Our baby has a split personality. When my wife is around he is a very different human being. This has some interesting, if not comical results.
My wife and our son get along like gangbusters. They are super close. He does not save the drama for his mama, when she’s around, he is on cloud nine. She can set him down and do stuff, like wash dishes, or make a sandwich, or put on clothes.
When she is at work, the rules change.
We’re cool. He likes me a lot and I like him. We are total bros. That said, he has a greatly reduced tolerance for just about anything when he and I are alone. So, when I need to do things like brush my teeth — selfish bastard that I am— it requires strategic planning tantamount to Cold War era espionage.
I’ve developed a sixth sense about his tenuous moods. I needed to learn that the five minutes after he wakes up from a nap — naps that he will only take on my chest whilst I lay perfectly still on the couch — is the sweet spot. I may get as many as two minutes of not holding him if I strike within that window. Two whole minutes in which I can don pants and a shirt, whilst hastily scrubbing the coffee stains from my chompers. If I plan judiciously, I may get to eat after the next nap. There are no guarantees that the latter will happen.
Naturally, it’s infinitely more complicated than that. We have a wonderful dog. He is our first born. His name is Dude. Dude is used to long lavish walks at the dog park. When my wife and “The Squish” — Our son’s nickname— take Dude to the park, there is no issue with them being there for over an hour. If I am the one who takes them, I’m lucky to get fifteen minutes in before the boy loses his proverbial shit. This is funny as it is the antithesis of my other problem. At home, I can’t put him down. At the park he doesn’t like being held. He’s a real card, that baby.