My DH told me that I've been bitching too much about being a mom, that it "gets old." He's probably right, but whatever.

He should try having a baby attached to his boob every couple of hours, especially one that is ostensibly teething and prefers the boob as his teething toy. And then he could also have a two year old climbing on him all. the. damn. time and constantly pointing out cars and trucks and trucks and cars and trucks and cars and cars and cars and trucks. Plus, the bony elbows in the aforementioned boobs.

There I go, bitching again.

I can't really complain about the amount of help DH gives with the bambinos. He's really good and he knows what's up. It's a good thing, too, because I would truly be in an asylum if I had to do all of it on my own. But here's the thing. DH runs sprints, not marathons. Sprints to his nice, cool, ant-free office where he can complete a thought, sit down and eat lunch and not get up until he's done, talk on the phone without a two-year-old screaming in the background, and more. But then of course, he has to manage/coddle/placate the eccentric personalities in his lab, endure the torturous grant-writing process, agonize over getting funding. No shortage of stress, for sure.

But, then, I bet he doesn't have a little entropy machine, going behind him, undoing or messing up whatever he has just done. And I bet he gets to go to the bathroom when he wants and for as long as he wants, and . . .

Oops, there I go again. OK,OK, maybe a little less bitching. Maybe. Just a little less.