The usefulness of a husband

Parenting is a difficult job; it helps if you like your co-worker.

When my husband is almost home from work, we are usually waiting for him by the door. I give him a warm smile, the kids shriek with excitement, there are hugs all around — it’s all very sweet and Hums feels important and pleased.

Here’s what he doesn’t know: we’re there because I cannot wait another two minutes to pass off the children.

So, yes,“Welcome home dear! Here are your beautiful babies! No, no, I’ll get the door and the groceries ... you just hurry on inside!”

Which means that when last year, a friend of mine shared her quite ‘American’ decision of becoming a single mother by choice (“I want kids, I don’t want a man or a marriage. I love my independence too much.”), my first thought was, “Who will she pass off the kids to when she’s had enough?” In other words, how will she go at this parenting thing alone? In the roller coaster ride of raising kids, it really, really helps to have a partner in the next seat. I guess what I’m trying to say is, having kids has made me a lot of things (joyful, anxious, gentle, sleepy, overweight) but one of the most enlightening has been becoming more appreciative of the husband.

Upon careful reflection, I think Hums’ usefulness as a co-parent essentially comes down to three areas: Shared decision-making, an extra pair of hands, and a target of ire and blame.

Take shared decision-making. When Beta was two, he ended up hospitalised with a severe case of gastroenteritis. We were living alone, away from family, in Canada and I remember, with a lump in my throat, the profound helplessness of those dark nights in the ER. There were so many little yet significant decisions to be made that had I been singularly responsible, I think I would’ve collapsed from the pressure. Similarly, nowadays, when Beta is inhaling a family size box of KitKat while I am busy on Facebook, I like to think it is a joint decision that Hums and I have made about kids learning, erm, consequences, independent play … something. I’m sure you know what I mean. As for an extra pair of hands, that is handy at many opportune moments. Need to carry from the car two sleeping kids, ten bags of groceries, a carton of diapers and a big box of Nandos takeout? No problem. Hums is especially adept at kicking car doors shut and jabbing elevator buttons with his elbows. Need to hold down the four limbs of a squirming, thrashing toddler whilst simultaneously propping his mouth open with a spoon, pinching his nose shut, squirting foul-tasting medicine to the back of his throat, blowing on his face to force a swallow and singing his favourite song to distract him? Only possible when daddy’s home.

For target of ire, here’s what happens in this house: when my kids are being especially infuriating, I catalogue their shortcomings and assign their existence solely and wholly to my husband’s side of the family. The genetic material that is causing the said irritating behavior must be patriarchal in origin and therefore has no relation to any action or inaction on my part. This little act of defiant finger-pointing makes me feel better and both Hums and I get a good laugh out of it, especially when he admits to doing the same to me.

When I mention all of this to my friend, she replies with a lengthy philosophical musing on independence, self-worth and maintaining a sense of control. I can only shake my head with confusion. When later in the afternoon, Beta throws a tantrum because something was not precisely the way he wanted it and I get the sinful pleasure of saying snarkily, “Just like his father!”, I laugh. God protect Hums because, even though I don’t have the same independence as my friend, when the kids are acting like brats, at least I have someone to blame. And in the wild days of magical, maniacal parenting, let me tell you, that’s worth a hell of a lot.

Published in The Express Tribune, Ms T, August 26^th, 2012.