We went to a Christmas party last night that doubled as Cyndi’s surprise birthday party. Food and friends were great. Elise and I brought a crudite platter and I made two great sandwich spreads.
The evening progressed. Most people left after a few hours and there were but a few of us stragglers who loitered in Jenny’s kitchen. The topic of husbands, wives, raising children and working full-time was brought up. I bravely mentioned the concept of “bread winner”, which struck a few the wrong way and I had to dig myself out of a hole pretty quickly.
After the debate, Marc, Cyndi and Christine shared recent child rearing horror stories, most of which made me wish we had purchased a gently used German Shepherd instead of getting pregnant.
On the drive home Elise and I discussed how our lives are going to change beyond our imaginations when our baby is born. I’m a moody asshole who should probably be on anti-moody asshole medication. Elise is worried that I’ll become more of a MA after the baby is home, when we lose any and all concept of schedule and when our house eventually turns into wreck.
Who knows what will happen. That’s one of life’s little secrets.
Here’s another little secret: If you find yourself in a kitchen with pregnant women, don’t use the term “bread winner” unless you’re referencing a bake sale.