indication of the quality of their choice, we really felt kind of sorry for them. The next Monday we met at my small apartment and the ancient ritual of stroller gridlock and surreptitious glances was upheld once again. The three remaining Moms again uttered nothing terribly earth-shaking but drank strong coffee and compared notes about their now mobile infants nonetheless. Then my doorbell rang. I sprang to my feet. "The UPS Man!" I cried, hoping that someone, somewhere, had sent me something. I dashed down the narrow stairway and hurdled over the three strollers in my path. I whipped open the door. Not a brown suit in sight. It was Doug. The Full Time Dad. "Oh." It was the only thing that came into my once nimble, sleep-deprived mind. Jolly and polite, Doug covered my gaffe with an apology about his lateness and something about a bread in the oven not being quite ready. I invited him in and charged in front to flag the lifeless adult forms on my living room floor. "Guess who's Here?!!" I shouted breathlessly. There was a collective lean into the doorway. "It's Doug. Isn't that great? Doug's here!" Now, I've mentioned through the course of this story that at times nothing of particular interest was said at these weekly unions. But I never implied that there was ever a moment when there was actually nothing said. This was it. We were all so profoundly uncomfortable with him there. It was as if we were somehow transported back to the seventh grade and went to opposite sides of the gymnasium floor during a dance, having not the vaguest idea of who was supposed to say what. But Doug was stellar. He not only knew what to say, he knew what to do. He was as good, maybe better, than we were. He basked in his opportunity to spend time with his young daughter and was incredibly energetic and excited about his new role as the primary care-giver. He was full of advice: He recommended that I try chopping instead of pureeing the stewed carrots I gave to my daughter in case she was having a "texture issue" with the vegetable. I would sooner tell my late grandmother that I had given her store-bought carrots and not the real thing. Besides, she would never eat them for me, anyway. And just what exactly did he mean by "texture issue" anyway? He had advice on getting the children to sleep throughout the night, advice on the best store for cheap bubbles. All this, with not the slightest bit of haughtiness or pride. Just like a regular mother. I would come home from these unbelievable Monday afternoons where my whole idea of Fatherhood, or what I had inadvertently sculpted it to be, had come to an end. My husband, not unlike a Pavlovian experiment would enter the house these Mondays with great trepidation: "Was Doug at play group today?" He would query ever-so-gently, his knees buckling in anticipation of a positive reply. "You bet he was," I would respond. He would just wait for the onslaught of what a defective father he was to spew forth. "...and not only does he know when Kelly needs her nap and what her favorite Sesame Street characters are, he BAKES BREAD!". "Oh yeah?" He finally responded, maybe I could do that too. I just never tried. One day my husband didn't go to work. He decided to give me the whole day off as a gesture of thanks and a hint for me to maybe take a shower. This was a first in my house and I grabbed it like a brass ring. I took the day (and the shower) and tried not to lurk around the house watching his every move. When I came home that evening from my movie, my daughter and he were cuddled on the couch listening to The Beatles croon "Golden Slumbers". They were both fed, bathed and happy, my own criteria for a successful day with a six month old. The thought struck me at that moment that he could do this as well as I could. It was a little threatening. After all, this was my domain now. I was the star of this show. I had given up my career, not him, so I had to be the better parent. It never occurred to me that I had been in the way of his becoming one. After he put her in her crib we settled in for our post-day gossip and wine session and talked about nothing particularly earth-shaking. Except for one thing: she ate chopped carrots with dinner. A Little About Julie I am a writer and a mother but not necessarily in that order. I've been published in many national magazines including, Newsweek, Ladies' Home Journal, Parenting, Tennis and others, and have written for a variety of other media venues as well. Please feel free to let Julie know what you think of her work by sending her an email.