Signed, wife with a bite

Dear My Darling Husband,

I’m sorry for what I called you at 3 a.m. over the chorus of cries coming from our little human.

It’s funny, if you think about it. Your daughter’s the one growing teeth. Your wife’s the one with a bite.

It was my turn to take the night shift. I spent it in-and-out and in-and-out of the nursery, questioning my every move. Do I give her Tylenol? A cool washcloth to chew on? Does she just need love and to know I’m here? What if I’m missing something? Should I call the pediatrician? Or should I do like my mom friends say and “stay out – let her cry!”

I know she’s a baby, but the way she seemed to sense my self-doubt, I felt like I was looking into the eyes of a teenager. And you know teenagers scare me.

At one point, I wasn’t sure where the cries were coming from – her or me. That’s about when you rode in, my knight in flannel sweatpants. Her voice was hoarse. Her cheeks were rosy. I couldn’t remember a time before this tiny, dark room.

But when she saw you, she stopped screaming and smiled. And you smiled back. Then you said softly, like a secret just for the two of you, “I love how you light up for Daddy.”

At 3 a.m. You love. How she lights up. For Daddy.

It was like I’d spent hours trying to open a pickle jar, getting it nice and warm, just to have you twist the lid off, no sweat.

Well, you know the rest. I watched the word leave my mouth and make its way to your ears. It seemed to hang in the air between us, illuminated by the red glow of our Hatch nightlight.

Please don’t let this be my child’s first word, I thought.

So now – now that I’ve gotten a grand total of 4 hours of sleep – I wanted to say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I take it back. And I promise to forgive you for whatever you call me at 3 a.m.

Because tonight, darling husband, is your turn.

Signed,

Your Wife with a Bite