When my first son was five months old, my husband persuaded me to take a trip to the east coast to visit a close single friend of his. I don’t know why I said yes to this, except that my husband was probably really persistent, desperate in his desire to do something escapist during a year when we really did not get along. Possibly I felt it might be refreshing to argue in a different province. We went.
It wasn’t long into the trip before I found myself with a baby in a tiny room in a basement, next to an enormous pile of firewood. The room had a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. I was trying to shield my baby from the jamming and partying upstairs, and its predictable accoutrements. I stayed there for hours. My husband came downstairs at some point; he wanted me to join the party with the baby.
Turns out arguing sustains its general character regardless of what province you do it in.
Fast forward six years, and my husband’s friend is now married and visited recently with his first child. My husband suggested that he and his friend go out for an hour or so to run and errand, but his friend declined, saying that he preferred to stay with his wife and baby, not wanting his wife to feel abandoned. My husband turned to me with a certain disbelief. I turned away.
I would really love to write a funny baby post about poo or vomit or the dreaded car seat; I want in on the club of parents who can laugh about transitioning into their new lives with their baby. I have a sense of humour, I really do. And our baby, who was the beginning of so much – I can hardly begin to tell about all he is and all that he’s brought into our lives. But it was a hard go when he came along. My husband and I made it through: it didn’t kill us, and well, you know how the rest of the saying goes. But I still can’t laugh about it.