Photo by Mr. Thomas via Flickr
Last week was a rough week in our house (hence a late Monday post instead of an on-time Friday post). Sophie, AKA The Drool Monster, has started teething. Yes, at 12 weeks. Ugh. Also, she and I both have a cough/cold combo that makes breastfeeding difficult for her. She hardly napped at all during the day on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, which, because sleep begets sleep, meant that she had three terrible nights in a row. I actually left my Wednesday mommy group post-haste to take a screaming Soph to the doctor to make sure there wasn't something else going on. Of course the minute the doctor walked into the room, my daughter was smiley and charming and made her mother look stupid.
Like I said, it was a not-so-fun few days.
Now, enter husband Blaine, stage left. Better still, picture superhero husband with a wrinkly cape and mismatched socks, proudly sporting a B on his chest in honour of his Type B personality. It's true what they say — opposites attract.
My husband and I have many things in common — a love of old cities, history, sports and books (fiction for me, autobiographies for him) — but in terms of the way we approach life, we couldn't be more different. I make lists and happily scratch things off when they are finished; he makes mental lists that can take ages to get through. I like a clean house; he says "We just vacuumed last week!" I think ahead and try to anticipate what's coming; he rolls with the punches. I worry like crazy about everything I can't control; he controls what he can and forgets about the rest. Of course these differences can cause friction once in a while — we once got in a fight because I made a list of chores prior to going on vacation and he scratched things off without me and not in coloured pen (I'm ridiculous, I know) — but, all in all, without my Type B Blaine, this Type A would have to check herself into a looney bin.
And without Blaine this week, I probably would have laid on the floor and cried. He has an uncanny ability to come home from work and alleviate the tension in the room. He'll take a tired, crying baby and have her laughing in minutes. Sure, it's partly because she hasn't seen him all day but I also think she can feel the calm. He sent me to bed early on Friday, getting Soph to sleep on his own, so I could attempt to kick the cold (it didn't work, but it sure was a nice gesture). On Sunday, he did groceries while Sophie and I napped at home. Yes, I made the list and he forgot the pecorino cheese for the Valentine's meal I'm planning for him, but it meant that I didn't have to go with baby in tow today.
Further to this week, though, he is the constant voice of reason. He is easy-going and relaxed (most of the time) and he has "the golden gut" as I always say. He can feel when things are worth getting worked up over and when they are just setbacks or needless worries. He makes my anxiety so much better. I never imagined that I would love someone so different, so much. It almost makes up for forgotten cheese and unmade beds. I hope Soph is a little of both of us: I hope she puts some stock into organization and having a plan, but I also hope — more, maybe — that she takes life's lemons like her dad.
Photo by Mr. Thomas via Flickr
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