Fat, fat, fat. That is what is hanging around my belly. A big roll of fat. It oozes over the tops of my jeans, peeking out from under any blouse that does not hang down well past my ample behind. My husband doesn’t have the same spare tire roll. Rather, he has the cuddly little paunch that goes before him announcing his arrival.
So often we moms get all the credit for kids who grow up to become wonderful people. Today, I would like to consider the dad part of the parenting formula, in particular, the father of my children.
My first thoughts are memories of how nervous he was throughout my first pregnancy. He would channel all of his nervous energy to setting up the nursery. He would paint walls and painstakingly paint and detail the trim. He would immerse himself in his music and assemble cribs, bassinets and all sorts of baby gadgets.