Hey Hey, Mama, Said the Way You Move

This one’s for the ladies.

Or, more specifically, the lady. My Baby-Mama.

But you can read it, though, cuz I like you.

Last time my bloggatry was full of the gruesome details of Christmas backstage, but what may not have come through is that as I trudged through that mistletoe gulag I did not trudge alone. And I’m not talking about Jeebuz, here (the Lord has no place backstage left). No, my trudge-buddy was my baby-mama, to whom I shall hereafter refer as… my baby-mama.

While I was stomping through 13-hour days, 6 days a week of increasingly forced merriment, she was staggering though 18 hour days, 7 days a week of trying to manage a toddler old almost entirely on her own. A toddler old who just recently mastered walking, and was discovering all manner of wonderful new ways to whine. (Shout out to all single parents everywhere. You are all Batman.)

While I would stumble home around midnight, exhausted, to do dishes and make sure there was food for the three of us, she would go days without a moment to herself, even while sleeping (little dude is known for waking up during the night anywhere from two to 76 times).

The Christmas cards we actually managed to get out on time? That was all her.

The presents we gave to everybody that we gave presents to? That was her.

The stunningly clever messages in the cards? That was me, but she knows where the pens are.

And on top of all the stinking sleigh-loads of yule-tide obligations, she still knew where he was in his solid-food schedule. She knew the meaning of every burbled consonant, every chubby-digit gesture. She could slip a diaper on him, take the cellphone out of his mouth, distract him from the open toilet and clean yogurt out of his hair, with one hand and all at the same time.

Oh, and let’s not forget: she’s hot.

This is a blog by a father, about fatherhood (and Star Wars, and Kung Fu) – it’s a great big stupid, filthy, profound, hurt-y, humbling process which will give me no end of material for therapy or one-man shows. Don’t mistake an absence of my baby mama in the bloggery that follows for an absence of my baby mama in my thoughts or in this process. Among the innumerable things I value about her, I include the value of her privacy. If she wants to blog, she can. I won’t do it for her.

Unless she tells me to.

Just rest assured in the knowledge that, whatever else you read here, without her, I’d be f*%#ed.

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