My husband needs to grow a pair.

My hubby is a dynamo at work.  He’s a go- getter, a hard worker, and a highly organized machine. He’s being promoted in an economy where people are being laid off.

At home . . . Hot Nerd is a helpless puppy.

On weekends we sort of switch roles and I go to work while he stays home with our son. I expect him to just “be me”. And by this I mean, make a bottle for the youngin’, start the coffee, make baby breakfast, make us breakfast, unload the dishwasher, and make a lunch for me to take with — all in under an hour and a half.

Then while I’m gone, all he has to do is:

• put our pumpkin down for a nap
• make him a little snack when he wakes up
• take him to the park or for a walk
• maybe swing by the grocery store on the way home for some essentials
• make him some lunch
• remember to give him his teething tablets
• read to him before another nap
• walk the two dogs
• load the dishwasher
• perhaps a load or two of laundry
• and have a meal ready for me when I get home.

Shouldn’t be too hard for a proactive, organized, dynamo like my husband.

Instead, I come home to a living room that looks like a tornado hit it, dirty dishes all over the kitchen, dogs that need to pee, a toddler who has missed one of his bottles of milk, and a husband, who hasn’t bathed or brushed his teeth, babbling incoherently: “He…he grabby, grabby… run in circles… dog water bowl… I touched his poop!”.

Later that evening as I am making dinner, daddy and baby are having bathtime.  All of a sudden I hear, “Jennifer! JEN-Nuh-FER! Come in here!”

I drop the chicken and run to the bathroom, hoping nobody has drowned or slipped and split their head open.

I open the door and my husband and little one are still sitting in the tub. My husband slowly shows me his cupped hand and says in a very small voice, “He puked.”

“You seriously called me in here to tell me he puked?” I asked.

“Yeah” he says as he holds his hand out. “What do I do?”

I point to the washrag right next to him and say “Wipe it on the rag.”

I then turn on my heel and go.

I feel I should point out here that my son did not really puke. It was a little bit of spit up. He tends to spit up sometimes when he eats a little too much, or when his daddy throws him up and down after a bottle. I had to look very hard for the evidence on my husband’s outstretched hand. That’s how little it was.

When did this man become such a wimp? He’s terribly frightened of poop, is paralyzed by a little regurgitation, can’t remember how to load a dishwasher, or boil water. He has even gotten out of putting dressing on his salad by saying, “I just can’t seem to do it right. You do it much better.”

It’s  SALAD.

The next morning, I see there is no milk for our son.I ask where the whole milk is that I asked him to pick up. He looks at me all doe-eyed and said, “Oh no. Was I supposed to do that?”

I sometimes find myself thinking:

My husband needs to grow a pair…  a pair of big, hairy breasts.

Maybe then he could get everything done that I get done. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a wimp about bodily fluids. He would know how to separate laundry, or load the dishwasher so that our spatulas don’t melt, or without poking a whole in the nipples of our bottles. He would be able to do three household tasks at once while entertaining our toddler and scratching one of the dogs with his foot.

I used to mock offense to his silly jokes about certain things being “woman’s work”. But now I realize it’s just his way of saying “I don’t have the boobs to handle the hard stuff. You have to do it.”

Maybe guys don’t have breasts because they just can’t handle the responsibility that comes with it.

That, and my husband wouldn’t be nearly as great at work.

He’d be too busy feeling himself up.

–seriously