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Nope, not last night.  Not at all.  And I have no one to blame but myself.  You see, our little Mademoiselle (Mlle. for short) is now seven months and a night owl (comparatively speaking in regards to other babies) and so around 10:30, 11:00ish she and I cuddle and nurse in bed until she falls asleep.  My husband, Monsieur (M. for short), will then put her to bed because I am usually knocked out too.  Well, last night, he made three failed attempts to lay her in her crib.  After each attempt, he’d bring her back to me to nurse back to sleep.  As I was nursing her for the third time, he turns out the lights and gets into bed.  Our current arrangement has me at work from 7:00-3:30 (up at 5:30, with the occasional 3:30am feeding) and he has days with her.  So it seems reasonable that the last person to put the baby in her crib should be M.  And usually that’s the case.  When he got into bed, I questioned his actions rather testily and he responded in kind with a “just let me know when you want me to put her in the crib!”  Well, I was so peeved because he makes such a bed-quake just turning over I found it ridiculous to expect him crawl back out of bed and successfully put her back in her crib.  I resigned to put her to bed myself when the time came – and the whole time I waited for the baby to be ready, I got myself good-n-steamed.  I didn’t take it up with my husband or hold him to his promise to put Mlle. in her crib, I just put on my martyr cloak and did it myself – dammit!  I worked up so much ire and misplaced bitterness that once I got back into bed, I couldn’t sleep.  At first, I told myself that I was too wired from being awakened three times to be able to sleep.  After an hour or so, I told myself that once I fell asleep, Mlle. would undoubtably awaken for an early morning feeding so there was no point in trying.  Finally, it was a mere 2 hours before my alarm was set to go off and I told myself that catching a few zzz’s would be setting myself up for pure torture as I would hardly get any real rest.  I was so mired in my stubborn drive to “punish” my husband by not sleeping all night that I was relieved when Mlle. did in fact stir herself awake at 4am.  I crawled into bed with her to nurse but refused to even close my eyes as if I had something to prove to the four walls of our apartment (because both baby and daddy were oblivious to my sacrifice).  Instead, I thought about my life, about my marriage, and about Monsieur.

The whole point of this is to say thay I have the best husband ever.   M. is utterly devoted to our family and as gentlemanly and obedient in the classic way.  M. loves our daughter so much it’s almost palpable.  He is present and playful with her.  He is happy to do daddy-duty and has embraced his quasi-Mr. Mom status with so much enthusiasm he should have his own reality show.  He has great fashion sense and Mlle. always looks adorable when he dresses her.  He rarely balks about changing a diaper.  He brings me juice and plates of food when I am stuck in the corner nursing.  Oh and did I mention, me cooks.  He’s a French chef and the poor guy married a recovering vegetarian.  Each night he lovingly presents gorgeous gourmet dishes to his never-grateful-enough wife and keeps the pantry rich in cheese and bread and oils and wine.  Plus, he’s adorable and makes the cutest chewing sounds when he eats.  He is the true joy-bringer in our household and I love him so much.

I am spoiled.  I am so comfortable with this terrific guy that I forget how good I have it.  There is plenty of giving and taking in this relationship and that is how it should be.  I take a lot and he gives so generously.  I hope that he feels the same about me as I do him.

And I know, had I asked him to, he would have stayed awake all night with me.

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