Ode to my Baby Daddy

I have been giving the Canuck the gears lately because of his resistance to The Program. Evolved over the 15 months we have been taking care of Muffin, The Program's three guiding principles are thinking ahead to anticipate problems before they happen, tidying up as you go along, and doing as much as you can while Muffin's sleeping since she has a way of sucking up all the attention in the room when she's awake.

The Program's Section B: Travel specifies that packing should be done no later than the night before, and lists should be made and checked, so you don't wind up forgetting, say, the rubber piece that prevents the sippy cup from leaking all over the diaper bag, the party dress Muffin was going to wear to my dad's 60th birthday party, or her favorite pop-up book that can distract her from storming the cockpit during the 2-hour flight to Chicago.

The Program works. And sometimes I get a little Tom Cruise about it. And yet you, babe, remain glib. GLIB!

But, did I mention that the Canuck made the aforementioned flight with Muffin on his own? Because I was in Des Moines on business, he traveled with Muffin to Chicago so I would not have to fly back to New York only to turn around and fly back to the Midwest the next morning. He even suggested it. Anyone who's traveled alone with a toddler can tell you, not only are you a pack mule carrying a car seat, stroller, and diaper bag, along with the baby, you must be a one-man carnival of funny sounds and faces in order to keep the kid entertained.

I'm not one for giving dads extra credit for doing the down and dirty work of parenting. It's not "babysitting" when it's your own child, and dads shouldn't get any gold stars simply for changing diapers or making a bottle.

But the Canuck is an amazing dad, no matter whose standards you use. He’s the parent who will stroke Muffin's head endlessly when she’s having trouble sleeping. He’s got energy for the more physical aspects of parenting, he’s always up for the challenge of an outing, and he has a quiet confidence about his parenting skills that makes him far more consistent than I am. If I weren’t around, Muffin’s o-3 month clothes would still be in her drawers, there would be fewer vegetables in her diet, and her toys would grow roots into the floor. But without him, I’d be swallowed up by the chaos that comes with the toddler territory.

I used to have a picture in my mind of who I might spend my life with, what he might look like, what qualities he might have. Often it was Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. Now the picture is this: My gangly husband folded awkwardly into our small tub, his legs curled around Muffin, rinsing her hair carefully so she doesn’t get water in her eyes. I couldn’t ask for much more.