Oh, the stories we end up living, right? Never thought I’d be here sharing this memoir of sheer bewilderment, but life throws you curveballs that would leave even the best catchers scratching their heads in confusion. So, here we go—a tale of labor, loyalty, and the undeniable bond of the ‘Mama’s Boy.’ I’m Aria, 32 years old and bravely wading into the uncharted waters of motherhood. My trusty sidekick Dave—my 34-year-old husband and habitual rescuer of his ever-needy mother, Marlene—thought he was prepared for the journey. Spoiler alert: he was wrong.
Marlene, bless her heart, is the kind of mother who believes the world should stop on its axis whenever she calls. Grocery emergency? No problem. Flat tire? Dave’s on his way faster than a pizza delivery on a Friday night. And don’t even get me started on the time she ‘just felt lonely.’
“Hey, Aria,” Dave would chime, almost with a superhero flair. “Mom needs me. I’ll be right back.”Off he’d zip, cape metaphorically flapping in the wind, ready to swoop in and save the day. I used to find it adorable, believe it or not.
Fast forward to one monumental evening—I’m hobbling around at 38 weeks, feeling like I’ve swallowed a watermelon covered in sandpaper. Contractions start, a clear sign our little girl was making her grand entrance. At first, Dave is the textbook supportive husband.
“Just breathe, darling, breathe,” he soothes, holding my hand and looking every bit the expectant father. But then, the fateful ring – his phone chirps, and like Pavlov’s dog, Dave darts out to the hall to answer it. He returns looking decidedly agitated. Moments later, his phone buzzes again with a text. Crisis alert: Marlene needs groceries.
“What’s going on?” I ask, panic nudging my voice up an octave. “I need to go, Aria. It’ll be quick, I promise,” Dave mumbles, barely making eye contact.
“What?” I gasp. Another punishing contraction hits, making me and my patience both rupture. “Dave, I need you here. Now. Like right now. Our baby is coming!”
He lets out a heavy sigh, frustration seeping from every pore. “I know. Of course, I know that—but it’s my mom, and she said she needs my help desperately.”
“For what? A Nobel Peace Prize ceremony?” I nearly shout, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re leaving me for your mother? She’ll survive!”
“I’ll be right back, Aria,” he insists, going for a guilt-kiss on my forehead before vanishing. Just great. As I’m bracing myself for another contraction, I can’t help but ponder the absurdity of the situation. There I am, half a woman, half a birthing machine, abandoned for the sake of grocery bags. You couldn’t script this if you tried.
Is this one of those ‘teachable moments’? Perhaps. If only because Dave returned just in time to miss almost everything. Being bedside two hours into holding our bundle of joy, he hardly had time to process what he’d missed.
Afterwards, I made it clear—no more emergencies that don’t involve life, limb, or literal firefighting. Marlene, too, got the memo; my labor served as a wake-up call that sometimes, just sometimes, your son needs to prioritize his immediate family.
So there it is—my cautionary tale. Future moms: pick your partners wisely and ensure their capes can deal with the pressures of labor, not just their mother’s whimsy. And Dave, well, let’s just say he’s earned his fair share of night-feed duties as part of his retribution.
