Sick Daze

Out Sick :(

Out Sick :(

My wife took off work yesterday, which doubled my work load. She never takes sick days because she works for a fiscally responsible company who doesn’t give them out like they’re Krispy Kreme donuts. In other words, not the government. It sucks for her, and by extension, us, but I get it. All this is to say my wife was very sick.

She got the illness from Mabel who got it from the playground. Or the library. Or the handlebar on the shopping cart at Giant. Or anywhere in the greater DC-area. This has happened before and thankfully, I’m usually exempt from the illness. Which is great, because I don’t get sick days. My sick day would involve asking my wife to give up one of those aforementioned precious days off to stay home with a sick child so that I could dope myself up with medicine and intermittently sleep and watch recorded playoff hockey upstairs, as opposed to doing that downstairs with my daughter, which is a normal day. It’s a tough sell is what I’m saying.

Unfortunately, I was not exempt from whatever virus or bacteria invaded our house this time. Even the cats are sick. Mabel seems to have gotten the best end of the deal. Or maybe she just doesn’t know enough to be miserable when she’s sick. Maybe it’s a learned behavior to shake your fist at the world and blame the Metro and facial hair and Monsanto for your incompetent white blood cells. For whatever reason, Jenn and I wanted nothing more but to stay in and chicken soup the day away while our precious little Typhoid Mary wanted to do toddler-related things. Like go down a slide or play bloop with pine cones off the bridge.

While home, I did my duty as a husband of a woman who allowed me to quit my job to raise our daughter, and catered to her as much as I could. What this consisted of was asking her over and over if she needed anything. Most of the time, she did not. She preferred to be left alone. I felt helpless. It was, in fact, much like Mabel’s birth.

Throughout the day, I just kept getting sicker, despite drinking orange juice. And I realized something. I have no idea how to get myself better when I’m sick. Actually, I knew that. But what I now considered was that I had somebody else counting on me to get her unsick. Two people, actually, but one who really hasn’t had a chance to learn any of this stuff yet, and so, is relying on me for my knowledge and insight to get her better. And orange juice and chicken soup will only get you so far.

How have I survived this long? I have lasted 39 years somehow without the ability to figure out how to get unsick. And it only recently occurred to me that these are things I’ll need to teach Mabel. Things I thought were just naturally ingrained in my parents as a kid, because it came to them so naturally. Like nursing a sick child to health, doing taxes and how to look at a girl in the mall (you have to stare down the guy first until he looks away). But apparently, they had to learn them somewhere too. They don’t just come with the baby.

So I guess what I’m saying is I need somebody to tell me how to fix myself before Mabel is old enough to realize I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve tried Sudafed and that took the crappy feeling from my nose, multiplied it by five and spread it throughout my body. Nyquil strangely kept me awake the couple times I’ve tried it. Or maybe the illness kept me awake and the Nyquil just didn’t work. Alka Seltzer has been the most consistent, but it only really clears the nose for a few hours. Which is better than nothing.

So, lovely people of the internet, what kind of medicine or techniques work to nurse both yourself and your toddler back to health? Note: I have humidifiers in all bedrooms and sleep on 3-5 pillows. Also, I mentioned the chicken soup and orange juice. And my wife does my taxes, so we’re good there.

Daddy Issues: I Need Help!

So I’m writing a book. A collection of essays on being an at-home dad, some of which have been featured here and the Huffington Post and the Good Men Project and some other sites and print publications. But now I need your help. And I need it fast because this thing goes to print Monday. Sorry for the short notice, but inDesign and the Oxford comma has fried my brain.

Anyway, I need your advice on two things: the section headings the cover design. If I choose to use your section headings, I will give you a FREE copy of the book, possibly signed by Mabel, but I can’t promise anything in that regard. She may just throw some pineapples in it. The two sections are during pregnancy and after pregnancy. But those are boring titles. I need something short and preferably witty – possibly a play on words as I’m a sucker for them. Sentiment is also welcome in place of humor (or with humor). Really, everything is still on the table. Here are some possibilities so far:

Anxiously Awaiting – Anxiously Awaking
Guess What? – Now What?
The Longest 40 Weeks – Now and Forever
2 Minutes and 40 Weeks – From Now On
T Minus 9 Months – Blast Off!

John Sears, my old college roomie, drew up this awesome little guy and I want to make sure I do him justice with the cover design. My three favorite choices are below, one very minimalist, one with my daughter drawing on it, and one that combines the other idea I had for a design with the fun little guy. What do you all think?

Daddy Issues Cover Design Plain

Daddy Issues Cover Design Plain

Daddy Issues Cover Design  with Crayon

Daddy Issues Cover Design with Crayon


Daddy Issues Cover Design  with Running Text

Daddy Issues Cover Design with Running Text

So there they are. I’ve heard mixed reviews on the first two and just made the third one about two hours ago. Your input, as potential consumers and friends and random internet passers-by is very valuable. But I’m not paying for it. Unless you give me those damn section headings. Thanks for playing everybody. I promise once this thing is turned in next week, I’ll start telling you all about Mabel again. Which is really why you’re here.

March Sadness

Mabel, Baller.

Mabel, Baller.

Last year, Mabel set the world on fire and became the envy of her peers when she came in 4th of 21 people in our March Madness pool. I had developed an unnecessarily and painstakingly complicated method for determining her selection, with consideration for team rankings, in which her bracket was determined by which numbered block she put in her mouth first. In the case of some quadrants, I would place certain lower-numbered blocks closer to her to mimic the odds that certain teams would make it to the next round.  In the end, she picked Louisville to win it all, favoring the letter “L” from her wooden letter puzzle in the Final Four.

I was hoping with another year’s worth of knowledge – and thus, more than twice what she had last year – that she would improve. Sadly, I fear she may have taken a giant step backward.

Instead of making the method super-complicated to understand, I just made it super-tedious for Mabel. I printed out the logos of all 68 teams and had her go round-by-round, coloring on cats, letters and little orange men until 67 teams were gone. And I took video of all this just like last year, should my critics accuse me of fraud. And things looked good to start. She picked all First Four games correct – which didn’t even count – and had no team ranked worse than a 5-seed in the Final Four.

OK, Daddy. I'm done my bracket. Can I please go to bed now?

OK, Daddy. I’m done my bracket. Can I please go to bed now?

And then the games happened. Her champion went out three games into the tournament. I think the Cincinnati bearcat claw looked too much like a Blue Clue for her to pass up. And her other team in the championship game lost to Mercer the next day, but just like everyone else, it was worth it to see Duke get embarrassed. Because she currently sits in the 2.3 percentile and last out of 27 people in our pool this year, I don’t feel the need to post all those videos as proof of the validity of Mabel’s selections, but I will post this one picture to prove just how sadistic her father is.

I think we may need to reevaluate the selection criteria for next year’s bracket. Maybe team logos isn’t the way to go.

Toddler Friend Finder

Toddler Friend Finder Wagon

Toddler Friend Finder Wagon

One of my greatest successes as a person has been my ability to makes friends, as 1,779 people on Facebook will attest to. I am outgoing, friendly, and lack any intimidating tattoos or facial hair. I had therefore assumed I’d have a list of fellow at-home parents to call for a play date, arranged by interest, child’s age, and how inferior they make me feel as a parent. Turns out, not so much.

I knew when I decided to be an at-home parent that I was joining a work force that is over 96% women. And though that sounds awesome in one kind of way, it’s more like being the only guy at an Ani DiFranco concert. There are plenty of mom groups in the DC area who do not allow dads, and I understand that. Guys can be creepy and it’s better to not have to worry about them as a group. But by now, I honestly thought I’d have met a nice mom, gotten in her good graces, and infiltrated their private little group like Jane Goodall. Of course in this case, I am the scientist and the at-home moms in the DC area are the gorillas. It’s also possible I lack the charm necessary to pull this off.

At the heart of the issue is the fact that I would have to basically ask out a married woman. And though I’m married and have a child now, I still have a crippling fear of both rejection and women. And how would I even go about doing that? What does that next step even look like?

“Yeah, she’s really getting the hang of this walking thing… 14 months, and your son? Well, he’s not doing so bad either… Say, since we both have kids about the same age, how about I come over to your place and we get some Legos and wine and see what happens?”

I finally decided to go for it one particular day with a lady at the playground. I overheard her talking to her friend about her blog. Hey! I have a blog too! So I approached her and asked her what her blog was. I know I can use all the traffic to my blog I can get. Her demeanor shifted. Her eyebrows furrowed. She looked at her friend. I felt like I was asking for a list of her ex-boyfriends. Shit, I thought I was helping. She reluctantly told me and I mentioned I had one too, if only to make it seem less like the question was just for the sake of stalking. She did not ask about it. I chose not to pursue any further contact. This was three months ago and she hasn’t been back to that playground again. She instead started going to a similar nearby playground according to her blog. Which I am apparently now using to stalk her, affirming their reasoning to not allow men into their at-home mom groups. Maybe these women are on to something.

So what about the other 4%? Those that have the same genetic defect? Well, there is only one dad group in the DC area that I’ve found and most of their meet-ups are either for older kids who don’t need naps in the middle of the day or require a trek down to Arlington, VA. Arlington is only 14 miles from New Carrollton as the crow flies, which is a scant three and a half hour commute on the Virginia Beltway. So unless I make Mabel miserable by messing with her nap time – which seems counterintuitive to having a play date for her – it doesn’t look like this group is the answer either. I guess what I’m looking for is another at-home parent of either gender to come to my house during the hours I tell them to, preferably with their child and maybe a six-pack of Yuengling. Maybe I’ll draft an email.

A friend recently asked why I felt the need to have play dates for Mabel in the first place. I suppose this is a fair question, though one with what I think is an obvious answer. Though yes, the companionship of my daughter is enough to make my world aglow with a constant stream of undeniable love, wouldn’t it be better if there was another person there – perhaps one who could form complete sentences – who could also bring his or her constant stream of love into our already glowing world? I say yes.

Also of note, is that these potential play dates, though organized around and because of our children, are not necessarily primarily about them. Mabel’s opinion about who we have a play date with largely does not matter yet. I used to think it would, but play dates are set up by parents who get along with each other. At 16 months old, Mabel hasn’t had enough interactions with other children for her to have an educated opinion about who she likes. And if she did, she couldn’t really express it anyway. I don’t even know if she’s done eating, doesn’t like her food, or just enjoys the sound asparagus makes when it hits the floor. I doubt I’m going to really understand if she’s trying to tell me that this other child doesn’t have compatible values. At this age, we’re all just trying desperately to get our children to not hit each other in the face. Who the other child is matters very little.

And so, because of the structural design of the at-home parenting community combined with my inability to figure out a way to successfully ask a married woman on a date, Mabel and I are doomed to a life of being the friendly-from-afar regulars at the community playground. If only there was a website where parents could go to find local toddlers seeking play dates. That’s what the internet should be for.

Girls Chillin in a Wagon

Girls Chillin in a Wagon

Why I Don’t Write: Writer’s Blockage

blockadeI now have a much deeper understanding of the term “writer’s block.” Or at least a different one. Yeah, it’s probably just different. I used to think writer’s block was when a person couldn’t think of anything to write. The ideas were blocked by something, much like a 40-year old man trying to get an autograph from Taylor Swift. And maybe that’s still what it really means. But I think I’m suffering from writer’s blockage, a younger, oft-confused cousin of writer’s block.

Writer’s blockage is when there is something clogging the pipes of productivity. It can be many things: tearing out the mold in the basement, learning the chord progression to Allentown, Netflix original series. My current blockage is this mammoth of a 75-page manuscript I’m supposed to get published in May. I’m supposed to have this thing written/proofread/edited/rewritten/reproofread/turned inside-out/glued together/designed/formatted by the first week of February. How far I’ve gotten is irrelevant. The fact that it exists is clogging up the pipes so nothing else can get through. It is possible that I could move this huge clog to let a few other things squeeze by, but that’s a messy and counterintuitive undertaking. I’d probably be better served to chop it up into parts to get them through the drain a little bit at a time. But some days it’s just easier to watch reruns of Monk. And this is why I haven’t updated this website in way too long. Nothing can get through.

Or writer’s blockade, if you’d rather, where streets are blocked for miles and hours and no traffic can get in until the stupid parade finishes its procession down Creative Way, onto Edited Boulevard and finally collects in the parking lot of Manuscripts R Us (for better or worse), where the floats can finally be disassembled and people can get on their way to the Blog Post Office again. Or something like that. Ideas aren’t the problem. I can see them across the street, eager to get on with their drives and frustrated with the traffic. Sometimes they turn around and I don’t see them for a bit and they try another street with similar futile results. But mostly, they’re just sitting there waiting for the parade to end, so that the engine doesn’t lock up. And once in a while, a small moped, not unlike this one, will break through the blockade and crash the party. And when that happens, I’ll be sure to post. But for the next few months, the parade I’ve spent four years preparing for takes precedence.

That and the NFL playoffs.

Mabel’s First Santa Visit

The day Mabel started to hate beards

The day Mabel started to hate beards

This past Saturday, the shortest and quite possibly the nicest day of the year, Mabel turned one and a half years old. Which means I never have to speak of her in terms of months anymore. How old is Mabel, you say? She’s one and a half, thank you for asking. And now you don’t have to do math. You’re welcome. If you need more specific information, you’re likely my doctor and already know how old she is. If you’d like to compare my child’s development to yours, just assume we’re both better than you two.

Saturday was also Mabel’s first introduction to Santa Claus. Well, besides last year, but she was barely a person then. She’d have sat on an alligator’s lap if we put her there. So this was the first real time she was introduced to Santa. He came in through the door, very red and very fat and very loud. Mabel was already surrounded by people she doesn’t know being forced to rip paper, something we have pleaded with her not to do every day until now. Santa’s presence was just the straw that made the baby cry.

Because mommy and daddy are good parents, we stopped her from running away and made her choke back her tears, sit down and clap along as we all sang Rudolph and Frosty and other songs she’s never heard. Between each one, she looked up at us through tears, held out her palm and waved it back and forth, saying “done done” through stifled tears. I felt horrible that it was so damn cute.

Eventually, the non-shiny, developmental toys sitting in front of her were no longer enough to hold her interest and it was either Mabel Meltdown or let her get up and leave. So we went to the other room and distracted her with meatballs and sweet potatoes, no doubt starting her down a path of eating to cover up her fears.

Once she was comparatively calm and had forgotten all about that scary fat bearded man, we decided to try to get her to take a quick picture with him. Maybe she won’t remember him from before. I felt the desperate squirming of an animal in peril as I carried her in the other room, much like trying to shove a dog in a pool. When she realized I was bringing her specifically to the fat man – not just back into that room – and doing it on purpose nonetheless! – she began to wail. But Jenn and I weren’t doing this for her. We were doing this for Future Mabel. And maybe a little for us. Because we’re good parents.

If grading on a purely binary scale, I would grade Mabel’s first real Santa visit as a success. Because it was funny and somebody got a picture they said they’d email me and because her deep-seeded hatred of fat men or her future eating disorders won’t be realized until much later. Until then, Merry Giftmas (or appropriate holiday)!

Why the hell would anyone do this to a baby?!?!?! PUT ME DOWN!!

Why the hell would anyone do this to a baby?!?!?! PUT ME DOWN!!

(This was originally published as part of The 12 Days of Giftmas on

This Year’s Holiday Card: Print Your Own!

I know not everybody celebrates the same late December holiday, but some people get upset if you great them improperly. Need proof? Try saying “Merry Giftmas” to a nun. Or “Happy Chaka Khan” to a Rabbi. Or “Seasons Greetings” to anyone. For this reason, I’ve decided to forgo sending Christmas Giftmas Holiday cards this year. Instead, I’ve created 13 different versions of our Holiday card for everyone. Hopefully. Please print out your card of choice and send me the bill for the photo paper and ink. Thanks and I hope you all enjoy your… whatever you want to call it.

For the traditional Christian and everyone else without religious affiliation who still wants a fat man in a red suit to bring them stuff.

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

For my two Jewish friends.

Happy Chanukah!

Happy Chanukah!

For the unlucky googler who typed the word “Kwanzaa” into their search bar and hit “Get Lucky.”

Happy Kwanzaa!

Happy Kwanzaa!

For people going to a work party.

Seasons Greetings!

Seasons Greetings!

For the people who think they’re being clever, but are really offending all real traditional Christians.

Merry Giftmas!

Merry Giftmas!

For the Jewish people with a sense of humor and all funk lovers around the world.

Happy Chaka Khan!

Happy Chaka Khan!

For people trying to be clever but slightly less offensive.

Merry Christmahanakwanzica!

Merry Christmahanakwanzica!

For the procrastinators.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

For those who don’t want to celebrate anything.

Have a nice day!

Have a nice day!

For my ex-girlfriends.

Look, I'm better than you!

Look, I’m better than you!

For the SERIOUS procrastinators.

Happy Valentine's Day

For the REAL serious procrastinator, I recommend you print the “Have a Nice Day” card.

You know who you are.

Merry Quiltbag!

It’s OK. A gay friend gave me the go-ahead.

For those who don’t want to be oppressed by words.

Happy Blank Day!

Happy Blank Day!

Please let me know if I missed anyone out there. I’d hate to think that there was someone who had a frame all picked out or a refrigerator with an empty 4×6 rectangular space who just couldn’t find the Dustin, Jenn and Mabel Holiday card for them. Write-ins are welcome. Thanks and enjoy whatever the hell you want to enjoy whenever you want to enjoy it.

(This was originally published as part of The 12 Days of Giftmas on

Twenty Year Itch

Dorkin it up, Original G-style with the Stu-man

Dorkin it up, Original G-style with the Stu-man

Tomorrow is my twenty year high school reunion and I’ll be flying solo without my wife for various reasons or my daughter for only one reason. And yes, the thought of going to my reunion has caused me a bit of insomnia this week. I don’t know why; it doesn’t really come out and shout say “You’re awake because you’re worried about having to tell everyone who thought they were better than you back in high school just how unemployed you are!” Though if it did speak, I could see it saying something like that. When I imagine a conversation, it goes something like this:

Hey Fish! Great to see you! Whatcha doin these days?
I’m staying home with my daughter.
Dude, that’s awesome! So you’re working nights?
No. I’m at home raising my child.
That’s cool man. Working from home.
Yeah, something like that.

I suppose one of my concerns is how people at large will judge me for being an at-home dad. And by “judge me,” I of course mean the facial expressions I will falsely interpret from them just before they go “Oh, that’s cool, man.” In all likelihood, I won’t be judged much at all by anyone – at least not negatively. All of that will probably be coming from my very insecure brain. I just worry what I’m going to feel after a conversation starts with “Me? Well, I went to the college I wanted to, got the job I wanted and do the things I love in the massive amount of free time I have with my perfect spouse and/or children. Here are two thousand pictures on my iPhone.”

I really don’t know what I’m worried about. Really, nothing that I’m cognizant of. I’m looking forward to seeing some people I will likely never see again and that’s why I’m doing the hustle and cracking open the piggy bank to get there. After twenty years, I’m still in decent shape and not completely sore on the eyes. And yet, I sit awake at 3:30am for some reason. Maybe I still owe five bucks to Chad Johr that I have suppressed deep in my memory. Or maybe I don’t want to see the five or so girls who broke my heart by turning me down on the date I never worked up the courage to ask them out on. Or maybe I just don’t want to talk about how impossible it is to make it in film and standup comedy to people who have succeeded in becoming whatever it is they wanted to become.

The truth is I am quite happy, despite the failed dreams, bouts of insomnia and lack of income. This phase of my life hasn’t quite leveled out yet, but there are good things waiting once the turbulence subsides, if that ever happens. But I’m at least looking forward to showing off pictures of my beautiful wife and adorable daughter. And to catching up with friends I haven’t seen in five or ten or twenty years. And maybe for at least one of those five girls to admit they had an unrequited crush on me too. That would be nice.

The Other Couple

"I think the white whale is an allegory for an unknowable God.""Wait, what are you on? I'm on Brown Bear, Brown Bear."

“I think the white whale is an allegory for an unknowable God.”
“Wait, what are you on? I’m on Brown Bear, Brown Bear.”

My wife, daughter and I recently met another couple of similar age, ethnicity and street address whom literally EVERYONE at the community pool was confusing with us. The only apparent difference between the six of us is that Rick was taller than me, a point which was said to my face one too many times. People would call Mabel “Lucy” all the time and an irrational part of my brain would get offended. “They should be calling Lucy ‘Mabel,’ damnit!” Turns out they did. Anyway, Lucy is almost exactly a month younger than Mabel, so we are able to talk with the couple on a fairly level playing field, which is a nice change of pace from always feeling like I walked into a movie too late to understand why everyone is laughing.

However, on occasion it seems our extra month worth of experience seems to have inadvertently vaulted us into expert status, or at least that’s the way I imagine it in my very egocentric mind. It is also possible that I am looked to for advice because I am the only one of the four of us adults that stays with their child every day. And in talking to a family who has their child in day care, I was reminded how lucky we are to be in this position. I know a lot about Mabel’s habits and as such, so does Jenn because I can tell her about them. People that work at day care facilities, as far as I understand it, don’t often go home with the parents of one of their children every night and sleep in their bed with them. And if they did, they probably wouldn’t be working there for long.

We talked a lot about bedtime, eating, and nap schedules, which is the parent equivalent of “So, what do you like to do for fun?” They said Lucy doesn’t really have a schedule on the weekends. They just throw caution to the wind and put her to sleep when she’s tired and feed her when she’s hungry. And as it turns out, Lucy is still alive. This rocked my core and made me question why I’ve been so militant with Mabel’s schedule for the last year. It was brilliant in its simplicity. Sleep when she’s tired? That’s what I do! Lucy was like a little adult already. And here Mabel is, trained to know when she’s supposed to be tired by ringing a bell. She’s a dog. Lucy is a grownup and Mabel is a dog! Why have I been so rigid with this schedule thing?

Well, I came to a conclusion. And it’s not just because I read it in a book. It’s because, as a full-time caregiver for my daughter, and a person prone to fits of anxiety, putting Mabel on a schedule was something I could control. And it made me feel like a parent. It made me feel like I knew what I was doing. Whether I did or not was almost irrelevant. I could have just decided to wake up with her and start doing crap until she got tired, but after a couple weeks of that, I’d be crazy. I certainly don’t fault Sarah and Rick for doing it on the weekend with their daughter. It seems like a more fun way to live. I even think they’ve convinced me to loosen my collar a little, which will be good for my wife. But flying by the seat of my pants EVERY DAY would drive me to a clown posse-level of insane.

So thank you to the new couple with the slightly younger daughter and the slightly taller father for reminding me that the schedule need not be followed everyday with such unwavering accuracy. It’s OK if she’s up passed 8pm or if we eat dinner in the car on occasion. Just as long as we don’t tell the people from Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child. They would NOT approve.

My Cavalier Wife

Jenn, Larger Than Life

Jenn, Larger Than Life

It’s been a decent while since I’ve written and to those adversely affected, I apologize. My recent sabbatical has been for a number of reasons. Well, one. But seeing as how 1 still happens to be a number, I stand by my statement. In a word, that reason has been insomnia.

Without getting into too much detail, I started keeping a sleep journal and in the first five days, I slept between 0-2 hours a night. I’ve written a lot on the subject for the same reasons Eskimos write about snow, but that’s a story for a different day. I just wanted you all to know what you’re up against before I continue.

I wanted to take this time to tell you all just how wonderful my wife is before she complains about how I fold her laundry and I forget all of her good qualities. I’ve always had sleep problems, but again – story for a different day. But when they started manifesting themselves in chronic insomnia (less than 2 hours of sleep a night for a week), she went out of her way to help me out. I’ve considered it part of my job as an at-home parent to wake up with Mabel when needed. This often involves staying downstairs in the guest room so as to not bother Jenn in bed (and also because we don’t like us both to be on separate floors from our precious baby).

I started reading a book about sleep (hoping the amount of boring it was would put me to sleep) and it mentioned interrupted sleep in doctors who were on call, even when they didn’t get calls. The potential of being woken up was attacking their psyche. My situation, though not nearly as stressful or well-paying, is similar. It’s possible I wasn’t sleeping because of the possibility of being awoken, even on nights when Mabel slept the entire time. Having read this, I reluctantly told Jenn about it, not as a suggestion that she take over the overnight duties, but because she’s my wife and has expressed interest in knowing about my debilitating condition.

Jenn took it upon herself to ask some of her friends about their situation. She reported back with an anecdotal story of a couple who had one working parent and one at-home parent, similar to us for those following along, and the at-home parent couldn’t handle waking up with the child. Some people are able to get back to sleep after waking up for 15-30 minutes and some people are like me. So their solution was to have the working parent take care of the baby overnight.

Some spouses, upon hearing this information from a source her husband would never have cause to talk to, might keep it to herself. Instead, my lovely wife, who likes her pants turned inside out before washing them, told me about it and offered to give that a try.

It’s tough to really figure out why she did it other than maybe she’s just a nice person who wants what is best for her family. And trust me, I tried. Nothing else makes sense.

This was about a month ago. Since then, I’ve been sleeping much better (5 hours is pretty common), with rough patches here and there. Jenn did this with a few exceptions for a couple weeks and we’ve since decided to take turns. The pendulum has swung back and now I’m taking a majority of the overnight shifts, but Jenn is still always willing to help a husband out. Which is why I will do my best to unball her socks before putting them in the dryer.