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Broke Wife, Big City
My husband is
my wingman
By Aprill Brandon
Of all the changes that happen when you have a baby (and there are A
LOT, like the never-ending stream of mysterious wet spots that
regularly appear on you, your baby and your home that you quickly learn
to stop questioning in order to preserve your sanity), perhaps one of
the biggest is the way it changes your relationship to your partner.
Some of these are good changes. Watching someone you used to do tequila
shots with now napping with a newborn on their naked chest brings about
such a flood of love hormones that you almost can’t stand it. Which
helps when 30 seconds later the baby pukes all over said naked chest
and you are always inevitably out of baby wipes and clean burp cloths.
Some of these changes are bad. Trying to have a conversation about
money while both of you are going on only two hours of sleep and
attempting to talk over a screaming, teething 8-month-old brings a
whole new level to the word “patience” and the phrase “not murdering
everyone with a hatchet.”
And some are completely unexpected. Take, for instance, the fact that
I’ve discovered my husband is an excellent wingman.
Ever since we had our son, he has been chatting up other moms at the
park and on the playground and in every child-friendly bar we have
circled on a map of the tri-county area. He just swoops in, pure
confidence and swagger, asking them all about their kids and what is up
with those breast-feeding Nazis shaming poor mothers, the nerve of
them, and then just as quickly swoops out while giving me a gentle yet
firm push forward so I can continue the conversation and hopefully not
ruin all his hard work with my awkward jokes about murdering my whole
family with a hatchet.
And I often do ruin all his hard work. Because I am just the worst at
first impressions. The worst. I’m awkward and I laugh too loud and I
wear scary dark lipstick that makes me look like I’m ready for a
vampire rave at any given moment.
Luckily, I’m amazing at third impressions. You accidentally run into me
a third time, I’m bound to charm you once you realize that all that
black eye-liner is just a part of my quirkiness and not because I want
to sacrifice your newborn to my coven.
Unluckily, however, I rarely get that chance. And if I do ever get that
rare third chance meeting, I always forget to ask for the digits and
seal the deal because I was never a horny 19-year-old frat brother. I
firmly believe that men and women are equals, but men most definitely
have a jumpstart on the whole awkward information exchange
follow-through.
But none of this stops my husband. He never gives up, no matter how
hopelessly I bungle these situations. Because he knows that deep down,
underneath my spectacular ability to either insult the home state of
whomever I happen to be talking to (how the hell was I supposed to know
she grew up in Utah?) or make fun of moms who name their daughters
Chanel to the woman who, as it turns out, named her son Chanel, I need
mom friends.
Raising young children is a lonely business. Whether you stay home, or
work, or some combination of the two, it’s hard to maintain a social
life. And it’s damn near impossible to start one when you didn’t have
any friends who were parents already by the time you got knocked up.
Because even if I finally do tentatively befriend another parent that
puts up with me and our kids get along and don’t try to kill each other
with sticks or whatever else is handy, there’s always differing nap
schedules and quick trips to the store that end up taking three hours
and someone always has an ear infection because children collect ear
infections like old people collect sugar packets.
But just like emergency purse crackers and singing toys that have an
off button, having mom friends is vital to your mental health once you
spurt out offspring. You need other people in your life as interested
as you are in poop frequency and consistency and who can reassure you
they too don’t bat an eye when their child dumps all the cheddar
goldfish crackers on the dirty playground and proceeds to sit down and
eat them all.
Which is why I’m happy to report that all that groundwork he laid is
finally paying off. I officially have two numbers and an email address
in my phone now. And even after meeting up once or twice, I have yet to
alienate and/or terrify any of these women. At least not to the point
where they have run off verbally screaming.
But no matter what happens, when a gal has that kind of wingman by her
side looking out for her, really, what more could she ask for?
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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